The fact was that Bates had been respected by the well-to-do and loved
by the humble; and Dale, out here, remained an unknown quantity.
Anything of his fame as postmaster that had traveled along these two
miles from Rodchurch did not help him. He was not liked. He felt it in
the air, a dull inactive hostility, when talking to gentlefolks'
coachmen or giving orders to his own servants. The coachmen could take
no pleasure in patronizing him, nor the men in working for him. Mr.
Bates advised him once or twice to cultivate a gentler and more
ingratiating method of dealing with the people in his employ.
"Perhaps, William, I'm to blame for having spoilt 'em a bit;--but it'd
be good policy for you to take them as you find them, and get them
bound to you before you begin drilling 'em. A soft word now and then,
William--you don't know how far it goes sometimes."
"What I complain of is this," said Dale; "they don't show any spirit.
Every stroke o' bad luck I've had--every chance where they might step
in with common sense, or extra care, or a spark of invention to save a
situation for me--it's just as if they were a row o' turnips."
And the strokes of bad luck were so many and so heavy. The elements
seemed to be making war against him--such wet days as made it
impossible to deliver hay without damage to it, and an accusation from
somebody's stables that the last lot was poisoned; then frost, and two
horses seriously injured on the ice-clothed roads; then February
gales, wrecking the barn roofs, entailing costly repairs; then floods;
and last of all _rats_.
Pages:
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213