The Buccaneer Farmer | Page 9

color was delicate pink and white, and
she had rather grave blue eyes. Her figure was marked by a touch of
patrician grace. Askew smiled as he admitted that patrician was a word
he disliked, but he could not think of another that quite expressed what
he meant. Anyhow the girl's charm was strong; she was plucky and
frank, perhaps because she knew her value and need not to pretend to
dignity. In a sense, this was patrician, too.
All the same, Askew, though young and romantic, was not a fool. He
had had a good education and had then spent two years at an
agricultural college; but he was a farmer's son and he knew where he
stood, from the Osborns' point of view. He had been of help, but this
was no reason Miss Osborn should recognize him when they next met;
yet he somehow thought she would. In the meantime, it was rash to
think about her much, although his thoughts returned to the stile
beneath the alders where he had watched the sun and shadow play
about her face.

CHAPTER III
A COUNCIL OF DEFENCE
The sun had sunk behind the moors when Peter Askew sat by an open
window in his big, slate-flagged kitchen at Ashness. All was quiet
outside, except for the hoarse turmoil of the force and a distant bleating
of sheep. In front, across a stony pasture, the fellside ran up abruptly;
its summit, edged with purple heath, cut against a belt of yellow sky.
The long, green slope was broken by rocky scars and dotted by small
Herdwick sheep that looked like scattered stones until they moved.
The kitchen was shadowy, because the house was old and built with

low, mullioned windows to keep out snow and storm, and a clump of
stunted ash trees grew outside the courtyard wall. A fire of roots and
peat, however, burned in the deep hearth, and now and then a flickering
glow touched old copper and dark oak with red reflections. Collectors
had sometimes offered to buy the tall clock and ponderous meal chest,
but Askew would not sell. The most part of his furniture had been
brought to Ashness by his great-grandfather.
Peter's face was brown and deeply lined, and his shoulders were bent,
for he had led a life of steady toil. This was rather from choice than
stern necessity, because he owned the farm and had money enough to
cultivate it well. As a rule, he was reserved and thoughtful, but his
neighbors trusted him. They knew he was clever, although he used their
homely dialect and lived as frugally as themselves. In the dale, one
worked hard and spent no more than one need. Yet Peter had broken
the latter rule when he resolved to give his son a wider outlook than he
had had.
Kit had gone from the lonely farm to a good school where he had
beaten, by brains and resolution, the sons of professional and business
men. His teachers said he had talent, and although Peter was often
lonely since his wife died, he meant to give the lad his chance.
Somewhat to his relief, Kit decided to return to the soil, and Peter sent
him to an agricultural college. Since Kit meant to farm he should be
armed by such advantages as modern science could give. It was
obvious that he would need them all in the struggle against low prices
and the inclement weather that vexed the dale. Now he had come home,
in a sense not much changed, and Peter was satisfied. Kit and he
seldom jarred, and the dalesfolk, who did not know how like they were
under the surface, sometimes thought it strange.
Four or five of their neighbors sat in the kitchen, for the most part
smoking quietly, but now and then grumbling about the recent heavy
rain. This was not what they had come to talk about, and Peter waited.
He knew their cautious reserve; they were obstinate and slow to move,
and if he tried to hurry them might take alarm. By and by one knocked
out his pipe.

"How are you getting forrad with t' peat-cutting?" he asked.
"We have cut enough to last for three or four months."
"You'll need it aw. Coal's a terrible price," another remarked.
"It will be dearer soon," said Peter. "Since Bell has t' lease o' both coal
yards, he can charge what he likes."
"A grasping man! Yan canna get feeding stuff for stock, seed, an' lime,
unless yan pays his price. Noo he has t' traction-engine, kilns, and mill,
he'll own aw t' dale before lang."
"It's very possible, unless you stop him," Kit interposed.
"Landlord ought to stop him," one rejoined.
Kit smiled. "That's too much to expect; it's