Chapter XIV Pin-pricks and Pellets
This change of front did not at all suit Benjamin Green, when he at last realized that the worm had turned, and that his visits to Farncourt did not produce the same golden results which they had been wont to do in the past. Afraid to press the blackmailing process too far in case he should find he was involved in unsuspected difficulties himself, his thoughts reverted to what remained of his father’s property, and his ingenious mind set about devising means by which Mr. Field’s ambition could be turned to account.
“There’s a good piece of the land still left,” he said, as he contemplated the scene, “and it will be many a long day till the waves claim it as they did the old house. I’ll see what can be done in the meanwhile to squeeze out of the squire that same hundred pounds which he promised my father before he died.”
For a week or two after Timothy’s cottage had disappeared it had been unmitigated satisfaction to Mr. Field to gaze upon the view from his dining-room windows. True, a portion of the coveted ground could still be discerned through the gap in the little wood which intervened between Farncourt and the shore—a gap which no amount of planting would fill up for many years to come—but at least the human habitation was away which had been such a vexation to the purse-proud man.
There was nothing now to rouse his ire as he looked out upon the prospect before him. The sky and sea were certainly beyond his reach, but on earth, only the possessions of the master of Farncourt could be seen.
His feelings of irritation and disgust therefore can be imagined when, one fine morning, on going as usual to the casement to enjoy the view, he became aware of a tall flagstaff planted on the edge of the cliff, just in the centre of the vista which he desired so much to ignore.
It literally glittered in the glory of the whitest of white paint, and to add to its conspicuousness a brilliant scarlet flag fluttered tauntingly from it in the breeze.
“I suppose it’s some maliciousness on the part of that wretched Ben Green,” he exclaimed. “He threatened that he would get even with me somehow, when I refused to give him what he asked for last time he was here. This is even worse than the cottage! That flaring red thing catches your eye wherever you look. He’s hoisted it half-mast high too! I wonder what he means by that? Sign of some misfortune of course, but I don’t see how he expects to bring it about. I’d like to go to law, and take the fellow down a peg, but I daren’t threaten him too much, or he might retaliate by stirring up things I would rather let alone.”
The evening post brought him a few lines from Ben, coolly placing the alternative before him of purchasing the land which he desired, but at double the price originally offered to old Timothy.
“The value of the property has risen since my father’s death,” wrote Ben, “as I am in treaty with someone for whom I intend to erect business premises thereon. This is absolutely the last chance for you to secure it at this figure, for from to-day the sum I shall ask must necessarily be considerably higher.”
“Ridiculous!” fumed Mr. Field. “I’m not going to be coerced into doing things against my will. Double the price, indeed! He may whistle for the two hundred pounds, but he’ll not get them! As for the building scheme, of course it’s only a ruse to force me into giving him the money. He can’t bluff me into believing for a minute that anyone really means to build on that crumbling cliff.”
It was a distinct shock to the millionaire when, a day or two later, he noticed bricks of a particularly virulent hue being piled up beside the flagstaff in full sight of his window. Apparently Ben was in earnest this time, for almost before Mr. Field could realize the full extent of the calamity, foundations had been laid, and the walls of a house rose as if by magic upon the edge of the cliff.
Such an erection too, as it was! Every morning he woke to find it even more appalling than he had dreamed of in the night. When it was finished, an ugly square dwelling stared him in the face. The bottom half was built of red bricks, dotted here and there with yellow ones. The top half consisted of yellow bricks, variegated with red. A couple of long, unsightly chimneys stood like rabbit’s ears at each end of the roof, while two curtainless windows seemed to glare at him like bold, unblinking eyes from either side of the gaudy emerald-green door.
“Could anything be worse?” he groaned, as he went to bed one evening after a long and dismal survey of the eyesore from the top of the tower.
But worse was still to come.
On the morrow when he rose as usual, and, drawn by a strange fascination, went at once to gaze upon the torturing sight, he almost choked with the mortification and fury which filled his breast.
On the long, sloping roof of shiny slates were painted in huge white letters the words—
LAUNDRY
WASHING DONE CHEAP
It was in vain for him to grind his teeth with rage; before the day was out, lines of fluttering garments stretched from side to side across the field, waving mocking hands, so it appeared to him as he gazed.
As if this were not enough, a row of small wooden sheds presently sprang up next the fence which bounded Ben’s property upon the side nearest to Farncourt.
“Is he going to set up a zoological garden?” enquired Mr. Field indignantly, as he watched while a pen of wire-netting was carefully erected in front of each little hut.
“No, sir, it’s pigs,” answered the butler solemnly. “A number of them are on their way from Westmarket, I believe, and will arrive to-day.”
There was no doubt when the occupants of the styes took possession of their new quarters. For two mortal hours did Mr. Field sit in misery, listening to the squeals of the rebellious porkers as they were driven into the meadow and hustled unceremoniously into their several dwellings. Each squeak seemed to go through him like a knife, and he shut himself up in his study, dreading to detect a smile upon the faces of the servants to whom he knew his humiliation must be matter of amusement, instead of the anguish which it certainly was to him.
“Anything come besides pigs?” he asked Burns, when the butler entered the room to enquire if there were letters for the post.
“They do say as Benjamin Green has bought the grocer’s donkey, which he was parting with, owing to it’s being such a nuisance to his neighbours, sir,” replied Burns. “Never ceases braying all night, so I was told. I don’t know if it’s correct, but we’ll soon find out for ourselves if there’s any truth in the story.”
It was not long before the authenticity of the report was confirmed. That very evening the hours of darkness were made hideous by the melancholy voice of the disconsolate ass, as he poured forth his woes with discordant emphasis in the ears of the sympathetic pigs.
“I suppose Ben thinks he’ll pile it on until he makes me give in,” said Mr. Field to himself, as he paced up and down the terrace next morning. “Rather than do that I’ll sell Farncourt and take another place. A good idea too! I wonder I never thought of it before. There is no doubt people about here have given me the cold shoulder—those I should care to meet, I mean—and I’m pretty well sick of it by this time. I shan’t be sorry to be rid of that ramrod of an earl and his stuck-up friends. I saw there was a nice estate in Gloucestershire advertised for sale the other day. I’ll take a run over and see what it’s like. Julius is getting on well now, and I suppose I shall soon have to be thinking of sending him to some good public school. It seems the right thing to do, if he is to take his proper place in the world. I should be glad of a pleasant neighbour or two, when he is gone, who would join me in a shoot now and then, or come in sometimes to have a chat. It’s rather monotonous always going about by myself, and things are apt to get on one’s mind a bit.”
Mr. Field took a few more turns and then threw away his cigar. “I think I’ll go and have a pot at the pheasants before lunch,” he said. “At any rate, I’ll get a little relief from the noise of that abominable donkey. He seems to have a throat of iron, the way he goes on making that everlasting row!”
He went into the house and fetched his gun. He was rather proud of his pheasants, having introduced a rare and much-talked-of breed into his coverts. The worst was, that at present the birds were so tame they afforded little more sport than would be enjoyed by shooting hens in a farmyard. Accustomed as they were to the careful feeding and supervision of the keepers, they knew little as yet of the murderous power of the gun.
On his way to the plantations, Mr. Field encountered his head man, whose countenance wore an unwonted expression of gloom.
“Hullo! What’s the matter, Jones?” he enquired. “You look as if you’d just swallowed a dose of poison.”
“It’s not poison as is troubling me, sir,” replied the gamekeeper lugubriously. “It is nets as is doing the deadly work, and seeing they make no noise, and usually leave no traces, it’s a difficult job to lay hands on him who spreads ’em.”
“What do you mean?” enquired his master. “Is anything wrong with the new pheasants?”
“That’s just what it is, sir,” was the reply. “I was on my way to tell you about it now. I’ve been noticing for some time past that they were disappearing, mysterious like, only I put it down to some of ’em having been enticed over to the earl’s preserves in yonder copse, seeing his keeper is feeding his birds there too. But I found a bit of a net yesterday, hanging on a bush, and footsteps near by, what made me suspect there might be poachers about, doing business on their own account, when I’m out of the way.”
“You have seen no one hanging about, have you, Jones?” asked Mr. Field.
“No, sir,” replied the man, “but they’d take good care to keep out of my sight. I expect they scatter food in likely places in the woods, and when the pheasants get to know where to come for it, they catch ’em in nets, the silly things being as tame as bantams. A good price they’ll get for them too, seeing they’re all the more valuable living than dead.”
“Well, Jones, it’s your duty to look after the game, and if poachers can carry on their work under your very nose like that, it shows you’re not worth your salt. Get more men if you need them, to watch the place, but don’t let me hear of losses in this way again. I won’t have my property calmly stolen from me like this, so put your best foot foremost and stop it at once.”
“Do you want me to come with you now, sir?” asked the crestfallen man. “I see you’ve got your gun.”
“No,” replied Mr. Field, “if I shoot anything I’ll leave it behind the wall near the gate, and you can send for it later. I’ll probably only take a look round this morning and see how things are for myself.”
“Everyone seems to be conspiring against me,” he said to himself as he continued his walk. “What’s the use of so much money if I can’t even enjoy my own house and recreations without being imposed upon and insulted by any impudent fellow who happens to come along.”
Meditating on his wrongs, Mr. Field entered the little copse, and wandered aimlessly about for a few minutes, hoping to find some clue to the mysterious thefts. Suddenly a great grey cat rushed across his path and disappeared in a thick tangle of undergrowth, only three or four yards away.
“There’s the poacher, if I’m not much mistaken!” he exclaimed, as he raised his gun to his shoulder and hastily fired straight into the bushes. “Missed him!” he added, as he caught sight of the grey form fleeing madly away in the direction of the road. “Hope he got a little peppering though, that will teach him not to come here again in a hurry.”
Before long Mr. Field also left the shelter of the wood, and proceeded homewards, his mind full of the Gloucestershire estate, to which he inclined more and more as he pondered over its advantages.