CHAPTER VIII

The news of Farmer Jocelyn’s sudden death was as though a cloud-burst had broken over the village, dealing utter and hopeless destruction.  To the little community of simple workaday folk living round Briar Farm it was a greater catastrophe than the death of any king.  Nothing else was talked of.  Nothing was done.  Men stood idly about, looking at each other in a kind of stupefied consternation,—­women chattered and whispered at their cottage doors, shaking their heads with all that melancholy profundity of wisdom which is not wise till after the event,—­the children were less noisy in their play, checked by the grave faces of their parents—­the very dogs seemed to know that something had occurred which altered the aspect of ordinary daily things.  The last of the famous Jocelyns was no more!  It seemed incredible.  And Briar Farm?  What would become of Briar Farm?

“There ain’t none o’ th’ owd folk left now” said one man, lighting his pipe slowly—­“It’s all over an’ done wi’.  Mister Clifford, he’s good enow—­but he ain’t a Jocelyn, though a Jocelyn were his mother.  ‘Tis the male side as tells.  An’ he’s young, an’ he’ll want change an’ rovin’ about like all young men nowadays, an’ the place’ll be broke up, an’ the timber felled, an’ th’ owd oak’ll be sold to a dealer, an’ Merrikans’ll come an’ buy the pewter an’ the glass an’ the linen, an’ by-an’-bye we won’t know there ever was such a farm at all—­”

“That’s your style o’ thinkin’, is it?” put in another man standing by, with a round straw hat set back upon his head in a, fashion which gave him the appearance of a village idiot—­“Well, it’s not mine!  No, by no means!  There’ll be a Will,—­an’ Mister Robin he’ll find a Way!  Briar Farm’ll allus be Briar Farm accordin’ to my mind!”

“Your mind ain’t much,” growled the first speaker—­“so don’t ye go settin’ store by it.  Lord, Lord! to think o’ Farmer Jocelyn bein’ gone!  Seems as if a right ’and ’ad bin cut off!  Onny yesterday I met ‘im drivin’ along the road at a tearin’ pace, with Ned Landon sittin’ beside ‘im—­an’ drivin’ fine too, for the mare’s a tricky one with a mouth as ’ard as iron—­but ’e held ’er firm—­that ’e did!—­no weakness about ‘im—­an’ ‘e was talkin’ away to Landon while ’e drove, ‘ardly lookin’ right or left, ’e was that sure of hisself.  An’ now ‘e’s cold as stone—­who would a’ thort it!”

“Where’s Landon?” asked the other man.

“I dunno.  He’s nowhere about this mornin’ that I’ve seen.”

At that moment a figure came into view, turning the corner of a lane at the end of the scattered thatched cottages called “the village,”—­a portly, consequential-looking figure, which both men recognised as that of the parson of the parish, and they touched their caps accordingly.  The Reverend William Medwin, M.A., was a great personage,—­and his “cure of souls” extended to three other villages outlying the one of which Briar Farm was the acknowledged centre.