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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7eea099 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61016 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61016) diff --git a/old/61016-0.txt b/old/61016-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 599537d..0000000 --- a/old/61016-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8690 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Black Dog, by A. E. (Alfred Edgar) Coppard - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: The Black Dog - And Other Stories - - -Author: A. E. (Alfred Edgar) Coppard - - - -Release Date: December 25, 2019 [eBook #61016] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK DOG*** - - -E-text prepared by ellinora, Les Galloway, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/blackdogothersto00coppuoft - - -Transcriber’s note: - - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). - - - - - -THE BLACK DOG - -Tales - - - * * * * * - -By the Same Author - -ADAM AND EVE AND PINCH ME -CLORINDA WALKS IN HEAVEN -HIPS AND HAWS - - * * * * * - - -THE BLACK DOG - -And Other Stories by - -A. E. COPPARD - - -[Illustration; Publisher's Device] - - - - - - -New York -Alfred A. Knopf -1923 - -Made and printed in Great Britain by Charles Whittingham -and Griggs (Printers), Ltd., London. - - - - - _to_ - GAY - - - - -I record my acknowledgments to the Editors of the following journals in -which some of these tales first appeared: - - _The Saturday Review_, _The Westminster Gazette_, - _The Sovereign Magazine_, _The English Review_, - _The Dial_, _The Metropolitan_, _The Double Dealer_. - - A. E. C. - - - - -_Contents_ - - - PAGE - - THE BLACK DOG 13 - - ALAS, POOR BOLLINGTON! 50 - - THE BALLET GIRL 62 - - SIMPLE SIMON 79 - - THE TIGER 91 - - MORDECAI AND COCKING 107 - - THE MAN FROM KILSHEELAN 113 - - TRIBUTE 133 - - THE HANDSOME LADY 139 - - THE FANCY DRESS BALL 173 - - THE CAT, THE DOG, AND THE BAD OLD DAME 188 - - THE WIFE OF TED WICKHAM 195 - - TANIL 206 - - THE DEVIL IN THE CHURCHYARD 228 - - HUXLEY RUSTEM 236 - - BIG GAME 243 - - THE POOR MAN 252 - - LUXURY 286 - - - - - THE BLACK DOG - - _Tales_ - - - - - _The Black Dog_ - - -Having pocketed his fare the freckled rustic took himself and his -antediluvian cab back to the village limbo from which they had briefly -emerged. Loughlin checked his luggage into the care of the porter, an -angular man with one eye who was apparently the only other living being -in this remote minute station, and sat down in the platform shade. July -noon had a stark eye-tiring brightness, and a silence so very deep—when -that porter ceased his intolerable clatter—that Loughlin could hear -footsteps crunching in the road half a mile away. The train was late. -There were no other passengers. Nothing to look at except his trunks, -two shiny rails in the grim track, red hollyhocks against white palings -on the opposite bank. - -The holiday in this quiet neighbourhood had delighted him, but its -crowning experience had been too brief. On the last day but one the -loveliest woman he had ever known had emerged almost as briefly as -that cabman. Some men are constantly meeting that woman. Not so the -Honourable Gerald Loughlin, but no man turns his back tranquilly on -destiny even if it is but two days old and already some half-dozen -miles away. The visit had come to its end, Loughlin had come to his -station, the cab had gone back to its lair, but on reflection he could -find no other reasons for going away and denying himself the delight of -this proffered experience. Time was his own, as much as he could buy of -it, and he had an income that enabled him to buy a good deal. - -Moody and hesitant he began to fill his pipe when the one-eyed porter -again approached him. - -“Take a pipe of that?” said Loughlin, offering him the pouch. - -“Thanky, sir, but I can’t smoke a pipe; a cigarette I take now and -again, thanky, sir, not often, just to keep me from cussing and -damming. My wife buys me a packet sometimes, she says I don’t swear so -much then, but I don’t know, I has to knock ’em off soon’s they make me -feel bad, and then, dam it all, I be worsen ever....” - -“Look here,” said the other, interrupting him, “I’m not going by this -train after all. Something I have forgotten. Now look after my bags and -I’ll come along later, this afternoon.” He turned and left the station -as hurriedly as if his business was really of the high importance the -porter immediately conceived it to be. - -The Honourable Gerald, though handsome and honest, was not a fool. -A fool is one who becomes distracted between the claims of instinct -and common sense; the larger foolishness is the peculiar doom of -imaginative people, artists and their kind, while the smaller -foolishness is the mark of all those who have nothing but their -foolishness to endorse them. Loughlin responded to this impulse -unhesitatingly but without distraction, calmly and directly as became -a well-bred bachelor in the early thirties. He might have written -to the young beauty with the queer name, Orianda Crabbe, but that -course teemed with absurdities and difficulties for he was modest, -his romantic imagination weak, and he had only met her at old -Lady Tillington’s a couple of days before. Of this mere girl, just -twenty-three or twenty-four, he knew nothing save that they had been -immediately and vividly charming to each other. That was no excuse -for presenting himself again to the old invalid of Tillington Park, -it would be impossible for him to do so, but there had been one vague -moment of their recalled intercourse, a glimmering intimation, which -just now seemed to offer a remote possibility of achievement, and so he -walked on in the direction of the park. - -Tillington was some miles off and the heat was oppressive. At the end -of an hour’s stroll he stepped into “The Three Pigeons” at Denbury and -drank a deep drink. It was quiet and deliciously cool in the taproom -there, yes, as silent as that little station had been. Empty the -world seemed to-day, quite empty; he had not passed a human creature. -Happily bemused he took another draught. Eighteen small panes of glass -in that long window and perhaps as many flies buzzing in the room. He -could hear and see a breeze saluting the bright walled ivy outside and -the bushes by a stream. This drowsiness was heaven, it made so clear -his recollection of Orianda. It was impossible to particularize but -she was in her way, her rather uncultured way, just perfection. He -had engaged her upon several themes, music, fishing (Loughlin loved -fishing), golf, tennis, and books; none of these had particularly -stirred her but she had brains, quite an original turn of mind. There -had been neither time nor opportunity to discover anything about her, -but there she was, staying there, that was the one thing certain, -apparently indefinitely, for she described the park in a witty detailed -way even to a certain favourite glade which she always visited in the -afternoons. When she had told him that, he could swear she was not -finessing; no, no, it was a most engaging simplicity, a frankness that -was positively marmoreal. - -He would certainly write to her; yes, and he began to think of fine -phrases to put in a letter, but could there be anything finer, now, -just at this moment, than to be sitting with her in this empty inn. It -was not a fair place, though it was clean, but how she would brighten -it, yes! there were two long settles and two short ones, two tiny -tables and eight spittoons (he _had_ to count them), and somehow he -felt her image flitting adorably into this setting, defeating with its -native glory all the scrupulous beer-smelling impoverishment. And then, -after a while, he would take her, and they would lie in the grass under -a deep-bosomed tree and speak of love. How beautiful she would be. But -she was not there, and so he left the inn and crossed the road to a -church, pleasant and tiny and tidy, whitewalled and clean-ceilinged. -A sparrow chirped in the porch, flies hummed in the nave, a puppy was -barking in the vicarage garden. How trivial, how absurdly solemn, -everything seemed. The thud of the great pendulum in the tower had -the sound of a dead man beating on a bar of spiritless iron. He was -tired of the vapid tidiness of these altars with their insignificant -tapestries, candlesticks of gilded wood, the bunches of pale flowers -oppressed by the rich glow from the windows. He longed for an altar -that should be an inspiring symbol of belief, a place of green and -solemn walls with a dark velvet shrine sweeping aloft to the peaked -roof unhindered by tarnishing lustre and tedious linen. Holiness was -always something richly dim. There was no more holiness here than in -the tough hassocks and rush-bottomed chairs; not here, surely, the -apple of Eden flourished. And yet, turning to the lectern, he noted the -large prayer book open at the office of marriage. He idly read over -the words of the ceremony, filling in at the gaps the names of Gerald -Wilmot Loughlin and Orianda Crabbe. - -What a fool! He closed the book with a slam and left the church. -Absurd! You _couldn’t_ fall in love with a person as sharply as all -that, could you? But why not? Unless fancy was charged with the -lightning of gods it was nothing at all. - -Tramping away still in the direction of Tillington Park he came in the -afternoon to that glade under a screen of trees spoken of by the girl. -It was green and shady, full of scattering birds. He flung himself down -in the grass under a deep-bosomed tree. She had spoken delightfully of -this delightful spot. - -When she came, for come she did, the confrontation left him very -unsteady as he sprang to his feet. (Confound that potation at “The -Three Pigeons”! Enormously hungry, too!) But he was amazed, entranced, -she was so happy to see him again. They sat down together, but he was -still bewildered and his confusion left him all at sixes and sevens. -Fortunately her own rivulet of casual chatter carried them on until he -suddenly asked: “Are you related to the Crabbes of Cotterton—I fancy I -know them?” - -“No, I think not, no, I am from the south country, near the sea, nobody -at all, my father keeps an inn.” - -“An inn! How extraordinary! How very ... very ...” - -“Extraordinary?” Nodding her head in the direction of the hidden -mansion she added: “I am her companion.” - -“Lady Tillington’s?” - -She assented coolly, was silent, while Loughlin ransacked his brains -for some delicate reference that would clear him over this ... this ... -cataract. But he felt stupid—that confounded potation at “The Three -Pigeons”! Why, that was where he had thought of her so admirably, too. -He asked if she cared for the position, was it pleasant, and so on. -Heavens, what an astonishing creature for a domestic, quite positively -lovely, a compendium of delightful qualities, this girl, so frank, so -simple! - -“Yes, I like it, but home is better. I should love to go back to my -home, to father, but I can’t, I’m still afraid—I ran away from home -three years ago, to go with my mother. I’m like my mother, she ran away -from home too.” - -Orianda picked up the open parasol which she had dropped, closed it in -a thoughtful manner, and laid its crimson folds beside her. There was -no other note of colour in her white attire; she was without a hat. Her -fair hair had a quenching tinge upon it that made it less bright than -gold, but more rare. Her cheeks had the colour of homely flowers, the -lily and the pink. Her teeth were as even as the peas in a newly opened -pod, as clear as milk. - -“Tell me about all that. May I hear it?” - -“I have not seen him or heard from him since, but I love him very much -now.” - -“Your father?” - -“Yes, but he is stern, a simple man, and he is so just. We live at a -tiny old inn at the end of a village near the hills. ‘The Black Dog.’ -It is thatched and has tiny rooms. It’s painted all over with pink, -pink whitewash.” - -“Ah, I know.” - -“There’s a porch, under a sycamore tree, where people sit, and an old -rusty chain hanging on a hook just outside the door.” - -“What’s that for?” - -“I don’t know what it is for, horses, perhaps, but it is always there, -I always see that rusty chain. And on the opposite side of the road -there are three lime trees and behind them is the yard where my father -works. He makes hurdles and ladders. He is the best hurdle maker in -three counties, he has won many prizes at the shows. It is splendid to -see him working at the willow wood, soft and white. The yard is full -of poles and palings, spars and fagots, and long shavings of the thin -bark like seaweed. It smells so nice. In the spring the chaffinches -and wrens are singing about him all day long; the wren is lovely, but -in the summer of course it’s the whitethroats come chippering, and -yellow-hammers.” - -“Ah, blackbirds, thrushes, nightingales!” - -“Yes, but it’s the little birds seem to love my father’s yard.” - -“Well then, but why did you, why did you run away?” - -“My mother was much younger, and different from father; she was -handsome and proud too, and in all sorts of ways superior to him. They -got to hate each other; they were so quiet about it, but I could see. -Their only common interest was me, they both loved me very much. Three -years ago she ran away from him. Quite suddenly, you know; there was -nothing at all leading up to such a thing. But I could not understand -my father, not then, he took it all so calmly. He did not mention even -her name to me for a long time, and I feared to intrude; you see, I did -not understand, I was only twenty. When I did ask about her he told me -not to bother him, forbade me to write to her. I didn’t know where she -was, but he knew, and at last I found out too.” - -“And you defied him, I suppose?” - -“No, I deceived him. He gave me money for some purpose—to pay a -debt—and I stole it. I left him a letter and ran away to my mother. I -loved her.” - -“O well, that was only to be expected,” said Loughlin. “It was all -right, quite right.” - -“She was living with another man. I didn’t know. I was a fool.” - -“Good lord! That was a shock for you,” Loughlin said. “What did you -do?” - -“No, I was not shocked, she was so happy. I lived with them for a -year....” - -“Extraordinary!” - -“And then she died.” - -“Your mother died!” - -“Yes, so you see I could not stop with my ... I could not stay where I -was, and I couldn’t go back to my father.” - -“I see, no, but you want to go back to your father now.” - -“I’m afraid. I love him, but I’m afraid. I don’t blame my mother, I -feel she was right, quite right—it was such happiness. And yet I feel, -too, that father was deeply wronged. I can’t understand that, it sounds -foolish. I should so love to go home again. This other kind of life -doesn’t seem to eclipse me—things have been extraordinary kind—I don’t -feel out of my setting, but still it doesn’t satisfy, it is polite and -soft, like silk, perhaps it isn’t barbarous enough, and I want to live, -somehow—well, I have not found what I wanted to find.” - -“What did you want to find?” - -“I shan’t know until I have found it. I do want to go home now, but I -am full of strange feelings about it. I feel as if I was bearing the -mark of something that can’t be hidden or disguised of what my mother -did, as if I were all a burning recollection for him that he couldn’t -fail to see. He is good, a just man. He ... he is the best hurdle maker -in three counties.” - -While listening to this daughter of a man who made ladders the -Honourable Gerald had been swiftly thinking of an intriguing phrase -that leaped into his mind. Social plesiomorphism, that was it! Caste -was humbug, no doubt, but even if it was conscious humbug it was -there, really there, like the patterned frost upon a window pane, -beautiful though a little incoherent, and conditioned only by the size -and number of your windows. (Eighteen windows in that pub!) But what -did it amount to, after all? It was stuck upon your clear polished -outline for every eye to see, but within was something surprising as -the sight of a badger in church—until you got used to the indubitable -relation of such badgers to such churches. Fine turpitudes! - -“My dear girl,” he burst out, “your mother and you were right, -absolutely. I am sure life is enhanced not by amassing conventions, but -by destroying them. And your feeling for your father is right, too, -rightest of all. Tell me ... let me ... may I take you back to him?” - -The girl’s eyes dwelt upon his with some intensity. - -“Your courage is kind,” she said, “but he doesn’t know you, nor you -him.” And to that she added, “You don’t even know me.” - -“I have known you for ten thousand years. Come home to him with me, we -will go back together. Yes, you can explain. Tell him”—the Honourable -Gerald had got the bit between his teeth now—“tell him I’m your -sweetheart, will you—will you?” - -“Ten thousand ...! Yes, I know; but it’s strange to think you have only -seen me just once before!” - -“Does that matter? Everything grows from that one small moment into a -world of ... well of ... boundless admiration.” - -“I don’t want,” said Orianda, reopening her crimson parasol, “to grow -into a world of any kind.” - -“No, of course you don’t. But I mean the emotion is irresistible, ‘the -desire of the moth for the star,’ that sort of thing, you know, and I -immolate myself, the happy victim of your attractions.” - -“All that has been said before.” Orianda adjusted her parasol as a -screen for her raillery. - -“I swear,” said he, “I have not said it before, never to a living soul.” - -Fountains of amusement beamed in her brilliant eyes. She was exquisite; -he was no longer in doubt about the colour of her eyes—though he could -not describe them. And the precise shade of her hair was—well, it was -extraordinarily beautiful. - -“I mean—it’s been said to me!” - -“O damnation! Of course it’s been said to you. Ah, and isn’t that my -complete justification? But you agree, do you not? Tell me if it’s -possible. Say you agree, and let me take you back to your father.” - -“I think I would like you to,” the jolly girl said, slowly. - - -II - -On an August morning a few weeks later they travelled down together to -see her father. In the interim Orianda had resigned her appointment, -and several times Gerald had met her secretly in the purlieus of -Tillington Park. The girl’s cool casual nature fascinated him not less -than her appearance. Admiration certainly outdistanced his happiness, -although that also increased; but the bliss had its shadow, for the -outcome of their friendship seemed mysteriously to depend on the -outcome of the proposed return to her father’s home, devotion to that -project forming the first principle, as it were, of their intercourse. -Orianda had not dangled before him the prospect of any serener -relationship; she took his caresses as naturally and undemonstratively -as a pet bird takes a piece of sugar. But he had begun to be aware of a -certain force behind all her charming naivete; the beauty that exhaled -the freshness, the apparent fragility, of a drop of dew had none the -less a savour of tyranny which he vowed should never, least of all by -him, be pressed to vulgar exercise. - -When the train reached its destination Orianda confided calmly that -she had preferred not to write to her father. Really she did not know -for certain whether he was alive or even living on at the old home she -so loved. And there was a journey of three miles or more which Orianda -proposed to walk. So they walked. - -The road lay across an expanse of marshy country and approached the -wooded uplands of her home only by numerous eccentric divagations made -necessary by culverts that drained the marsh. The day was bright; the -sky, so vast an arch over this flat land, was a very oven for heat; -there were cracks in the earth, the grass was like stubble. At the mid -journey they crossed a river by its wooden bridge, upon which a boy -sat fishing with stick and string. Near the water was a long white hut -with a flag; a few tethered boats floated upon the stream. Gerald gave -a shilling to a travelling woman who carried a burden on her back and -shuffled slowly upon the harsh road sighing, looking neither to right -nor left; she did not look into the sky, her gaze was fastened upon her -dolorous feet, one two, one two, one two; her shift, if she had such a -garment, must have clung to her old body like a shrimping net. - -In an hour they had reached the uplands and soon, at the top of a -sylvan slope where there was shade and cooling air, Gerald saw a sign -hung upon a sycamore tree, _The Black Dog by Nathaniel Crabbe_. The inn -was small, pleasant with pink wash and brown paint, and faced across -the road a large yard encircled by hedges, trees, and a gate. The -travellers stood peeping into the enclosure which was stocked with new -ladders, hurdles, and poles of various sizes. Amid them stood a tall -burly man at a block, trimming with an axe the butt of a willow rod. He -was about fifty, clad in rough country clothes, a white shirt, and a -soft straw hat. He had mild simple features coloured, like his arms and -neck, almost to the hue of a bay horse. - -“Hullo!” called the girl. The man with the axe looked round at her -unrecognizingly. Orianda hurried through the gateway. “Father!” she -cried. - -“I did not know. I was not rightly sure of ye,” said the man, dropping -the axe, “such a lady you’ve grown.” - -As he kissed his daughter his heavy discoloured hands rested on her -shoulders, her gloved ones lay against his breast. Orianda took out her -purse. - -“Here is the money I stole, father.” - -She dropped some coins one by one into his palm. He counted them over, -and saying simply “Thank you, my dear,” put them into his pocket. - -“I’m dashed!”—thought Loughlin, who had followed the girl—“it’s exactly -how _she_ would take it; no explanation, no apology. They do not know -what reproach means. Have they no code at all?” - -She went on chatting with her father, and seemed to have forgotten her -companion. - -“You mean you want to come back!” exclaimed her father eagerly, “come -back here? That would be grand, that would. But look, tell me what I am -to do. I’ve—you see—this is how it is—” - -He spat upon the ground, picked up his axe, rested one foot upon the -axe-block and one arm upon his knee. Orianda sat down upon a pile of -the logs. - -“This is how it is ... be you married?” - -“Come and sit here, Gerald,” called the girl. As he came forward -Orianda rose and said: “This is my very dear friend, father, Gerald -Loughlin. He has been so kind. It is he who has given me the courage -to come back. I wanted to for so long. O, a long time, father, a long -time. And yet Gerald had to drag me here in the end.” - -“What was you afraid of, my girl?” asked the big man. - -“Myself.” - -The two visitors sat upon the logs. “Shall I tell you about mother?” -asked the girl. - -Crabbe hesitated; looked at the ground. - -“Ah, yes, you might,” he said. - -“She died, did you know?” - -The man looked up at the trees with their myriads of unmoving leaves; -each leaf seemed to be listening. - -“She died?” he said softly. “No, I did not know she died.” - -“Two years ago,” continued the girl, warily, as if probing his mood. - -“Two years!” He repeated it without emotion. “No, I did not know she -died. ’Tis a bad job.” He was quite still, his mind seemed to be -turning over his own secret memories, but what he bent forward and -suddenly said was: “Don’t say anything about it in there.” He nodded -towards the inn. - -“No?” Orianda opened her crimson parasol. - -“You see,” he went on, again resting one foot on the axe-block and -addressing himself more particularly to Gerald: “I’ve ... this is how -it is. When I was left alone I could not get along here, not by myself. -That’s for certain. There’s the house and the bar and the yard—I’d -to get help, a young woman from Brighton. I met her at Brighton.” He -rubbed the blade of the axe reflectively across his palm—“And she -manages house for me now, you see.” - -He let the axe fall again and stood upright. “Her name’s Lizzie.” - -“O, quite so, you could do no other,” Gerald exclaimed cheerfully, -turning to the girl. But Orianda said softly: “What a family we are! -He means he is living with her. And so you don’t want your undutiful -daughter after all, father?” Her gaiety was a little tremulous. - -“No, no!” he retorted quickly, “you must come back, you must come -back, if so be you can. There’s nothing I’d like better, nothing on -this mortal earth. My God, if something don’t soon happen I don’t know -what _will_ happen.” Once more he stooped for the axe. “That’s right, -Orianda, yes, yes, but you’ve no call to mention to her”—he glared -uneasily at the inn doorway—“that ... that about your mother.” - -Orianda stared up at him though he would not meet her gaze. - -“You mean she doesn’t know?” she asked, “you mean she would want you to -marry her if she did know?” - -“Yes, that’s about how it is with us.” - -Loughlin was amazed at the girl’s divination. It seemed miraculous, -what a subtle mind she had, extraordinary! And how casually she took -the old rascal’s—well, what could you call it?—effrontery, shame, -misdemeanour, helplessness. But was not her mother like it too? He had -grasped nothing at all of the situation yet, save that Nathaniel Crabbe -appeared to be netted in the toils of this housekeeper, this Lizzie -from Brighton. Dear Orianda was “dished” now, poor girl. She could not -conceivably return to such a menage. - -Orianda was saying: “Then I may stay, father, mayn’t I, for good with -you?” - -Her father’s eyes left no doubt of his pleasure. - -“Can we give Gerald a bedroom for a few days? Or do we ask Lizzie?” - -“Ah, better ask her,” said the shameless man. “You want to make a stay -here, sir?” - -“If it won’t incommode you,” replied Loughlin. - -“O, make no doubt about that, to be sure no, I make no doubt about -that.” - -“Have you still got my old bedroom?” asked Orianda, for the amount -of dubiety in his air was in prodigious antagonism to his expressed -confidence. - -“Why yes, it may happen,” he replied slowly. - -“Then Gerald can have the spare room. It’s all wainscot and painted -dark blue. It’s a shrimp of a room, but there’s a preserved albatross -in a glass case as big as a van.” - -“I make no doubt about that,” chimed in her father, straightening -himself and scratching his chin uneasily, “you must talk to Lizzie.” - -“Splendid!” said Gerald to Orianda, “I’ve never seen an albatross.” - -“We’ll ask Lizzie,” said she, “at once.” - -Loughlin was experiencing not a little inward distress at this turn in -the affair, but it was he who had brought Orianda to her home, and he -would have to go through with the horrid business. - -“Is she difficult, father?” - -“No, she’s not difficult, not difficult, so to say, you must make -allowance.” - -The girl was implacable. Her directness almost froze the blood of the -Hon. Loughlin. - -“Are you fond of her. How long has she been here?” - -“O, a goodish while, yes, let me see—no, she’s not difficult, if that’s -what you mean—three years, perhaps.” - -“Well, but that’s long enough!” - -(Long enough for what—wondered Loughlin?) - -“Yes, it is longish.” - -“If you really want to get rid of her you could tell her ...” - -“Tell her what?” - -“You know what to tell her!” - -But her father looked bewildered and professed his ignorance. - -“Take me in to her,” said Orianda, and they all walked across to “The -Black Dog.” There was no one within; father and daughter went into -the garden while Gerald stayed behind in a small parlour. Through the -window that looked upon a grass plot he could see a woman sitting in a -deck chair under a tree. Her face was turned away so that he saw only -a curve of pink cheek and a thin mound of fair hair tossed and untidy. -Lizzie’s large red fingers were slipping a sprig of watercress into a -mouth that was hidden round the corner of the curve. With her other -hand she was caressing a large brown hen that sat on her lap. Her black -skirt wrapped her limbs tightly, a round hip and a thigh being rigidly -outlined, while the blouse of figured cotton also seemed strained upon -her buxom breast, for it was torn and split in places. She had strong -white arms and holes in her stockings. When she turned to confront the -others it was easy to see that she was a foolish, untidy, but still a -rather pleasant woman of about thirty. - -“How do you do, Lizzie?” cried Orianda, offering a cordial hand. The -hen fluttered away as, smiling a little wanly, the woman rose. - -“Who is it, ’Thaniel?” she asked. - -Loughlin heard no more, for some men came noisily into the bar and -Crabbe hurried back to serve them. - - -III - -In the afternoon Orianda drove Gerald in the gig back to the station to -fetch the baggage. - -“Well, what success, Orianda?” he asked as they jogged along. - -“It would be perfect but for Lizzie—that _was_ rather a blow. But -I should have foreseen her—Lizzies are inevitable. And she _is_ -difficult—she weeps. But, O I am glad to be home again. Gerald, I feel -I shall not leave it, ever.” - -“Yes, Orianda,” he protested, “leave it for me. I’ll give your -nostalgia a little time to fade. I think it was a man named Pater said: -‘All life is a wandering to find home.’ You don’t want to omit the -wandering?” - -“Not if I have found my home again?” - -“A home with Lizzie!” - -“No, not with Lizzie.” She flicked the horse with the whip. “I shall be -too much for Lizzie; Lizzie will resume her wandering. She’s as stupid -as a wax widow in a show. Nathaniel is tired of Lizzie, and Lizzie of -Nathaniel. The two wretches! But I wish she did not weep.” - -Gerald had not observed any signs of tearfulness in Lizzie at the -midday dinner; on the contrary, she seemed rather a jolly creature, -not that she had spoken much beyond “Yes, ’Thaniel, No, ’Thaniel,” or -Gerald, or Orianda, as the case had been. Her use of his Christian -name, which had swept him at once into the bosom of the family, -shocked him rather pleasantly. But he did not know what had taken place -between the two women; perhaps Lizzie had already perceived and tacitly -accepted her displacement. - -He was wakened next morning by unusual sounds, chatter of magpies in -the front trees, and the ching of hammers on a bulk of iron at the -smithy. Below his window a brown terrier stood on its barrel barking -at a goose. Such common simple things had power to please him, and for -a few days everything at “The Black Dog” seemed planned on this scale -of novel enjoyment. The old inn itself, the log yard, harvesting, the -chatter of the evening topers, even the village Sunday delighted him -with its parade of Phyllis and Corydon, though it is true Phyllis wore -a pink frock, stockings of faint blue, and walked like a man, while -Corydon had a bowler hat and walked like a bear. He helped ’Thaniel -with axe, hammer, and plane, but best of all was to serve mugs of beer -nightly in the bar and to drop the coins into the drawer of money. The -rest of the time he spent with Orianda whom he wooed happily enough, -though without establishing any marked progress. They roamed in -fields and in copses, lounged in lanes, looking at things and idling -deliciously, at last returning home to be fed by Lizzie, whose case -somehow hung in the air, faintly deflecting the perfect stream of -felicity. - -In their favourite glade a rivulet was joined by a number of springs -bubbling from a pool of sand and rock. Below it the enlarged stream was -dammed into a small lake once used for turning a mill, but now, since -the mill was dismantled, covered with arrow heads and lily leaves, -surrounded by inclining trees, bushes of rich green growth, terraces -of willow herb, whose fairy-like pink steeples Orianda called “codlins -and cream,” and catmint with knobs of agreeable odour. A giant hornbeam -tree had fallen and lay half buried in the lake. This, and the black -poplars whose vacillating leaves underscored the solemn clamour of the -outfall, gave to it the very serenity of desolation. - -Here they caught sight of the two woodpeckers bathing in the springs, a -cock and his hen, who had flown away yaffling, leaving a pretty mottled -feather tinged with green floating there. It was endless pleasure to -watch each spring bubble upwards from a pouch of sand that spread -smoke-like in the water, turning each cone into a midget Vesuvius. A -wasp crawled laboriously along a flat rock lying in the pool. It moved -weakly, as if, marooned like a mariner upon some unknown isle, it could -find no way of escape; only, this isle was no bigger than a dish in an -ocean as small as a cartwheel. The wasp seemed to have forgotten that -it had wings, it creepingly examined every inch of the rock until it -came to a patch of dried dung. Proceeding still as wearily it paused -upon a dead leaf until a breeze blew leaf and insect into the water. -The wasp was overwhelmed by the rush from the bubbles, but at last it -emerged, clutching the woodpecker’s floating feather and dragged itself -into safety as a swimmer heaves himself into a boat. In a moment it -preened its wings, flew back to the rock, and played at Crusoe again. -Orianda picked the feather from the pool. - -“What a fool that wasp is,” declared Gerald, “I wonder what it is -doing?” - -Orianda, placing the feather in his hat, told him it was probably -wandering to find home. - -One day, brightest of all days, they went to picnic in the marshes, -a strange place to choose, all rank with the musty smell of cattle, -and populous with grasshoppers that burred below you and millions, -quadrillions of flies that buzzed above. But Orianda loved it. The -vast area of coarse pasture harboured not a single farmhouse, only a -shed here and there marking a particular field, for a thousand shallow -brooks flowed like veins from all directions to the arterial river -moving through its silent leagues. Small frills of willow curving on -the river brink, and elsewhere a temple of lofty elms, offered the only -refuge from sun or storm. Store cattle roamed unchecked from field to -field, and in the shade of gaunt rascally bushes sheep were nestling. -Green reeds and willow herb followed the watercourses with endless -efflorescence, beautiful indeed. - -In the late afternoon they had come to a spot where they could see -their village three or four miles away, but between them lay the -inexorable barrier of the river without a bridge. There was a bridge -miles away to the right, they had crossed it earlier in the day; and -there was another bridge on the left, but that also was miles distant. - -“Now what are we to do?” asked Orianda. She wore a white muslin frock, -a country frock, and a large straw hat with poppies, a country hat. -They approached a column of trees. In the soft smooth wind the foliage -of the willows was tossed into delicate greys. Orianda said they looked -like cockshy heads on spindly necks. She would like to shy at them, but -she was tired. “I know what we _could_ do.” Orianda glanced around the -landscape, trees, and bushes; the river was narrow, though deep, not -more than forty feet across, and had high banks. - -“You can swim, Gerald?” - -Yes, Gerald could swim rather well. - -“Then let’s swim it, Gerald, and carry our own clothes over.” - -“Can you swim, Orianda?” - -Yes, Orianda could swim rather well. - -“All right then,” he said. “I’ll go down here a little way.” - -“O, don’t go far, I don’t want you to go far away, Gerald,” and she -added softly, “my dear.” - -“No, I won’t go far,” he said, and sat down behind a bush a hundred -yards away. Here he undressed, flung his shoes one after the other -across the river, and swimming on his back carried his clothes over in -two journeys. As he sat drying in the sunlight he heard a shout from -Orianda. He peeped out and saw her sporting in the stream quite close -below him. She swam with a graceful overarm stroke that tossed a spray -of drops behind her and launched her body as easily as a fish’s. Her -hair was bound in a handkerchief. She waved a hand to him. “You’ve done -it! Bravo! What courage! Wait for me. Lovely.” She turned away like -an eel, and at every two or three strokes she spat into the air a gay -little fountain of water. How extraordinary she was. Gerald wished he -had not hurried. By and by he slipped into the water again and swam -upstream. He could not see her. - -“Have you finished?” he cried. - -“I have finished, yes.” Her voice was close above his head. She was -lying in the grass, her face propped between her palms, smiling down at -him. He could see bare arms and shoulders. - -“Got your clothes across?” - -“Of course.” - -“All dry?” - -She nodded. - -“How many journeys? I made two.” - -“Two,” said Orianda briefly. - -“You’re all right then.” He wafted a kiss, swam back, and dressed -slowly. Then as she did not appear he wandered along to her humming a -discreet and very audible hum as he went. When he came upon her she -still lay upon the grass most scantily clothed. - -“I beg your pardon,” he said hastily, and full of surprise and modesty -walked away. The unembarrassed girl called after him: “Drying my hair.” - -“All right”—he did not turn round—“no hurry.” - -But what sensations assailed him. They aroused in his decent -gentlemanly mind not exactly a tumult, but a flux of emotions, -impressions, and qualms; doubtful emotions, incredible impressions, and -torturing qualms. That alluring picture of Orianda, her errant father, -the abandoned Lizzie! Had the water perhaps heated his mind though it -had cooled his body? He felt he would have to urge her, drag her if -need be, from this “Black Dog.” The setting was fair enough and she was -fair, but lovely as she was not even she could escape the brush of its -vulgarity, its plebeian pressure. - -And if all this has, or seems to have, nothing, or little enough to do -with the drying of Orianda’s hair, it is because the Honourable Gerald -was accustomed to walk from grossness with an averted mind. - -“Orianda,” said he, when she rejoined him, “when are you going to give -it up. You cannot stay here ... with Lizzie ... can you?” - -“Why not?” she asked, sharply tossing back her hair. “I stayed with my -mother, you know.” - -“That was different from this. I don’t know how, but it must have been.” - -She took his arm. “Yes, it was. Lizzie I hate, and poor stupid father -loves her as much as he loves his axe or his handsaw. I hate her -meekness, too. She has taken the heart out of everything. I must get -her away.” - -“I see your need, Orianda, but what can you do?” - -“I shall lie to her, lie like a libertine. And I shall tell her that my -mother is coming home at once. No Lizzie could face that.” - -He was silent. Poor Lizzie did not know that there was now no Mrs. -Crabbe. - -“You don’t like my trick, do you?” Orianda shook his arm caressingly. - -“It hasn’t any particular grandeur about it, you know.” - -“Pooh! You shouldn’t waste grandeur on clearing up a mess. This is a -very dirty Eden.” - -“No, all’s fair, I suppose.” - -“But it isn’t war, you dear, if that’s what you mean. I’m only doing -for them what they are naturally loth to do for themselves.” She -pronounced the word “loth” as if it rimed with moth. - -“Lizzie,” he said, “I’m sure about Lizzie. I’ll swear there is still -some fondness in her funny little heart.” - -“It isn’t love, though; she’s just sentimental in her puffy kind of -way. My dear Honourable, you don’t know what love is.” He hated her to -use his title, for there was then always a breath of scorn in her tone. -Just at odd times she seemed to be—not vulgar, that was unthinkable—she -seemed to display a contempt for good breeding. He asked with a stiff -smile “What _is_ love?” - -“For me,” said Orianda, fumbling for a definition, “for me it is a -compound of anticipation and gratitude. When either of these two -ingredients is absent love is dead.” - -Gerald shook his head, laughing. “It sounds like a malignant bolus that -I shouldn’t like to take. I feel that love is just self-sacrifice. -Apart from the taste of the thing or the price of the thing, why and -for what this anticipation, this gratitude? - -“For the moment of passion, of course. Honour thy moments of passion -and keep them holy. But O, Gerald Loughlin,” she added mockingly, “this -you cannot understand, for you are not a lover; you are not, no, you -are not even a good swimmer.” Her mockery was adorable, but baffling. - -“I do not understand you,” he said. Now why in the whole world of -images should she refer to his swimming? He _was_ a good swimmer. -He was silent for a long time and then again he began to speak of -marriage, urging her to give up her project and leave Lizzie in her -simple peace. - -Then, not for the first time, she burst into a strange perverse -intensity that may have been love but might have been rage, that was -toned like scorn and yet must have been a jest. - -“Lovely Gerald, you must never marry, Gerald, you are too good for -marriage. All the best women are already married, yes, they are—to all -the worst men.” There was an infinite slow caress in her tone but she -went on rapidly. “So I shall never marry you, how should I marry a kind -man, a good man? I am a barbarian, and want a barbarian lover, to crush -and scarify me, but you are so tender and I am so crude. When your soft -eyes look on me they look on a volcano.” - -“I have never known anything half as lovely,” he broke in. - -Her sudden emotion, though controlled, was unconcealed and she turned -away from him. - -“My love is a gentleman, but with him I should feel like a wild bee in -a canary cage.” - -“What are you saying!” cried Gerald, putting his arms around her. -“Orianda!” - -“O yes, we do love in a mezzotinted kind of way. You could do anything -with me short of making me marry you, anything, Gerald.” She repeated -it tenderly. “Anything. But short of marrying me I could make you do -nothing.” She turned from him again for a moment or two. Then she took -his arm and as they walked on she shook it and said chaffingly, “And -what a timid swimmer my Gerald is.” - -But he was dead silent. That flux of sensations in his mind had taken -another twist, fiery and exquisite. Like rich clouds they shaped -themselves in the sky of his mind, fancy’s bright towers with shining -pinnacles. - -Lizzie welcomed them home. Had they enjoyed themselves—yes, the day -had been fine—and so they had enjoyed themselves—well, well, that was -right. But throughout the evening Orianda hid herself from him, so he -wandered almost distracted about the village until in a garth he saw -some men struggling with a cow. Ropes were twisted around its horns and -legs. It was flung to the earth. No countryman ever speaks to an animal -without blaspheming it, although if he be engaged in some solitary work -and inspired to music, he invariably sings a hymn in a voice that seems -to have some vague association with wood pulp. So they all blasphemed -and shouted. One man, with sore eyes, dressed in a coat of blue fustian -and brown cord trousers, hung to the end of a rope at an angle of -forty-five degrees. His posture suggested that he was trying to pull -the head off the cow. Two other men had taken turns of other rope -around some stout posts, and one stood by with a handsaw. - -“What are you going to do?” asked Gerald. - -“Its harns be bent, yeu see,” said the man with the saw, “they be going -into its head. ’Twill blind or madden the beast.” - -So they blasphemed the cow, and sawed off its crumpled horns. - -When Gerald went back to the inn Orianda was still absent. He sat down -but he could not rest. He could never rest now until he had won her -promise. That lovely image in the river spat fountains of scornful fire -at him. “Do not leave me, Gerald,” she had said. He would never leave -her, he would never leave her. But the men talking in the inn scattered -his flying fiery thoughts. They discoursed with a vacuity whose very -endlessness was transcendent. Good God! Was there ever a living person -more magnificently inane than old Tottel, the registrar. He would have -inspired a stork to protest. Of course, a man of his age should not -have worn a cap, a small one especially; Tottel himself was small, and -it made him look rumpled. He was bandy: his intellect was bandy too. - -“Yes,” Mr. Tottel was saying, “it’s very interesting to see interesting -things, no matter if it’s man, woman, or a object. The most interesting -man as I ever met in my life I met on my honeymoon. Years ago. He made -a lifelong study of railways, that man, knew ’em from Alpha to ... to -... what is it?” - -“Abednego,” said someone. - -“Yes, the trunk lines, the fares, the routs, the junctions of -anywheres in England or Scotland or Ireland or Wales. London, too, -the Underground. I tested him, every station in correct order from -South Kensington to King’s Cross. A strange thing! Nothing to do with -railways in ’imself, it was just his ’obby. Was a Baptist minister, -really, but still a most interesting man.” - -Loughlin could stand it no longer, he hurried away into the garden. He -could not find her. Into the kitchen—she was not there. He sat down -excited and impatient, but he must wait for her, he wanted to know, to -know at once. How divinely she could swim! What was it he wanted to -know? He tried to read a book there, a ragged dusty volume about the -polar regions. He learned that when a baby whale is born it weighs at -least a ton. How horrible! - -He rushed out into the fields full of extravagant melancholy and stupid -distraction. That! All that was to be her life here! This was your -rustic beauty, idiots and railways, boors who could choke an ox and -chop off its horns—maddening doubts, maddening doubts—foul-smelling -rooms, darkness, indecency. She held him at arm’s length still, but she -was dovelike, and he was grappled to her soul with hoops of steel, yes, -indeed. - -But soon this extravagance was allayed. Dim loneliness came -imperceivably into the fields and he turned back. The birds piped -oddly; some wind was caressing the higher foliage, turning it all one -way, the way home. Telegraph poles ahead looked like half-used pencils; -the small cross on the steeple glittered with a sharp and shapely -permanence. - -When he came to the inn Orianda was gone to bed. - - -IV - -The next morning an air of uneasy bustle crept into the house after -breakfast, much going in and out and up and down in restrained -perturbation. - -Orianda asked him if he could drive the horse and trap to the station. -Yes, he thought he could drive it. - -“Lizzie is departing,” she said, “there are her boxes and things. It is -very good of you, Gerald, if you will be so kind. It is a quiet horse.” - -Lizzie, then, had been subdued. She was faintly affable during the -meal, but thereafter she had been silent; Gerald could not look at her -until the last dreadful moment had come and her things were in the trap. - -“Good-bye, ’Thaniel,” she said to the innkeeper, and kissed him. - -“Good-bye, Orianda,” and she kissed Orianda, and then climbed into the -trap beside Gerald, who said “Click click,” and away went the nag. - -Lizzie did not speak during the drive—perhaps she was in tears. Gerald -would have liked to comfort her, but the nag was unusually spirited and -clacked so freshly along that he did not dare turn to the sorrowing -woman. They trotted down from the uplands and into the windy road -over the marshes. The church spire in the town ahead seemed to change -its position with every turn of that twisting route. It would have a -background now of high sour-hued down, now of dark woodland, anon of -nothing but sky and cloud; in a few miles further there would be the -sea. Hereabout there were no trees, few houses, the world was vast and -bright, the sky vast and blue. What was prettiest of all was a windmill -turning its fans steadily in the draught from the sea. When they -crossed the river its slaty slow-going flow was broken into blue waves. - -At the station Lizzie dismounted without a word and Gerald hitched the -nag to a tree. A porter took the luggage and labelled it while Gerald -and Lizzie walked about the platform. A calf with a sack over its -loins, tied by the neck to a pillar, was bellowing deeply; Lizzie let -it suck at her finger for a while, but at last she resumed her walk and -talked with her companion. - -“She’s a fine young thing, clever, his daughter; I’d do anything for -her, but for him I’ve nothing to say. What can I say? What could I do? -I gave up a great deal for that man, Mr. Loughlin—I’d better not call -you Gerald any more now—a great deal. I knew he’d had trouble with his -wicked wife, and now to take her back after so many years, eh! It’s -beyond me, I know how he hates her. I gave up everything for him, I -gave him what he can’t give back to me, and he hates her; you know?” - -“No, I did not know. I don’t know anything of this affair.” - -“No, of course, you would not know anything of this affair,” said -Lizzie with a sigh. “I don’t want to see him again. I’m a fool, -but I got my pride, and that’s something to the good, it’s almost -satisfactory, ain’t it?” - -As the train was signalled she left him and went into the booking -office. He marched up and down, her sad case affecting him with sorrow. -The poor wretch, she had given up so much and could yet smile at her -trouble. He himself had never surrendered to anything in life—that was -what life demanded of you—surrender. For reward it gave you love, this -swarthy, skin-deep love that exacted remorseless penalties. What German -philosopher was it who said Woman pays the debt of life not by what -she does, but by what she suffers? The train rushed in. Gerald busied -himself with the luggage, saw that it was loaded, but did not see its -owner. He walked rapidly along the carriages, but he could not find -her. Well, she was sick of them all, probably hiding from him. Poor -woman. The train moved off, and he turned away. - -But the station yard outside was startlingly empty, horse and trap were -gone. The tree was still there, but with a man leaning against it, a -dirty man with a dirty pipe and a dirty smell. Had he seen a horse and -trap? - -“A brown mare?” - -“Yes.” - -“Trap with yaller wheels?” - -“That’s it.” - -“O ah, a young ooman druv away in that....” - -“A young woman!” - -“Ah, two minutes ago.” And he described Lizzie. “Out yon,” said the -dirty man, pointing with his dirty pipe to the marshes. - -Gerald ran until he saw a way off on the level winding road the trap -bowling along at a great pace; Lizzie was lashing the cob. - -“The damned cat!” He puffed large puffs of exasperation and felt almost -sick with rage, but there was nothing now to be done except walk back -to “The Black Dog,” which he began to do. Rage gave place to anxiety, -fear of some unthinkable disaster, some tragic horror at the inn. - -“What a clumsy fool! All my fault, my own stupidity!” He groaned -when he crossed the bridge at the half distance. He halted there: -“It’s dreadful, dreadful!” A tremor in his blood, the shame of his -foolishness, the fear of catastrophe, all urged him to turn back to the -station and hasten away from these miserable complications. - -But he did not do so, for across the marshes at the foot of the uplands -he saw the horse and trap coming back furiously towards him. Orianda -was driving it. - -“What has happened?” she cried, jumping from the trap. “O, what fear I -was in, what’s happened?” She put her arms around him tenderly. - -“And I was in great fear,” he said with a laugh of relief. “What has -happened?” - -“The horse came home, just trotted up to the door and stood still. -Covered with sweat and foam, you see. The trap was empty. We couldn’t -understand it, anything, unless you had been flung out and were -bleeding on the road somewhere. I turned the thing back and came on -at once.” She was without a hat; she had been anxious and touched him -fondly. “Tell me what’s the scare?” - -He told her all. - -“But Lizzie was not in the trap,” Orianda declared excitedly. “She has -not come back. What does it mean, what does she want to do? Let us find -her. Jump up, Gerald.” - -Away they drove again, but nobody had seen anything of Lizzie. She had -gone, vanished, dissolved, and in that strong warm air her soul might -indeed have been blown to Paradise. But they did not know how or why. -Nobody knew. A vague search was carried on in the afternoon, guarded -though fruitless enquiries were made, and at last it seemed clear, -tolerably clear, that Lizzie had conquered her mad impulse or intention -or whatever it was, and walked quietly away across the fields to a -station in another direction. - - -V - -For a day or two longer time resumed its sweet slow delightfulness, -though its clarity was diminished and some of its enjoyment dimmed. -A village woman came to assist in the mornings, but Orianda was now -seldom able to leave the inn; she had come home to a burden, a happy, -pleasing burden, that could not often be laid aside, and therefore a -somewhat lonely Loughlin walked the high and the low of the country by -day and only in the evenings sat in the parlour with Orianda. Hope too -was slipping from his heart as even the joy was slipping from his days, -for the spirit of vanished Lizzie, defrauded and indicting, hung in the -air of the inn, an implacable obsession, a triumphant forboding that -was proved a prophecy when some boys fishing in the mill dam hooked -dead Lizzie from the pool under the hornbeam tree. - -Then it was that Loughlin’s soul discovered to him a mass of -feelings—fine sympathy, futile sentiment, a passion for righteousness, -morbid regrets—from which a tragic bias was born. After the dread -ordeal of the inquest, which gave a passive verdict of Found Drowned, -it was not possible for him to stem this disloyal tendency of his mind. -It laid that drowned figure accusatively at the feet of his beloved -girl, and no argument or sophistry could disperse the venal savour that -clung to the house of “The Black Dog.” “To analyse or assess a person’s -failings or deficiencies,” he declared to himself, “is useless, not -because such blemishes are immovable, but because they affect the mass -of beholders in divers ways. Different minds perceive utterly variant -figures in the same being. To Brown Robinson is a hero, to Jones a -snob, to Smith a fool. Who then is right? You are lucky if you can put -your miserable self in relation at an angle where your own deficiencies -are submerged or minimized, and wise if you can maintain your vision of -that interesting angle.” But embedded in Loughlin’s modest intellect -there was a stratum of probity that was rock to these sprays of the -casuist; and although Orianda grew more alluring than ever, he packed -his bag, and on a morning she herself drove him in the gig to the -station. - -Upon that miserable departure it was fitting that rain should fall. The -station platform was piled with bushel baskets and empty oil barrels. -It rained with a quiet remorselessness. Neither spoke a word, no one -spoke, no sound was uttered but the faint flicking of the raindrops. -Her kiss to him was long and sweet, her good-bye almost voiceless. - -“You will write?” she whispered. - -“Yes, I will write.” - -But he does not do so. In London he has not forgotten, but he cannot -endure the thought of that countryside—to be far from the madding crowd -is to be mad indeed. It is only after some trance of recollection, -when his fond experience is all delicately and renewingly there, that -he wavers; but time and time again he relinquishes or postpones his -return. And sometimes he thinks he really will write a letter to his -friend who lives in the country. - -But he does not do so. - - - - - _Alas, Poor Bollington!_ - - -“I walked out of the hotel, just as I was, and left her there. I never -went back again. I don’t think I intended anything quite so final, so -dastardly; I had not intended it, I had not thought of doing so, but -that is how it happened. I lost her, lost my wife purposely. It was -heartless, it was shabby, for she was a nice woman, a charming woman, -a good deal younger than I was, a splendid woman, in fact she was very -beautiful, and yet I ran away from her. How can you explain that, -Turner?” - -Poor Bollington looked at Turner, who looked at his glass of whiskey, -and that looked irresistible—he drank some. Bollington sipped a little -from his glass of milk. - -I often found myself regarding Bollington as a little old man. Most of -the club members did so too, but he was not that at all, he was still -on the sunny side of fifty, but _so_ unassertive, no presence to speak -of, no height, not enough hair to mention—if he had had it would surely -have been yellow. So mild and modest he cut no figure at all, just a -man in glasses that seemed rather big for him. Turner was different, -though he was just as bald; he had stature and bulk, his very pince-nez -seemed twice the size of Bollington’s spectacles. They had not met each -other for ten years. - -“Well, yes,” Turner said, “but that was a serious thing to do.” - -“Wasn’t it!” said the other, “and I had no idea of the enormity of the -offence—not at the time. She might have been dead, poor girl, and her -executors advertising for me. She had money you know, her people had -been licensed victuallers, quite wealthy. Scandalous!” - -Bollington brooded upon his sin until Turner sighed: “Ah well, my dear -chap.” - -“But you have no idea,” protested Bollington, “how entirely she -engrossed me. She was twenty-five and I was forty when we married. She -was entrancing. She had always lived in a stinking hole in Balham, and -it is amazing how strictly some of those people keep their children; -licensed victuallers, did I tell you? Well I was forty, and she was -twenty-five; we lived for a year dodging about from one hotel to -another all over the British Isles, she was a perfect little nomad. Are -you married, Turner?” - -No, Turner was not married, he never had been. - -“O, but you should be,” cried little Bollington, “it’s an extraordinary -experience, the real business of the world is marriage, marriage. I was -deliriously happy and she was learning French and Swedish—that’s where -we were going later. She was an enchanting little thing, fair, with -blue eyes; Phoebe her name was.” - -Turner thoughtfully brushed his hand across his generous baldness, then -folded his arms. - -“You really should,” repeated Bollington, “you ought to, really. But -I remember we went from Killarney to Belfast, and there something -dreadful happened. I don’t know, it had been growing on her I suppose, -but she took a dislike to me there, had strange fancies, thought I -was unfaithful to her. You see she was popular wherever we went, a -lively little woman, in fact she wasn’t merely a woman, she was a -little magnet, men congregated and clung to her like so many tacks -and nails and pins. I didn’t object at all—on the contrary, ‘Enjoy -yourself, Phoebe,’ I said, ‘I don’t expect you always to hang around -an old fogey like me.’ Fogey was the very word I used; I didn’t mean -it, of course, but that was the line I took, for she was so charming -until she began to get so bad tempered. And believe me, that made her -angry, furious. No, not the fogey, but the idea that I did not object -to her philandering. It was fatal, it gave colour to her suspicions of -me—Turner, I was as innocent as any lamb—tremendous colour. And she -had such a sharp tongue! If you ventured to differ from her—and you -couldn’t help differing sometimes—she’d positively bludgeon you, and -you couldn’t help being bludgeoned. And she had a passion for putting -me right, and I always seemed to be so very wrong, always. She would -not be satisfied until she had proved it, and it was so monstrous to -be made feel that because you were rather different from other people -you were an impertinent fool. Yes, I seemed at last to gain only the -pangs and none of the prizes of marriage. Now there was a lady we met -in Belfast to whom I paid some attention....” - -“O, good lord!” groaned Turner. - -“No, but listen,” pleaded Bollington, “it was a very innocent -friendship—nothing was further from my mind—and she was very much -like my wife, very much, it was noticeable, everybody spoke of it— I -mean the resemblance. A Mrs. Macarthy, a delightful woman, and Phoebe -simply loathed her. I confess that my wife’s innuendoes were so mean -and persistent that at last I hadn’t the strength to deny them, in fact -at times I wished they were true. Love is idolatry if you like, but it -cannot be complete immolation—there’s no such bird as the phœnix, is -there, Turner?” - -“What, what?” - -“No such bird as the phœnix.” - -“No, there is no such bird, I believe.” - -“And sometimes I had to ask myself quite seriously if I really hadn’t -been up to some infidelity! Nonsense, of course, but I assure you that -was the effect it was having upon me. I had doubts of myself, frenzied -doubts! And it came to a head between Phoebe and me in our room one -day. We quarrelled, O dear, how we quarrelled! She said I was sly, -two-faced, unfaithful, I was a scoundrel, and so on. Awfully untrue, -all of it. She accused me of dreadful things with Mrs. Macarthy and she -screamed out: ‘I hope you will treat her better than you have treated -me.’ Now what did she mean by that, Turner?” - -Bollington eyed his friend as if he expected an oracular answer, but -just as Turner was about to respond, Bollington continued: “Well, I -never found out, I never knew, for what followed was too terrible. ‘I -shall go out,’ I said, ‘it will be better, I think.’ Just that, nothing -more. I put on my hat and I put my hand on the knob of the door when -she said most violently: ‘Go with your Macarthys, I never want to see -your filthy face again!’ Extraordinary you know, Turner. Well, I went -out, and I will not deny I was in a rage, terrific. It was raining -but I didn’t care, and I walked about in it. Then I took shelter in -a bookseller’s doorway opposite a shop that sold tennis rackets and -tobacco, and another one that displayed carnations and peaches on wads -of coloured wool. The rain came so fast that the streets seemed to -empty, and the passers-by were horridly silent under their umbrellas, -and their footsteps splashed so dully, and I tell you I was very sad, -Turner, there. I debated whether to rush across the road and buy a lot -of carnations and peaches and take them to Phoebe. But I did not do so, -Turner, I never went back, never.” - -“Why, Bollington, you, you were a positive ruffian, Bollington.” - -“O, scandalous,” rejoined the ruffian. - -“Well, out with it, what about this Mrs. Macarthy?” - -“Mrs. Macarthy? But, Turner, I never saw her again, never, I ... I -forgot her. Yes, I went prowling on until I found myself at the docks -and there it suddenly became dark; I don’t know, there was no evening, -no twilight, the day stopped for a moment—and it did not recover. There -were hundreds of bullocks slithering and panting and steaming in the -road, thousands; lamps were hung up in the harbour, cabs and trollies -rattled round the bullocks, the rain fell dismally and everybody -hurried. I went into the dock and saw them loading the steamer, it was -called s.s. _Frolic_, and really, Turner, the things they put into the -belly of that steamer were rather funny: tons and tons of monstrous big -chain, the links as big as soup plates, and two or three pantechnicon -vans. Yes, but I was anything but frolicsome, I assure you, I was full -of misery and trepidation and the deuce knows what. I did not know -what I wanted to do, or what I was going to do, but I found myself -buying a ticket to go to Liverpool on that steamer, and, in short, I -embarked. How wretched I was, but how determined. Everything on board -was depressing and dirty, and when at last we moved off the foam slewed -away in filthy bubbles as if that dirty steamer had been sick and was -running away from it. I got to Liverpool in the early morn, but I did -not stay there, it is such a clamouring place, all trams and trollies -and teashops. I sat in the station for an hour, the most miserable man -alive, the most miserable ever born. I wanted some rest, some peace, -some repose, but they never ceased shunting an endless train of goods -trucks, banging and screeching until I almost screamed at the very -porters. Criff was the name on some of the trucks, I remember, Criff, -and everything seemed to be going criff, criff, criff. I haven’t -discovered to this day what Criff signifies, whether it’s a station -or a company, or a manufacture, but it was Criff, I remember. Well, I -rushed to London and put my affairs in order. A day or two later I went -to Southampton and boarded another steamer and put to sea, or rather we -were ignominiously lugged out of the dock by a little rat of a tug that -seemed all funnel and hooter. I was off to America, and there I stopped -for over three years.” - -Turner sighed. A waiter brought him another glass of spirit. - -“I can’t help thinking, Bollington, that it was all very fiery and -touchy. Of course, I don’t know, but really it was a bit steep, very -squeamish of you. What did your wife say?” - -“I never communicated with her, I never heard from her, I just dropped -out. My filthy face, you know, she did not want to see it again.” - -“Oh come, Bollington! And what did Mrs. Macarthy say?” - -“Mrs. Macarthy! I never saw or heard of her again. I told you that.” - -“Ah, yes, you told me. So you slung off to America.” - -“I was intensely miserable there for a long while. Of course I loved -Phoebe enormously, I felt the separation, I.... O, it is impossible to -describe. But what was worst of all was the meanness of my behaviour, -there was nothing heroic about it, I soon saw clearly that it was a -shabby trick, disgusting, I had bolted and left her to the mercy of -... well, of whatever there was. It made such an awful barrier—you’ve -no idea of my compunction—I couldn’t make overtures—‘Let us forgive -and forget.’ I was a mean rascal, I _was_ filthy. That was the -barrier—myself; I was too bad. I thought I should recover and enjoy -life again, I began to think of Phoebe as a cat, a little cat. I went -everywhere and did everything. But America is a big country, I couldn’t -get into contact, I was lonely, very lonely, and although two years -went by I longed for Phoebe. Everything I did I wanted to do with -Phoebe by my side. And then my cousin, my only relative in the world—he -lived in England—he died. I scarcely ever saw him, but still he was my -kin. And he died. You’ve no comprehension, Turner, of the truly awful -sensation such a bereavement brings. Not a soul in the world now would -have the remotest interest in my welfare. O, I tell you, Turner, it was -tragic, tragic, when my cousin died. It made my isolation complete. I -was alone, a man who had made a dreadful mess of life. What with sorrow -and remorse I felt that I should soon die, not of disease, but disgust.” - -“You were a great ninny,” ejaculated his friend. “Why the devil didn’t -you hurry back, claim your wife, bygones be bygones; why bless my -conscience, what a ninny, what a great ninny!” - -“Yes, Turner, it is as you say. But though conscience is a good -servant it is a very bad master, it overruled me, it shamed me, and -I hung on to America for still another year. I tell you my situation -was unbearable, I was tied to my misery, I was a tethered dog, a duck -without water—even dirty water. And I hadn’t any faith in myself or -in my case; I knew I was wrong, had always been wrong, Phoebe had -taught me that. I hadn’t any faith, I wish I had had. Faith can move -mountains, so they say, though I’ve never heard of it actually being -done.” - -“No, not in historical times,” declared Turner. - -“What do you mean by that?” - -“O well, time is nothing, it’s nothing, it comes and off it goes. -Has it ever occurred to you, Bollington, that in 5,000 years or so -there will be nobody in the world speaking the English language, -our very existence even will be speculated upon, as if we were the -Anthropophagi? O good lord, yes.” - -And another whiskey. - -“You know, Bollington, you were a perfect fool. You behaved like one of -those half-baked civil service hounds who lunch in a dairy on a cup of -tea and a cream horn. You wanted some beef, some ginger. You came back, -you must have come back because there you are now.” - -“Yes, Turner, I came back after nearly four years. Everything was -different, ah, how strange! I could not find Phoebe, it is weird how -people can disappear. I made enquiries, but it was like looking for a -lost umbrella, fruitless after so long.” - -“Well, but what about Mrs. Macarthy?” - -Mr. Bollington said, slowly and with the utmost precision: “I did not -see Mrs. Macarthy again.” - -“O, of course, you did not see her again, not ever.” - -“Not ever. I feared Phoebe had gone abroad too, but at last I found her -in London....” - -“No,” roared Turner, “why the devil couldn’t you say so and done with -it? I’ve been sweating with sympathy for you. O, I say, Bollington!” - -“My dear Turner, listen. Do you know, she was delighted to see me, she -even kissed me, straight off, and we went out to dine and had the very -deuce of a spread and we were having the very deuce of a good time. -She was lovelier than ever, and I could see all her old affection for -me was returning, she was so ... well, I can’t tell you, Turner, but -she had no animosity whatever, no grievance, she would certainly have -taken me back that very night. O dear, dear ... and then! I was anxious -to throw myself at her feet, but you couldn’t do that in a public café, -I could only touch her hands, beautiful, as they lay on the white linen -cloth. I kept asking: ‘Do you forgive me?’ and she would reply: ‘I have -nothing to forgive, dear, nothing.’ How wonderful that sounded to my -truly penitent soul—I wanted to die. - -“‘But you don’t ask me where I’ve been!’ she cried gaily, ‘or what I’ve -been doing, you careless old Peter. I’ve been to France, and Sweden -too!’ - -“I was delighted to hear that, it was so very plucky. - -“‘When did you go?’ I asked. - -“‘When I left you,’ she said. - -“‘You mean when I went away?’ - -“‘Did you go away? O, of course, you must have. Poor Peter, What a sad -time he has had.’ - -“I was a little bewildered, but I was delighted; in fact, Turner, I was -hopelessly infatuated again, I wanted to wring out all the dregs of my -detestable villainy and be absolved. All I could begin with was: ‘Were -you not very glad to be rid of me?’ - -“‘Well,’ she said, ‘my great fear at first was that you would find me -again and make it up. I didn’t want that then, at least, I thought I -didn’t.’ - -“‘That’s exactly what I felt,’ I exclaimed, ‘but how could I find you?’ - -“‘Well,’ Phoebe said, ‘you might have found out and followed me. But I -promise never to run away again, Peter dear, never.’ - -“Turner, my reeling intelligence swerved like a shot bird. - -“‘Do you mean, Phoebe, that you ran away from _me_?’ - -“‘Yes, didn’t I?’ she answered. - -“‘But I ran away from _you_,’ I said. ‘I walked out of the hotel on -that dreadful afternoon we quarrelled so, and I never went back. I went -to America. I was in America nearly four years.’ - -“‘Do you mean you ran away from me?’ she cried. - -“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘didn’t I?’ - -“‘But that is exactly what I did—I mean, I ran away from you. _I_ -walked out of the hotel directly you had gone—_I_ never went back, and -I’ve been abroad thinking how tremendously I had served you out, and -wondering what you thought of it all and where you were.’ - -“I could only say ‘Good God, Phoebe, I’ve had the most awful four years -of remorse and sorrow, all vain, mistaken, useless, thrown away.’ And -she said: ’And I’ve had four years—living in a fool’s paradise after -all. How dared you run away, it’s disgusting!’ - -“And, Turner, in a moment she was at me again in her old dreadful way, -and the last words I had from her were: ‘Now I _never_ want to see your -face again, never, this _is_ the end!’ - -“And that’s how things are now, Turner. It’s rather sad, isn’t it?” - -“Sad! Why you chump, when was it you saw her?” - -“O, a long time ago, it must be nearly three years now.” - -“Three years! But you’ll see her again!” - -“Tfoo! No, no, no, Turner. God bless me, no, no, no!” said the little -old man. - - - - - _The Ballet Girl_ - - -On the last night of Hilary term Simpkins left his father’s shop a -quarter before the closing hour in order to deliver personally a letter -to John Evans-Antrobus, Esq., of St. Saviour’s College. Simpkins was -a clerk to his father, and the letter he carried was inscribed on its -envelope as “Important,” and a further direction, “Wait Answer,” was -doubly underlined. Acting as he was told to act by his father, than -whom he was incapable of recognizing any bigger authority either in -this world or, if such a slight, shrinking fellow could ever project -his comprehension so far, in the next, he passed the porter’s lodge -under the archway of St. Saviour’s, and crossing the first quadrangle, -entered a small hall that bore the names J. Evans-Antrobus with half -a dozen others neatly painted on the wall. He climbed two flights of -wooden stairs, and knocking over a door whose lintel was marked “5, -Evans-Antrobus,” was invited to “Come in.” He entered a study, and -confronted three hilarious young men, all clothed immaculately in -evening dress, a costume he himself privily admired much as a derelict -might envy the harp of an angel. The noisiest young gentleman, the -tall one with a monocle, was his quarry; he handed the letter to him. -Mr. Evans-Antrobus then read the letter, which invited him to pay -instanter a four-year-old debt of some nine or ten pounds which he had -inexplicably but consistently overlooked. And there was a half-hidden -but unpleasant alternative suggested should Mr. Evans-Antrobus fail -to comply with this not unreasonable request. Mr. Evans-Antrobus said -“Damn!” In point of fact he enlarged the scope of his vocabulary far -beyond the limits of that modest expletive, while his two friends, -being invited to read the missive, also exclaimed in terms that were -not at all subsidiary. - -“My compliments to Messrs. Bagshot and Buffle!” exclaimed the tall -young man with the monocle angrily; “I shall certainly call round and -see them in the morning. Good evening!” - -Little Simpkins explained that Bagshot and Buffle were not in need of -compliments, their business being to sell boots and to receive payment -for them. Two of the jolly young gentlemen proposed to throw him down -the stairs, and were only persuaded not to by the third jolly young -gentleman, who much preferred to throw him out of the window. Whereupon -Simpkins politely hinted that he would be compelled to interview the -college dean and await developments in his chambers. Simpkins made it -quite clear that, whatever happened, he was going to wait somewhere -until he got the money. The three jolly young gentlemen then told -little Simpkins exactly what they thought of him, exactly, omitting no -shade of denunciation, fine or emphatic. They told him where he ought -to be at the very moment, where he would quickly be unless he took -himself off; in short, they told him a lot of prophetic things which, -as is the way of prophecy, invited a climax of catastrophic horror. - -“What is your name? Who the devil are you?” - -“My name is Simpkins.” - -Then the three jolly young gentlemen took counsel together in whispers, -and at last Mr. Evans-Antrobus said: “Well if you insist upon waiting, -Mr. Simpkins, I must get the money for you. I can borrow it, I suppose, -boys, from Fazz, can’t I?” - -Again they consulted in whispers, after which two of the young gents -said they ought to be going, and so they went. - -“Wait here for me,” said Mr. Evans-Antrobus, “I shall not be five -minutes.” - -But Mr. Simpkins was so firmly opposed to this course that the other -relented. “Damn you! come along with me, then; I must go and see Fazz.” -So off they went to some rooms higher up the same flight of stairs, -beyond a door that was marked “F. A. Zealander.” When they entered -Fazz sat moping in front of the fire; he was wrapped as deeply as an -Esquimaux in some plaid travelling rugs girt with the pink rope of a -dressing-gown that lay across his knees. The fire was good, but the -hearth was full of ashes. The end of the fender was ornamented with the -strange little iron face of a man whose eyes were shut but whose knobby -cheeks fondly glowed. Fazz’s eyes were not shut, they were covered by -dim glasses, and his cheeks had no more glow than a sponge. - -“Hullo, Fazz. You better to-day?” - -“No, dearie, I am not conscious of any improvement. This influenza’s -a thug; I am being deprived of my vitality as completely as a fried -rasher.” - -“Oh, by the by,” said his friend, “you don’t know each other: Mr. -Simpkins—Mr. Zealander.” - -The former bowed awkwardly and unexpectedly shook Mr. Zealander’s -hot limp hand. At that moment a man hurried in, exclaiming: “Mr. -Evans-Antrobus, sir, the Dean wants to see you in his rooms at once, -sir!” - -“That is deuced awkward,” said that gentleman blandly. “Just excuse me -for a moment or two, Fazz.” - -He hurried out, leaving Simpkins confronting Mr. Zealander in some -confusion. Fazz poked his flaming coal. “This fire! Did you ever see -such a morbid conflagration?” - -“Rather nice, I thought,” replied Simpkins affably; “quite cool -to-night, outside, rather.” - -The host peered at him through those dim glasses. “There’s a foggy -humidity about everything, like the inside of a cream tart. But sit -down,” said Fazz, With the geniality of a man who was about to be -hung and was rather glad that he was no longer to be exposed to the -fraudulent excess of life, “and tell me a bawdy story.” - -Simpkins sank into an armchair and was silent. - -“Perhaps you don’t care for bawdy stories?” continued Fazz. “I do, I -do. I love vulgarity; there is certainly a niche in life for vulgarity. -If ever I possess a house of my own I will arrange—I will, upon my -soul—one augustly vulgar room, divinely vulgar, upholstered in sallow -pigskin. Do tell me something. You haven’t got a spanner on you, I -suppose? There is something the matter with my bed. Once it was full -of goose feathers, but now I sleep, as it were, on the bulge of a -barrel; I must do something to it with a spanner. I hate spanners—such -dreadful democratic tools; they terrify me, they gape at you as if they -wanted to bite you. Spanners are made of iron, and this is a funny -world, for it is full of things like spanners.” - -Simpkins timidly rose up through the waves of this discourse and asked -if he could “do” anything. He was mystified, amused, and impressed by -this person; he didn’t often meet people like that, he didn’t often -meet anybody; he rather liked him. On each side of the invalid there -were tables and bottles of medicine. - -“I am just going to take my temperature,” said Fazz. “Do have a -cigarette, dearie, or a cigar. Can you see the matches? Yes; now do -you mind surrounding me with my medicines? They give such a hopeful -air to the occasion. There’s a phial of sodium salicylate tabloids, I -must take six of them in a minute or two. Then there are the quinine -capsules; the formalin, yes; those lozenges I suck—have one?—they are -so comforting, and that depressing laxative; surround me with them. -Oh, glorious, benignant, isn’t it? Now I shall take my temperature; I -shall be as stolid as the sphinx for three minutes, so do tell me that -story. Where is my thermometer, oh!” He popped the thermometer into -his mouth, but pulled it out again. “Do you know L. G.? He’s a blithe -little fellow, oh, very blithe. He was in Jacobsen’s rooms the other -day—Jacobsen’s a bit of an art connoisseur, you know, and draws and -paints, and Jacobsen drew attention to the portrait of a lady that was -hanging on the wall. ‘Oh, dear,’ said L. G., ‘what a hag! Where did -you get that thing?’ just like that. Such a perfect fool, L. G. ‘It’s -my mother,’ says Jacobsen. ‘Oh, of course,’ explained L. G., ‘I didn’t -mean _that_, of course, my dear fellow; I referred to the horrible -treatment, entirely to the horrible treatment; it is a wretched daub.’ -‘I did it myself!’ said Jacobsen. You don’t know L. G.? Oh, he is very -blithe. What were you going to tell me? I am just going to take my -temperature; yesterday it was ninety odd point something. I do hope it -is different now. I can’t bear those points, they seem so equivocal.” - -Fazz sat with the tube of the thermometer projecting from his mouth. -At the end of the test he regarded it very earnestly before returning -it disconsolately to the table. Then he addressed his visitor with -considerable gloom. - -“Pardon me, I did not catch your name.” - -“Simpkins.” - -“Simpkins!” repeated Fazz, with a dubious drawl. “Oh, I’m sorry, I -don’t like Simpkins, it sounds so minuscular. What are you taking?” - -“I won’t take anything, sir, thank you,” replied Simpkins. - -“I mean, what schools are you taking?” - -“Oh, no school at all.” - -Fazz was mystified: “What college are you?” - -“I’m not at a college,” confessed the other. “I came to see Mr. -Evans-Antrobus with a note. I’m waiting for an answer.” - -“Where do you come from?” - -“From Bagshot and Buffle’s.” After a silence he added: “Bespoke boots.” - -“Hump, you are very young to make bespoke boots, aren’t you, Simpkins, -surely? Are you an Agnostic? Have a cigar? You must, you’ve been very -good, and I am so interested in your career; but tell me now what it -exactly is that you are sitting in my room for?” - -Simpkins told him all he could. - -“It’s interesting, most fascinating,” declared Fazz, “but it is a -little beyond me all the same. I am afraid, Simpkins, that you have -been deposited with me as if I were a bank and you were something -not negotiable, as you really are, I fear. But you mustn’t tell the -Dean about Evans-Antrobus, no, you mustn’t, it’s never done. Tell -me, why do you make bespoke boots? It’s an unusual taste to display. -Wouldn’t you rather come to college, for instance, and study ... er ... -anthropology—nothing at all about boots in anthropology?” - -“No,” said Simpkins. He shuffled in his chair and felt uneasy. “I’d be -out of my depth.” Fazz glared at him, and Simpkins repeated: “Out of my -depth, that would be, sure.” - -“This is very shameful,” commented the other, “but it’s interesting, -most fascinating. You brazenly maintain that you would rather study -boots than ... than books and brains!” - -“A cobbler must stick to his last,” replied Simpkins, recalling a -phrase of his father’s. - -“Bravo!” cried Fazz, “but not to an everlasting last!” - -“And I don’t know anything about all this; there’s nothing about it I’d -want to know, it wouldn’t be any good to me. It’s no use mixing things, -and there’s a lot to be learnt about boots—you’d be surprised. You -got to keep yourself to yourself and not get out of your depth—take a -steady line and stick to it, and not get out of your depth.” - -“But, dearie, you don’t sleep with a lifebelt girt about your loins, do -you now? I’m not out of my depth; I shouldn’t be even if I started to -make boots....” - -“Oh, wouldn’t you?” shouted Simpkins. - -“I should find it rather a shallow occupation; mere business is the -very devil of a business; business would be a funny sort of life.” - -“Life’s a funny business; you look after your business and that will -look after you.” - -“But what in the world are we in the world at all for, Simpkins? -Isn’t it surely to do just the things we most intensely want to do? -And you do boots and boots and boots. Don’t you ever get out and -about?—theatres—girls—sport—or do you insist on boot, the whole boot, -and nothing but boot?” - -“No, none of them,” replied Simpkins. “Don’t care for theatres, I’ve -never been. Don’t care for girls, I like a quiet life. I keep myself to -myself—it’s safer, don’t get out of your depth then. I do go and have -a look at the football match sometimes, but it’s only because we make -the boots for some of your crack players, and you want to know what you -are making them for. Work doesn’t trouble me, nothing troubles me, and -I got money in the bank.” - -“Damme, Simpkins, you have a terrible conviction about you; if I listen -to you much longer I shall bind myself apprentice to you. I feel sure -that you make nice, soft, watertight, everlasting boots, and then -we should rise in the profession together. Discourse, Simpkins; you -enchant mine ears—both of them.” - -“What I say is,” concluded Simpkins, “you can’t understand everything. -I shouldn’t want to; I’m all right as it is.” - -“Of course you are, you’re simply too true. This is a place flowing -with afternoon tea, tutors, and clap-trap. It’s a city in which -everything is set upon a bill. You’re simply too true, if we are not -out of our depth we are in up to our ears—I am. It’s most fascinating.” - -Soon afterwards Simpkins left him. Descending the stairs to the rooms -of Evans-Antrobus he switched on the light. It was very quiet and snug -in those rooms, with the soft elegant couch, the reading-lamp with the -delicious violet shade, the decanter with whiskey, the box of chocolate -biscuits, and the gramophone. He sat down by the fire, waiting and -waiting. Simpkins waited so long that he got used to the room, he even -stole a sip of whiskey and some of the chocolate biscuits. Then to show -his independence, his contempt for Mr. Evans-Antrobus and his trickery, -he took still more of the whiskey—a drink he had never tasted before—he -really took quite a lot. He heaped coal upon the fire, and stalked -about the room with his hands in his pockets or examined the books, -most of which were about something called Jurisprudence, and suchlike. -Simpkins liked books; he began reading: - - That the Pleuronectidæ are admirably adapted by their flattened and - asymmetrical structure for their habits of life, is manifest from - several species, such as soles and flounders, etc., being extremely - common. - -He did not care much for science; he opened another: - - It is difficult indeed to imagine that anything can oscillate so - rapidly as to strike the retina of the eye 831,479,000,000,000 in - one second, as must be the case with violet light according to this - hypothesis. - -Simpkins looked at the light and blinked his eyes. That had a violet -shade. He really did not care for science, and he had an inclination to -put the book down as his head seemed to be swaying, but he continued to -turn the pages. - - Snowdon is the highest mountain in England or Wales. Snowdon is not so - high as Ben Nevis. - - Therefore the highest mountain in England or Wales is not so high as - Ben Nevis. - -“Oh, my head!” mumbled Simpkins. - - Water must be either warm or not warm, but it does not follow that it - must be warm or cold. - -Simpkins felt giddy. He dropped the book, and tottered to the couch. -Immediately the room spun round and something in his head began to hum, -to roar like an aeroplane a long way up in the sky. He felt that he -ought to get out of the room, quickly, and get some water, either not -or cold warm—he didn’t mind which! He clapped on his hat and, slipping -into his overcoat, he reached a door. It opened into a bedroom, very -bare indeed compared with this other room, but Simpkins rolled in; the -door slammed behind him, and in the darkness he fell upon a bed, with -queer sensations that seemed to be dividing and subtracting in him. - -When he awoke later—oh, it seemed much later—he felt quite well again. -He had forgotten where he was. It was a strange place he was in, -utterly dark; but there was a great noise sounding quite close to him—a -gramophone, people shouting choruses and dancing about in the adjoining -room. He could hear a lady’s voice too. Then he remembered that he -ought not to be in that room at all; it was, why, yes, it was criminal; -he might be taken for a burglar or something! He slid from the bed, -groped in the darkness until he found his hat, unbuttoned his coat, for -he was fearfully hot, and stood at the bedroom door trembling in the -darkness, waiting and listening to that tremendous row. He _had_ been -a fool to come in there! How was he to get out—how the deuce was he to -get out? The gramophone stopped. He could hear the voices more plainly. -He grew silently panic-stricken; it was awful, they’d be coming in to -him perhaps, and find him sneaking there like a thief—he must get out, -he must, he must get out; yes, but how? - -The singing began again. The men kept calling out “Lulu! Lulu!” and -a lady’s gay voice would reply to a Charley or a George, and so on, -when all at once there came a peremptory knock at the outer door. -The noise within stopped immediately. Deep silence. Simpkins could -hear whispering. The people in there were startled; he could almost -feel them staring at each other with uneasiness. The lady laughed out -startlingly shrill. “Sh-s-s-sh!” the others cried. The loud knocking -began again, emphatic, terrible. Simpkins’ already quaking heart began -to beat ecstatically. Why, oh why, didn’t they open that door?—open it! -open it! There was shuffling in the room, and when the knocking was -repeated for the third time the outer door was apparently unlocked. - -“Fazz! Oh, Fazz, you brute!” cried the relieved voices in the room. -“You fool, Fazz! Come in, damn you, and shut the door.” - -“Good gracious!” exclaimed the apparently deliberating Fazz, “what is -that?” - -“Hullo, Rob Roy!” cried the lady, “it’s me.” - -“Charmed to meet you, madame. How interesting, most fascinating; yes, -I am quite charmed, but I wish somebody would kindly give me the -loose end of it all. I’m suffering, as you see, dearies, and I don’t -understand all this, I’m quite out of my depth. The noise you’ve been -making is just crushing me.” - -Several voices began to explain at once: “We captured her, Fazz, -yes—Rape of the Sabines, what!—from the Vaudeville. Had a rag, -glorious—corralled all the attendants and scene-shifters—rushed the -stage—we did! we did!—everybody chased somebody, and we chased Lulu—we -did! we did!” - -“Oh, shut up, everybody!” cried out Fazz. - -“Yes, listen,” cried the voice of Evans-Antrobus. “This is how it -happened: they chased the eight Sisters Victoria off the stage, and we -spied dear little Lulu—she was one of those eight Victorias—bolting -down a passage to the stage entrance. She fled into the street just -as she was—isn’t she a duck? There was a taxi standing there, and -Lulu, wise woman, jumped in—and we jumped in too. (We did! We did!) -‘Where for?’ says taximan. ‘Saviour’s College,’ say we, and here you -are—Lulu—what do you think of her?” - -“Charming, utterly charming,” replied Fazz. “The details are most -clarifying; but how did you manage to usher her into the college?” - -“My overcoat on,” explained one voice. - -“And my hat,” cried another. - -“And we dazzled the porter,” said a third. There were lots of other -jolly things to explain: Lulu had not resisted at all, she had enjoyed -it; it was a lark! - -“Oh, beautiful! Most fascinating!” agreed Fazz. “But how you propose -to get her out of the college I have no more notion than Satan has of -sanctity—it’s rather late, isn’t it?” - -Simpkins, in his dark room, could hear someone rushing up the stairs -with flying leaps that ceased at the outer door. Then a breathless -voice hissed out: “You fellows, scat, scat! Police are in the lodge -with the proctors and that taximan!” - -In a moment Evans-Antrobus began to groan. “Oh, my God, what can we -do with her? We must get her out at once—over the wall, eh, at once, -quick! Johnstone, quick, go and find a rope, quick, a rope.” - -And Fazz said: “It does begin to look a little foolish. Oh, I am -feeling so damn bad—but you can’t blame a fool for anything it does, -can you? But I am bad; I am going to bed instantly, I feel quite out of -my depth here. Oh, that young friend of yours, that Simpkins, charming -young person! Very blithe he was, dear Evans-Antrobus!” - -Everybody now seemed to rush away from the room except the girl Lulu -and Evans-Antrobus. He was evidently very agitated and in a bad humour. -He clumped about the room exclaiming, “Oh, damnation, do hurry up, -somebody. What am I to do with her, boozy little pig! Do hurry up!” - -“Who’s a pig? I want to go out of here,” shrilled Lulu, and apparently -she made for the door. - -“You can’t go like that!” he cried; “you can’t, you mustn’t. Don’t be a -fool, Lulu! Lulu! Now, isn’t this a fearful mess?” - -“I’m not going to stop here with you, ugly thing! I don’t like it; I’m -going now, let go.” - -“But you can’t go, I tell you, in these things, not like that. Let me -think, let me think, can’t you! Why don’t you let me think, you little -fool! Put something on you, my overcoat; cover yourself up. I shall be -ruined, damn you! Why the devil did you come here, you ...!” - -“And who brought me here, Mr. Antibus? Oh yes, I know you; I shall -have something to say to the vicar, or whoever it is you’re afraid of, -baby-face! Let me go; I don’t want to be left here alone with you!” she -yelled. Simpkins heard an awful scuffle. He could wait no longer; he -flung open the door, rushed into the room, and caught up a syphon, the -first handy weapon. They saw him at once, and stood apart amazed. - -“Fine game!” said the trembling Simpkins to the man, with all -the sternness at his command. As nobody spoke he repeated, quite -contemptuously: “Fine game!” - -Lulu was breathing hard, with her hands resting upon her bosom. Her -appearance was so startling to the boy that he nearly dropped the -syphon. He continued to face her, hugging it with both hands against -his body. She was clad in pink tights—they were of silk, they glistened -in the sharper light from under the violet shade—a soft white tarlatan -skirt that spread around her like a carnation, and a rose-coloured -bodice. She was dainty, with a little round head and a little round -face like a briar rose; but he guessed she was strong, though her -beauty had apparently all the fragility of a flower. Her hair, of dull -dark gold, hung in loose tidiness without pin or braid, the locks cut -short to her neck, where they curved in to brush the white skin; a deep -straight fringe of it was combed upon the childish brow. Grey were her -surprised eyes, and wide the pouting lips. Her lovely naked arms—oh, he -could scarcely bear to look at them. She stood now, with one hand upon -her hip and the other lying against her cheek, staring at Simpkins. -Then she danced delightfully up to him and took the syphon away. - -“Look here,” said Evans-Antrobus to Lulu—he had recovered his -nerve, and did not express any astonishment at Simpkins’ sudden -appearance—“he is just your size, you dress up in his clothes, quick, -then it’s simple.” - -“No,” said the girl. - -“And no for me,” said Simpkins fiercely—almost. - -Just then the door was thrust partly open and a rope was flung into the -room. The bringer of it darted away downstairs again. - -“Hi! here!” called Evans-Antrobus, rushing to the door; but nobody -stayed for him, nobody answered him. He came back and picked up the -rope. - -“Put on that coat,” he commanded Lulu, “and that hat. Now, look here, -not a word, not a giggle even, or we are done, and I might just as well -screw your blessed neck!” - -“Would you?” snorted Simpkins, with not a little animosity. - -“Yes, would you!” chimed Lulu, but nevertheless she obeyed and followed -him down the stairs. When she turned and beckoned, Simpkins followed -too. They crossed a dark quadrangle, passed down a passage that was -utter darkness, through another quad, another passage, and halted in a -gloomy yard behind the chapel, where Evans-Antrobus struck a match, and -where empty boxes, bottles, and other rubbish had accumulated under a -wall about ten feet high. - -“You first, and quiet, quiet,” growled Evans-Antrobus to Simpkins. No -one spoke again. Night was thickly dark, the stars were dim, the air -moist and chill. Simpkins, assisted by the other man, clambered over -rickety boxes and straddled the high thick wall. The rope was hungover, -too, and when the big man had jumped to earth again, dragging his -weight against it, Simpkins slid down on the other side. He was now -in a narrow street, with a dim lamp at one end that cast no gleam to -the spot where he had descended. There were dark high-browed buildings -looming high around him. He stood holding the end of the rope and -looking up at the stars—very faint they were. The wall was much higher -on this side, looked like a mountain, and he thought of Ben Nevis -again. This was out of your depth, if you like, out of your depth -entirely. It was all wrong somehow, or, at any rate, it was not all -right; it couldn’t be right. Never again would he mess about with a lot -of lunatics. He hadn’t done any good, he hadn’t even got the money—he -had forgotten it. He had not got anything at all except a headache. - -The rope tightened. Lulu was astride the wall, quarrelling with the man -on the other side. - -“Keep your rotten coat!” She slipped it off and flung it down from the -wall. “And your rotten hat, too, spider-face!” She flung that down from -the wall, and spat into the darkness. Turning to the other side, she -whispered: “I’m coming,” and scrambled down, sliding into Simpkins’ -arms. And somehow he stood holding her so, embracing her quite tightly. -She was all softness and perfume, he could not let her go; she had -scarcely anything on—he would not let her go. It was marvellous and -beautiful to him; the glimmer of her white face was mysterious and -tender in the darkness. She put her arms around his neck: - -“Oh ... I rather love you,” she said. - - - - - _Simple Simon_ - - -This simple man lived lonely in a hut in the depths of a forest, just -underneath three hovering trees, a pine tree and two beeches. The sun -never was clear in the forest, but the fogs that rose in its unshaken -shade were neither sweet nor sour. Lonely was Simon, for he had given -up all the sweet of the world and had received none of the sweet of -heaven. Old now, and his house falling to ruin, he said he would go -seek the sweet of heaven, for what was there in the mortal world to -detain him? Not peace, certainly, for time growled and scratched at him -like a mangy dog, and there were no memories to cherish; he had had a -heavy father, a mother who was light, and never a lay-by who had not -deceived him. So he went in his tatters and his simplicity to the lord -of the manor. - -“I’m bound for heaven, sir,” says Simon, “will you give me an old coat, -or an odd rag or so? There’s a hole in my shoe, sir, and good fortune -slips out of it.” - -No—the lord of the manor said—he could not give him a decent suit, nor -a shoe, nor the rags neither. Had he not let him dwell all life long in -his forest? With not a finger of rent coming? Snaring the conies—(May -your tongue never vex you, sir!)—and devouring the birds—(May God see -me, sir!)—and cutting the fuel, snug as a bee in a big white hive. -(Never a snooze of sleep, with the wind howling in the latch of it and -the cracks gaping, sir!) What with the taxes and the ways of women—said -the lord—he had but a scrimping time of it himself, so he had. There -was neither malt in the kiln nor meal in the hopper, and there were -thieves in the parish. Indeed, he would as lief go with Simon, but it -was such a diggins of a way off. - -So Simon went walking on until he came to the godly man who lived in -a blessed mansion, full of delights for the mind and eye as well as a -deal of comfort for his belly. - -No—the godly man said—he would not give him anything, for the Lord took -no shame of a man’s covering. - -“Ah, but your holiness,” said Simon, “I’ve a care to look decent when I -go to the King of All.” - -“My poor man, how will you get there, my poor man?” he said. - -“Maybe,” says Simon, “I’ll get a lift on my way.” - -“You’ll get no lift,” the godly man said, “for it’s a hard and lonely -road to travel.” - -“My sorrow! And I heard it was a good place to go to!” - -“It is a good place, my simple man, but the road to it is difficult and -empty and hard. You will get no lift, you will lose your way, you will -be taken with a sickness.” - -“Ah, and I heard it was a good kind road, and help in the end of it and -warmth and a snap of victuals.” - -“No doubt, no doubt, but I tell you, don’t be setting yourself up for -to judge of it. Go back to your home and be at peace with the world.” - -“Mine’s all walk-on,” said Simon, and turning away he looked towards -his home. Distant or near there was nothing he could see but trees, not -a glint of sea, and little of sky, and nothing of a hill or the roof -of a friendly house—just a trap of trees as close as a large hand held -before a large face, beeches and beeches, pines and pines. And buried -in the middle of it was a tiny hut, sour and broken; in the time of -storms the downpour would try to dash it into the ground, and the wind -would try to tear it out. Well, he had had his enough of it, so he went -to another man, a scholar for learning, and told him his intentions and -his wishes. - -“To heaven!” said the scholar. “Well, it’s a fair day for that -good-looking journey.” - -“It is indeed a fine day,” said Simon. As clear as crystal it was, yet -soft and mellow as snuff. - -“Then content you, man Simon, and stay in it.” - -“Ah, sir,” he says, “I’ve a mind and a will that makes me serve them.” - -“Cats will mouse and larks will sing,” the scholar said, “but you are -neither the one nor the other. What you seek is hidden, perhaps hidden -for ever; God remove discontent and greed from the world: why should -you look on the other side of a wall—what is a wall for?” - -The old man was silent. - -“How long has this notion possessed you?” - -The old man quavered “Since ... since ...” but he could say no more. A -green bird flew laughing above them. - -“What bird is that—what is it making that noise for?” - -“It is a woodpecker, sir; he knows he can sing a song for Sixpence.” - -The scholar stood looking up into the sky. His boots were old—well, -that is the doom of all boots, just as it is of man. His clothes were -out of fashion, so was his knowledge; stripped of his gentle dignity he -was but dust and ashes. - -“To travel from the world?” he was saying. “That is not wise.” - -“Ah, sir, wisdom was ever deluding me, for I’m not more than half -done—like a poor potato. First, of course, there’s the things you don’t -know; then there’s the things you do know but can’t understand; then -there’s the things you do understand but which don’t matter. Saving -your presence, sir, there’s a heap of understanding to be done before -you’re anything but a fool.” - -“He is not a fool who is happy; mortal pleasures decline as the bubble -of knowledge grows; that’s the long of it, and it’s the short of it -too.” - -Simon was silent, adding up the buttons on the scholar’s tidy coat. He -counted five of them, they shone like gold and looked—oh, very well -they looked. - -“I was happy once,” then he said. “Ah, and I remember I was happy -twice, yes, and three times I was happy in this world. I was not happy -since....” - -“Yes, since what?” the scholar asked him: but the old man was dumb. - -“Tell me, Simon, what made you happy.” - -“I was happy, sir, when I first dwelled in the wood and made with my -own hands a house of boards. Why—you’d not believe—but it had a chimney -then, and was no ways draughty then, and was not creaky then, nor -damp then; a good fine house with a door and a half door, birds about -it, magpies and tits and fine boy blackbirds! A lake with a score of -mallards on it! And for conies and cushats you could take your oath of -a meal any day in the week, and twice a day, any day. But ’tis falling -with age and weather now, I see it go; the rain wears it, the moss rots -it, the wind shatters it. The lake’s as dry as a hen’s foot, and the -forest changes. What was bushes is timber now, and what was timber is -ashes; the forest has spread around me and the birds have left me and -gone to the border. As for conies, there’s no contriving with those -foxes and weasels so cunning at them; not the trace of a tail, sir, -nothing but snakes and snails now. I was happy when I built that house; -that’s what I was; I was then.” - -“Ah, so, indeed. And the other times—the second time?” - -“Why, that was the time I washed my feet in the lake and I saw....” - -“What, man Simon, what did you see?” - -Simon passed his hand across his brow. “I see ... ah, well, I saw it. I -saw something ... but I forget.” - -“Ah, you have forgotten your happiness,” said the scholar in a soft -voice: “Yes, yes.” He went on speaking to himself: “Death is a naked -Ethiope with flaming hair. I don’t want to live for ever, but I want to -live.” - -He took off his coat and gave it to Simon, who thanked him and put it -on. It seemed a very heavy coat. - -“Maybe,” the old man mumbled, “I’ll get a lift on the way.” - -“May it be so. And good-bye to you,” said the scholar, “’Tis as fine a -day as ever came out of Eden.” - -They parted so, and old Simon had not been gone an hour when the -scholar gave a great shout and followed after him frantic, but he could -not come up with him, for Simon had gone up in a lift to heaven—a lift -with cushions in it, and a bright young girl guiding the lift, dressed -like a lad, but with a sad stern voice. - -Several people got into the lift, the most of them old ladies, but no -children, so Simon got in too and sat on a cushion of yellow velvet. -And he was near sleeping when the lift stopped of a sudden and a lady -who was taken sick got out. “Drugs and lounge!” the girl called out, -“Second to the right and keep straight on. Going up?” - -But though there was a crowd of young people waiting nobody else got -in. They slid on again, higher and much higher. Simon dropped into -sleep until the girl stopped at the fourth floor: “Refreshments,” she -said, “and Ladies’ Cloak Room!” All the passengers got out except -Simon: he sat still until they came to the floor of heaven. There he -got out, and the girl waved her hand to him and said “Good-bye.” A few -people got in the lift. “Going down?” she cried. Then she slammed the -door and it sank into a hole and Simon never laid an eye on it or her -from that day for ever. - -Now it was very pleasant where he found himself, very pleasant indeed -and in no ways different from the fine parts of the earth. He went -onwards and the first place he did come to was a farmhouse with a -kitchen door. He knocked and it was opened. It was a large kitchen; it -had a cracked stone floor and white rafters above it with hooks on them -and shearing irons and a saddle. And there was a smoking hearth and an -open oven with bright charred wood burning in it, a dairy shelf beyond -with pans of cream, a bed of bracken for a dog in the corner by the -pump, and a pet sheep wandering about. It had the number 100 painted -on its fleece and a loud bell was tinkling round its neck. There was a -fine young girl stood smiling at him; the plait of her hair was thick -as a rope of onions and as shining with the glint in it. Simon said to -her: “I’ve been a-walking, and I seem to have got a bit dampified like, -just a touch o’ damp in the knees of my breeches, that’s all.” - -The girl pointed to the fire and he went and dried himself. Then he -asked the girl if she would give him a true direction, and so she gave -him a true direction and on he went. And he had not gone far when he -saw a place just like the old forest he had come from, but all was -delightful and sunny, and there was the house he had once built, as -beautiful and new, with the shining varnish on the door, a pool beyond, -faggots and logs in the yard, and inside the white shelves were loaded -with good food, the fire burning with a sweet smell, and a bed of rest -in the ingle. Soon he was slaking his hunger; then he hung up his coat -on a peg of iron, and creeping into the bed he went into the long sleep -in his old happy way of sleeping. - -But all this time the scholar was following after him, searching -under the sun, and from here to there, calling out high and low, and -questioning the travelling people: had they seen a simple man, an old -man who had been but three times happy?—but not a one had seen him. -He was cut to the heart with anxiety, with remorse, and with sorrow, -for in a secret pocket of the coat he had given to Simon he had -left—unbeknown, but he remembered it now—a wallet of sowskin, full of -his own black sins, and nothing to distinguish them in any way from -any other man’s. It was a dark load upon his soul that the poor man -might be punished with an everlasting punishment for having such a -tangle of wickedness on him and he unable to explain it. An old man -like that, who had been happy but the three times! He enquired upon -his right hand, and upon his left hand he enquired, but not a walking -creature had seen him and the scholar was mad vexed with shame. Well, -he went on, and on he went, but he did not get a lift on the way. He -went howling and whistling like a man who would frighten all the wild -creatures down into the earth, and at last he came by a back way to -the borders of heaven. There he was, all of a day behind the man he -was pursuing, in a great wilderness of trees. It began to rain, a soft -meandering fall that you would hardly notice for rain, but the birds -gave over their whistling and a strong silence grew everywhere, hushing -things. His footfall as he stumbled through briars and the wild gardens -of the wood seemed to thump the whole earth, and he could hear all the -small noises like the tick of a beetle and the gasping of worms. In -a grove of raspberry canes he stood like a stock with the wonder of -that stillness. Clouds did not move, he could but feel the rain that -he could not see. Each leaf hung stiff as if it was frozen, though it -was summer. Not a living thing was to be seen, and the things that were -not living were not more dead than those that lived but were so secret -still. He picked a few berries from the canes, and from every bush as -he pulled and shook it a butterfly or a moth dropped or fluttered away, -quiet and most ghostly. “An old bit of a man”—he kept repeating in his -mind—“with three bits of joy, an old bit of a man.” - -Suddenly a turtle dove with clatter enough for a goose came to a tree -beside him and spoke to him! A young dove, and it crooed on the tree -branch, croo, croo, croo, and after each cadence it heaved the air into -its lungs again with a tiny sob. Well, it would be no good telling what -the bird said to the scholar, for none would believe it, they could -not; but speak it did. After that the scholar tramped on, and on again, -until he heard voices close ahead from a group of frisky boys who were -chasing a small bird that could hardly fly. As the scholar came up -with them one of the boys dashed out with his cap and fell upon the -fledgling and thrust it in his pocket. - -Now, by God, that scholar was angry, for a thing he liked was the notes -of birds tossed from bush to bush like aery bubbles, and he wrangled -with the boy until the little lad took the crumpled bird out of his -pocket and flung it saucily in the air as you would fling a stone. Down -dropped the bird into a gulley as if it was shot, and the boys fled -off. The scholar peered into the gulley, but he could not see the young -finch, not a feather of it. Then he jumped into the gulley and stood -quiet, listening to hear it cheep, for sure a wing would be broken, -or a foot. But nothing could he see, nothing, though he could hear -hundreds of grasshoppers leaping among the dead leaves with a noise -like pattering rain. So he turned away, but as he shifted his foot he -saw beneath it the shattered bird: he had jumped upon it himself and -destroyed it. He could not pick it up, it was bloody; he leaned over -it, sighing: “Poor bird, poor bird, and is this your road to heaven? Or -do you never share the heaven that you make?” There was a little noise -then added to the leaping of the grasshoppers—it was the patter of -tears he was shedding from himself. Well, when the scholar heard that -he gave a good shout of laughter, and he was soon contented, forgetting -the bird. He was for sitting down awhile but the thought of the old man -Simon, with that sinful wallet—a rare budget of his own mad joys—urged -him on till he came by the end of the wood, the rain ceasing, and -beyond him the harmony of a flock roaming and bleating. Every ewe of -the flock had numbers painted on it, that ran all the way up to ninety -and nine. - -Soon he came to the farmhouse and the kitchen and the odd sheep and a -kind girl with a knot of hair as thick as a twist of bread. He told her -the thing that was upon his conscience. - -“Help me to come up with him, for I’m a day to the bad, and what shall -I do? I gave him a coat, an old coat, and all my sins were hidden in -it, but I’d forgotten them. He was an old quavering man with but three -spells of happiness in the earthly world.” He begged her to direct -him to the man Simon. The smiling girl gave him a good direction, the -joyful scholar hurried out and on, and in a score of minutes he was -peeping in the fine hut, with his hand on the latch of the half door, -and Simon snoring in bed, a quiet decent snore. - -“Simon!” he calls, but he didn’t wake. He shook him, but he didn’t -budge. There was the coat hanging down from the iron peg, so he went -to it and searched it and took out the wallet. But when he opened it—a -black sowskin wallet it was, very strong with good straps—his sins were -all escaped from it, not one little sin left in the least chink of the -wallet, it was empty as a drum. The scholar knew something was wrong, -for it was full once, and quite full. - -“Well, now,” thought he, scratching his head and searching his mind, -“did I make a mistake of it? Would they be by chance in the very coat -that is on me now, for I’ve not another coat to my name?” He gave it -a good strong search, in the patch pockets and the inside pockets and -in the purse on his belt, but there was not the scrap of a tail of a -sin of any sort, good or bad, in that coat, and all he found was a few -cachous against the roughening of his voice. - -“Did I make another mistake of it,” he says again, “and put those -solemn sins in the fob of my fancy waistcoat? Where are they?” he -shouts out. - -Simon lifted his head out of sleeping for a moment. “It was that girl -with the hair,” Simon said. “She took them from the wallet—they are not -allowed in this place—and threw them in the pigwash.” - -With that he was asleep again, snoring his decent snore. - -“Glory be to God,” said the scholar, “am I not a great fool to have -come to heaven looking for my sins!” - -He took the empty wallet and tiptoed back to the world, and if he -is not with the saints yet, it is with the saints he will be one -day—barring he gets another budget of sins in his eager joy. And _that_ -I wouldn’t deny him. - - - - - _The Tiger_ - - -The tiger was coming at last; the almost fabulous beast, the subject of -so much conjecture for so many months, was at the docks twenty miles -away. Yak Pedersen had gone to fetch it, and Barnabe Woolf’s Menagerie -was about to complete its unrivalled collection by the addition of a -full-grown Indian tiger of indescribable ferocity, newly trapped in -the forest and now for the first time exhibited, and so on, and so on. -All of which, as it happened, was true. On the previous day Pedersen -the Dane and some helpers had taken a brand new four-horse exhibition -waggon, painted and carved with extremely legendary tigers lapped in -blood—even the bars were gilded—to convey this unmatchable beast to its -new masters. The show had had to wait a long time for a tiger, but it -had got a beauty at last, a terror indeed by all accounts, though it is -not to be imagined that everything recorded of it by Barnabe Woolf was -truth and nothing but truth. Showmen do not work in that way. - -Yak Pedersen was the tamer and menagerie manager, a tall, blonde, -angular man about thirty-five, of dissolute and savage blood himself, -with the very ample kind of moustache that bald men often develop; -yes, bald, intemperate, lewd, and an interminable smoker of Cuban -cigarettes, which seemed constantly to threaten a conflagration in -that moustache. Marie the Cossack hated him, but Yak loved her with a -fierce deep passion. Nobody knew why she was called Marie the Cossack. -She came from Canning Town—everybody knew that, and her proper name -was Fascota, Mrs. Fascota, wife of Jimmy Fascota, who was the architect -and carpenter and builder of the show. Jimmy was not much to look at, -so little in fact that you couldn’t help wondering what it was Marie -had seen in him when she could have had the King of Poland, as you -might say, almost for the asking. But still Jimmy was the boss ganger -of the show, and even that young gentleman in frock coat and silk hat -who paraded the platform entrance to the arena and rhodomontadoed you -into it, often against your will, by the seductive recital of the seven -ghastly wonders of the world, all certainly to be seen, to be seen -inside, waiting to be seen, must be seen, roll up—even he was subject -to the commands of Jimmy Fascota when the time came to dismantle and -pack up the show, although the transfer of his activities involved -him temporarily in a change, a horrid change, of attire and language. -Marie was not a lady, but she was not for Pedersen anyway. She swore -like a factory foreman, or a young soldier, and when she got tipsy she -was full of freedoms. By the power of God she was beautiful, and by -the same gracious power she was virtuous. Her husband knew it; he knew -all about master Pedersen’s passion, too, and it did not even interest -him. Marie did feats in the lion cages, whipping poor decrepit beasts, -desiccated by captivity, through a hoop or over a stick of wood and -other kindergarten disportings; but there you are, people must live, -and Marie lived that way. Pedersen was always wooing her. Sometimes he -was gracious and kind, but at other times when his failure wearied him -he would be cruel and sardonic, with a suggestive tongue whose vice -would have scourged her were it not that Marie was impervious, or too -deeply inured to mind it. She always grinned at him and fobbed him off -with pleasantries, whether he was amorous or acrid. - -“God Almighty!” he would groan, “she is not good for me, this Marie. -What can I do for her? She is burning me alive and the Skaggerack could -not quench me, not all of it. The devil! What can I do with this? Some -day I shall smash her across the eyes, yes, across the eyes.” - -So you see the man really loved her. - -When Pedersen returned from the docks the car with its captive was -dragged to a vacant place in the arena, and the wooden front panel was -let down from the bars. The marvellous tiger was revealed. It sprung -into a crouching attitude as the light surprised the appalling beauty -of its smooth fox-coloured coat, its ebony stripes, and snowy pads and -belly. The Dane, who was slightly drunk, uttered a yell and struck the -bars of the cage with his whip. The tiger did not blench, but all the -malice and ferocity in the world seemed to congregate in its eyes and -impress with a pride and ruthless grandeur the colossal brutality of -its face. It did not move its body, but its tail gradually stiffened -out behind it as stealthily as fire moves in the forest undergrowth, -and the hair along the ridge of its back rose in fearful spikes. There -was the slightest possible distension of the lips, and it fixed its -marvellous baleful gaze upon Pedersen. The show people were hushed -into silence, and even Pedersen was startled. He showered a few howls -and curses at the tiger, who never ceased to fix him with eyes that -had something of contempt in them and something of a horrible presage. -Pedersen was thrusting a sharp spike through the bars when a figure -stepped from the crowd. It was an old negro, a hunchback with a white -beard, dressed in a red fez cap, long tunic of buff cotton, and blue -trousers. He laid both his hands on the spike and shook his head -deprecatingly, smiling all the while. He said nothing, but there was -nothing he could say—he was dumb. - -“Let him alone, Yak; let the tiger alone, Yak!” cried Barnabe Woolf. -“What is this feller?” - -Pedersen with some reluctance turned from the cage and said: “He is -come with the animal.” - -“So?” said Barnabe. “Vell, he can go. Ve do not vant any black feller.” - -“He cannot speak—no tongue—it is gone,” Yak replied. - -“No tongue! Vot, have they cut him out?” - -“I should think it,” said the tamer. “There was two of them, a white -keeper, but that man fell off the ship one night and they do not see -him any more. This chap he feed it and look after it. No information -of him, dumb you see, and a foreigner; don’t understand. He have no -letters, no money, no name, nowheres to go. Dumb, you see, he has -nothing, nothing but a flote. The captain said to take him away with -us. Give a job to him, he is a proposition.” - -“Vot is he got you say?” - -“Flote.” Pedersen imitated with his fingers and lips the actions of a -flute-player. - -“O ya, a vloot! Vell, ve don’t want no vloots now; ve feeds our own -tigers, don’t ve, Yak?” And Mr. Woolf, oily but hearty—and well -he might be so for he was beautifully rotund, hair like satin, -extravagantly clothed, and rich with jewellery—surveyed first with -a contemplative grin, and then compassionately, the figure of the -old negro, who stood unsmiling with his hands crossed humbly before -him. Mr. Woolf was usually perspiring, and usually being addressed by -perspiring workmen, upon whom he bellowed orders and such anathemas as -reduced each recipient to the importance of a potato, and gave him the -aspect of a consumptive sheep. But to-day Mr. Woolf was affable and -calm. He took his cigar from his mouth and poured a flood of rich grey -air from his lips. “O ya, look after him a day, or a couple of days.” -At that one of the boys began to lead the hunchback away as if he were -a horse. “Come on, Pompoon,” he cried, and thenceforward the unknown -negro was called by that name. - -Throughout the day the tiger was the sensation of the show, and -the record of its ferocity attached to the cage received thrilling -confirmation whenever Pedersen appeared before the bars. The sublime -concentration of hatred was so intense that children screamed, women -shuddered, and even men held their breath in awe. At the end of the -day the beasts were fed. Great hacks of bloody flesh were forked into -the bottoms of the cages, the hungry victims pouncing and snarling in -ecstasy. But no sooner were they served than the front panel of each -cage was swung up, and the inmate in the seclusion of his den slaked -his appetite and slept. When the public had departed the lights were -put out and the doors of the arena closed. Outside in the darkness -only its great rounded oblong shape could be discerned, built high -of painted wood, roofed with striped canvas, and adorned with flags. -Beyond this matchbox coliseum was a row of caravans, tents, naphtha -flares, and buckets of fire on which suppers were cooking. Groups of -the show people sat or lounged about, talking, cackling with laughter, -and even singing. No one observed the figure of Pompoon as he passed -silently on the grass. The outcast, doubly chained to his solitariness -by the misfortune of dumbness and strange nationality, was hungry. He -had not tasted food that day. He could not understand it any more than -he could understand the speech of these people. In the end caravan, -nearest the arena, he heard a woman quietly singing. He drew a shining -metal flute from his breast, but stood silently until the singer -ceased. Then he repeated the tune very accurately and sweetly on his -flute. Marie the Cossack came to the door in her green silk tights -and high black boots with gilded fringes; her black velvet doublet -had plenty of gilded buttons upon it. She was a big, finely moulded -woman, her dark and splendid features were burned healthily by the -sun. In each of her ears two gold discs tinkled and gleamed as she -moved. Pompoon opened his mouth very widely and supplicatingly; he -put his hand upon his stomach and rolled his eyes so dreadfully that -Mrs. Fascota sent her little daughter Sophy down to him with a basin -of soup and potatoes. Sophy was partly undressed, in bare feet and red -petticoat. She stood gnawing the bone of a chicken, and grinning at -the black man as he swallowed and dribbled as best he could without -a spoon. She cried out: “Here, he’s going to eat the bloody basin -and all, mum!” Her mother cheerfully ordered her to “give him those -fraggiments, then!” The child did so, pausing now and again to laugh -at the satisfied roll of the old man’s eyes. Later on Jimmy Fascota -found him a couple of sacks, and Pompoon slept upon them beneath -their caravan. The last thing the old man saw was Pedersen, carrying -a naphtha flare, unlocking a small door leading into the arena, and -closing it with a slam after he had entered. Soon the light went out. - - -II - -After a week the show shifted and Pompoon accompanied it. Mrs. -Kavanagh, who looked after the birds, was, a little fortunately -for him, kicked in the stomach by a mule and had to be left at an -infirmary. Pompoon, who seemed to understand birds, took charge of the -parakeets, love birds, and other highly coloured fowl, including the -quetzal with green mossy head, pink breast, and flowing tails, and the -primrose-breasted toucans with bills like a butcher’s cleaver. - -The show was always moving on and moving on. Putting it up and taking -it down was a more entertaining affair than the exhibition itself. -With Jimmy Fascota in charge, and the young man of the frock coat in -an ecstasy of labour, half-clothed husky men swarmed up the rigged -frameworks, dismantling poles, planks, floors, ropes, roofs, staging, -tearing at bolts and bars, walking at dizzying altitudes on narrow -boards, swearing at their mates, staggering under vast burdens, -sweating till they looked like seals, packing and disposing incredibly -of it all, furling the flags, rolling up the filthy awnings, then Right -O! for a market town twenty miles away. - -In the autumn the show would be due at a great gala town in the -north, the supreme opportunity of the year, and by that time Mr. -Woolf expected to have a startling headline about a new tiger act -and the intrepid tamer. But somehow Pedersen could make no progress -at all with this. Week after week went by, and the longer he left -that initial entry into the cage of the tiger, notwithstanding -the comforting support of firearms and hot irons, the more remote -appeared the possibility of its capitulation. The tiger’s hatred -did not manifest itself in roars and gnashing of teeth, but by its -rigid implacable pose and a slight flexion of its protruded claws. It -seemed as if endowed with an imagination of blood-lust, Pedersen being -the deepest conceivable excitation of this. Week after week went by -and the show people became aware that Pedersen, their Pedersen, the -unrivalled, the dauntless tamer, had met his match. They were proud of -the beast. Some said it was Yak’s bald crown that the tiger disliked, -but Marie swore it was his moustache, a really remarkable piece of -hirsute furniture, that he would not have parted with for a pound of -gold—so he said. But whatever it was—crown, moustache, or the whole -conglomerate Pedersen—the tiger remarkably loathed it and displayed -his loathing, while the unfortunate tamer had no more success with -it than he had ever had with Marie the Cossack, though there was at -least a good humour in her treatment of him which was horribly absent -from the attitude of the beast. For a long time Pedersen blamed the -hunchback for it all. He tried to elicit from him by gesticulations -in front of the cage the secret of the creature’s enmity, but the -barriers to their intercourse were too great to be overcome, and to -all Pedersen’s illustrative frenzies Pompoon would only shake his sad -head and roll his great eyes until the Dane would cuff him away with -a curse of disgust and turn to find the eyes of the tiger, the dusky, -smooth-skinned tiger with bitter bars of ebony, fixed upon him with -tenfold malignity. How he longed in his raging impotence to transfix -the thing with a sharp spear through the cage’s gilded bars, or to -bore a hole into its vitals with a red-hot iron! All the traditional -treatment in such cases, combined first with starvation and then -with rich feeding, proved unavailing. Pedersen always had the front -flap of the cage left down at night so that he might, as he thought, -establish some kind of working arrangement between them by the force of -propinquity. He tried to sleep on a bench just outside the cage, but -the horror of the beast so penetrated him that he had to turn his back -upon it. Even then the intense enmity pierced the back of his brain -and forced him to seek a bench elsewhere out of range of the tiger’s -vision. - -Meanwhile, the derision of Marie was not concealed—it was even -blatant—and to the old contest of love between herself and the Dane -was now added a new contest of personal courage, for it had come to -be assumed, in some undeclarable fashion, that if Yak Pedersen could -not tame that tiger, then Marie the Cossack would. As this situation -crystallized daily the passion of Pedersen changed to jealousy and -hatred. He began to regard the smiling Marie in much the same way as -the tiger regarded him. - -“The hell-devil! May some lightning scorch her like a toasted fish!” - -But in a short while this mood was displaced by one of anxiety; he -became even abject. Then, strangely enough, Marie’s feelings underwent -some modification. She was proud of the chance to subdue and defeat -him, but it might be at a great price—too great a price for her. -Addressing herself in turn to the dim understanding of Pompoon she had -come to perceive that he believed the tiger to be not merely quite -untamable, but full of mysterious dangers. She could not triumph -over the Dane unless she ran the risk he feared to run. The risk was -colossal then, and with her realization of this some pity for Yak began -to exercise itself in her; after all, were they not in the same boat? -But the more she sympathized the more she jeered. The thing had to be -done somehow. - -Meanwhile Barnabe Woolf wants that headline for the big autumn show, -and a failure will mean a nasty interview with that gentleman. It -may end by Barnabe kicking Yak Pedersen out of his wild beast show. -Not that Mr. Woolf is so gross as to suggest that. He senses the -difficulty, although his manager in his pride will not confess to any. -Mr. Woolf declares that his tiger is a new tiger; Yak must watch out -for him, be careful. He talks as if it were just a question of giving -the cage a coat of whitewash. He never hints at contingencies; but -still, there is his new untamed tiger, and there is Mr. Yak Pedersen, -his wild beast tamer—at present. - - -III - -One day the menagerie did not open. It had finished an engagement, and -Jimmy Fascota had gone off to another town to arrange the new pitch. -The show folk made holiday about the camp, or flocked into the town for -marketing or carousals. Mrs. Fascota was alone in her caravan, clothed -in her jauntiest attire. She was preparing to go into the town when -Pedersen suddenly came silently in and sat down. - -“Marie,” he said, after a few moments, “I give up that tiger. To me he -has given a spell. It is like a mesmerize.” He dropped his hands upon -his knees in complete humiliation. Marie did not speak, so he asked: -“What you think?” - -She shrugged her shoulders, and put her brown arms akimbo. She was a -grand figure so, in a cloak of black satin and a huge hat trimmed with -crimson feathers. - -“If _you_ can’t trust him,” she said, “who can?” - -“It is myself I am not to trust. Shameful! But that tiger will do me, -yes, so I will not conquer him. It’s bad, very, very bad, is it not so? -Shameful, but I will not do it!” he declared excitedly. - -“What’s Barnabe say?” - -“I do not care, Mr. Woolf can think what he can think! Damn Woolf! But -for what I do think of my own self.... Ah!” He paused for a moment, -dejected beyond speech. “Yes, miserable it is, in my own heart very -shameful, Marie. And what you think of me, yes, that too!” - -There was a note in his voice that almost confounded her—why, the -man was going to cry! In a moment she was all melting compassion and -bravado. - -“You leave the devil to me, Yak. What’s come over you, man? God love -us, I’ll tiger him!” - -But the Dane had gone as far as he could go. He could admit his defeat, -but he could not welcome her all too ready amplification of it. - -“Na, na, you are good for him, Marie, but you beware. He is not a -tiger; he is beyond everything, foul—he has got a foul heart and a -thousand demons in it. I would not bear to see you touch him; no, no, I -would not bear it!” - -“Wait till I come back this afternoon—you wait!” cried Marie, lifting -her clenched fist. “So help me, I’ll tiger him, you’ll see!” - -Pedersen suddenly awoke to her amazing attraction. He seized her in his -arms. “Na, na, Marie! God above! I will not have it.” - -“Aw, shut up!” she commanded, impatiently, and pushing him from her -she sprang down the steps and proceeded to the town alone. - -She did not return in the afternoon; she did not return in the evening; -she was not there when the camp closed up for the night. Sophy, alone, -was quite unconcerned. Pompoon sat outside the caravan, while the -flame of the last lamp was perishing weakly above his head. He now -wore a coat of shag-coloured velvet. He was old and looked very wise, -often shaking his head, not wearily, but as if in doubt. The flute lay -glittering upon his knees and he was wiping his lips with a green silk -handkerchief when barefoot Sophy in her red petticoat crept behind him, -unhooked the lamp, and left him in darkness. Then he departed to an old -tent the Fascotas had found for him. - -When the mother returned the camp was asleep in its darkness and she -was very drunk. Yak Pedersen had got her. He carried her into the -arena, and bolted and barred the door. - - -IV - -Marie Fascota awoke next morning in broad daylight; through chinks and -rents in the canvas roof of the arena the brightness was beautiful -to behold. She could hear a few early risers bawling outside, while -all around her the caged beasts and birds were squeaking, whistling, -growling, and snarling. She was lying beside the Dane on a great bundle -of straw. He was already awake when she became aware of him, watching -her with amused eyes. - -“Yak Pedersen! Was I drunk?” Marie asked dazedly in low husky tones, -sitting up. “What’s this, Yak Pedersen? Was I drunk? Have I been here -all night?” - -He lay with his hands behind his head, smiling in the dissolute -ugliness of his abrupt yellow skull so incongruously bald, his -moustache so profuse, his nostrils and ears teeming with hairs. - -“Can’t you speak?” cried the wretched woman. “What game do you call -this? Where’s my Sophy, and my Jimmy—is he back?” - -Again he did not answer; he stretched out a hand to caress her. -Unguarded as he was, Marie smashed down both her fists full upon his -face. He lunged back blindly at her and they both struggled to their -feet, his fingers clawing in her thick strands of hair as she struck -at him in frenzy. Down rolled the mass and he seized it; it was her -weakness, and she screamed. Marie was a rare woman—a match for most -men—but the capture of her hair gave her utterly into his powerful -hands. Uttering a torrent of filthy oaths, Pedersen pulled the yelling -woman backwards to him and grasping her neck with both hands gave a -murderous wrench and flung her to the ground. As she fell Marie’s hand -clutched a small cage of fortune-telling birds. She hurled this at the -man, but it missed him; the cage burst against a pillar and the birds -scattered in the air. - -“Marie! Marie!” shouted Yak, “listen! listen!” - -Remorsefully he flung himself before the raging woman who swept at him -with an axe, her hair streaming, her eyes blazing with the fire of a -thousand angers. - -“Drunk, was I!” she screamed at him. “That’s how ye got me, Yak -Pedersen? Drunk, was I!” - -He warded the blow with his arm, but the shock and pain of it was so -great that his own rage burst out again, and leaping at the woman he -struck her a horrible blow across the eyes. She sunk to her knees and -huddled there without a sound, holding her hands to her bleeding face, -her loose hair covering it like a net. At the pitiful sight the Dane’s -grief conquered him again, and bending over her imploringly he said: -“Marie, my love, Marie! Listen! It is not true! Swear me to God, good -woman, it is not true, it is not possible! Swear me to God!” he raged -distractedly. “Swear me to God!” Suddenly he stopped and gasped. They -were in front of the tiger’s cage, and Pedersen was as if transfixed by -that fearful gaze. The beast stood with hatred concentrated in every -bristling hair upon its hide, and in its eyes a malignity that was -almost incandescent. Still as a stone, Marie observed this, and began -to creep away from the Dane, stealthily, stealthily. On a sudden, with -incredible agility, she sprang up the steps of the tiger’s cage, tore -the pin from the catch, flung open the door, and, yelling in madness, -leapt in. As she did so, the cage emptied. In one moment she saw -Pedersen grovelling on his knees, stupid, and the next.... - -All the hidden beasts, stirred by instinctive knowledge of the tragedy, -roared and raged. Marie’s eyes and mind were opened to its horror. She -plugged her fingers into her ears; screamed; but her voice was a mere -wafer of sound in that pandemonium. She heard vast crashes of someone -smashing in the small door of the arena, and then swooned upon the -floor of the cage. - -The bolts were torn from their sockets at last, the slip door swung -back, and in the opening appeared Pompoon, alone, old Pompoon, with a -flaming lamp and an iron spear. As he stepped forward into the gloom -he saw the tiger, dragging something in its mouth, leap back into its -cage. - - - - - _Mordecai and Cocking_ - - -Two men sat one afternoon beside a spinney of beeches near the top -of a wild bare down. Old shepherd Mordecai was admonishing a younger -countryman, Eustace Cocking, now out of work, who held beside him in -leash a brindled whippet dog, sharp featured and lean, its neck clipped -in a broad leather collar. The day was radiant, the very air had bloom; -bright day is never so bright as upon these lonely downs, and the grim -face of storm never so tragic elsewhere. From the beeches other downs -ranged in every direction, nothing but downs in beautiful abandoned -masses. In a valley below the men a thousand sheep were grazing; they -looked no more than a handful of white beach randomly scattered. - -“The thing’s forbidden, Eustace; it always has and always will be, I -say, and thereby ’tis wrong.” - -“Well, if ever I doos anything wrong I allus feel glad of it next -morning.” - -“’Tis against law, Eustace, and to be against law is the downfall of -mankind. What I mean to say—I’m a national man.” - -“The law! Foo! That’s made by them as don’t care for my needs, and -don’t understand my rights. Is it fair to let them control your mind as -haven’t got a grip of their own? I worked for yon farmer a matter of -fourteen years, hard, I tell you, I let my back sweat....” - -The dog at his side was restless; he cuffed it impatiently: “and twice -a week my wife she had to go to farmhouse; twice a week; doing up -their washing and their muck—‘Lie down!’” he interjected sternly to -the querulous dog—“two days in every seven. Then the missus says to -my wife, ‘I shall want you to come four days a week in future, Mrs. -Cocking; the house is too much of a burden for me.’ My wife says: ‘I -can’t come no oftener, ma’am; I’d not have time to look after my own -place, my husband, and the six children, ma’am.’ Then missus flew into -a passion. ‘Oh, so you won’t come, eh!’ - -“‘I’d come if I could, ma’am,’ my wife says, ‘and gladly, but it ain’t -possible, you see.’ - -“‘Oh, very well!’ says the missus. And that was the end of that, but -come Saturday, when the boss pays me: ‘Cocking,’ he says, ‘I shan’t -want you no more arter next week.’ No explanation, mind you, and I -never asked for none. I know’d what ’twas for, but I don’t give a dam. -What meanness, Mordecai! Of course I don’t give a dam whether I goes or -whether I stops; you know my meaning—I’d much rather stop; my home’s -where I be known; but I don’t give a dam. ’Tain’t the job I minds so -much as to let him have that power to spite me so at a moment after -fourteen years because of his wife’s temper. ’Tis not decent. ’Tis -under-grading a man.’” - -There was no comment from the shepherd. Eustace continued: “If that’s -your law, Mordecai, I don’t want it. I ignores it.” - -“And that you can’t do,” retorted the old man. “God A’mighty can look -after the law.” - -“If He be willing to take the disgrace of it, Mordecai Stavely, let -Him.” - -The men were silent for a long time, until the younger cheerfully -asked: “How be poor old Harry Mixen?” - -“Just alive.” - -Eustace leaned back, munching a strig of grass reflectively and looking -at the sky: “Don’t seem no sign of rain, however?” - -“No.” - -The old man who said “No” hung his melancholy head, and pondered; he -surveyed his boots, which were of harsh hard leather with deep soles. -He then said: “We ought to thank God we had such mild weather at the -back end of the year. If you remember, it came a beautiful autumn and -a softish winter. Things are growing now; I’ve seen oats as high as my -knee; the clover’s lodged in places. It will be all good if we escape -the east winds—hot days and frosty nights.” - -The downs, huge and bare, stretched in every direction, green and grey, -gentle and steep, their vast confusion enlightened by a small hanger -of beech or pine, a pond, or more often a derelict barn; for among -the downs there are barns and garners ever empty, gone into disuse -and abandoned. They are built of flint and red brick, with a roof of -tiles. The rafters often bear an eighteenth-century date. Elsewhere in -this emptiness even a bush will have a name, and an old stone becomes -a track mark. Upon the soft tufts and among the triumphant furze live -a few despised birds, chats and finches and that blithe screamer the -lark, but above all, like veins upon the down’s broad breast, you may -perceive the run-way of the hare. - -“Why can’t a man live like a hare?” broke out the younger man. “I’d not -mind being shot at a time and again. It lives a free life, anyway, not -like a working man with a devil on two legs always cracking him on.” - -“Because,” said Mordecai, “a hare is a vegetarian creature, what’s -called a rubinant, chewing the cud and dividing not the hoof. And,” he -added significantly, “there be dogs.” - -“It takes a mazin’ good dog to catch ever a hare on its own ground. -Most hares could chase any dog ever born, believe you me, if they liked -to try at that.” - -“There be traps and wires!” - -“Well, we’ve no call to rejoice, with the traps set for a man, and the -wires a choking him.” - -At that moment two mating hares were roaming together on the upland -just below the men. The doe, a small fawn creature, crouched coyly -before the other, a large nut-brown hare with dark ears. Soon she -darted away, sweeping before him in a great circle, or twisting and -turning as easily as a snake. She seemed to fly the faster, but when -his muscular pride was aroused he swooped up to her shoulder, and, -as if in loving derision, leaped over her from side to side as she -ran. She stopped as sharply as a shot upon its target and faced him, -quizzing him gently with her nose. As they sat thus the dark-eared -one perceived not far off a squatting figure; it was another hare, a -tawny buck, eyeing their dalliance. The doe commenced to munch the -herbage; the nut-brown one hobbled off to confront this wretched, rash, -intruding fool. When they met both rose upon their haunches, clawing -and scraping and patting at each other with as little vigour as mild -children put into their quarrels—a rigmarole of slapping hands. But, -notwithstanding the delicacy of the treatment, the interloper, a meek -enough fellow, succumbed, and the conqueror loped back to his nibbling -mistress. - -Yet, whenever they rested from their wooing flights, the tawny -interloper was still to be seen near by. Hapless mourning seemed -to involve his hunched figure; he had the aspect of a deferential, -grovelling man; but the lover saw only his provocative, envious eye—he -swept down upon him. Standing up again, he slammed and basted him with -puny velvet blows until he had salved his indignation, satisfied his -connubial pride, or perhaps merely some strange fading instinct—for it -seemed but a mock combat, a ritual to which they conformed. - -Away the happy hare would prance to his mate, but as often as he came -round near that shameless spy he would pounce upon him and beat him to -the full, like a Turk or like a Russian. But though he could beat him -and disgrace him, he could neither daunt nor injure him. The vanquished -miscreant would remain watching their wooing with the eye of envy—or -perhaps of scorn—and hoping for a miracle to happen. - -And a miracle did happen. Cocking, unseen, near the beeches released -his dog. The doe shot away over the curve of the hill and was gone. -She did not merely gallop, she seemed to pass into ideal flight, -the shadow of wind itself. Her fawn body, with half-cocked ears and -unperceivable convulsion of the leaping haunches, soared across the -land with the steady swiftness of a gull. The interloping hare, in a -blast of speed, followed hard upon her traces. But Cocking’s hound -had found at last the hare of its dreams, a nut-brown, dark-eared, -devil-guided, eluding creature, that fled over the turf of the hill -as lightly as a cloud. The long leaping dog swept in its track with a -stare of passion, following in great curves the flying thing that grew -into one great throb of fear all in the grand sunlight on the grand bit -of a hill. The lark stayed its little flood of joy and screamed with -notes of pity at the protracted flight; and bloodless indeed were they -who could view it unmoved, nor feel how sweet a thing is death if you -be hound, how fell a thing it is if you be hare. Too long, O delaying -death, for this little heart of wax; and too long, O delaying victory, -for that pursuer with the mouth of flame. Suddenly the hound faltered, -staggered a pace or two, then sunk to the grass, its lips dribbling -blood. When Cocking reached him the dog was dead. He picked the body up. - -“It’s against me, like everything else,” he muttered. - -But a voice was calling “Oi! Oi!” He turned to confront a figure -rapidly and menacingly approaching. - -“I shall want you, Eustace Cocking,” cried the gamekeeper, “to come -and give an account o’ yourself.” - - - - - _The Man from Kilsheelan_ - - -If you knew the Man from Kilsheelan it was no use saying you did not -believe in fairies and secret powers; believe it or no, but believe -it you should; there he was. It is true he was in an asylum for the -insane, but he was a man with age upon him so he didn’t mind; and -besides, better men than himself have been in such places, or they -ought to be, and if there is justice in the world they will be. - -“A cousin of mine,” he said to old Tom Tool one night, “is come from -Ameriky. A rich person.” - -He lay in the bed next him, but Tom Tool didn’t answer so he went on -again: “In a ship,” he said. - -“I hear you,” answered Tom Tool. - -“I see his mother with her bosom open once, and it stuffed with -diamonds, bags full.” - -Tom Tool kept quiet. - -“If,” said the Man from Kilsheelan, “if I’d the trusty comrade I’d make -a break from this and go seek him.” - -“Was he asking you to do that?” - -“How could he an’ all and he in a ship?” - -“Was he writing fine letters to you then?” - -“How could he, under the Lord? Would he give them to a savage bird or a -herring to bring to me so?” - -“How did he let on to you?” - -“He did not let on,” said the Man from Kilsheelan. - -Tom Tool lay long silent in the darkness; he had a mistrust of the -Man, knowing him to have a forgetful mind; everything slipped through -it like rain through the nest of a pigeon. But at last he asked him: -“Where is he now?” - -“He’ll be at Ballygoveen.” - -“You to know that and you with no word from him?” - -“O, I know it, I know; and if I’d a trusty comrade I’d walk out of this -and to him I would go. Bags of diamonds!” - -Then he went to sleep, sudden; but the next night he was at Tom Tool -again: “If I’d a trusty comrade,” said he; and all that and a lot more. - -“’Tis not convenient to me now,” said Tom Tool, “but to-morrow night I -might go wid you.” - -The next night was a wild night, and a dark night, and he would not -go to make a break from the asylum, he said: “Fifty miles of journey, -and I with no heart for great walking feats! It is not convenient, but -to-morrow night I might go wid you.” - -The night after that he said: “Ah, whisht wid your diamonds and all! -Why would you go from the place that is snug and warm into a world that -is like a wall for cold dark, and but the thread of a coat to divide -you from its mighty clasp, and only one thing blacker under the heaven -of God and that’s the road you walk on, and only one thing more shy -than your heart and that’s your two feet worn to a tissue tramping in -dung and ditches....” - -“If I’d a trusty comrade,” said the Man from Kilsheelan, “I’d go seek -my rich cousin.” - -“ ... stars gaping at you a few spans away, and the things that have -life in them, but cannot see or speak, begin to breathe and bend. If -ever your hair stood up it is then it would be, though you’ve no more -than would thatch a thimble, God help you.” - -“Bags of gold he has,” continued the Man, “and his pockets stuffed with -the tobacca.” - -“Tobacca!” - -“They were large pockets and well stuffed.” - -“Do you say, now!” - -“And the gold! large bags and rich bags.” - -“Well, I might do it to-morrow.” - -And the next day Tom Tool and the Man from Kilsheelan broke from the -asylum and crossed the mountains and went on. - -Four little nights and four long days they were walking; slow it was -for they were oldish men and lost they were, but the journey was kind -and the weather was good weather. On the fourth day Tom Tool said to -him: “The Dear knows what way you’d be taking me! Blind it seems, and -dazed I am. I could do with a skillet of good soup to steady me and to -soothe me.” - -“Hard it is, and hungry it is,” sighed the Man; “starved daft I am for -a taste of nourishment, a blind man’s dog would pity me. If I see a cat -I’ll eat it; I could bite the nose off a duck.” - -They did not converse any more for a time, not until Tom Tool asked him -what was the name of his grand cousin, and then the Man from Kilsheelan -was in a bedazement, and he was confused. - -“I declare, on my soul, I’ve forgot his little name. Wait now while I -think of it.” - -“Was it McInerney then?” - -“No, not it at all.” - -“Kavanagh? the Grogans? or the Duffys?” - -“Wait, wait while I think of it now.” - -Tom Tool waited; he waited and all until he thought he would burst. - -“Ah, what’s astray wid you? Was it Phelan—or O’Hara—or Clancy—or Peter -Mew?” - -“No, not it at all.” - -“The Murphys. The Sweeneys. The Moores.” - -“Divil a one. Wait while I think of it now.” - -And the Man from Kilsheelan sat holding his face as if it hurt him, -and his comrade kept saying at him: “Duhy, then? Coman? McGrath?” and -driving him distracted with his O this and O that, his Mc he—s and Mc -she—s. - -Well, he could not think of it; but when they walked on they had not -far to go, for they came over a twist of the hills and there was the -ocean, and the neat little town of Ballygoveen in a bay of it below, -with the wreck of a ship lying sunk near the strand. There was a -sharp cliff at either horn of the bay, and between them some bullocks -stravaiging on the beach. - -“Truth is a fortune,” cried the Man from Kilsheelan, “this it is.” - -They went down the hill to the strand near the wreck, and just on the -wing of the town they saw a paddock full of hemp stretched drying, and -a house near it, and a man weaving a rope. He had a great cast of hemp -around his loins, and a green apron. He walked backwards to the sea, -and a young girl stood turning a little wheel as he went away from her. - -“God save you,” said Tom Tool to her, “for who are you weaving this -rope?” - -“For none but God himself and the hangman,” said she. - -Turning the wheel she was, and the man going away from it backwards, -and the dead wreck in the rocky bay; a fine sweet girl of good dispose -and no ways drifty. - -“Long life to you then, young woman,” says he. “But that’s a strong -word, and a sour word, the Lord spare us all.” - -At that the rope walker let a shout to her to stop the wheel; then he -cut the rope at the end and tied it to a black post. After that he came -throwing off his green apron and said he was hungry. - -“Denis, avick!” cried the girl. “Come, and I’ll get your food.” And the -two of them went away into the house. - -“Brother and sister they are,” said the Man from Kilsheelan, “a good -appetite to them.” - -“Very neat she is, and clean she is, and good and sweet and tidy she -is,” said Tom Tool. They stood in the yard watching some white fowls -parading and feeding and conversing in the grass; scratch, peck, peck, -ruffle, quarrel, scratch, peck, peck, cock a doodle doo. - -“What will we do now, Tom Tool? My belly has a scroop and a screech in -it. I could eat the full of Isknagahiny Lake and gape for more, or the -Hill of Bawn and not get my enough.” - -Beyond them was the paddock with the hemp drying across it, long -heavy strands, and two big stacks of it beside, dark and sodden, like -seaweed. The girl came to the door and called: “Will ye take a bite?” -They said they would, and that she should eat with spoons of gold in -the heaven of God and Mary. “You’re welcome,” she said, but no more she -said, for while they ate she was sad and silent. - -The young man Denis let on that their father, one Horan, was away on -his journeys peddling a load of ropes, a long journey, days he had been -gone, and he might be back to-day, or to-morrow, or the day after. - -“A great strew of hemp you have,” said the Man from Kilsheelan. The -young man cast down his eyes; and the young girl cried out: “’Tis foul -hemp, God preserve us all!” - -“Do you tell me of that now,” he asked; but she would not, and her -brother said: “I will tell you. It’s a great misfortune, mister man. -’Tis from the wreck in the bay beyant, a good stout ship, but burst on -the rocks one dark terror of a night and all the poor sailors tipped in -the sea. But the tide was low and they got ashore, ten strong sailor -men, with a bird in a cage that was dead drowned.” - -“The Dear rest its soul,” said Tom Tool. - -“There was no rest in the ocean for a week, the bay was full of storms, -and the vessel burst, and the big bales split, and the hemp was -scattered and torn and tangled on the rocks, or it did drift. But at -last it soothed, and we gathered it and brought it to the field here. -We brought it, and my father did buy it of the salvage man for a price; -a Mexican valuer he was, but the deal was bad, and it lies there; going -rotten it is, the rain wears it, and the sun’s astray, and the wind is -gone.” - -“That’s a great misfortune. What is on it?” said the Man from -Kilsheelan. - -“It is a great misfortune, mister man. Laid out it is, turned it is, -hackled it is, but faith it will not dry or sweeten, never a hank of it -worth a pig’s eye.” - -“’Tis the devil and all his injury,” said Kilsheelan. - -The young girl, her name it was Christine, sat grieving. One of her -beautiful long hands rested on her knee, and she kept beating it with -the other. Then she began to speak. - -“The captain of that ship lodged in this house with us while the hemp -was recovered and sold; a fine handsome sport he was, but fond of the -drink, and very friendly with the Mexican man, very hearty they were, -a great greasy man with his hands covered with rings that you’d not -believe. Covered! My father had been gone travelling a week or a few -days when a dark raging gale came off the bay one night till the hemp -was lifted all over the field.” - -“It would have lifted a bullock,” said Denis, “great lumps of it, like -trees.” - -“And we sat waiting the captain, but he didn’t come home and we went -sleeping. But in the morning the Mexican man was found dead murdered -on the strand below, struck in the skull, and the two hands of him -gone. ’Twas not long when they came to the house and said he was last -seen with the captain, drunk quarrelling; and where was he? I said to -them that he didn’t come home at all and was away from it. ‘We’ll take -a peep at his bed,’ they said, and I brought them there, and my heart -gave a strong twist in me when I see’d the captain stretched on it, -snoring to the world and his face and hands smeared with the blood. -So he was brought away and searched, and in his pocket they found one -of the poor Mexican’s hands, just the one, but none of the riches. -Everything to be so black against him and the assizes just coming on in -Cork! So they took him there before the judge, and he judged him and -said it’s to hang he was. And if they asked the captain how he did it, -he said he did not do it at all.” - -“But there was a bit of iron pipe beside the body,” said Denis. - -“And if they asked him where was the other hand, the one with the rings -and the mighty jewels on them, and his budget of riches, he said he -knew nothing of that nor how the one hand got into his pocket. Placed -there it was by some schemer. It was all he could say, for the drink -was on him and nothing he knew. - -“‘You to be so drunk,’ they said, ‘how did you get home to your bed and -nothing heard?’ - -“‘I don’t know,’ says he. Good sakes, the poor lamb, a gallant strong -sailor he was! His mind was a blank, he said. ‘’Tis blank,’ said the -judge, ‘if it’s as blank as the head of himself with a gap like that in -it, God rest him!’” - -“You could have put a pound of cheese in it,” said Denis. - -“And Peter Corcoran cried like a loony man, for his courage was gone, -like a stream of water. To hang him, the judge said, and to hang him -well, was their intention. It was a pity, the judge said, to rob a man -because he was foreign, and destroy him for riches and the drink on -him. And Peter Corcoran swore he was innocent of this crime. ‘Put a -clean shirt to me back,’ says he, ‘for it’s to heaven I’m going.’” - -“And,” added Denis, “the peeler at the door said ‘Amen.’” - -“That was a week ago,” said Christine, “and in another he’ll be -stretched. A handsome sporting sailor boy.” - -“What ... what did you say was the name of him?” gasped the Man from -Kilsheelan. - -“Peter Corcoran, the poor lamb,” said Christine. - -“Begod,” he cried out as if he was choking, “’tis me grand cousin from -Ameriky!” - -True it was, and the grief on him so great that Denis was after giving -the two of them a lodge till the execution was over. “Rest here, my -dad’s away,” said he, “and he knowing nothing of the murder, or the -robbery, or the hanging that’s coming, nothing. Ah, what will we tell -him an’ all? ’Tis a black story on this house.” - -“The blessing of God and Mary on you,” said Tom Tool. “Maybe we -could do a hand’s turn for you; me comrade’s a great wonder with the -miracles, maybe he could do a stroke would free an innocent man.” - -“Is it joking you are?” asked Christine sternly. - -“God deliver him, how would I joke on a man going to his doom and -destruction?” - -The next day the young girl gave them jobs to do, but the Man from -Kilsheelan was destroyed with trouble and he shook like water when a -pan of it is struck. - -“What is on you?” said Tom Tool. - -“Vexed and waxy I am,” says he, “in regard of the great journey we’s -took, and sorra a help in the end of it. Why couldn’t he do his bloody -murder after we had done with him?” - -“Maybe he didn’t do it at all.” - -“Ah, what are you saying now, Tom Tool? Wouldn’t anyone do it, a nice, -easy, innocent crime. The cranky gossoon to get himself stretched on -the head of it, ’tis the drink destroyed him! Sure’s there’s no more -justice in the world than you’d find in the craw of a sick pullet. -Vexed and waxy I am for me careless cousin. Do it! Who wouldn’t do it?” - -He went up to the rope that Denis and Christine were weaving together -and he put his finger on it. - -“Is that the rope,” says he, “that will hang my grand cousin?” - -“No,” said Denis, “it is not. His rope came through the post office -yesterday. For the prison master it was, a long new rope—saints -preserve us—and Jimmy Fallon the postman getting roaring drunk showing -it to the scores of creatures would give him a drink for the sight -of it. Just coiled it was, and no way hidden, with a label on it, -‘O.H.M.S.’” - -“The wind’s rising, you,” said Christine. “Take a couple of forks now, -and turn the hemp in the field. Maybe ’twill scour the Satan out of it.” - -“Stormy it does be, and the bay has darkened in broad noon,” said Tom -Tool. - -“Why wouldn’t the whole world be dark and a man to be hung?” said she. - -They went to the hemp so knotted and stinking, and begun raking it -and raking it. The wind was roaring from the bay, the hulk twitching -and tottering; the gulls came off the wave, and Christine’s clothes -stretched out from her like the wings of a bird. The hemp heaved upon -the paddock like a great beast bursting a snare that was on it, and a -strong blast drove a heap of it upon the Man from Kilsheelan, twisting -and binding him in its clasp till he thought he would not escape from -it and he went falling and yelping. Tom Tool unwound him, and sat him -in the lew of the stack till he got his strength again, and then he -began to moan of his misfortune. - -“Stint your shouting,” said Tom Tool, “isn’t it as hard to cure as a -wart on the back of a hedgehog?” - -But he wouldn’t stint it. “’Tis large and splendid talk I get from -you, Tom Tool, but divil a deed of strength. Vexed and waxy I am. Why -couldn’t he do his murder after we’d done with him. What a cranky -cousin. What a foolish creature. What a silly man, the devil take him!” - -“Let you be aisy,” the other said, “to heaven he is going.” - -“And what’s the gain of it, he to go with his neck stretched?” - -“Indeed, I did know a man went to heaven once,” began Tom Tool, “but he -did not care for it.” - -“That’s queer,” said the Man, “for it couldn’t be anything you’d not -want, indeed to glory.” - -“Well, he came back to Ireland on the head of it. I forget what was his -name.” - -“Was it Corcoran, or Tool, or Horan?” - -“No, none of those names. He let on it was a lonely place, not fit for -living people or dead people, he said; nothing but trees and streams -and beasts and birds.” - -“What beasts and birds?” - -“Rabbits and badgers, the elephant, the dromedary, and all those -ancient races; eagles and hawks and cuckoos and magpies. He wandered in -a thick forest for nights and days like a flea in a great beard, and -the beasts and the birds setting traps and hooks and dangers for a poor -feller; the worst villains of all was the sheep.” - -“The sheep! What could a sheep do then?” asked Kilsheelan. - -“I don’t know the right of it, but you’d not believe me if I told you -at all. If you went for the little swim you was not seen again.” - -“I never heard the like of that in Roscommon.” - -“Not another holy soul was in it but himself, and if he was taken with -the thirst he would dip his hand in a stream that flowed with rich -wine and put it to his lips, but if he did it turned into air at once -and twisted up in a blue cloud. But grand wine to look at, he said. If -he took oranges from a tree he could not bite them, they were chiny -oranges, hard as a plate. But beautiful oranges to look at they were. -To pick a flower it burst on you like a gun. What was cold was too cold -to touch, and what was warm was too warm to swallow, you must throw it -up, or die.” - -“Faith, it’s no region for a Christian soul, Tom Tool. Where is it at -all?” - -“High it may be, low it may be, it may be here, it may be there.” - -“What could the like of a sheep do? A sheep!” - -“A devouring savage creature it is there, the most hard to come at, the -most difficult to conquer, with the teeth of a lion and a tiger, the -strength of a bear and a half, the deceit of two foxes, the run of a -deer, the...” - -“Is it heaven you call it! I’d not look twice at a place the like of -that.” - -“No, you would not, no.” - -“Ah, but wait now,” said Kilsheelan, “wait till the day of Judgment.” - -“Well, I will not wait then,” said Tom Tool sternly. “When the sinners -of the world are called to their judgment, scatter they will all over -the face of the earth, running like hares till they come to the sea, -and there they will perish.” - -“Ah, the love of God on the world!” - -They went raking and raking, till they came to a great stiff hump of it -that rolled over, and they could see sticking from the end of it two -boots. - -“O, what is it, in the name of God?” asks Kilsheelan. - -“Sorra and all, but I’d not like to look,” says Tom Tool, and they -called the girl to come see what was it. - -“A dead man!” says Christine, in a thin voice with a great tremble -coming on her, and she white as a tooth. “Unwind him now.” They began -to unwind him like a tailor with a bale of tweed, and at last they came -to a man black in the face. Strangled he was. The girl let a great -cry out of her. “Queen of heaven, ’tis my dad; choked he is, the long -strands have choked him, my good pleasant dad!” and she went with a run -to the house crying. - -“What has he there in his hand?” asked Kilsheelan. - -“’Tis a chopper,” says he. - -“Do you see what is on it, Tom Tool?” - -“Sure I see, and you see, what is on it; blood is on it, and murder is -on it. Go fetch a peeler, and I’ll wait while you bring him.” - -When his friend was gone for the police Tom Tool took a little squint -around him and slid his hand into the dead man’s pocket. But if he did -he was nearly struck mad from his senses, for he pulled out a loose -dead hand that had been chopped off as neat as the foot of a pig. He -looked at the dead man’s arms, and there was a hand to each; so he -looked at the hand again. The fingers were covered with the rings of -gold and diamonds. Covered! - -“Glory be to God!” said Tom Tool, and he put his hand in another pocket -and fetched a budget full of papers and banknotes. - -“Glory be to God!” he said again, and put the hand and the budget back -in the pockets, and turned his back and said prayers until the peelers -came and took them all off to the court. - -It was not long, two days or three, until an inquiry was held; grand it -was and its judgment was good. And the big-Wig asked: “Where is the -man that found the body?” - -“There are two of him,” says the peeler. - -“Swear ’em,” says he, and Kilsheelan stepped up to a great murdering -joker of a clerk, who gave him a book in his hand and roared at him: “I -swear by Almighty God....” - -“Yes,” says Kilsheelan. - -“Swear it,” says the clerk. - -“Indeed I do.” - -“You must repeat it,” says the clerk. - -“I will, sir.” - -“Well, repeat it then,” says he. - -“And what will I repeat?” - -So he told him again and he repeated it. Then the clerk goes on: “... -that the evidence I give....” - -“Yes,” says Kilsheelan. - -“Say those words, if you please.” - -“The words! Och, give me the head of ’em again!” - -So he told him again and he repeated it. Then the clerk goes on: “ ... -shall be the truth....” - -“It will,” says Kilsheelan. - -“ ... and nothing but the truth....” - -“Yes, begod, indeed!” - -“Say ‘nothing but the truth,’” roared the clerk. - -“No!” says Kilsheelan. - -“Say ‘nothing.’” - -“All right,” says Kilsheelan. - -“Can’t you say ’nothing but the truth'?” - -“Yes,” he says. - -“Well, say it!” - -“I will, so,” says he, “the scrapings of sense on it all!” - -So they swore them both, and their evidence they gave. - -“Very good,” his lordship said, “a most important and opportune -discovery, in the nick of time, by the tracing of God. There is a -reward of fifty pounds offered for the finding of this property and -jewels: fifty pounds you will get in due course.” - -They said they were obliged to him, though sorrow a one of them knew -what he meant by a due course, nor where it was. - -Then a lawyer man got the rights of the whole case; he was the -cunningest man ever lived in the city of Cork; no one could match him, -and he made it straight and he made it clear. - -Old Horan must have returned from his journey unbeknown on the night -of the gale when the deed was done. Perhaps he had made a poor profit -on his toil, for there was little of his own coin found on his body. -He saw the two drunks staggering along the bay—he clove in the head -of the one with a bit of pipe—he hit the other a good whack to still -or stiffen him—he got an axe from the yard—he shore off the Mexican’s -two hands, for the rings were grown tight and wouldn’t be drawn from -his fat fingers. Perhaps he dragged the captain home to his bed—you -couldn’t be sure of that—but put the hand in the captain’s pocket he -did, and then went to the paddock to bury the treasure. But a blast of -wind whipped and wove some of the hemp strand around his limbs, binding -him sudden. He was all huffled and hogled and went mad with the fear -struggling, the hemp rolling him and binding him till he was strangled -or smothered. - -And that is what happened him, believe it or no, but believe it you -should. It was the tracing of God on him for his dark crime. - -Within a week of it Peter Corcoran was away out of gaol, a stout -walking man again, free in Ballygoveen. But on the day of his release -he did not go near the ropewalker’s house. The Horans were there -waiting, and the two old silly men, but he did not go next or near -them. The next day Kilsheelan said to her: “Strange it is my cousin not -to seek you, and he a sneezer for gallantry.” - -“’Tis no wonder at all,” replied Christine, “and he with his picture in -all the papers.” - -“But he had a right to have come now and you caring him in his black -misfortune,” said Tom Tool. - -“Well, he will not come then,” Christine said in her soft voice, “in -regard of the red murder on the soul of my dad. And why should he put a -mark on his family, and he the captain of a ship.” - -In the afternoon Tom Tool and the other went walking to try if they -should see him, and they did see him at a hotel, but he was hurrying -from it; he had a frieze coat on him and a bag in his hand. - -“Well, who are you at all?” asks Peter Corcoran. - -“You are my cousin from Ameriky,” says Kilsheelan. - -“Is that so? And I never heard it,” says Peter. “What’s your name?” - -The Man from Kilsheelan hung down his old head and couldn’t answer him, -but Tom Tool said: “Drifty he is, sir, he forgets his little name.” - -“Astray is he? My mother said I’ve cousins in Roscommon, d’ye know ’em? -the Twingeings....” - -“Twingeing! Owen Twingeing it is!” roared Kilsheelan. “’Tis my name! -’Tis my name! ’Tis my name!” and he danced about squawking like a -parrot in a frenzy. - -“If it’s Owen Twingeing you are, I’ll bring you to my mother in -Manhattan.” The captain grabbed up his bag. “Haste now, come along out -of it. I’m going from the cunning town this minute, bad sleep to it for -ever and a month! There’s a cart waiting to catch me the boat train to -Queenstown. Will you go? Now?” - -“Holy God contrive it,” said Kilsheelan; his voice was wheezy as an -old goat, and he made to go off with him. “Good-day to you, Tom Tool, -you’ll get all the reward and endure a rich life from this out, fortune -on it all, a fortune on it all!” - -And the two of them were gone in a twink. - -Tom Tool went back to the Horans then; night was beginning to dusk and -to darken. As he went up the ropewalk Christine came to him from her -potato gardens and gave him signs, he to be quiet and follow her down -to the strand. So he followed her down to the strand and told her all -that happened, till she was vexed and full of tender words for the old -fool. - -“Aren’t you the spit of misfortune? It would daunt a saint, so it -would, and scrape a tear from silky Satan’s eye. Those two deluderers, -they’ve but the drainings of half a heart between ’em. And he not -willing to lift the feather of a thought on me? I’d not forget him till -there’s ten days in a week and every one of ’em lucky. But ... but ... -isn’t Peter Corcoran the nice name for a captain man, the very pattern?” - -She gave him a little bundle into his hands. “There’s a loaf and a cut -of meat. You’d best be stirring from here.” - -“Yes,” he said, and stood looking stupid, for his mind was in a dream. -The rock at one horn of the bay had a red glow on it like the shawl on -the neck of a lady, but the other was black now. A man was dragging a -turf boat up the beach. - -“Listen, you,” said Christine. “There’s two upstart men in the house -now, seeking you and the other. There’s trouble and damage on the head -of it. From the asylum they are. To the police they have been, to put -an embargo on the reward, and sorra a sixpence you’ll receive of the -fifty pounds of it: to the expenses of the asylum it must go, they say. -The treachery! Devil and all, the blood sweating on every coin of it -would rot the palm of a nigger. Do you hear me at all?” - -She gave him a little shaking for he was standing stupid, gazing at -the bay which was dying into grave darkness except for the wash of its -broken waves. - -“Do you hear me at all? It’s quit now you should, my little old man, or -they’ll be taking you.” - -“Ah, yes, sure, I hear you, Christine; thank you kindly. Just looking -and listening I was. I’ll be stirring from it now, and I’ll get on and -I’ll go. Just looking and listening I was, just a wee look.” - -“Then good-bye to you, Mr. Tool,” said Christine Horan, and turning -from him she left him in the darkness and went running up the ropewalk -to her home. - - - - - _Tribute_ - - -Two honest young men lived in Braddle, worked together at the spinning -mills at Braddle, and courted the same girl in the town of Braddle, -a girl named Patience who was poor and pretty. One of them, Nathan -Regent, who wore cloth uppers to his best boots, was steady, silent, -and dignified, but Tony Vassall, the other, was such a happy-go-lucky -fellow that he soon carried the good will of Patience in his heart, in -his handsome face, in his pocket at the end of his nickel watch chain, -or wherever the sign of requited love is carried by the happy lover. -The virtue of steadiness, you see, can be measured only by the years, -and this Tony had put such a hurry into the tender bosom of Patience: -silence may very well be golden, but it is a currency not easy to -negotiate in the kingdom of courtship; dignity is so much less than -simple faith that it is unable to move even one mountain, it charms the -hearts only of bank managers and bishops. - -So Patience married Tony Vassall and Nathan turned his attention to -other things, among them to a girl who had a neat little fortune—and -Nathan married that. - -Braddle is a large gaunt hill covered with dull little houses, and -it has flowing from its side a stream which feeds a gigantic and -beneficent mill. Without that mill—as everybody in Braddle knew, for it -was there that everybody in Braddle worked—the heart of Braddle would -cease to beat. Tony went on working at the mill. So did Nathan in a -way, but he had a cute ambitious wife, and what with her money and -influence he was soon made a manager of one of the departments. Tony -went on working at the mill. In a few more years Nathan’s steadiness so -increased his opportunities that he became joint manager of the whole -works. Then his colleague died; he was appointed sole manager, and his -wealth became so great that eventually Nathan and Nathan’s wife bought -the entire concern. Tony went on working at the mill. He now had two -sons and a daughter, Nancy, as well as his wife Patience, so that even -his possessions may be said to have increased although his position was -no different from what it had been for twenty years. - -The Regents, now living just outside Braddle, had one child, a daughter -named Olive, of the same age as Nancy. She was very beautiful and had -been educated at a school to which she rode on a bicycle until she was -eighteen. - -About that time, you must know, the country embarked upon a disastrous -campaign, a war so calamitous that every sacrifice was demanded of -Braddle. The Braddle mills were worn from their very bearings by their -colossal efforts, increasing by day or by night, to provide what were -called the sinews of war. Almost everybody in Braddle grew white -and thin and sullen with the strain of constant labour. Not quite -everybody, for the Regents received such a vast increase of wealth that -their eyes sparkled; they scarcely knew what to do with it; their faces -were neither white nor sullen. - -“In times like these,” declared Nathan’s wife, “we must help our -country still more, still more We must help; let us lend our money to -the country.” - -“Yes,” said Nathan. - -So they lent their money to their country. The country paid them -tribute, and therefore, as the Regent wealth continued to flow in, they -helped their country more and more; they even lent the tribute back to -the country and received yet more tribute for that. - -“In times like these,” said the country, “we must have more men, more -men we must have.” And so Nathan went and sat upon a Tribunal; for, as -everybody in Braddle knew, if the mills of Braddle ceased to grind, the -heart of Braddle would cease to beat. - -“What can we do to help our country?” asked Tony Vassall of his master, -“we have no money to lend.” - -“No?” was the reply. “But you can give your strong son Dan.” - -Tony gave his son Dan to the country. - -“Good-bye, dear son,” said his father, and his brother and his sister -Nancy said “Good-bye.” His mother kissed him. - -Dan was killed in battle; his sister Nancy took his place at the mill. - -In a little while the neighbours said to Tony Vassall: “What a fine -strong son is your young Albert Edward!” - -And Tony gave his son Albert Edward to the country. - -“Good-bye, dear son,” said his father; his sister kissed him, his -mother wept on his breast. - -Albert Edward was killed in battle; his mother took his place at the -mill. - -But the war did not cease; though friend and foe alike were almost -drowned in blood it seemed as powerful as eternity, and in time Tony -Vassall too went to battle and was killed. The country gave Patience a -widow’s pension, as well as a touching inducement to marry again; she -died of grief. Many people died in those days, it was not strange at -all. Nathan and his wife got so rich that after the war they died of -over-eating, and their daughter Olive came into a vast fortune and a -Trustee. - -The Trustee went on lending the Braddle money to the country, the -country went on sending large sums of interest to Olive (which was -the country’s tribute to her because of her parents’ unforgotten, and -indeed unforgettable, kindness), while Braddle went on with its work of -enabling the country to do this. For when the war came to an end the -country told Braddle that those who had not given their lives must now -turn to and really work, work harder than before the war, much, much -harder, or the tribute could not be paid and the heart of Braddle would -therefore cease to beat. Braddle folk saw that this was true, only too -true, and they did as they were told. - -The Vassall girl, Nancy, married a man who had done deeds of valour in -the war. He was a mill hand like her father, and they had two sons, -Daniel and Albert Edward. Olive married a grand man, though it is true -he was not very grand to look at. He had a small sharp nose, but they -did not matter very much because when you looked at him in profile -his bouncing red cheeks quite hid the small sharp nose, as completely -as two hills hide a little barn in a valley. Olive lived in a grand -mansion with numerous servants who helped her to rear a little family -of one, a girl named Mercy, who also had a small sharp nose and round -red cheeks. - -Every year after the survivors’ return from the war Olive gave a supper -to her workpeople and their families, hundreds of them; for six hours -there would be feasting and toys, music and dancing. Every year Olive -would make a little speech to them all, reminding them all of their -duty to Braddle and Braddle’s duty to the country, although, indeed, -she did not remind them of the country’s tribute to Olive. That was -perhaps a theme unfitting to touch upon, it would have been boastful -and quite unbecoming. - -“These are grave times for our country,” Olive would declare, year -after year: “her responsibilities are enormous, we must all put our -shoulders to the wheel.” - -Every year one of the workmen would make a little speech in reply, -thanking Olive for enabling the heart of Braddle to continue its beats, -calling down the spiritual blessings of heaven and the golden blessings -of the world upon Olive’s golden head. One year the honour of replying -fell to the husband of Nancy, and he was more than usually eloquent for -on that very day their two sons had commenced to doff bobbins at the -mill. No one applauded louder than Nancy’s little Dan or Nancy’s Albert -Edward, unless it was Nancy herself. Olive was always much moved on -these occasions. She felt that she did not really know these people, -that she would never know them; she wanted to go on seeing them, being -with them, and living with rapture in their workaday world. But she did -not do this. - -“How beautiful it all is!” she would sigh to her daughter, Mercy, -who accompanied her. “I am so happy. All these dear people are being -cared for by us, just simply us. God’s scheme of creation—you see—the -Almighty—we are his agents—we must always remember that. It goes on for -years, years upon years it goes on. It will go on, of course, yes, for -ever; the heart of Braddle will not cease to beat. The old ones die, -the young grow old, the children mature and marry and keep the mill -going. When I am dead ...” - -“Mamma, mamma!” - -“O yes, indeed, one day! Then _you_ will have to look after all these -things, Mercy, and you will talk to them—just like me. Yes, to own -the mill is a grave and difficult thing, only those who own them know -how grave and difficult; it calls forth all one’s deepest and rarest -qualities; but it is a divine position, a noble responsibility. And the -people really love me—I think.” - - - - - _The Handsome Lady_ - - -Towards the close of the nineteenth century the parish of Tull was -a genial but angular hamlet hung out on the north side of a midland -hill, with scarcely renown enough to get itself marked on a map. Its -felicities, whatever they might be, lay some miles distant from a -railway station, and so were seldom regarded, being neither boasted of -by the inhabitants nor visited by strangers. - -But here as elsewhere people were born and, as unusual, unconspicuously -born. John Pettigrove made a note of them then, and when people came in -their turns to die Pettigrove made a note of that too, for he was the -district registrar. In between whiles, like fish in a pond, they were -immersed in labour until the Divine Angler hooked them to the bank, and -then, as is the custom, they were conspicuously buried and laboured -presumably no more. - -The registrar was perhaps the one person who had love and praise for -the simple place. He was born and bred in Tull, he had never left -Tull, and at forty years of age was as firmly attached to it as the -black clock to the tower of Tull Church, which never recorded anything -but twenty minutes past four. His wife Carrie, a delicate woman, was -also satisfied with Tull, but as she owned two or three small pieces -of house property there her fancy may not have been entirely beyond -suspicion; possession, as you might say, being nine points of the -prejudice just as it is of the law. A year or two after their marriage -Carrie began to suffer from a complication of ailments that turned -her into a permanent invalid; she was seldom seen out of the house and -under her misfortunes she peaked and pined, she was troublesome, there -was no pleasing her. If Pettigrove went about unshaven she was vexed; -it was unclean, it was lazy, disgusting; but when he once appeared with -his moustache shaven off she was exceedingly angry; it was scandalous, -it was shameful, maddening. There is no pleasing some women—what is a -man to do? When he began to let it grow again and encouraged a beard -she was more tyrannical than ever. - -The grey church was small and looked shrunken, as if it had sagged; it -seemed to stoop down upon the green yard, but the stones and mounds, -the cypress and holly, the strangely faded blue of a door that led -through the churchyard wall to the mansion of the vicar, were beautiful -without pretence, and though as often as not the parson’s goats used to -graze among the graves and had been known to follow him into the nave, -there was about the ground, the indulgent dimness under the trees, and -the tower with its unmoving clock, the very delicacy of solitude. It -inspired compassion and not cynicism as, peering as it were through the -glass of antiquity, the stranger gazed upon its mortal register. In -its peace, its beauty, and its age, all those pious records and hopes -inscribed upon its stones, seemed not uttered in pride nor all in vain. -But to speak truth the church’s grace was partly the achievement of its -lofty situation. A road climbing up from sloping fields turned abruptly -and traversed the village, sidling up to the church; there, having -apparently satisfied some itch of curiosity, it turned abruptly again -and trundled back another way into that northern prospect of farms and -forest that lay in the direction of Whitewater Copse, Hangman’s Corner, -and One O’clock. - -It was that prospect which most delighted Pettigrove, for he was a -simple-minded countryman full of ambling content. Not even the church -allured him so much, for though it pleased him and was just at his own -threshold, he never entered it at all. Once upon a time there had been -talk of him joining the church choir, for he had a pleasant singing -voice, but he would not go. - -“It’s flying in the face of Providence,” cried his exasperated wife—her -mind, too, was a falsetto one: “You’ve as strong a voice as anyone in -Tull, in fact stronger, not that that is saying much, for Tull air -don’t seem good for songsters if you may judge by that choir. The air -is too thick maybe, I can’t say, it certainly oppresses my own chest, -or perhaps it’s too thin, I don’t thrive on it myself; but you’ve the -strength and it would do you credit; you’d be a credit to yourself and -it would be a credit to me. But that won’t move you! I can’t tell what -you’d be at; a drunken man ’ull get sober again, but a fool ... well, -there!” - -John, unwilling to be a credit, would mumble an objection to being tied -down to that sort of thing. That was just like him, no spontaneity, no -tidiness in his mind. Whenever he addressed himself to any discussion -he had, as you might say, to tuck up his intellectual sleeves, give a -hitch to his argumentative trousers. So he went on singing, just when -he had a mind to it, old country songs, for he disliked what he called -“gimcrack ballads about buzzums and roses.” - -Pettigrove’s occupation dealt with the extreme features of existence, -but he himself had no extreme notions. He was a good medium type of -man mentally and something more than that physically, but nevertheless -he was a disappointment to his wife—he never gave her any opportunity -to shine by his reflected light. She had nurtured foolish ideas of him -first as a figure of romance, then of some social importance; he ought -to be a parish councillor or develop eminence somehow in their way of -life. But John was nothing like this, he did not develop, or shine, or -offer counsel, he was just a big, solid, happy man. There were times -when his childless wife hated every ounce and sign of him, when his -fair clipped beard and hair, which she declared were the colour of -jute, and his stolidity, sickened her. - -“I do my duty by him and, please God, I’ll continue to do it. I’m a -humble woman and easily satisfied. An afflicted woman has no chance, no -chance at all,” she said. After twelve years of wedded life Pettigrove -sometimes vaguely wondered what it would have been like not to have -married anybody. - -One Michaelmas a small house belonging to Mrs. Pettigrove was let -to a widow from Eastbourne. Mrs. Cronshaw was a fine upstanding -woman, gracefully grave and, as the neighbours said, clean as a -pink. For several evenings after she had taken possession of the -house Pettigrove, who was a very handy sort of man, worked upon some -alterations to her garden, and at the end of the third or fourth -evening she had invited him into her bower to sip a glass of some -cordial, and she thanked him for his labours. - -“Not at all, Mrs. Cronshaw.” And he drank to her very good fortune. -Just that and no more. - -The next evening she did the same, and the very next evening to that -again. And so it was not long before they spoke of themselves to each -other, turn and turn about as you might say. She was the widow of an -ironmonger who had died two years before, and the ironmonger’s very -astute brother had given her an annuity in exchange for her interest in -the business. Without family and with few friends she had been lonely. - -“But Tull is such a hearty place,” she said. “It’s beautiful. One might -forget to be lonely.” - -“Be sure of that,” commented Pettigrove. They had the light of two -candles and a blazing fire. She grew kind and more communicative -to him; a strangely, disturbingly attractive woman, dark, with an -abundance of well-dressed hair and a figure of charm. She had carpet -all over her floor; nobody else in Tull dreamed of such a thing. -She did not cover her old dark table with a cloth as everybody else -habitually did. The pictures on the wall were real, and the black-lined -sofa had cushions on it of violet silk which she sometimes actually sat -upon. There was a dainty dresser with china and things, a bureau, and -a tall clock that told the exact time. But there was no music, music -made her melancholy. In Pettigrove’s home there were things like these -but they were not the same. His bureau was jammed in a corner with -flowerpots upon its top; his pictures comprised two photo prints of a -public park in Swansea—his wife had bought them at an auction sale. -Their dresser was a cumbersome thing with knobs and hooks and jars and -bottles, and the tall clock never chimed the hours. The very armchairs -at Mrs. Cronshaw’s were wells of such solid comfort that it made him -feel uncomfortable to use them. - -“Ah, I should like to be sure of it!” she continued. “I have not found -kindly people in the cities—they do not even seem to notice a fine -day!—I have not found them anywhere, so why should they be in Tull? You -are a wise man, tell me, is Tull the exception?” - -“Yes, Mrs. Cronshaw. You must come and visit us whenever you’ve a mind -to; have no fear of loneliness.” - -“Yes, I will come and visit you,” she declared, “soon, I will.” - -“That’s right, you must visit us.” - -“Yes, soon, I must.” - -But weeks passed over and the widow did not keep her promise although -she only lived a furlong from his door. Pettigrove made no further -invitation for he found excuses on many evenings to visit her. It was -easy to see that she did not care for his wife, and he did not mind -this for neither did he care for her now. The old wish that he had -never been married crept back into his mind, a sly, unsavoury visitant; -it was complicated by a thought that his wife might not live long, a -dark, shameful thought that nevertheless trembled into hope. So on many -of the long winter evenings, while his wife dozed in her bed, he sat in -the widow’s room talking of things that were strange and agreeable. She -could neither understand nor quite forgive his parochialism; this was -sweet flattery to him. He had scarcely ever set foot outside a ten-mile -radius of Tull, but he was an intelligent man, and all her discourse -was of things he could perfectly understand! For the first time in his -life Pettigrove found himself lamenting the dullness of existence. -He tried to suppress this tendency, but words would come and he was -distressed. He had always been in love with things that lasted, that -had stability, that gave him a recognition and guidance, but now his -feelings were flickering like grass in a gale. - -“How strange that is,” she said, when he told her this, “we seem to -have exchanged our feelings. I am happy here, but I know that dark -thought, yes, that life is a dull journey on which the mind searches -for variety, unvarying variety.” - -“But what for?” he cried. - -“It is constantly seeking change.” - -“But for why? It seems like treachery to life.” - -“It may be so, but if you seek, you find.” - -“What?” - -“Whatever you are seeking.” - -“What am I seeking?” - -“Not to know that is the blackest treachery to life. We are growing -old,” she added inconsequently, stretching her hands to the fire. She -wore black silk mittens. - -“Perhaps that’s it,” he allowed, with a laugh. “Childhood’s best.” - -“Surely not,” she protested. - -“Ah, but I was gay enough then. I’m not a religious man, you know—and -perhaps that’s the reason—but however—I can remember things of great -joy and pleasure then.” - -And it seemed from his recollections that not the least pleasant -and persistent was his memory of the chapel, a Baptist hall long -since closed and decayed, to which his mother had sent him on Sunday -afternoons. It was a plain, tough, little tabernacle, with benches of -deal, plain deal, very hard, covered with a clear varnish that smelled -pleasant. The platform and its railing, the teacher’s desk, the pulpit -were all of deal, the plainest deal, very hard and all covered with -the clear varnish that smelled very pleasant. And somehow the creed -and the teacher and the attendants were like that too, all plain and -hard, covered with a varnish that was pleasant. But there was a way in -which the afternoon sun beamed through the cheap windows that lit up -for young Pettigrove an everlasting light. There were hymns with tunes -that he hoped would be sung in Paradise. The texts, the stories, the -admonitions of the teachers, were vivid and evidently beautiful in his -memory. Best of all was the privilege of borrowing a book at the end of -school time—_Pilgrim’s Progress_ or _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_. - -For a While his recollections restored him to cheerfulness, but his -dullness soon overcame him again. - -“I have been content all my life. Never was a man more content. And -now! It’s treachery if you like. My faith’s gone, content gone, for -why?” - -He rose to go, and as he paused at the door to bid her good-night she -took his hand and softly and tenderly said: “Why are you depressed? -Don’t be so. Life is not dull, it is only momentarily unkind.” - -“Ah, I’ll get used to it.” - -“John Pettigrove, you must never get used to dullness, I forbid you.” - -“But I thought Tull was beautiful,” he said as he paused upon the -doorsill. “I thought Tull was beautiful....” - -“Until I came?” It was so softly uttered and she closed the door so -quickly upon him. They called “Good-night, good-night” to each other -through the door. - -He went away through the village, his mind streaming with strange -emotions. He exulted, and yet he feared for himself and for the widow, -but he could not summon from the depths of his mind what it was he -feared. He passed a woman in the darkness who, perhaps mistaking him -for another, said “Good-night, my love.” - -The next morning he sat in the kitchen after breakfast. It wanted but a -few days to Christmas. There was no frost in the air; the wind roared, -but the day, though grey, was not gloomy; only the man was gloomy. - -“Nothing ever happens,” he murmured. “True, but what would you want to -happen?” - -Out in the scullery a village girl was washing dishes; as she rattled -the ware she hummed a song. From his back window Pettigrove could see -a barn in a field, two broken gates, a pile of logs, faggots, and -a single pollarded willow whose head was strangled under a hat of -ivy. Beside a barley stack was a goose with a crooked neck; it stood -sulking. High aloft in the sky thousands of blown rooks wrangled like -lost men. And Pettigrove vowed he would go no more to the widow—not -for a while. Something inside him kept asking, Why not? And he as -quickly replied to himself: “You know, you know. You’ll find it all in -God-a-mighty’s own commandments. Stick to them, you can’t do more—at -least, you might, but what would be the good?” - -So that evening he went along to the Christmas lottery held in a vast -barn, dimly lit and smelling of vermin. A rope hung over each of its -two giant beams, dangling smoky lanterns. There was a crowd of men and -boys inspecting the prizes in the gloomy corners, a pig sulking in a -pen of hurdles, sacks of wheat, live hens in coops, a row of dead hares -hung on the rail of a wagon. Amid silence a man plunged his hand into -a corn measure and drew forth a numbered ticket; another man drew from -a similar measure a blank ticket or a prize ticket. Each time a prize -was drawn a hum of interest spread through the onlookers, but when the -chief prize, the fat pig, was drawn against number seventy-nine there -was agitation, excitement even. - -“Who be it?” cried several. “Who be number seventy-nine for the fat -pig?” - -A man consulted a list and said doubtfully: “Miss Subey Jones—who be -she?” - -No one seemed to know until a husky alto voice from a corner piped: “I -know her. She’s from Shottsford way, over by Squire Marchand’s.” - -“Oh,” murmured the disappointed men; the husky voice continued: “Day -afore yesterday she hung herself.” - -For a few seconds there was a pained silence, until a powerful voice -cried: “It’s a mortal shame, chaps.” - -The ceremony proceeded until all the tickets were drawn and all the -prizes won and distributed. The cackling hens were seized from the pens -by their legs and handed upside down to their new owners. The pig was -bundled squealing into a sack. Bags of wheat were shouldered and the -white-bellied hares were held up to the light. Everybody was animated -and chattered loudly. - -“I had number thirty in the big chance and I won nothing. And I had -number thirty-one in the little chance and I won a duck. Number -thirty-one was my number, and number thirty in the big draw; I won -nothing in that, but in the little draw I won a duck. Well, there’s -flesh for you.” - -Some of those who had won hens held them out to a white-faced youth who -smoked a large rank pipe; he took each fowl quietly by the neck and -twisted it till it died. A few small feathers stuck to his hands or -wavered to the floor, and even after the bird was dead and carried away -it continued slowly and vaguely to flap its big wings and scatter its -lorn feathers. - -Pettigrove spent most of the next day in the forest plantation south -of Tull Great Wood, where a few chain of soil had been cultivated and -reserved for seedlings, trees of larch and pine no bigger than potted -geraniums, groves of oaks with stems slender as a cockerel’s leg and -most of the stiff brown leaves still clinging to the famished twigs; -or sycamores, thin but tall, flourishing in a mat of their own dropped -foliage that was the colour of butter fringed with blood and stained -with black gouts like a child’s copy-book. It was a toy forest, dense -enough for the lair of a beast, and dim enough for an anchorite’s -meditations, but a dog could leap over it, and a boy could stand amid -its growth and look like Gulliver in Lilliput. - -“May I go into the wood?” a voice called to Pettigrove. Looking sharply -up he saw Mrs. Cronshaw, clad in a long dark blue cloak with a fur -necklet, a grey velvet hat trimmed with a pigeon’s wing confining her -luxuriant hair. - -“Ah, you may,” he said, stalking to her side, “but you’d best not, -’tis a heavy marshy soil within and the ways are stabbled by the -hunters’ horses. Better keep out till summer comes, then ’tis dry and -pleasant-like.” - -She sat down awkwardly on a heap of faggots, her feet turned slightly -inwards, but her cheeks were dainty pink in the cold air. What a smart -lady! He stood telling her things about the wood, its birds and foxes; -deep in the heart of it all was a lovely open space covered with the -greenest grass and a hawthorn tree in the middle of that. It bloomed in -spring with heavy creamy blossom. No, he had never seen any fairies -there. Come to that, he did not expect to, he had never thought of it. - -“But there are fairies, you know,” cried the widow. “O yes, in old -times, I mean very old times, before the Romans, in fact before -Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob then, the Mother of the earth had a big -family, thousands, something like the old woman who lived in a shoe -she was. And one day God sent word to say he was coming to visit her. -Well, then! She was so excited—the Mother of the earth—that she made a -great to do you may be sure, and after she had made her house sparkle -with cleanliness and had baked a great big pie she began to wash her -children. All of a sudden she heard the trumpets blow—God was just -a-coming! So as she hadn’t got time to finish them all, she hid those -unwashed ones away out of sight, and bade them to remain there and make -no noise or she would be angry and punish them. But you can’t conceal -anything from the King of All and He knew of those hidden children, and -he caused them to be hidden from mortal eyes for ever, and they are the -fairies, O yes!” - -“No, nothing can be concealed,” Pettigrove admitted in his slow grave -fashion, “murder will out, as they say, but that’s a tough morsel if -you’re going to swallow it all.” - -“But I like to believe in those things I Wish were true.” - -“Ah, so, yes,” said Pettigrove. - -It was an afternoon of damp squally blusters, uncheering, with slaty -sky; the air itself seemed slaty, and though it had every opportunity -and invitation to fall, the rain, with strange perversity, held off. -In the oddest corners of the sky, north and east, a miraculous glow -could be seen, as if the sun in a moment of aberration had determined -to set just then and just there. The wind made a long noise in the -sky, the smell of earth rose about them, of timber and of dead leaves; -except for rooks, or a wren cockering itself in a bush, no birds were -to be seen. - -Letting his spade fall Pettigrove sat down beside the widow and kissed -her. She blushed red as a cherry and he got up quickly. - -“I ought not to ha’ done it, I ought not to ha’ done that, Mrs. -Cronshaw!” - -“Caroline!” said she, smiling the correction at him. - -“Is that your name?” He sat down by her again. “Why, it is the same as -my wife’s.” - -And Caroline said “Humph! You’re a strange man, but you are wise and -good. Tell me, does she understand you?” - -“What is there to understand? We are wed and we are faithful to each -other, I can take my oath on that to God or man.” - -“Yes, yes, but what is faith—without love between you? You see? You -have long since broken your vows to love and cherish, understand that, -you have broken them in half.” - -She had picked up a stick and was drawing patterns of cubes and stars -in the soil. - -“But what is to be done, Caroline? Life is good, but there is good -living and there is bad living, there is fire and there is water. It is -strange what the Almighty permits to happen.” - -A slow-speaking man; scrupulous of thought and speech he weighed each -idea before its delivery as carefully as a tobacconist weighs an ounce -of tobacco. - -“Have some cake?” said Caroline, drawing a package from a pocket. “Will -you have a piece ... John?” - -She seemed to be on the point of laughing aloud at him. He took the -fragment of cake but he did not eat it as she did. He held it between -finger and thumb and stared at it. - -“It’s strange how a man let’s his tongue wag now and again as if he’d -got the universe stuck on the end of a common fork.” - -“Or at the end of a knitting needle, yes, I know,” laughed Caroline, -brushing the crumbs from her lap. Then she bent her head, patted her -lips, and regurgitated with a gesture of apology—just like a lady. -“But what are you saying? If there is love between you there is -faithfulness, if there is no love there is no fidelity.” - -He bit a mouthful off the cake at last. - -“Maybe true, but you must have respect for the beliefs of others....” - -“How can you if they don’t fit in with your own?” - -“Or there is sorrow.” He bolted the rest of his cake. “O you are -right, I daresay, Caroline, no doubt; it’s right, I know, but is it -reasonable?” - -“There are afflictions,” she said, “which time will cure, so they -don’t matter; but there are others which time only aggravates, so what -can we do? I daresay it’s different with a man, but a woman, you know, -grasps at what she wants. That sounds reasonable, but you don’t think -it’s right?” - -In the cold whistling sky a patch of sunset had now begun to settle -in its proper quarter, but as frigid and unconvincing as a stage -fireplace. Pettigrove sat with his great hands clasped between his -knees. Perhaps she grew tired of watching the back of him; she rose to -go, but she said gently enough: “Come in to-night, I want to tell you -something.” - -“I will, Caroline.” - -Later, when he reached home, he found two little nieces had arrived, -children of some relatives who lived a dozen miles away. A passing -farmer had dropped them at Tull; their parents were coming a day later -to spend Christmas with the Pettigroves. - -They sat up in his wife’s room after tea, for Carrie left her bed only -for an hour or two at noon. She dozed against her pillows, a brown -shawl covering her shoulders, while the two children played by the -hearth. Pettigrove sat silent, gazing in the fire. - -“What a racket you are making, Polly and Jane!” quavered Carrie. - -The little girls thereupon ceased their sporting and took a picture -book to the hearthrug where they examined it in awed silence by the -firelight. After some minutes the invalid called out: “Don’t make such -a noise turning over all them leaves.” - -Polly made a grimace and little Jane said: “We are looking at the -pictures.” - -“Well,” snapped Mrs. Pettigrove, “why can’t you keep to the one page!” - -John sat by the fire vowing to himself that he would not go along to -the widow, and in the very act of vowing he got up and began putting on -his coat. - -“Are you going out, John?” - -“There’s a window catch to put right along at Mrs. Cronshaw’s,” he -said. At other times it had been a pump to mend, a door latch to -adjust, or a jamb to ease. - -“I never knew things to go like it before—I can’t understand it,” his -wife commented. “What with windows and doors and pumps and bannisters -anyone would think the house had got the rot. It’s done for the -purpose, or my name’s not what it is.” - -“It won’t take long,” he said as he went. - -The wind had fallen away, but the sky, though clearer, had a dull -opaque mean appearance, and the risen moon, without glow, without -refulgence, was like a brass-headed nail stuck in a kitchen wall. - -The yellow blind at the widow’s cot was drawn down and the candles -within cast upon the blind a slanting image of the birdcage hanging at -the window; a fat dapper bird appeared to be snoozing upon its rod; a -tiny square was probably a lump of sugar; the glass well must have been -half full of water, it glistened and twinkled on the blind. The shadowy -bird shifted one foot, then the other, and just opened its beak as -Pettigrove tapped at the door. - -They did not converse very easily, there was constraint between them, -Pettigrove’s simple mind had a twinge of guilt. - -“Will you take lime juice or cocoa?” asked the widow, and he said: -“Cocoa.” - -“Little or large?” - -And he said: “Large.” - -While they sat sipping the cocoa Caroline began: “Well, I am going -away, you know. No, not for good, just a short while, for Christmas -only, or very little longer. I must go.” - -She nestled her blue shawl more snugly round her shoulders. A cough -seemed to trouble her. “There are things you can’t put on one side for -ever....” - -“Even if they don’t fit in with your own ideas!” he said slyly. - -“Yes, even then.” - -He put down his cup and took both her hands in his own. “How long?” - -“Not long, not very long, not long enough....” - -“Enough for what?” He broke up her hesitation. “For me to forget you? -No, no, not in the fifty-two weeks of the whole world of time.” - -“I did want to stay here,” she said, “and see all the funny things -country people do now.” She was rather vague about those funny things. -“Carols, mumming, visiting; go to church on Christmas morning, though -how I should get past those dreadful goats, I don’t know; why are they -always in the churchyard?” - -“Teasy creatures they are! Followed parson into service one Sunday, -indeed, ah! one of ’em did. Jumped up in his pulpit, too, so ’tis said. -But when are you coming back?” - -She told him it was a little uncertain, she was not sure, she could not -say, it was a little uncertain. - -“In a week, maybe?” - -Yes, a week; but perhaps it would be longer, she could not say, it was -uncertain. - -“So. Well, all right then, I shall watch for you.” - -“Yes, watch for me.” - -They gave each other good wishes and said good-bye in the little dark -porch. The shadowy bird on the blind stood up and shrugged itself. -Pettigrove’s stay had scarcely lasted an hour, but in that time the -moon had gone, the sky had cleared, and in its ravishing darkness the -stars almost crackled, so fierce was their mysterious perturbation. The -village man felt Caroline’s arms about him and her lips against his -mouth as she whispered a “God bless you.” He turned away home, dazed, -entranced, he did not heed the stars. In the darkness a knacker’s cart -trotted past him with a dim lantern swinging at its tail and the driver -bawling a song. In the keen air the odour from the dead horse sickened -him. - -Pettigrove passed Christmas gaily enough with his kindred, and even -his wife indulged in brief gaieties. Her cousin was one of those men -full of affable disagreements; an attitude rather than an activity of -mind. He had a curious face resembling an owl’s except in its colour -(which was pink) and in its tiny black moustache curling downwards like -a dark ring under his nose. If Pettigrove remarked upon a fine sunset -the cousin scoffed, scoffed benignantly; there was a sunset every -day, wasn’t there?—common as grass, weren’t they? As for the farming -hereabouts, nothing particular in it was there? The scenery was, well, -it was just scenery, a few hills, a few woods, plenty of grass fields. -No special suitability of soil for any crop; corn would be just -average, wasn’t that so? And the roots, well, on his farm at home he -could show mangolds as big as young porkers, forty to the cartload, or -thereabouts. There weren’t no farmers round here making a fortune, he’d -be bound, and as for their birds, he should think they lived on rook -pie. - -Pettigrove submitted that none of the Tull farmers looked much the -worse for farming. - -“Well, come,” said the other, “I hear your workhouses be middling -full. Now an old neighbour of mine, old Frank Stinsgrove, was a man as -_could_ farm, any mortal thing. He wouldn’t have looked at this land, -not at a crown an acre, and he was a man as _could_ farm, any mortal -thing, oranges and lemons if he’d a mind to it. What a head that man -had, God bless, his brain was stuffed! Full!! He’d declare black was -white, and what’s more he could prove it. I like a man like that.” - -The cousin’s wife was a vast woman, shaped like a cottage loaf. For -some reason she clung to her stays: it could not be to disguise or curb -her bulk, for they merely put a gloss upon it. You could only view her -as a dimension, think of her as a circumference, and wonder grimly what -she looked like when she prepared for the bath. She devoured turkey and -pig griskin with such audible voracity that her husband declared that -he would soon be compelled to wear corks in his earholes at meal times, -yes, the same as they did in the artillery. She was quite unperturbed -by this even when little Jane giggled, and she avowed that good food -was a great enjoyment to her. - -“O ’tis a good thing and a grand thing, but take that child now,” said -her father. Resting his elbow on the table he indicated with his fork -the diminutive Jane; upon the fork hung a portion of meat large enough -to half-sole a lady’s shoe. “She’s just the reverse, she eats as soft -as a fly, a spillikin a day, and not a mite more; no, very dainty -is our Jane.” Here he swallowed the meat and treated four promising -potatoes with very great savagery. “Do you know our Jane is going to -marry a house-painter, yah, a house-painter, or is it a coach-painter? -’Tis smooth and gentle work, she says, not like rough farmers or chaps -that knock things pretty hard, smiths and carpenters, you know. O -Lord! eight years old, would you believe it? The spillikin! John, this -griskin’s a lovely bit of meat.” - -“Beautiful meat,” chanted his wife, “like a pig we killed a month ago. -That was a nice pig, fat and contented as you’d find any pig, ’twould -have been a shame to keep him alive any longer. It dressed so well, a -picture it was, the kidneys shun like gold.” - -“That reminds me of poor old Frank Stinsgrove,” said her husband. -“He’d a mint of money, a very wealthy man, but he didn’t like parting -with it. He’d got oldish and afraid of his death, must have a doctor -calling to examine him every so often. Didn’t mind spending a fortune -on doctors, but every other way he’d skin a flint. And there was nought -wrong with him, ’cept age. So his daughter ups and says to him one -day—You are wasting your money on all these doctors, father, they do -you no good, what you must have is nice, dainty, nourishing food. Now -what about some of these new laid eggs? How much are they fetching now? -old Frank says. A penny farthing, says she. A penny farthing! I cannot -afford it. And there was that man with a mint of money, a mint, could -have bought Buckingham Palace—you understand me—and yet he must go on -with his porridge and his mustard plasters and his syrup of squills, -until at last a smartish doctor really did find something the matter -with him, in his kidneys. They operated, mark you, and they say—but I -never quite had the rights of it—they say they gave him a new kidney -made of wax; a new wax kidney, ah, and I believe it was successful, -only he had not to get himself into any kind of a heat, of course, nor -sit too close to the fire. ’Stonishing what they doctors can do with -your innards. But of course he was too old, soon died. Left a fortune, -a mint of money, could have bought the crown of England. Staunch old -chap, you know.” - -Throughout the holidays John sang his customary ballads, “The Bicester -Ram,” “The Unquiet Grave,” and dozens of others. After songs there -would be things to eat. Then a game of cards, and after that things to -eat. Then a walk to the inn, to the church, to a farm, or to a friend’s -where, in all jollity, there would be things to eat and drink. They -went to a meet of the hounds, a most successful outing for it gave them -ravening appetites. In short, as the cousin’s wife said when bidding -farewell, it was a time of great enjoyment. - -And Pettigrove said so too. He believed it, and yet was glad to be quit -of his friends in order to contemplate the serene dawn that was to -come at any hour now. By New Year’s Day Mrs. Cronshaw had not returned, -but the big countryman was patient, his mind, though not at rest, -was confident. The days passed as invisibly as warriors in a hostile -country, and almost before he had begun to despair February came, a -haggard month to follow a frosty January. Mist clung to the earth -as tightly as the dense grey fur on the back of a cat, ice began to -uncongeal, adjacent lands became indistinct, and distant fields could -not be seen at all. The banks of the roads and the squat hedges were -heavily dewed. The cries of invisible rooks, the bleat of unseen sheep, -made yet more gloomy the contours of motionless trees wherefrom the -slightest movement of a bird fetched a splatter of drops to the road, -cold and uncheering. - -All this inclemency crowded into the heart of the waiting man, a -distress without a gleam of anger or doubt, but only a fond anxiety. -Other anxieties came upon him which, without lessening his melancholy, -somewhat diverted it: his wife suffered a sudden grave decline in -health, and on calling in the doctor Pettigrove was made aware of her -approaching end. Torn between a strange recovered fondness for his -sinking wife and the romantic adventure with the widow, which, to -his mind at such a juncture, wore the sourest aspect of infidelity, -Pettigrove dwelt in remorse and grief until the night of St. -Valentine’s Day, when he received a letter. It came from a coast town -in Norfolk, from a hospital; Caroline, too, was ill. She made light of -her illness, but it was clear to him now that this and this alone was -the urgent reason of her retreat from Tull at Christmas. It was old -tubercular trouble (that was consumption, wasn’t it?) which had driven -her into sanatoriums on several occasions in recent years. She was -getting better now, she wrote, but it would be months before she would -be allowed to return. It had been rather a bad attack, so sudden. Now -she had no other thought or desire in the world but to be back at Tull -with her friend, and in time to see that fairy may tree at bloom in the -wood—he had promised to show it to her—they would often go together, -wouldn’t they—and she signed herself his, “with the deepest affection.” - -He did not remember any promise to show her the tree, but he sat down -straightway and wrote her a letter of love, incoherently disclosed and -obscurely worded for any eyes but hers. He did not mention his wife; -he had suddenly forgotten her. He sealed the letter and put it aside -to be posted on the morrow. Then he crept back to his wife’s room and -continued his sick vigil. - -But in that dim room, lit by one small candle, he did not heed the -invalid. His mind, feverishly alert, was devoted to thoughts of that -other who also lay sick, and who had intimidated him. He had feared -her, feared for himself. He had behaved like a lost wanderer who at -night, deep in a forest, had come upon the embers of a fire left -mysteriously glowing, and had crept up to it frightened, without stick -or stone: if only he had conquered his fear he might have lain down and -rested by its strange comfort. But now he was sure of her love, sure -of his own, he was secure, he would lay down and rest. She would come -with all the sweetness of her passion and the valour of her frailty, -stretching smooth, quiet wings over his lost soul. - -Then he began to be aware of a soft, insistent noise, tapping, tapping, -tapping, that seemed to come from the front door below. To assure -himself he listened intently, and soon it became almost the only -sound in the world, clear but soft, sharp and thin, as if struck with -the finger nails only, tap, tap, tap, quickly on the door. When the -noise ceased he got up and groped stealthily down his narrow crooked -staircase. At the bottom he waited in an uncanny pause until just -beyond him he heard the gentle urgency again, tap, tap, and he flung -open the door. There was enough gloomy light to reveal the emptiness -of the porch; there was nothing there, nothing to be seen, but he -could distinctly hear the sound of feet being vigorously shuffled on -the doormat below him, as if the shoes of some light-foot visitor -were being carefully cleaned before entry. Then it stopped. Beyond -that—nothing. Pettigrove was afraid, he dared not cross the startling -threshold, he shot back the door, bolted it in a fluster, and blundered -away up the stairs. - -And there was now darkness, the candle in his wife’s room having spent -itself, but as a glow from the fire embers remained he did not hasten -to light another candle. Instead, he fastened the bedroom door also, -and stood filled with wondering uneasiness, dreading to hear the tap, -tap, tap come again, just there, behind him. He listened for it with -stopped breath, but he could hear nothing, not the faintest scruple of -sound, not the beat of his own heart, not a flutter from the fire, not -a rustle of feet, not a breath—no! not even a breathing! He rushed to -the bed and struck a match: that was a dead face.... Under the violence -of his sharpening shock he sank upon the bed beside dead Carrie and a -faint crepuscular agony began to gleam over the pensive darkness of his -mind, with a promise of mad moonlight to follow. - -Two days later a stranger came to the Pettigrove’s door, a short -brusque, sharp-talking man with iron-grey hair and iron-rimmed -spectacles. He was an ironmonger. - -“Mr. Pettigrove? My name is Cronshaw, of Eastbourne, rather painful -errand, my sister-in-law, Mrs. Cronshaw, tenant of yours, I believe.” - -Pettigrove stiffened into antagonism: what the devil was all this? -“Come in,” he remarked grimly. - -“Thank you,” said Cronshaw, following Pettigrove into the parlour -where, with many sighs and much circumstance, he doffed his overcoat -and stood his umbrella in a corner. “Had to walk from the station, no -conveyances; that’s pretty stiff, miles and miles.” - -“Have a drop of wine?” invited Pettigrove. - -“Thank you,” said the visitor. - -“It’s dandelion.” - -“Very kind of you, I’m sure.” Cronshaw drew a chair up to the -fireplace, though the fire had not been lit, and the grate was full of -ashes, and asked if he might smoke. Pettigrove did not mind; he poured -out a glass of the yellow wine while Cronshaw lit his pipe. The room -smelled stuffy, heavy noises came from overhead as if men were moving -furniture. The stranger swallowed a few drops of the wine, coughed, and -said: “My sister-in-law is dead, I’m sorry to say. You had not heard, I -suppose?” - -“Dead!” whispered Pettigrove. “Mrs. Cronshaw! No, no, I had not, I had -not heard that, I did not know. Mrs. Cronshaw dead—is it true?” - -“Ah,” said the stranger with a laboured sigh. “Two nights ago in a -hospital at Mundesley. I’ve just come on from there. It was very -sudden, O, frightfully sudden, but it was not unexpected, poor woman, -it’s been off and on with her for years. She was very much attached to -this village, I suppose, and we’re going to bury her here, it was her -last request. That’s what I want to do now. I want to arrange about the -burial and the disposal of her things and to give up possession of your -house. I’m very sorry for that.” - -“I’m uncommon grieved to hear this,” said Pettigrove. “She was a -handsome lady.” - -“O yes,” the ironmonger took out his pocket-book and prepared to write -in it. - -“A handsome lady,” continued the countryman tremulously, “handsome, -handsome.” - -At that moment someone came heavily down the stairs and knocked at the -parlour door. - -“Come in,” cried Pettigrove. A man with red face and white hair -shuffled into the room; he was dressed in a black suit that had been -made for a man not only bigger, but probably different in other ways. - -“We shall have to shift her down here now,” he began. “I was sure we -should, the coffin’s too big to get round that awkward crook in these -stairs when it’s loaded. In fact, ’tis impossible. Better have her down -now afore we put her in, or there’ll be an accident on the day as sure -as judgment.” The man, then noticing Cronshaw, said: “Good-morning, -sir, you’ll excuse me.” - -The ironmonger stared at him with horror, and then put his notebook -away. - -“Yes, yes, then,” mumbled Pettigrove. “I’ll come up in a few minutes.” - -The man went out and Cronshaw jumped up and said: “You’ll pardon me, -Mr. Pettigrove, I had no idea that you had had a bereavement too.” - -“My wife,” said Pettigrove dully, “two nights ago.” - -“Two nights ago! I am very sorry, most sorry,” stammered the other, -picking up his umbrella and hat. “I’ll go away. What a sad coincidence!” - -“There’s no call to do that; what’s got to be done must be done.” - -“I’ll not detain you long then, just a few details: I am most sorry, -very sorry, it’s extraordinary.” - -He took out his notebook again—it had red edges and a fat elastic -band—and after conferring with Pettigrove for some time the stranger -went off to see the vicar, saying, as he shook hands: “I shall of -course see you again when it is all over. How bewildering it is, and -what a shock it is; from one day to another, and then nothing; and the -day after to-morrow they’ll be buried beside one another. I am very -sorry, most sorry. I shall of course come and see you again when it is -all over.” - -After he had gone Pettigrove walked about the room murmuring: “She was -a lady, a handsome lady,” and then, still murmuring, he stumbled up the -stairs to the undertakers. His wife lay on the bed in a white gown. He -enveloped her stiff thin body in a blanket and carried it downstairs to -the parlour; the others, with much difficulty, carried down the coffin -and when they had fixed it upon some trestles they unwrapped Carrie -from the blankets and laid her in it. - -Caroline and Carrie were buried on the same day in adjoining graves, -buried by the same men, and as the ironmonger was prevented by some -other misfortune from attending the obsequies there were no other -mourners than Pettigrove. The workshop sign of the Tull carpenter bore -the following notice: - - Small - ☞COMPLETE UNDERTAKER Hearse - Kept. - -and therefore it was he who ushered the handsome lady from the station -on that bitter day. Frost was so heavy that the umbrage of pine and fir -looked woolly, thick grey swabs. Horses stood miserably in the frozen -fields, breathing into any friendly bush. Rooks pecked industriously at -the tough pastures, but wiser fowls, unlike the fabulous good child, -could be neither seen nor heard. And all day someone was grinding corn -at the millhouse; the engine was old and kept on emitting explosions -that shook the neighbourhood like a dreadful bomb. Pettigrove, who -had not provided himself with a black overcoat and therefore wore none -at all, shivered so intensely during the ceremony that the keen edge -of his grief was dulled, and indeed from that time onwards his grief, -whatever its source, seemed deprived of all keenness: it just dulled -him with a permanent dullness. - -He caused to be placed on his wife’s grave a headstone, quite small, -not a yard high, inscribed to - - CAROLINE - The beloved wife - of - John Pettigrove - -Some days after its erection he was astonished to find the headstone -had fallen flat on its face. It was very strange, but after all it was -a small matter, a simple affair, so in the dusk he himself took a spade -and set it up again. A day or two later it had fallen once more. He -was now inclined to some suspicion, he fancied that mischievous boys -had done it; he would complain to the vicar. But Pettigrove was an -easy-going man, he did not complain; he replaced the stone, setting it -more deeply in the earth and padding the turf more firmly around it. - -When it fell the third time he was astonished and deeply moved, but he -was no longer in doubt, and as he once more made a good upheaval by the -grave in the dusk he said in his mind, and he felt too in his heart, -that he understood. - -“It will not fall again,” he said, and he was right: it did not. - -Pettigrove himself lived for another score of years, during which the -monotony of his life was but mildly varied; he just went on registering -births and deaths and rearing little oaks and pines, firs and -sycamores. Sentimental deference to the oft-repeated wish of his wife -led him to join the church choir and sing its anthems and hymns with -a secular blitheness that was at least mellifluous. Moreover, after a -year or two, he _did_ become a parish councillor and in a modest way -was something of a “shining light.” - -“If I were you,” observed an old countryman to him, “and I had my way, -I know what I would do: I would live in a little house and have a -quiet life, and I wouldn’t care the toss of a ha’penny for nothing and -nobody!” - -In the time of May, always, Pettigrove would wander in Tull Great Wood -as far as the hidden pleasaunce where the hawthorn so whitely bloomed. -None but he knew of that, or remembered it, and when its dying petals -were heaped upon the grass he gathered handfuls to keep in his pocket -till they rotted. Sometimes he thought he would leave Tull and see -something of the world; he often thought of that, but it seemed as if -time had stabilized and contracted round his heart and he did not go. -At last, after twenty years of widowhood, he died and was buried, and -this was the manner of that. - -Two men were digging his grave on the morning of the interment, a -summer’s day so everlasting beautiful that it was incredible anyone -should be dead. The two men, an ancient named Jethro and a younger -whom he called Mark, went to sit in the cool porch for a brief rest. -The work on the grave had been very much delayed, but now the old -headstone was laid on one side, and most of the earth that had covered -his wife’s body was heaped in untidy mounds upon the turf close by. -Otherwise there was no change in the yard or the trees that grew so -high, the grass that grew so greenly, the dark brick wall, or the door -of fugitive blue; there was even a dappled goat quietly cropping. A -woman came into the porch, remarked upon the grand day, and then passed -into the church to her task of tidying up for the ceremony. Jethro took -a swig of drink from a bottle and handed it to his mate. - -“You don’t remember old Fan as used to clean the church, do you? No, -’twas ’fore you come about these parts. She was a smartish old gal. -Bother me if one of they goats didn’t follow her into the darn church -one day, ah, and wouldn’t be drove out on it, neither, no, and she -chasing of it from here to there and one place and another but out it -would not go, that goat. And at last it act-u-ally marched up into the -pulpit and putt its two forelegs on the holy book and said ’Baa-a-a!’” -Here Jethro gave a prolonged imitation of a goat’s cry. “Well, old Fan -had been a bit skeered but she was so overcome by that bit of piety -that, darn me, if she didn’t sit down and play the organ for it!” - -Mark received this narration with a lack-lustre air and at once the -two men resumed their work. Meanwhile a man ascended the church tower; -other men had gone into the home of the dead man. Soon the vicar came -hurrying through the blue door in the wall and the bell gave forth its -first solemn toll. - -“Hey, Jethro,” called Mark from the grave. “What d’you say’s the name -of this chap?” - -“Pettigrove. Hurry up, now.” - -Mark, after bending down, whispered from the grave: “What was his -wife’s name?” - -“Why, man alive, that ’ud be Pettigrove, too.” - -The bell in the tower gave another profoundly solemn beat. - -“What’s the name on that headstone?” asked Mark. - -“Caroline Pettigrove. What be you thinking on?” - -“We’re in the wrong hole, Jethro; come and see for yourself, the plate -on this old coffin says Caroline Cronshaw, see for yourself, we’re in -the wrong hole.” - -Again the bell voiced its melancholy admonition. - -Jethro descended the short ladder and stood in the grave with Mark just -as the cortège entered the church by the door on the opposite side of -the yard. He knelt down and rubbed with his own fingers the dulled -inscription on the mouldering coffin; there was no doubt about it, -Caroline Cronshaw lay there. - -“Well, may I go to glory,” slowly said the old man. It may have -occurred to Mark that this was an extravagantly remote destination to -prescribe; at any rate he said: “There ain’t no time, now, come on.” - -“Who the devil be she? However come that wrong headstone to be putt on -this wrong grave?” quavered the kneeling man. - -“Are you coming out?” growled Mark, standing with one foot on the -ladder, “or ain’t you? They’ll be chucking him on top of you in a -couple o’ minutes. There’s no time, I tell you.” - -“’Tis a strange come-up as ever I see,” said the old man; striking one -wall of the grave with his hand: “that’s where we should be, Mark, next -door, but there’s no time to change it and it must go as it is, Mark. -Well, it’s fate; what is to be must be whether it’s good or right and -you can’t odds it, you darn’t go against it, or you be wrong.” They -stood in the grave muttering together. “Not a word, Mark, mind you!” -At last they shovelled some earth back upon the tell-tale name-plate, -climbed out of the grave, drew up the ladder, and stood with bent heads -as the coffin was borne from the church towards them. It was lowered -into the grave, and at the “earth to earth” Jethro, with a flirt of his -spade dropped in a handful of sticky marl, another at “ashes to ashes,” -and again at the “dust to dust.” Finally, when they were alone together -again, they covered in the old lovers, dumping the earth tightly and -everlastingly about them, and reset the headstone, Jethro remarking as -they did so: “That headstone, well, ’tis a mystery, Mark! And I can’t -bottom it, I can’t bottom it at all, ’tis a mystery.” - -And indeed, how should it not be, for the secret had long since been -forgotten by its originator. - - - - - _The Fancy Dress Ball_ - - -There was a young fellow named Bugloss. He wore cufflinks made of -agate with studs to match but was otherwise an agreeable person who -suffered much from a remarkable diffidence, one of nature’s minor -inconsistencies having been to endow him with a mute desire for -romantic adventure and an entire incapacity to inaugurate any such -thing. - -It was in architecture that he found his way of life, quite a -profitable and genteel way; for while other hands and heads devised -the mere details of drainage, of window and wall, staircase, cupboard, -and floor, in fact each mechanical thing down to the hooks and bells -in every room, he it was who painted those entrancing draughts of -elevation and the general prospect (with a few enigmatic but graceful -trees, clouds in the offing, and a tiny postman plodding sideways up -the carriage drive) which lured the fond fly into the architectural -parlour. It must be confessed that he himself lived in rooms over the -shop of a hairdresser, whose window displayed the elegantly coiffed -head and bust of a wax lady suffering either from an acute attack of -jaundice or the effects of a succession of late nights: next door was -an establishment dealing exclusively, but not exhaustingly, in mangles -and perambulators. In Bugloss’s room there were two bell handles with -wires looking very handy and complete, yet whenever he desired the -attendance of the maid he had (_a_) to take a silver whistle from his -pocket; (_b_) to open the door; and (_c_) to blow it smartly in the -passage. - -His exceeding shyness was humiliating to himself and annoying to people -of friendly disposition, it could not have been more preposterous had -he been condemned to wear a false nose; he might have gone (he may -even now be going) to his grave without once looking into a woman’s -eyes. What a pity! His own eyes were worth looking at; he was really -a nice young man, tall and slender with light fluffy hair, who if he -couldn’t hide his amiable light under a bushel certainly behaved as if -it wasn’t there. Things were so until one day he chanced to read with -envious pleasure but a good deal of scepticism a book called _Anatol_ -by a Viennese writer; almost immediately the fascinating possibilities -of romantic infidelity were confirmed by a quarrel which began in -the hairdresser’s house between the young hairdresser and his wife, -Monsieur and Madame Rabignol, and lasted for a week in the course of -which Bugloss learned that the hairdresser was indulging in precisely -one of those intrigues with an unknown lady living somewhere near by; -Madame Rabignol, charming but virulent, protested a thousand times -that it must be a base woman who walked the streets at night, and that -Monsieur Rabignol was a low pig. The fair temptress, it appeared, was -given to the use of a toilet unguent with the beguiling misdescription -of “Vanishing Face Cream”; that was an unfortunate circumstance, -because the wife of the hairdresser, a very cute woman, on her -husband’s return from an evening’s absence, invariably kissed him and -smelt him. - -“Evil communications,” saith St. Paul (borrowing the phrase from -Menander), “corrupt good manners,” and his notion must have something -of truth in it, for these domestic revelations produced an unusual -stir in the Bugloss bosom—he bought a ticket for a popular fancy dress -ball and made a mighty resolve to discard his pusillanimous self with -one grand gesture and there and then take the plunge. At a fancy dress -ball you could do that; everyone made a fool of himself more or less; -and Bugloss determined to plunge into whatever there was to plunge -in. This was desperately unwise, but you are not to suppose that he -harboured any looseness or want of principle; he was good and modest, -and virtuous as any young man could possibly be; he only hoped, at the -very least, to look some fair girl deep in the eyes. So he designed -an oriental costume, simple to make (being loose-fitting), and having -bought quantities of purple and crimson fabric he wrapped them up and -sent the office-boy with his design, materials, measurements, and -instructions to a dressmaker in the neighbourhood, whom he wisely -thought would make a better job of it than a tailor. When the costume -was finished he was delighted; it was magnificent, resplendent, -artistic, and the dressmaker’s charge was moderate. - -On the night of the ball, a warm August night with soft thrilling air -and a sky of sombre velvet, he drove in a closed cab. Dancing was -in the open, the lawns of a mansion were lent for the occasion, and -Bugloss went rather late to escape notice—nearly eleven o’clock—but -in the cab his timorousness conspiring against him had deepened to -palpitating dejection; he was afraid again, the grand gesture was -forgotten, and his attire was fantastically guarded from the public -eye. From his window he had watched the arrival of the cab and had -slunk down to it secretly—not a word to the Rabignols!—in a bowler -hat and a mackintosh that reached to his feet; his fancy shoes were -concealed under a pair of goloshes, the bright tasselled cap was in his -pocket. - -Heavens! It was too painful. This was no plunge, this miserable sink or -swim—it was delirium, hell—what a stupid man he had been to come—it was -no go, it was useless—and he was about to order the cabman to turn back -home when the cab stopped at the gates of the mansion, the door was -flung open and a big policeman almost dragged him out upon the carpeted -pavement. A knot of jocular bystanders caused him to scurry into the -grounds where three officials—good, bad, and indifferent—examined his -ticket and directed him onwards. But the cloak rooms were right across -the grounds, the great lawn was simply a bath of illumination, the band -played in the centre and the dancers, madly arrayed, were waltzing -madly. Bugloss, desiring only some far corner of darkness to flee into, -saw on all sides shadowy trees, dim shrubs, and walks that led to utter -gloom—thank God!—and there was a black moonless sky, though even that -seemed positively to drip with stars. - -At this moment the big policeman, following after him, said: “What -about this cab, sir?” - -“What—yes—this cab!” repeated Bugloss, and to his agonized imagination -every eye in the grounds became ironically fixed upon him alone; -even the music ceased, and there resounded a flutter of coruscating -amiability. - -“D’ye want him to wait?” the policeman was grinning—“He ain’t got any -orders.” - -“O, O dear, how much, what’s his fare? I don’t want him again -and—gracious! I haven’t a cent on me—what, what—O, please tell him to -call at my house to-morrow. Pay him then I will. Please!” - -“Righto, my lord!” said the big policeman, saluting—he was a regular -joker that fellow. Then Bugloss, trembling in every limb, almost leapt -towards one of the dark walks, away from those grinning eyes. The -shrubs and trees concealed him, though even here an odd paper lantern -or two consorted with a few coloured bulbs of light. Shortly he began -his observations. - -The cloak rooms, he found, could be approached only by crossing the -lawn. In a mackintosh, goloshes, and a bowler hat, that was too -terrific an ordeal; the trembling Israelite during that affrighting -passage of the Red Sea had all the incitements of escape and the -comfort of friends, but this more violent ordeal led into captivity, -and Bugloss was alone. What was to be done? The music began again -and it was agreeable, the illuminations were lustrous and pretty, -the dancers gay, but Bugloss was neither agreeable nor gay, and his -prettiness was not yet on the surface. He was in a highly wrought -condition, he was limp, and he remained in what seclusion he could -find in the garden, peering like a sinner at some assembly of the -blest. At last he snatched off his goloshes and stuffed them in his -pocket. “So far,” he murmured, “so good. I will hide the mackintosh -among the bushes, I can’t face that dressing room.” Just then the band -gave a heightened blare, drum and cymbals were rapidly beaten and the -music ceased amid clapping and polite halloing. “Dash it, I must wait -till the next dance,” said Bugloss, “and, O lord, there’s a lot of -them coming this way.” He turned to retreat into deeper darkness when -suddenly, near the musicians, he saw a fascinating girl, a dainty but -startling figure skimming across the lawn as if to overtake a friend. -Why—yes—she had a wig of bright green hair, green; a short-waisted -cherry silk jacket and harlequin pantaloons, full at the hips but -narrowing to the ankles, where white stockings slipped into a pair of -gilded leather shoes with heels of scarlet. Delicately charming were -her face and figure, entrancing were her movements, and she tinkled all -over with hidden bells. - -“Sweet God, what beauty!” thought Bugloss, “this is She, the Woman to -know, I must, I must ... but how?” - -She disappeared. For the moment he could not rid himself of the bowler -hat and mackintosh, so many couples roamed in the dark glades; wherever -he went he could see the glow of cigarettes, generally in twos, and -there were whispering or silent couples standing about in unexpected -places. Retiring to the darkest corner he had previously found he was -about to discard his mackintosh when he was startled by a cry at his -elbow: “Lena, where are you, what’s that?” and a girl scuttled away, -calling “Lena! Lena!” Her terror dismayed him, the little shock itself -brought the sweat to his brow, but the music beginning again drew all -the stragglers back to the lawn. There, from his gloomy retreat, he -beheld the green-haired beauty in the arms of a pirate king who was -adorned with an admiral’s hat and a dangerous moustache. “If,” thought -Bugloss, still in his mufti, “I couldn’t have discovered a better -get-up than that fellow, I’d have stayed away. There’s no picture in -it, it’s just silly, I couldn’t wear a thing like that, I couldn’t -wear it, I’d have perished rather than come.” And indeed there was an -absence of imagination about all the male adornment; many of the ladies -were right enough, but some were horrors, and most of the men were -horrors; there was justification for Bugloss’s subsequent reflection: -“I’ll show them, a little later on, what can be done when an artist -takes the thing in hand; now after this dance is over.... etc., etc.” - -Two lovers startled him by beginning to quarrel. They were passing -among the trees behind him and talking quite loudly, both with a slight -foreign accent. “But I shall not let you go, Johannes,” said the lady -with a fierce little cry. Bugloss turned and could just discern a lady -costumed as a vivandière; her companion was in the uniform Of a Danish -soldier. - -“If you forced me to stop I would kill you,” retorted the man. - -“O, you would kill me!” - -“If you forced me to stop.” - -“You would kill me ... so!” - -“Yes, I would kill you.” - -“But you have told me that if I _can_ keep you here in England I may do -it. You know. If I can. You know that, Johannes!” - -Bugloss was persuaded that he had heard her voice before, though he -could not recognize the speaker. - -“Be quiet, you are a fool,” the man said. That was all Bugloss heard. -It was brutal enough. If only a woman, any woman, had wanted _him_ like -that! - -He wandered about during other dances. The green-haired girl was always -with that idiotic pirate, and it made things very difficult, because -although Bugloss had fallen desperately in love with her he could not, -simply could not, march up and drag her away from her companion. He -could not as yet even venture from his ambush among the trees, and they -never wandered in the gloom—they were always dancing together or eating -together. He, Bugloss, had no interest in any other woman there, no -spark of interest whatsoever. That being so, why go to all the fuss of -discarding the mackintosh and making an exhibition of himself? Why go -bothering among that crowd, he was not a dancer at all, he didn’t want -to go! But still ... by and by perhaps ... when that lovely treasure -was not so extraordinarily engaged. Sweet God! she was just ... well, -but he could not stand much more of that infernal pirate’s antics with -her. Withdrawing his tantalized gaze he sat down in darkness behind a -clump of yew trimmed in the shape of some fat animal that resembled a -tall hippopotamus. Here he lit his tenth cigarette. At once a dizziness -assailed him, he began to see scarlet splashes in the gloom, to feel -as if he were being lacerated with tiny pins. Throwing the cigarette -away he stretched himself at full length under the bush. Scarcely had -he done so when he became aware that two others were sitting down on -the other side of it, the same foreign couple, the vivandière and her -threatening cavalier. - -“Listen to me, Hélène,” the man was saying in a soft consoling voice, -“you shall trust to me and come away. Together we will go. But here -I cannot stay. It is fate. You love, eh? Come then, we will go to -Copenhagen, I will take you to my country. Now, Hélène!” - -The lady made no reply; Bugloss felt that she must be crying. The Dane -continued to woo and the Frenchwoman to murmur back to him: “Is it not -so, Johannes?” “No, Hélène, no.” But at last he cried angrily: “Pah! -Then stop with your bandit, that pig! Pah!” and chattering angrily in -his strange language he sprang up and stalked away. Hélène rose too and -followed him beseechingly into the gloom: “No, no, Johannes, no!” - -Bugloss got up from the grass; his dizziness was gone. He knew that -voice, it seemed impossible, but he knew her, and he had half a mind -to rush home: but being without his watch and unable to discover what -o’clock it was, he did not care to walk out into the streets with the -chance of being guyed by any half-drunken sparks passing late home. -He would wait, he was sure it was past midnight now, there would be a -partial exodus soon, and he would go off unnoticed in the crowd. There -was no more possibility now of him shedding his coat and joining the -revellers than there was of that beauteous girl flying into his arms; -his inhibition possessed him with tenfold power, he was an imbecile. -Sad, pitiful, wretched, outcast! Through the screen of foliage the -music floated with exquisite faintness, luminous cadenzas from a -gleaming but guarded Eldorado whose light was music, whose music was -all a promise and a mockery; he was a miserable prisoner pent in his -own unbearable but unbreakable shackles and dressed up like a doll in a -pantomime! Many people had come in their ordinary clothes; why, O why -had he put on this maddening paralysing raiment? Why had he come at all? - -Some of the lights had begun to fade; at one end of the lawn most of -the small lamps had guttered out, leaving a line of a dozen chairs in -comparative obscurity. Weary of standing, he slunk to the corner chair -and sat down with a sigh. Just beside him was a weeping ash that he -supposed only looked happy when it rained, and opposite was a poplar -straining so hard to brush the heavens that he fancied it would be -creaking in every limb. By and by an elderly decorous lady, accompanied -by two girls not so decorous—the one arrayed as a Puritan maiden and -the other as a Scout mistress—came and sat near him, but he did not -move. They did not perceive the moody Bugloss. The elderly lady spoke: -“Do go and fetch her here; no, when this waltz is over. She is very -rude, but I want to see her. I can’t understand why she avoids us, and -how she is getting on is a mystery to everybody. Bring her here.” - -The puritan maiden and the scout mistress, embracing each other, -skipped away to the refreshment booth. Glorious people sat about -there drinking wine as if they disliked it, sipping ices as if it were -a penance, and eating remarkable food or doing some other reasonable -things, but Bugloss dared not join them although he was very hungry. It -was not hunger he wanted to avert, but an impending tragedy. - -The hypersensitive creature sees in the common mass of his fellows only -something that seeks to deny him, and either in fear of that antagonism -or in the knowledge of his own imperfections he isolates and envelopes -the real issue of his being—much as an oyster does with the irritant -grain in its beard; only the outcome is seldom a pearl and not always -as useful as a fish. Bugloss was still wholly enveloped, and his -predicament gave a melancholy tone to his thoughts. He sat hunched in -his chair until the dance ended and the two girls came back, bringing -with them the lovely green-haired one! - -“Hello, aunt,” she cried merrily enough, “why aren’t you in costume? -Like my get-up?” - -Without a word the elderly lady kissed her, and all sat down within -a few feet of Bugloss. It thrilled him to hear her voice; at least -he would be able to recognize that when she turned back again to -daylight’s cool civilities. - -“Did you know that I had blossomed out in business?” she was saying. -Bugloss thought it a beautiful voice. - -“I heard of it,” said her aunt, whom you may figure as a lady with a -fan, eyeglasses, and the repellant profile of a bird of prey, “about -half an hour ago. I wish I had heard of it before.” - -“I am a full-blown modiste.” - -“Yes, you might have told me.” - -“But I have told you.” - -“You might have told me before.” - -“But I haven’t seen you before, aunt.” - -“No, we haven’t seen you. How is this business, Claire, is it thriving, -making money?” - -“O, we get along, aunt,” said the radiant niece in a tone of almost -perverse amiability. “I have several assistants. Do you know, we made -seven of the costumes for this ball—seven—one of them for a man.” - -“I thought ladies only made for ladies.” - -“So did I, but this order just dropped in upon us very mysteriously, -and we did it, from top to toe, a most gorgeous arrangement, all -crimson and purple and silver and citron, but I haven’t seen anybody -wearing it yet. I wonder if you have? I’m so disappointed. It’s a -sultan, or a nabob, or a nankipoo of some kind, I am certain it was for -this ball. I was so anxious to see it worn. I had made up my mind to -dance at least half the dances with the wearer, it was so lovely. Have -you seen such a costume here?” - -“No,” said the aunt grimly, “I have not, but I have noticed the pirate -king—did you make his costume too? I hope not!” - -“O no, aunt,” laughed Claire, “isn’t he a fright?” - -“Who is he?” - -“That? O, a friend of mine, a business friend.” - -“He seems fond of you.” - -“I have known him some time. Yes, I like him. Don’t you like my pirate -king?” asked Claire, turning to her two cousins. - -The cousins both thought he was splendid. - -(“Good God!” groaned Bugloss.) - -“I don’t,” declared auntie. “Do you know him very well, has he any -intentions? An orphan girl living by herself—you have your way to make -in the world—I am not presuming to criticize, my dear Claire, but is it -wise? Who is he?” - -“Yes, aunt,” said Claire. Bugloss could hear the tinkle of her bells as -she moved a little restlessly. - -“Are his intentions honourable? I should think they were otherwise.” - -Claire did not reply immediately. It looked as if the musicians were -about to resume. There was a rattle of plates and things over at the -booth. Then she said reflectively: “I don’t think he has any—what you -call honourable intentions.” - -“Not! Is he a bad man?” - -“O no, I don’t mean that, aunt, no.” - -“But what do you mean then, you’re a strange girl, what _could_ his -intentions be?” - -“He hasn’t any intentions at all.” - -“Not one way or the other?” - -Claire seemed vaguely to hover over the significance of this. She said -calmly enough: “Not in any way. He’s my hairdresser, a Frenchman, and -so clever. He made this beautiful wig and gave it me. What do you think -of my beautiful wig, isn’t it sweet?” - -There was a note of exasperation in the elder woman’s voice: “Why -don’t you get married, girl?” - -“I’d rather work,” said Claire, “and besides, he’s already married.” - -The music did begin, and a gentleman garbed as a druid came to claim -auntie for a dance. The three girls were left alone. - -“Did he _really_ give you that wig?” asked the puritan maiden. - -“Yes, isn’t it bonny? I love it.” She shook the dangling curls about -her face. “He’s frightfully clever with hair. French! You know his -saloon probably, Rabignol’s in the High Street. His wife is here, you -must have seen her too—a French soldier woman—what do you call them? -She hates me. She’s with a Danish captain. He _is_ a Dane, but he is -really an ice merchant. He thinks she adores him.” - -“O Claire!” cried the two shocked cousins. - -“But she doesn’t,” said Claire. “Sakes, I’m beginning to shiver; come -along.” - -They all romped back towards the orchestra. Bugloss shivered too -and was glad—yes, glad—that she had gone. The tragedy had floated -satisfactorily out of his hands, thank the fates; it was Rabignol’s -affair. Damn Rabignol! Curse Rabignol! the bandit, the pig! He hoped -that Madame Rabignol _would_ elope with Johannes. He hoped the -green-haired girl—frail and lovely thing—would behave well; and he -hoped finally and frenziedly that Rabignol himself would be choked by -the common hangman. Bugloss then wanted to yawn, but somehow he could -not. He put on his rubber goloshes again. With unwonted audacity he -stalked off firmly, even a little fiercely, across the lawn in his -mackintosh and bowler hat, passing round the fringe of the dancers but -looking neither to the right nor to the left, then out of the gates -into the dark empty streets and so home. There, feeling rather like -a Cromwell made of chutney, he disarrayed himself and crept into bed -yawning and murmuring to himself: “So that’s a fancy dress ball! Sweet -God, but I’m glad I went! And I could have shown them something, I -could have. Say what you like, but mine was the finest costume at the -show; there’s no doubt about that, it was, it was! And I’m very glad I -went.” - - - - - _The Cat, the Dog, and the bad old Dame_ - - -The chemist had certain odd notions that were an agreeable reflex of -his name, which was Oddfellow—Herbert Oddfellow. Our man was odd about -diet. It was believed that he lived without cookery, that he browsed, -as it were, upon fruit and salads. Ironically enough he earned a -considerable income by the sale of nostrums for indigestion. At any -hour of the day you were likely to find him devouring apples, nibbling -artichokes, or sucking an orange, and your inquiry for a dose of -bismuth or some such aid would cause by an obscure process a sardonic -grin to assemble upon his face. You would scarcely have expected to -find a lot of indigestion in the working-class neighbourhood where his -pharmacy flourished, but it was there, certainly; he was quite cynical -about it—his business throve abundantly upon dietary disorders. - -There were four big ornamental carboys in his shop windows—red, violet, -green, and yellow; incidentally he sold peppermint drops and poisons, -and at forty years of age he was reputed to be the happiest, as he -was certainly the healthiest, man in the county. This was not merely -because he was unmarried ... but there, I declare this tale is not -about Oddfellow himself, but about his lethal chamber. - -You must know that the sacrificial exactions of the war did not spare -cats and dogs. They, too, were immolated—but painlessly—scores of -them, at Oddfellow’s. He was unhappy about that part of his business, -very much so; he loved animals, perhaps rather more than people, for, -naturally, what he ministered to in his pharmacy was largely human -misery or human affectation. Evil cruel things—the bolt of a gaol, the -lime of the bird-snarer, the butcher’s axe—maddened him. - -In the small garden at the back of the dispensary the interments were -carried out by Horace the errand boy, a juvenile with snub nose and -short, tough hair, who always wore ragged puttees. He delighted in such -obsequies, and had even instituted some ceremonial orgies. But at last -these lethal commissions were so numerous that the burial-ground began -to resemble the habitat of some vast, inappeasable mole, and thereupon -Oddfellow had to stipulate for sorrowing owners to conduct the -interments themselves in cemeteries of their own. Even this provision -did not quell the inflow of these easily disposable victims. - -Mr. Franks brought him a magnificent cat to be destroyed. (Shortly -afterwards Franks was conveyed to the lunatic asylum, an institution -which still nurtures him in despotic durance.) Pending the return of -Horace, who was disbursing remedial shrapnel to the neighbourhood, the -cat, tied to a rail in the shop, sat dozing in the sunlight. - -“What a beautiful cat!” exclaimed a lady caller, stroking its purring -majesty. The lady herself was beautiful. Oddfellow explained that its -demise was imminent—nothing the matter with it—owner didn’t want it. - -“How cruel, you sweet thing, how cruel!” pronounced the lady, who -really was very beautiful. “I would love to have it. Why shouldn’t I -have it ... if its owner doesn’t want it? I wonder. May I?” - -Manlike was Oddfellow, beautiful was the lady; the lady took the cat -away. Twenty-four hours later the shop counter was stormed by the -detestable Franks, incipient insanity already manifest in him. He -carried the selfsame cat under his arm—it had returned to its old home. -Franks assailed the abashed chemist with language that at its mildest -was abusive and libellous. His chief complaint seemed to repose upon -the circumstance of having _paid_ for the cat’s destruction, whereupon -Oddfellow who, like an Irishman, never walked into an argument—he -simply bounced in—threw down the fee upon the counter and urged Mr. -Franks to take his cat, and his money, and himself away as speedily -as might be. This reprehensible behaviour did by no means allay the -tension; the madman-designate paraded many further signs of his -impending doom. - -“Take your cat away, I tell you,” shouted Oddfellow, “take it away. I -wouldn’t destroy it for a thousand pounds!” - -“You won’t, oh?” - -“Put an end to you with pleasure!” - -“Yes?” - -“Make you a present of a dose of poison whenever you like to come and -take it!” - -“Yes?” - -“I will!” - -Franks went away with his tom-cat. - -“O ... my ... lord!” ejaculated the chemist, that being his favourite -evocation; “I’ll do no more of this cat-and-dog business. I shall not -do any more; no, I shall not. I do not like it at all.” - -But in the afternoon his assistant, who had not been informed of this -resolve, accepted two more victims for the lethal chamber, another -tom-cat and a collie dog. - -“O ... my ... lord!” groaned the chemist distractedly; but there was -no help for it, and, calling his boy Horace, they carried the cat -into the storeroom. The lethal box was in a corner; all round were -shelves of costly drugs. The place did not smell of death; it smelt of -paint, oils, volatile spirits, tubs of white lead, and packing-cases -that contained scented soap or feeding-bottles. As Oddfellow prepared -his syringe, a sporting friend named Jerry peeped in to watch the -proceedings. - -“Shut the door!” cried little Horace. “I can’t hold him.... He’s off!” - -Sure enough the cat, sensing its danger, had burst from his arms and -sprung to one of the shelves. Immediately phials of drugs began to -fall and smash upon the floor, and as the cat rushed and scurried from -their grasp disaster was heaped upon disaster; the green, glowing eyes, -the rigid teeth, that seemed to grow as large as a tiger’s, confounded -them, and the havoc deterred them; they dared not approach the spitting -fury, it was a wild beast again, and a bold one. - -“O ... my ... lord!” said Oddfellow, also swearing softly, for bottles -continued to slip from shelf to floor. “What’s to be done?” - -“Open the door—let the flaming thing go,” said Jerry. - -“No fear,” replied the chemist, “I’ve had enough of these dead cats -turning up like Banquo’s ghost—just enough.” - -Horace intervened. “My father’s got a gun, sir; shall I run round home -and get it?” - -Jerry’s eyes began to gleam, the costly phials kept dropping to -the floor—the chemist distractedly agreed—the boy Horace ran home -and fetched a rook rifle. But his prowess was so poor, his aim so -disastrous—he shot a hole through a barrel of linseed oil and received -a powerful squirt of it in his eye—that Jerry deprived him of the -weapon. Even then several rounds had to be fired, a carboy of acid was -cracked, a window smashed, a lamp blown to pieces, before poor tom was -finally subdued. Oddfellow had gone into the shop. He could not bring -himself to witness the dismal slaughter. Every repercussion sent a pang -of pity to his heart, and when at last the bleeding body of the cat was -laid in the yard to await removal by its owner he almost vomited and he -almost wept; if he had not sniffed the bunch of early primroses in his -buttonhole he would surely have done one or the other. - -“Now the dog,” whispered the chemist. The collie was very subdued, good -dog, he gave no trouble at all, good dog, he was hustled into the big -box, good dog, and quietly chloroformed. Later on, a countryman with -his cart called for the body. The old woman who owned it was going -to make a hearthrug with the skin. It was enveloped in a sack; the -countryman carried it out on his shoulder like a butcher carrying the -carcase of a sheep and flung it into the cart. The callousness of this -struck Mr. Oddfellow so profoundly that he announced there and then, -positively and finally, that he would undertake no more business of -that kind, and doubly to insure this the lethal box was taken into the -yard and chopped up. - -Now, the poor old woman who owned the dog called next day at the -chemist’s shop. Behind her walked the very collie. For a moment or two -Oddfellow feared that he was to be haunted by the walking ghost of cats -and dogs for evermore. Said the old woman: “Please, sir, you must do -him again; he’s woke up!” - -She described at great length the dog’s strange revival. It stood -humbly enough in the background, a little drowsy, but not at all uneasy. - -“No,” cried Oddfellow firmly; “can’t do it—destroyed my tackle. You -take him home, ma’am; he’s all right. Dog that’s been through that -ought to live a long life. Take him home again, ma’am,” he urged, “he’s -all right.” - -The woman was old; she was feeble and poor; she was not able to keep -him now, he was such a big dog. Wasn’t it hard enough to get him food, -things were so dear, and now there was the licence money due! She -hadn’t got it; she never would have it; she really couldn’t afford it. - -“You take him, sir, and keep him, sir.” - -“No, I can’t keep a dog—no room.” - -“Have him, sir,” she pleaded; “you’ll be kind to him.” - -“No, no; ... but ... if it’s only his licence ... I’ll tell you what. -I’ll pay for his licence rather than destroy him.” - -Putting his hand into the till, he laid three half-crowns before her. -The old woman stared at the chemist, but she stared still more at the -money. Then, thanking him with quaint, confused dignity, she gathered -it up, but again stood gazing meditatively at the three big coins, now -lying, so unexpectedly, in her thin palm. - -“Good dog,” said the chemist, giving him a final pat. “Good dog!” - -Then the poor old woman, with tears in her eyes, turned out of Mr. -Oddfellow’s shop and, followed by her dog, walked off to a quarter of -the town where there was another chemist who kept a lethal chamber. - - - - - _The Wife of Ted Wickham_ - - -Perhaps it is a mercy we can’t see ourselves as others see us. Molly -Wickham was a remarkable pretty woman in days gone by; maybe she is -wiser since she has aged, but when she was young she was foolish. She -never seemed to realize it, but I wasn’t deceived. - -So said the cattle-dealer, a healthy looking man, massive, morose, and -bordering on fifty. He did not say it to anybody in particular, for it -was said—it was to himself he said it—privately, musingly, as if to -soothe the still embittered recollection of a beauty that was foolish, -a fondness that was vain. - -Ted Wickham himself was silly, too, when he married her. Must have been -extraordinarily touched to marry a little soft, religious, teetotal -party like her, and him a great sporting cock of a man, just come into -a public-house business that his aunt had left him, “The Half Moon,” -up on the Bath Road. He always ate like an elephant, but she’d only -the appetite of a scorpion. And what was worse, he was a true blood -conservative while all her family were a set of radicals that you -couldn’t talk sense to: if you only so much as mentioned the name of -Gladstone they would turn their eyes up to the ceiling as if he was a -saint in glory. Blood is thicker than water, I know, but it’s unnatural -stuff to drink so much of. Grant their name was. They christened her -Pamela, and as if that wasn’t cruel enough they messed her initials up -by giving her the middle name of Isabel. - -But she was a handsome creature, on the small side but sound as a -roach and sweet as an apple tree in bloom. Pretty enough to convert -Ted, and I thought she would convert him, but she was a cussed -woman—never did what you would expect of her—and so she didn’t even -try. She gave up religion herself, gave it up altogether and went to -church no more. That was against her inclination, but of course it -was only right, for Ted never could have put up with that. Wedlock’s -one thing and religion’s two: that’s odd and even: a little is all -very well if it don’t go a long ways. Parson Twamley kept calling on -her for a year or two afterwards, trying to persuade her to return -to the fold—he couldn’t have called oftener if she had owed him a -hundred pound—but she would not hear of it, she would not go. He was -not much of a parson, not one to wake anybody up, but he had a good -delivery, and when he’d the luck to get hold of a sermon of any sense -his delivery was very good, very good indeed. She would say: “No, sir, -my feelings aren’t changed one bit, but I won’t come to church any -more, I’ve my private reasons.” And the parson would glare across at -old Ted as if he were a Belzeboob, for Ted always sat and listened to -the parson chattering to her. Never said a word himself, always kept -his pipe stuck in his jaw. Ted never persuaded her in the least, just -left it to her, and she would come round to his manner of thinking in -the end, for though he never actually said it, she always knew what his -way of thinking was. A strange thing, it takes a real woman to do that, -silly or no! At election times she would plaster the place all over -with tory bills, do it with her own hands! - -Still, there’s no stability in meekness of that sort, a weathervane can -only go with wind and weather, and there was no sense in her giving -in to Ted as she did, not in the long run, for he couldn’t help but -despise her. A man wants something or other to whet the edge of his -life on; and he did despise her, I know. - -But she was a fine creature in her way, only her way wasn’t his. A -beautiful woman, too, well-limbered up, with lovely hair, but always -a very proper sort, a milksop—Ted told me once that he had never seen -her naked. Well, can you wonder at the man? And always badgering him to -do things that could not be done at the time. To have “The Half Moon” -painted, or enlarged, or insured: she’d keep on badgering him, and he -could not make her see that any god’s amount of money spent on paint -wouldn’t improve the taste of liquor. - -“I can see as far into a quart pot as the King of England,” he says, -“and I know that if this bar was four times as big as ’tis a quart -wouldn’t hold a drop more then than it does now.” - -“No, of course,” she says. - -“Nor a drop less neither,” says Ted. He showed her that all the money -expended on improvements and insurance and such things were so much -off something else. Ted was a generous chap—liked to see plenty of -everything, even though he had to give some of it away. But you can’t -make some women see some things. - -“Not a roof to our heads, nor a floor to our feet, nor a pound to turn -round on if a fire broke out,” Molly would say. - -“But why should a fire break out?” he’d ask her. “There never has been -a fire here, there never ought to be a fire here, and what’s more, -there never will be a fire here, so why should there be a fire?” - -And of course she let him have his own way, and they never had a fire -there while he was alive, though I don’t know that any great harm -would have been done anyways, for after a few years trade began to -slacken off, and the place got dull, and what with the taxes it was not -much more than a bread and cheese business. Still, there’s no matter -of that: a man don’t ask for a bed of roses: a world without some -disturbance or anxiety would be like a duckpond where the ducks sleep -all day and are carried off at night by the foxes. - -Molly was like that in many things, not really contrary, but no tact. -After Ted died she kept on at “The Half Moon” for a year or two by -herself, and regular as clockwork every month Pollock, the insurance -manager, would drop in and try for to persuade her to insure the -house or the stock or the furniture, any mortal thing. Well, believe -you, when she had only got herself to please in the matter that woman -wouldn’t have anything to say to that insurance—she never did insure, -and never would. - -“I wouldn’t run such a risk; upon my soul it’s flying in the face of -possibilities, Mrs. Wickham”—he was a palavering chap, that Pollock; a -tall fellow with sandy hair, and he always stunk of liniment for he had -asthma on the chest—“A very grave risk, it is indeed,” he would say, -“the Meazer’s family was burnt clean out of hearth and home last St. -Valentine’s day, and if they hadn’t taken up a policy what would have -become of those Meazers?” - -“I dunno,” Molly says—that was the name Ted give her—“I dunno, and I’m -sorry for unfortunate people, but I’ve my private reasons.” - -She was always talking about her private reasons, and they must have -been devilish private, for not a soul on God’s earth ever set eyes on -them. - -“Well, Mrs. Wickham,” says Pollock, “they’d have been a tidy ways up -Queer Street, and ruin’s a long-lasting affair,” Pollock says. He was -a rare palavering chap, and he used to talk about Gladstone, too, for -he knew her family history; but that didn’t move her, and she did not -insure. - -“Yes, I quite agree,” she says, “but I’ve my private reasons.” - -Sheer female cussedness! But where her own husband couldn’t persuade -her Pollock had no chance at all. And then, of course, two years after -Ted died she did go and have a fire there. “The Half Moon” was burnt -clean out, rafter and railings, and she had to give it up and shift -into the little bullseye business where she is now, selling bullseyes -to infants and ginger beer to boy scholars on bicycles. And what does -it all amount to? Why, it don’t keep her in hairpins. She had the most -beautiful hair once. But that’s telling the story back foremost. - -Ted was a smart chap, a particular friend of mine (so was Molly), -and he could have made something of himself and of his business, -perhaps, if it hadn’t been for her. He was a sportsman to the backbone; -cricket, shooting, fishing, always game for a bit of life, any mortal -thing—what was there he couldn’t do? And a perfect demon with women, -I’ve never seen the like. If there was a woman for miles around as he -couldn’t come at, then you could bet a crown no one else could. He had -the gift. Well, when one woman ain’t enough for a man, twenty ain’t -too many. He and me were in a tight corner together more than once, -but he never went back on a friend, his word was his Bible oath. And -there was he all the while tied up to this soft wife of his, who never -once let on she knew of it at all, though she knowed much. And never -would she cast the blink of her eyes—splendid eyes they were, too—on -any willing stranger, nor even a friend, say, like myself; it was -all Ted this and Ted that, though I was just her own age and Ted was -twelve years ahead of us both. She didn’t know her own value, wouldn’t -take her opportunities, hadn’t the sense, as I say, though she had got -everything else. Ah, she was a woman to be looking at once, and none so -bad now; she wears well. - -But she was too pious and proper, it aggravated him, but Ted never once -laid a finger on her and never uttered one word of reproach though -he despised her; never grudged her a thing in reason when things -were going well with him. It’s God Almighty’s own true gospel—they -never had a quarrel in all the twelve years they was wed, and I don’t -believe they ever had an angry word, but how he kept his hands off her -I don’t know. I couldn’t have done it, but I was never married—I was -too independent for that work. He’d contradict her sometimes, for she -_would_ talk, and Ted was one of your silent sorts, but _she_—she -would talk for ever more. She was so artful that she used to invent all -manners of tomfoolery on purpose to make him contradict her; believe -you, she did, even on his death-bed. - -I used to go and sit with him when he was going, poor Ted, for I -knew he was done for; and on the day he died, she said to him—and I -was there and I heard it: “Is there anything you would like me to -do, dear?” And he said, “No.” He was almost at his last gasp, he -had strained his heart, but she was for ever on at him, even then, -an unresting woman. It was in May, I remember it, a grand bright -afternoon outside, but the room itself was dreadful, it didn’t seem to -be afternoon at all; it was unbearable for a strong man to be dying -in such fine weather, and the carts going by, and though we were a -watching him, it seemed more as if something was watching us. - -And she says to him again: “Isn’t there anything you would like me to -do?” - -Ted says to her: “Ah! I’d like to hear you give one downright good damn -curse. Swear, my dear!” - -“At what?” she says. - -“Me, if you like.” - -“What for?” she says. I can see her now, staring at him. - -“For my sins.” - -“What sins?” she says. - -Now did you ever hear anything like that? What sins! After a while she -began at him once more. - -“Ted, if anything happens to you I’ll never marry again.” - -“Do what you like,” says he. - -“I’ll not do that,” she says, and she put her arms round him, “for -you’d not rest quiet in your grave, would you, Ted?” - -“Leave me alone,” he says, for he was a very crusty sick man, very -crusty, poor Ted, but could you wonder? “You leave me alone and I’ll -rest sure enough.” - -“You can be certain,” she cries, “that I’d never, never do that, I’d -never look at another man after you, Ted, never; I promise it solemnly.” - -“Don’t bother me, don’t bother at all.” And poor Ted give a grunt and -turned over on his side to get away from her. - -At that moment some gruel boiled over on the hob—gruel and brandy was -all he could take. She turned to look after it, and just then old Ted -gave a breath and was gone, dead. She turned like a flash, with the -steaming pot in her hand, bewildered for a moment. She saw he had gone. -Then she put the pot back gently on the fender, walked over to the -window and pulled down the blind. Never dropped a tear, not one tear. - -Well, that was the end of Ted. We buried him, one or two of us. There -was an insurance on his life for fifty pounds, but Ted had long before -mortgaged the policy and so there was next to nothing for her. But what -else could the man do? (Molly always swore the bank defrauded her!) She -put a death notice in the paper, how he was dead, and the date, and -what he died of: “after a long illness, nobly and patiently borne.” Of -course, that was sarcasm, she never meant one word of it, for he was a -terror to nurse, the worst that ever was; a strong man on his back is -like a wasp in a bottle. But every year, when the day comes round—and -it’s ten years now since he died—she puts a memorial notice in the same -paper about her loving faithful husband and the long illness nobly and -patiently borne! - -And then, as I said, the insurance man and the parson began to call -again on that foolish woman, but she would not alter her ways for -any of them. Not one bit. The things she had once enjoyed before her -marriage, the things she had wanted her own husband to do but were all -against his grain, these she could nohow bring herself to do when he -was dead and gone and she was alone and free to do them. What a farce -human nature can be! There was an Italian hawker came along with rings -in his ears and a coloured cart full of these little statues of Cupid, -and churches with spires a yard long and red glass in them, and heads -of some of the great people like the Queen and General Gordon. - -“Have you got a head of Lord Beaconsfield?” Molly asks him. - -He goes and searches in his cart and brings her out a beautiful head on -a stand, all white and new, and charges her half a crown for it. Few -days later the parson calls on the job of persuading her to return to -his flock now that she was free to go once more. But no. She says: “I -can never change now, sir, it may be all wrong of me, but what my man -thought was good enough for me, and I somehow cling to that. It’s all -wrong, I suppose, and you can’t understand it, sir, but it’s all my -life.” - -Well, Twamley chumbled over an argument or two, but he couldn’t move -her; there’s no mortal man could ever more that woman except Ted—and he -didn’t give a damn. - -“Well,” says parson, “I have hopes, Mrs. Wickham, that you will come -to see the matter in a new light, a little later on perhaps. In fact, -I’m sure you will, for look, there’s that bust,” he says, and he points -to it on the mantelpiece. “I thought you and he were all against -Gladstone, but now you’ve got his bust upon your shelf; it’s a new one, -I see.” - -“No, no, that isn’t Gladstone,” cried Molly, all of a tremble, “that -isn’t Gladstone, it’s Lord Beaconsfield!” - -“Indeed, but pardon me, Mrs. Wickham, that is certainly a bust of Mr. -Gladstone.” - -So it was. This Italian chap had deceived the silly creature and palmed -her off with any bust that come handy, and it happened to be Gladstone. -She went white to the teeth, and gave a sort of scream, and dashed the -little bust in a hundred pieces on the hearth in front of the minister -there. O, he had a very vexing time with her. - -That was years ago. And then came the fire, and then the bullseye shop. -For ten years now I’ve prayed that woman to marry me, and she just -tells me: No. She says she pledged her solemn word to Ted as he lay -a-dying that she would not wed again. It was his last wish—she says. -But it’s a lie, a lie, for I heard them both. Such a lie! She’s a mad -woman, but fond of him still in her way, I suppose. She liked to see -Ted make a fool of himself, liked him better so. Perhaps that’s what -she don’t see in me. And what I see in her—I can’t imagine. But it’s -a something, something in her that sways me now just as it swayed me -then, and I doubt but it will sway me for ever. - - - - - _Tanil_ - - -A Great while ago a man in a stripéd jacket went travelling almost -to the verge of the world, and there he came upon a region of green -fertility, quiet sounds, and sharp colour; save for one tiny green -mound it was all smooth and even, as level as the moon’s face, so flat -that you could see the sky rising up out of the end of everything like -a blue dim cliff. He passed into a city very populous and powerful, and -entered the shop of a man who sold birds in traps of wicker, birds of -rare kinds, the flame-winged antillomeneus and kriffs with green eyes. - -“Sir,” said he to the hawker of birds, “this should be a city of great -occasions, it has the smell of opulence. But it is all unknown to me, I -have not heard the story of its arts and policy, or of its people and -their governors. What annalists have you recording all its magnificence -and glory, or what poets to tell if its record be just?” - -The hawker of birds replied: “There are tales and the tellers of tales.” - -“I have not heard of these,” said the other, “tell me, tell me.” - -The bird man drew finger and thumb downwards from the bridge of his -long nose to its extremity, and sliding the finger across his pliant -nostrils said: “I will tell you.” They both sat down upon a coffer -of wheat. “I will tell you,” repeated the bird man, and he asked the -other if he had heard of the tomb in which none could lie, nor die, nor -mortify. - -“No,” said he. - -“Or of the oracle that destroys its interpreter?” - -“No,” answered the man in the stripéd jacket, and a talking bird in a -cage screamed: “No, no, no, no!” The traveller whistled caressingly to -the bird, tapping his finger nail along the rods of its cage, while the -bird man continued: “Or of Fax, Mint, and Bombassor, the three faithful -brothers?” - -“No,” replied he again. - -“They had a sister of beauty, of beauty indeed, beyond imagination. -(_Soo-eet! soo-eet!_ chirped the oracular bird.) It smote even the -hearts of kings like a reaping hook among grass, and her favour was a -ransom from death itself, as I will tell you.” - -“Friend,” said he of the stripéd jacket, “tell me of that woman.” - -“I will tell you,” answered the other; and he told him, and this was -the way of it. - - * * * * * - -There was once a king of this country, mighty with riches and homage, -with tribute from his enemies—for he was a great warrior—and the favour -of many excellent queens. His ancestors were numberless as the hairs -of his black beard; so ancient was his lineage that he may have sprung -from divinity itself, but he had a heart of brass, his bowels were of -lead, and at times he was afflicted with madness. - -One day he called for his captain of the guard, Tanil, a valiant, -debonair man of much courtesy, and delivered to him his commands. - -Tanil took a company of the guard and they marched to that green hill -on the plain—it is but a league away. At the foot of the hill they -crossed a stream; beyond that was a white dwelling and a garden; at -the gate of the garden was a stumbling stone; a flock grazed on the -hill. The soldiers threw down the stone and, coming into the vineyard, -they hacked down the vines until they heard a voice call to them. They -saw at the door of the white dwelling a woman so beautiful that the -weapons slid from their hands at the wonder of it. “Friends, friends!” -said she. Tanil told her the King’s bidding, how they must destroy -the vineyard, the dwelling, and the flock, and turn Fax, Mint, and -Bombassor, with the foster sister Flaune, out from the kingdom of Cumac. - -“You have denied the King tribute,” said he. - -“We are wanderers from the eastern world,” Flaune answered. “Is not the -mountain a free mountain? Does not this stream divide it from Cumac’s -country?” - -She took Tanil into the white dwelling and gave a pitcher of wine to -his men. - -“Sir,” said she to Tanil, “I will go to your King. Take me to your -King.” - -And when Tanil agreed to do this she sent a message secretly to her -brothers to drive the flock away into a hiding-place. So while Flaune -was gone a-journeying to the palace with Tanil’s troup, Fax, Mint, and -Bombassor set back the stumbling stone and took away the sheep. - -The King was resting in his palace garden, throwing crumbs into the -lake, and beans to his peacocks, but when Flaune was brought to him he -rose and bowed himself to the pavement at her feet. The woman said -nothing, she walked to and fro before him, and he was content to let -his gaze rest upon her. The carp under the fountain watched them, the -rose drooped on its envious briar, the heart of King Cumac was like a -tree full of chirping birds. - -Tanil confessed his fault; might the King be merciful and forgive him! -but the lady had taken their trespass with a soft temper and policy -that had overcome both his loyalty and his mind. It was unpardonable, -but it was not guilt, it was infirmity, she had bewitched him. Cumac -grinned and nodded. He bade Tanil return to the vineyard and restore -the vines, bade him requite the brothers and confirm them in those -pastures for ever. But as to this Flaune he would not let her go. - -She paces before him, or she dips her palm into the fountain, spilling -its drops upon the ground; she smiles and she is silent. - -Cumac gave her into the care of his groom of the women, Yali, the -sister of Tanil, and thereafter, every day and many a day, the King -courted and coveted Flaune. But he could not take her; her pride, her -cunning words, and her lustre bore her like an anchored boat upon the -tide of his purpose. At one moment full of pride and gloom, and in the -next full of humility and love, he would bring gifts and praises. - -“I will cover you,” he whispered, “with green garnets and jargoons. -A collar of onyx and ruby, that is for you; breastknots of beryl, and -rings for the finger, wrist, and ear. Take them, take them! For you I -would tear the moon asunder.” - -But all her desire was only to return to the green mountain and her -brothers and the flock by the stumbling stone. The King was merged in -anger and in grief. - -“Do not so,” he pleaded, “I have given freedom to your men; will you -not give freedom to me?” - -“What freedom, Cumac?” she asked him. - -And he said: “Love.” - -“How may the bound give freedom?” - -“With the gift of love.” - -“The spirit of the gift lies only in the giver.” Her voice was mournful -and low. - -He was confused and cast down. “You humble me with words, but words are -nothing, beautiful one. Put on your collar of onyx, and fasten your -breastknots of beryl. Have I not griefs, fierce griefs, that crash upon -my brain, and frenzies that shoot in fire! Does not your voice—that -rest-recovering lure—allay them, your presence numb them! I cannot let -you go, I cannot let you go.” - -“He who woos and does not win,” so said Flaune, “wins what he does not -woo for.” - -“Though I beg but a rose,” murmured the King, “do you offer me a sword?” - -“Time’s sword is laid at the breast of every rose.” - -“But I am your lowly servant,” he cried. “You have that which all -secretly seek and denyingly long for; it is seen without sight and -affirmed without speech.” - -“What is the thing you seek and long for?” - -“Purity,” said he. - -“Purity!” She seemed to muse upon it as a theme of mystery. “If you -found purity, what would you match it with?” - -“My sins!” he cried again. “Would you waste purity on purity, or mingle -sin with sin?” - -“Cumac,” said the wise woman, with no pride then but only pity, “you -seek to conquer that which strikes the conqueror dead.” - -Then, indeed, for a while he was mute, and then for a while he talked -of his sickness and his frenzy. “Are there not charms,” he asked, “or -magic herbs, to find and bind these demons?” - -There was no charm—she told him—but the mind, and no magic but in the -tranquillity of freedom. - -“I do not know this,” he sighed, “it will never be known.” - -The unknown—she told him—was better than the known. - -“Alas, then,” sighed the King again, “I shall never discover it.” - -“It is everywhere,” said Flaune, “but it is like a sweet herb that -withers in the ground. All may gather it—and it is not gathered. All -may see it—and it is not seen. All destroy it—and it never dies....” - -“Shall I be a little wind,” laughed Cumac, “and gush among this grass?” - -“It is the wind’s way among the roses. It has horns of bright brass and -quiet harps of silver. Its golden boats flash in every tossing bay.” - -Cumac laughed again, but still he would not let her go. “The fox has -many tricks, the cat but one,” he said, and caused her ankles to be -fastened with two jewelled links tied with a hopple of gold. But in a -day he struck them from her with his own hands, and hung the hopple -upon her lustrous neck. - -And still he would not let her go; so Yali and Tanil connived to send -news to the brothers, and in a little time Bombassor came to her aid. - -Bombassor was a dancer without blemish, in beauty or movement either. -He came into the palace to Cumac who did not know him, and the King’s -household came to the beaten gongs to witness the art of Bombassor. -Yali brought Flaune a harp of ivory, and to its music Bombassor -caracoled and spun before the delighted King. Then Flaune (who spoke -as a stranger to him) asked Bombassor if he would dance with her, and -he said they would take the dance of “The Flying Phœnix.” The King was -enchanted; he vowed he would grant any wish of Bombassor’s, any wish; -yes, he would cut the moon in half did he desire it. “I will dance for -your pledge,” said Bombassor. - -It seemed to the King then as if a little whirling wind made of -flame, and a music that was perfume, gyred and rose before him: the -tapped gongs, the tinkle of harp, the surprise of Flaune’s swaying -and reeling, now coy, now passionate, the lure of her wooing arms, -the rhythm of her flying feet, the chanting of the onlookers, and the -flashing buoyance of Bombassor, so thrilled and distracted him that he -shouted like an eager boy. - -But when Bombassor desired Cumac to give him the maiden Flaune, the -King was astonished. “No, no,” he said, “but give him an urn full of -diamonds,” and Bombassor was given an urn full of diamonds. He let it -fall at the King’s feet, and the gems clattered upon the pavement like -a heap of peas. “Give him Yali, then,” Cumac shouted. Yali was a nymph -of splendour, but Bombassor called aloud, “No, a pledge is a pledge!” - -Then the King’s joy went from him and, like a star falling, left -darkness and terror. - -“Take,” he cried, “an axe to his head and pitch it to the crows.” - -And so was Bombassor destroyed, while the King continued ignorantly to -woo his sister. Silent and proud was she, silent and proud, but her -beauty began to droop until Yali and Tanil, perceiving this, connived -again to send to her brothers, and in a little time Mint came. To race -on foot he was fleeter than any of Cumac’s champions; they strove with -him, but he was like the unreturning wind, and although they cunningly -moved the bounds of the course, and threw thorns and rocks under his -feet, he defeated them all, and the King jeered at his own champions. -Then Mint called for an antelope to be set in the midst of the plain -and cried: “Who will catch this for the King?” All were amazed and -Cumac said: “Whoever will do it I will give him whatever a King may -give, though I crack the moon for it.” - -The men let go the hind and it swooped away, Mint pursuing. Fast and -far they sped until no man’s gaze could discern them, but in a while -Mint returned bearing the breathing hind upon his back. “Take off his -shoes,” cried the King, “and fill them with gold.” But when this was -done Mint spilled the gold back at the King’s feet. - -“Give me,” said he, “this maiden Flaune.” - -The King grinned and refused him. - -“Was it not in the bond?” asked Mint. - -“Ay,” replied Cumac, “but choose again.” - -“Is this then a King’s bond?” sneered Mint. - -“It was a living bond,” said the King, “but death can sever it. Let -this dog be riven in sunder and his bowels spilled to the foxes.” Mint -died on the moment, and Cumac continued ignorantly to woo his sister. - -Then Flaune conferred with Tanil and with Yali about a means of escape. -Tanil feared to be about this, but he loved Flaune, and his sister Yali -persuaded him. He showed them a great door in the back of the palace, a -concealed issue through the city wall, from which Flaune might go in a -darkness could but the door be opened. But it had not been opened for -a hundred years, and they feared the hinges would shriek and the wards -grind in the lock and so discover them. - -“Let us bring oil to-morrow,” they said, “and oil it.” - -In the morning they brought oil to the hinge and brushed it with drops -from a cock’s feather. The hinge gave up its squeak but yet it groaned. -They filled Yali’s thimble that was made of tortoise horn and poured -this upon it. The hinge gave up its groan but yet it sighed. They -filled the eggshell of a goose with oil and poured upon the hinge until -it was silent. Then they turned to the lock, which, as they threw -back the wards, cried clack, clack. Tanil lapped the great key with -ointment, but still the lock clattered. He filled his mouth with oil -and spat into the hole, but still it clinked. Then Flaune caught a -grasshopper which she dipped in oil and cast into the lock. After that -the lock was silent too. - -On the mid of night Tanil ushered Flaune to the great door, and it -opened in peace. She said “Farewell” to him tenderly, and vanished -away into the darkness, and so to the green mountain. As he stooped, -watching her until his eyes could see no more, the door suddenly closed -and locked against him, leaving him outside the wall. Lights came, and -an outcry and a voice roaring: “Tanil is fled with the King’s mistress. -Turn out the guard.” Tanil knew it to be the voice of a jealous -captain, and, filled with consternation, he too turned and fled away -into the night; not towards the mountains, but to the sea, hoping to -catch a ship that would deliver him. - -Throughout the night he was going, striving or sleeping, and it was -stark noon before he came to the shore and passed over the strait in a -ship conveying merchants to a fair where no one knew him and all were -friendly. He hobnobbed with the merchants for several days, feeding -and sleeping in the booths until the morning of the sixth day, and on -that day a crier came into the fair ringing and bawling, bawling and -ringing, and what he cried was this: - -That King Cumac, Lord of the Forty Kingdoms, Prince of the Moon, and -Chieftain under God, laid a ban upon all who should aid or relieve his -treacherous servant Tanil, who had conspired against the King and -fled. Furthermore it was to be known that Yali, the sister of Tanil, -was taken as hostage for him, that if he failed to redeem her and -deliver up his own body Yali herself was doomed to perish at sunset of -the seventh day after his flight. - -Tanil scarcely waited to hear the conclusion, for he had but one day -more and he could suffer not his sister Yali to die. He turned from -the fair and ran to the sea. As he ran he slipped upon a rock and was -stunned, but a good wife restored him and soon he reached the harbour. -Here none of the sailors would convey him over the strait, for they -were bound to the merchantmen who intended not to sail that day. Having -so little time to reckon Tanil offered them bribes (but in vain), and -threats (but they would not), and he was in torment and anguish until -he came to an old man who said he would take him within the hour if the -wind held and the tide turned. But if the wind failed, although the -tide should ebb never so kindly, yet he would not go: and even should -the tide ebb strongly, yet if the wind wavered from its quarter he -would not go: and if by mysterious caprice (for all was in the hands of -God and a great wonder) the tide itself should not turn, then the wind -might blow a dainty squall but he would not be able to undertake him. -Upon this they agreed, and Tanil and the old sailor sat down in the -little ship to play at checkers. Alas, fortune was against Tanil, he -could not conquer the sailor, so he made to pay down his loss. - -“Friend,” said the sailor, “a game is but a game, put up your purse.” - -Tanil would not put back the money and the sailor said: “Let us then -play on, friend; double or quits.” They played on, and again Tanil -lost, and, as before, tendered his money. “Nay,” said the sailor, “a -game is but a pastime, put back your money.” But Tanil laid it in a -heap upon one of the thwarts. The old sailor sighed and said: “Come, -you are now at the turn of fortune; is not an egg made of water and -a stone of fire: let us play once more; double or quits.” And so -continually, until it was long past noon ere they began to sail in a -course for Cumac’s shore, two leagues over the strait. Now they had -accomplished about three parts of this voyage when the wind slackened -away like a wisp of smoke; slowly they drifted onwards until at eve the -boat lay becalmed, and as yet some way out from the land. “Friend,” -said the old sailor, laying out the checkers again, “let us tempt the -winds of fortune.” But, full of grief at having squandered the precious -hours, Tanil leaped into the sea and swam towards the shore. Soon the -tide checked and was changed, and a current washed him far down the -strait until the fading of day; then he was cast upon a crooking cape -of sand in such darkness of night and such weariness of mind and body -that he could not rise. He lay there for a while consumed with languor -and hunger until the peace refreshed him; the winds of night were -lulled and the waves; but though there were stars in the sky they could -not guide him. - -“Alas,” he groaned, “darkness and the oddness of the coast deceive -me. Whether I venture to the right hand or the left, how shall I make -my way? How little is man’s power; the fox and the hare may wander -deceitfully but undeterred, yet here in this darkness I go groping like -a worm laid upon a rock. Yali, my sister, how shall I preserve you?” - -He went wandering across a hill away from the sea until he stumbled -upon a hurdle and fell; and where he fell he lay still, sleeping. - -Not until the dawn did Tanil wake; then he lay shivering in bonds, with -a company of sheep watchers that stood by and mocked at him. Their -shadows were long, a hundred-fold, for day was but newly dawned. - -Their master was not yet risen from his bed, but the watchers carried -Tanil to the door of his house and called to him. - -“Master, we have caught a robber of the flock, lying by the fold and -feigning sleep.” - -Now the sleepy master lay with a new bride, and he would not stir. - -“Come, master, we have taken a robber,” they cried again. And still he -did not move, but the bride rose and came to the window. - -“What sheep has he stole?” - -They answered her: “None, for we swaddled him; behold!” - -She looked down at Tanil with her pleasant eyes, and bade the men -unbind him. - -“Who guards now the sheep from robbers and wolves?” she called. They -were all silent, and some made to go off. She bade them mend their -ways, and went back to her lover. When the thongs were loosened from -Tanil he begged them to give him a little food for he was empty and -weak, but they scolded him and went hastily away. Their shadows were -long, a hundred-fold. - -Tanil travelled on wings. Yali was to die at fall of night. He hastened -like a lover, but sickness and hunger overcame him; at noon he lay down -in a cool cavern to recover. No other travellers came by him and no -homes were near, for he was passing across the fringe of a desert to -shorten his journey, and the highway crooked round far to the eastward. -Nothing that man could eat was there to sustain him, but he slept. When -he rose his legs weakened and he limped onwards like a slow beggar -whose life lies all behind him. Again he sank down, again he could not -keep from sleeping. The sun was setting when he awoke, the coloured -towers of his city shone only a league away. Then in his heart despair -leaped and maddened him—Yali had died while he tarried. - -Searching through a thicket for some place where he could hang himself -he came upon a river, and saw, close to the shore, a small ship -standing slowly down towards the straits from which he had come. Under -her slack sail a man was playing on a pipe; with him was a monkey -gazing sorrowfully from the deck at the great glow in the sky. - -“Shipman,” cried Tanil, “will you give me bread, I am at an end?” - -The man with a smile of malice held up from the deck a dish of fruits -and said: “Take. I have done.” - -But the hungry man could not reach it. “Throw it to me,” he cried, -following the ship. But the sailor had no mind to throw it upon the -shore; he went leaning against his mast, piping an air, while the -monkey peered at him and gabbled. Tanil plunged into the river and swam -beneath the ship’s keel. Taking a knife from his girdle he was for -mounting by a little hawser, but the man beflogged him with a cudgel -until he fell back into the water. There he would have died but that a -large barque presently catched him up on board and recovered him. - -The ship carried Tanil from the river past the straits and so to the -great sea, where for the space of a year he was borne in absence, -willy-nilly, while the ship voyaged among the archipelagos, coasted -grim seaboards, or lay against strange wharves docking her cargo of -oil. Faithfully he laboured for wages under this ship’s captain, -being a man of pith and limb, valiant in storm, and enamoured of the -uncouth work: the haul of anchor, and men singing; setting, reefing, -furling, and men singing; the watch, the sleep, the song; the treading -of unknown waters, the crying gust, the change to glassy endless calm, -and the change again from green day to black night and the bending -of the harsh sheet in a starry squall, the crumpling of far thunder, -the rattle of halyard and block, the howl of cordage. Grand it was in -some bright tempest to watch the lubber wave slide greenly to the bows -and crack in showers of flying diamonds, but best of all was the long -crunch in from the vast gulfs, and the wafture to some blue bay sighing -below a white dock and the homes of men. - -Forgotten was Yali his loved sister, but that proud living Flaune who -had brought Yali to her death, she was not forgotten. He sailed the -seas and he sailed the seas, but she was ever a soft recalling wonder -in his breast, the sound of a bell of glass beaten by a spirit. - -After a year of hazards the ship by chance docked in that harbour where -Tanil had heard the crier crying of Yali and her doom. Looking about -him he espied an old sailor sitting in his boat playing a game of -checkers with a young man. The crier bawled in the market place, but he -had no news for Tanil. Standing again amid the merchants and the kind -coloured sweetness of streets and people, this bliss of home so welled -up in his breast that he hastened back to the ship. “Master,” he said, -“give me my wages, and let me go.” The shipman gave him his wages, and -he went back to the town. - -But only nine days did he linger there, for joy, like truth, lives in -the bottom of a well, and he cast in his wages. Then he went off with -a hunter to trap leopards in a forest. A month they were gone, and -they trapped the leopards and sold them, and then, having parted from -the hunter, Tanil roved back to the port to spend his gains among the -women of the town. Often his soul invited him to return to that city of -Cumac, but death awaited him there and he did not go. Now he was come -to poverty, but he was blithe, and evil could not chain him. “Surely,” -said Tanil, “life is a hope unquenched and a tree of longing. There -is none so poor but he can love himself.” With a stolen net he used -to catch fish and live. Then he lost the net at dicing. So he went to -bake loaves for certain scholars, but they were unmonied men and he -desisted, and went wandering from village to village snaring birds, or -living like the wild dogs, until a friendly warrior enlisted him to -convoy a caravan across the desert to the great lakes. When he came -again to the harbour town two years had withered since he had flown -from Cumac’s city. - -He went to lodge at the inn, and as he paced in the evening along the -wharf a man accosted him, called him by name, and would not let him go, -and then Tanil knew it was Fax, the brother of that Flaune. His heart -rocked in his breast when he took Fax to the inn and related all his -adventure. “Tell me the tidings of our city, what comes or goes there, -what lives or dies.” And Fax replied: “I have wandered in the world -searching after you from that time. I bring a greeting from my sister -Flaune,” he said, “and from your sister Yali, my beloved.” - -The wonder then, the joy and shame of Tanil, cannot be told: he threw -himself down and wept, and begged Fax to tell him of the miracle: -“For,” said he, “my mind has misused me in this.” - -“Know then,” proceeded Fax, “that after the unlocking of the door -my sister flees in darkness to the green mountain. I go watching and -lurking, and learn that the King is in jealous madness, for your enemy -spreads a slander and Cumac is deceived. He believes that my sister’s -love has been cozened by you. Yali is caught fast in his net. My heart -quivers in fear of his bloody intent, and I say to Flaune: ‘What shall -follow if Tanil return not?’ And she smiles and says ever: ‘He will -return.’ And again I say: ‘He tarries. What if he be dead?’ And she -smiles and says ever: ‘He is not dead.’ But you come not, your steps -are turned from us, no one has seen you, you are like a hare that has -fallen into a pit, and you do not come. Then in that last hour Flaune -goes to Cumac. He raves of deceit and treachery. ‘It is my sin,’ my -sister pleads, ‘the blame is mine. Spare but this Yali and I will wash -out the blame.’ ’Ay, you will wash it out with words!‘ ’I will pay the -debt in kind,’ says my sister Flaune, ‘if Tanil does not return.’ But -the cunning King will not yield up Yali unless my sister yield in love -to him. So thus it stands even now, but whether they live in peace and -love I do not know. I only know that Yali lives and serves her in the -palace there. But they wait, and I too wait. Now the thread is ravelled -to its end; I have lived only to seek you. My flock is lost, perished; -my vineyard fades, but I came seeking.” - -“Brother,” cried Tanil in grief, “all shall be as before. Yali shall -rest in your bosom.” - -At dawn then they sailed over the straits and landed, and having -bargained with a wine carrier for two asses they rode off in the -direction of the city. Tanil’s heart was filled with joy and love, his -voice carolled, his mind hummed like a homing bee. “Surely,” he said, -“life is a hope unquenched, a tree of longing. It yields its branches -into a little world of summer. The asp and the dragon appear, but the -tree buds, the enriching bough cherishes its leaves, and, lo, the fruit -hangs.” - -But the heart of Fax was very grave within him. “For,” thought he, -“this man will surely die. Yet I would rather this than lose the love -of Yali, and though they slay him I will bring him there.” - -So they rode along upon the asses, and a great bird on high followed -them and hovered on its wings. - -“What bird is that?” asked the one. And the other, screening his eyes -and peering upwards, said: - -“A vulture.” - -When King Cumac heard that they were come he ordered them to be bound, -and they were bound, and the guard clustered around them. Tanil saw -that his enemy was now captain of the men, and that the King was sour -and distraught. - -“You come!” cried Cumac, “why do you come?” - -They told him it was to redeem the bond and make quittance. - -“Bonds and quittances! What bond can lie between a King and faithless -subjects?” - -Said Fax: “It lies between the King and my sister Flaune.” - -“How if I kill you both?” - -“The bond will hold,” said Fax. - -“Come, is a bond everlasting then, shall nothing break it?” - -“Neither everlasting, nor to be broken.” - -“What then?” - -“It shall be fulfilled.” - -“Can nothing amend it?” - -“Nothing,” said Fax. - -“Nothing? Nothing? Fools!” laughed the King, “the woman is happy, and -desires not to leave me!” - -Tanil stood bowed in silence and shame, and Cumac turned upon him. -“What says this rude passionate beast!” The King’s anger rose like a -blast among oaks. “Has he no talk of bonds, this toad that crawled into -my heart and drank my living blood? Has he nothing to restore? or gives -he and takes he at the will of the wind?” - -“I have a life to give,” said Tanil. - -“To give! You have a life to lose!” - -“Take it, Cumac,” said he. - -The King sprang up and seized Tanil by the beard, rocking him, and -shouting through his gritting teeth: “Ay, bonds should be kept—should -they not?—in truth and trust—should they not?” - -Then he flung from him and went wailing in misery, swinging his hands, -and raging to and fro, up and down. - -“Did she not come to me, come to me? Was it not agreed? Bonds and again -bonds! Yet when I woo her she denies me still. O, honesty in petticoats -is a saint with a devil’s claw. The bitter virginal thing turned her -wild heart to this piece of cloven honour. Bonds, more bonds! Spare me -these supple bonds! O, you spread cunning nets, but what fowler ever -thrived in his own snare? Did she not come to me? Was it not agreed?” - -Suddenly he stopped and made a sign through a casement. “Is all ready?” - -“Ay,” cried a voice. - -“Now I will make an end,” said King Cumac. “Prop them against the -casements.” They carried Tanil to a casement on his right hand, and Fax -to a casement on his left hand. Tanil saw Flaune standing in the palace -garden amid a troop of Ethiopians, each with a green turban and red -shoes and a tunic coloured like a stone, but she half-clad with only -black pantaloons, and her long dark locks flowing. And Fax saw Yali in -fetters amid another troop of black soldiers. - -Again a sigh from the King; two great swords flashed, and Tanil, at one -casement, saw the head of Flaune turn over backwards and topple to the -ground, her body falling after with a great swathe of shorn tresses -floating over it. Fax at the other casement saw Yali die, screaming a -long cry that it seemed would never end. Tanil swayed at the casement. - -Then Cumac turned with a moan of grief, his madness all gone. “The bond -is ended. I have done. I say I have done.” He seemed to wake as from -sleep, and, seeing the two captive men, he asked: “Why did they come? -What brought them here? Take them away, the bond is ended, I say I have -done. There shall be no more bonds given in the world. But take them -out of the city gate and unbind them and cast them both loose; then -clap fast the gate again. No more death, I would not have them die; let -them wander in the live world, and dog each other for ever. Tanil, you -rotten core of constancy, Fax brought you here and so Flaune, bitter -and beautiful, dies. But Fax still lives—do you not see him?—I give Fax -to you: may he die daily for ever. Fax, blundering jackal, you spoke of -bonds. The bond is met, and so Yali is dead, but Tanil still lives: I -give you Tanil as an offering, but not of peace. May he die daily for -ever.” - -So the guard took Fax and Tamil out of the city, struck off their -shackles, and left them there together. - - * * * * * - -The bird man finished; there was a silence; the other yawned. “Did -you hear this?” asked the bird man. And the man in the stripéd jacket -replied: “Ay, with both ears, and so may God bless you.” So saying, he -rose and went out singing. - - - - - _The Devil in the Churchyard_ - - -“Henry Turley was one of those awkward old chaps as had more money than -he knowed what to do wi'. Shadrach we called him, the silly man. He had -worked for it, worked hard for it, but when he was old he stuck to his -fortune and wouldn’t spend a sixpence of it on his comforts. What a -silly man!” - -The thatcher, who was thus talking of Henry Turley (long since dead and -gone) in the “Black Cat” of Starncombe, was himself perhaps fifty years -old. Already there was a crank of age or of dampness or of mere custom -in most of his limbs, but he was bluff and gruff and hale enough, with -a bluffness of manner that could only offend a fool—and fools never -listened to him. - -“Shadrach—that’s what we called him—was a good man wi’ cattle, a -masterpiece; he would strip a cow as clean as a tooth and you never -knowed a cow have a bad quarter as Henry Turley ever milked. And when -he was buried he was buried with all that money in his coffin, holding -it in his hand, I reckon. He had plenty of relations—you wouldn’t know -’em, it is thirty years ago I be speaking of—but it was all down in -black and white so’s no one could touch it. A lot of people in these -parts had a right to some of it, Jim Scarrott for one, and Issy Hawker -a bit, Mrs. Keelson, poor woman, ought to have had a bit, and his own -brother, Mark Turley; but he left it in the will as all his fortune was -to be buried in the coffin along of him. ’Twas cruel, but so it is and -so it will be, for whenever such people has a shilling to give away -they goes and claps it on some fat pig’s haunches. The foolishness! -Sixty pounds it was, in a canister, and he held it in his hand.” - -“I don’t believe a word of it,” said a mild-faced man sitting in the -corner. “Henry Turley never did a deed like that.” - -“What?” growled the thatcher with unusual ferocity. - -“Coorse I’m not disputing what you’re saying, but he never did such a -thing in his life.” - -“Then you calls me a liar?” - -“Certainly not. O no, don’t misunderstand me, but Henry Turley never -did any such thing, I can’t believe it of him.” - -“Huh! I be telling you facts, and facts be true one way or another. Now -you waunts to call over me, you waunts to know the rights of everything -and the wrongs of nothing.” - -“Well,” said the mild-faced man, pushing his pot toward the teller of -tales, “I might believe it to-morrow, but it’s a bit of a twister now, -this minute!” - -“Ah, that’s all right then”—the thatcher was completely mollified. -“Well the worst part of the case was his brother Mark. Shadrach served -him shameful, treated him like a dog. (Good health!) Ah, like a dog. -Mark was older nor him, about seventy, and he lived by himself in -a little house out by the hanging pust, not much of a cottage, it -warn’t—just wattle and daub wi’ a thetch o’ straa'—but the lease was -running out (‘twas a lifehold affair) and unless he bought this little -house for fifty pound he’d got to go out of it. Well, old Mark hadn’t -got no fifty pounds, he was ate up wi’ rheumatics and only did just a -little light labour in the woods, they might as well a’ asked him for -the King’s crown, so he said to his master: Would he lend him the fifty -pounds? - -“‘No, I can’t do that,’ his master says. - -“‘You can reduct it from my wages,’ Mark says. - -“‘Nor I can’t do that neither,’ says his master, ‘but there’s your -brother Henry, he’s worth a power o’ money, ask him.‘ So Mark asks -Shadrach to lend him the fifty pounds, so’s he could buy this little -house. ’No,’ says Henry, ‘I can’t.’ Nor he wouldn’t. Well—old Mark says -to him: ‘I doan wish you no harm Henry,’ he says, ‘but I hope as how -you’ll die in a ditch.’ (Good health!) And sure enough he did. That -was his own brother, he were strooken wi’ the sun and died in a ditch, -Henry did, and when he was buried his fortune was buried with him, in a -little canister, holding it in his hand, I reckons. And a lot of good -that was to him! He hadn’t been buried a month when two bad parties -putt their heads together. Levi Carter, one was, he was the sexton, a -man that was half a loony as I always thought. O yes, he had got all -his wits about him, somewheres, only they didn’t often get much of a -quorum, still he got them—somewheres. T’other was a chap by the name of -Impey, lived in Slack the shoemaker’s house down by the old traveller’s -garden. He wasn’t much of a mucher, helped in the fieldwork and did -shepherding at odd times. And these two chaps made up their minds to -goo and collar Henry Turley’s fortune out of his coffin one night and -share it between theirselves. ’Twas crime, ye know, might a been prison -for life, but this Impey was a bad lot—he’d the manners of a pig, -pooh! filthy!—and I expects he persuaded old Levi on to do it. Bad as -body-snatchen, coorse ’twas! - -“So they goos together one dark night, ’long in November it was, and -well you knows, all of you, as well as I, that nobody can’t ever see -over our churchyard wall by day let alone on a dark night. You all -knows that, don’t you?” asserted the thatcher, who appeared to lay -some stress upon this point in his narrative. There were murmurs -of acquiescence by all except the mild-faced man, and the thatcher -continued: “‘Twere about nine o’clock when they dug out the earth. -’Twarn’t a very hard job, for Henry was only just a little way down. -He was buried on top of his old woman, and she was on top of her two -daughters. But when they got down to the coffin Impey didn’t much care -for that part of the job, he felt a little bit sick, so he gives the -hammer and the screwdriver to Levi and he says: ’Levi,’ he says, ‘are -you game to make a good job o’ this?’ - -“‘Yes, I be,’ says old Levi. - -“‘Well, then,’ Impey says, ‘yous’ll have my smock on now while I just -creeps off to old Wannaker’s sheep and collars one of they fat lambs -over by the 'lotments.’ - -“‘You’re not going to leave me here,’ says Carter, ‘what be I going to -do?’ - -“‘You go on and finish this ’ere job, Levi,’ he says, ‘you get the -money and put back all the earth and don’t stir out of the yard afore I -comes or I’ll have yer blood.’ - -“‘No,’ says Carter, ‘you maun do that.’ - -“‘I ’ull do that,’ Impey says, ‘he’ve got some smartish lambs I can -tell ’ee, fat as snails.’ - -“‘No,’ says Carter, ‘I waun’t have no truck wi’ that, tain’t right.’ - -“‘You will,’ says Impey, ‘and I ’ull get the sheep. Here’s my smock. -I’ll meet ’ee here again in ten minutes. I’ll have that lamb if I ’as -to cut his blasted head off.’ And he rooshed away before Levi could -stop him. So Carter putts on the smock and finishes the job. He got -the money and putt the earth back on poor Henry and tidied it up, and -then he went and sat in the church poorch waiting for this Impey to -come back. Just as he did that an oldish man passed by the gate. He was -coming to this very place for a drop o’ drink and he sees old Levi’s -white figure sitting in the church poorch and it frittened him so that -he took to his heels and tore along to this very room we be sittin’ in -now—only 'twas thirty years ago. - -“‘What in the name of God’s the matter wi’ you?‘ they says to him, for -he’d a face like chalk and his lips was blue as a whetstone. ’Have you -seen a goost?’ - -“‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I have seen a goost, just now then.’ - -“‘A goost?’ they says, ‘a goost? You an’t seen no goost.’ - -“‘I seen a goost.’ - -“‘Where a’ you seen a goost?’ - -“So he telled ’em he seen a goost sitting up in the church poorch. - -“‘I shan’t have that,’ says old Mark Turley, for he was a setting here. - -“‘I tell you ’twas then,’ says the man. - -“‘Can’t be nothing worse’n I be myself,’ Mark says. - -“‘I say as ’tis,’ the man said, and he was vexed too. ‘Goo and see for -yourself.’ - -“‘I would goo too and all,’ said old Mark, ‘if only I could walk -it, but my rheumatucks be that scrematious I can’t walk it. Goosts! -There’s ne’er a mortal man as ever see’d a goost. I’d go, my lad, if -my legs ’ud stand it.’ And there was a lot of talk like that until a -young sailor spoke up—Irish he was, his name was Pat Crowe, he was on -furlough. I dunno what he was a-doing in this part of the world, but -there he was and he says to Mark: ‘If you be game enough, I be, and -I’ll carry you up to the churchyard on my back.’ A great stropping -feller he was. ‘You will?’ says Mark. ‘That I will,’ he says. ‘Well I -be game for ’ee,’ says Mark, and so they ups him on to the sailor’s -shoulders like a sack o’ corn and away they goos, but not another one -there was man enough to goo with them. - -“They went slogging up to the churchyard gate all right, but when they -got to staggering along ’tween the gravestones Mark thought he could -see a something white sitting in the poorch, but the sailor couldn’t -see anything at all with that lump on his shoulders. - -“‘What’s that there?’ Mark whispers in Pat’s ear. And Pat Crowe -whispers back, just for joking: ‘Old Nick in his nightshirt.’ - -“‘Steady now,’ Mark whispers, ‘go steady Pat, it’s getting up and -coming.’ Pat only gives a bit of a chuckle and says: ‘Ah, that’s him, -that’s just like him.’ - -“Then Levi calls out from the poorch soft like: ‘You got him then! Is -he a fat ’un?’ - -“‘Holy God,’ cried the sailor, ‘it _is_ the devil!’ and he chucks poor -Mark over his back at Levi’s feet and runs for his mortal life. He was -the most frittened of the lot ’cos he hadn’t believed in anything at -all—but there it was. And just as he gets to the gate he sees someone -else coming along in the dark carrying a something on its shoulder—it -was Impey wi’ the sheep. ‘Powers above,’ cried Pat Crowe, ‘it’s the Day -of Judgment come for sartin!’ And he went roaring the news up street -like a madman, and Impey went off somewheres too—but I dunno where -Impey went. - -“Well, poor old Mark laid on the ground, he were a game old cock, but -he could hardly speak, he was strook dazzled. And Levi was frittened -out of his life in the darkness and couldn’t make anythink out of -nothink. He just creeps along to Mark and whispers: ‘Who be that? Who -be that?’ And old Mark looks up very timid, for he thought his last -hour was on him, and he says: ‘Be that you, Satan?’ Drackly Levi heard -that all in a onexpected voice he jumped quicker en my neighbour’s -flea. He gave a yell bigger nor Pat Crowe and he bolted too. But as he -went he dropped the little tin canister and old Mark picked it up. And -he shook the canister, and he heerd money in it, and then something -began to dawn on him, for he knowed how his brother’s fortune had been -buried. - -“‘I rede it, I rede it,’ he says, ‘that was Levi Carter, the dirty -thief! I rede it, I rede it,’ he says. And he putt the tin can in his -pocket and hopped off home as if he never knowed what rheumatucks was -at all. And when he opened that canister there was the sixty golden -sovereigns in that canister. Sixty golden sovereigns! ‘Bad things ’ull -be worse afore they’re better,’ says Mark, ‘but they never won’t be -any better than this.’ And so he stuck to the money in the canister, -and that’s how he bought his cottage arter all. ’Twarn’t much of a -house, just wattle and daub, wi’ a thetch o’ straa', but ’twas what he -fancied, and there he ended his days like an old Christian man. (Good -health!)” - - - - - _Huxley Rustem_ - - -Huxley Rustem settled himself patiently upon the hairdresser’s waiting -bench to probe the speculation that jumped grasshopper-like into the -field of his inquisitorial mind: ’Why does a man become a barber? -Well, what _is_ it that persuades a man, not by the mere compulsion of -destiny, but by the sweet reasonableness of inclination, to dedicate -his activities to the excision of other people’s pimples and the -discomfiture of their hairy growths? He had glanced through the two -papers, _Punch_ and _John Bull_, handed him by the boy in buttons, -and now, awaiting his turn, posed himself with this inquiry. There -was a girl at it, too, at the end of the saloon. She seemed to have -picked him out from the crowd of men there; he caught her staring, an -attractive girl. It seemed insoluble; misfortunate people may, indeed -must, by the pressure of circumstances, become sewermen, butchers, -scavengers, and even clergymen, but the impulse to barbery was, he -felt, quite indelicately ironic. How that girl stared at him—if she was -not very careful she would be clipping the fellow’s ear—did she think -she knew him? He rather hoped she would have to attend to him; would -he be lucky enough? Huxley tried to estimate the chances by observing -the half-dozen toilets in progress, but his calculations did not -encourage the hope at all. It was very charming for an agreeable woman, -a stranger, too, to do that kind of service for you. He remembered -that, after his marriage five years ago, he had tried to persuade his -wife to lather and shave him, “just for a lark, you know,” but she was -adamant, didn’t see the joke at all! Well, well, he decided that the -word barber derived in some ironic way from the words barbarism or -barbarity, expressing, unconsciously perhaps, contempt on the part of -the barber for a world that could only offer him this imposture for -a man’s sacred will to order and activity. Yet it didn’t seem so bad -for women—that splendid young creature there at the end of the saloon! -The boy in buttons approached, and Huxley Rustem was ushered to that -vacant chair at the end; the splendid young thing had placed a wrapper -about him—she had almost “cuddled” it round his neck—and stood demurely -preparing to do execution upon his poll, turning her eyes mischievously -upon his bright-hued socks, which, by a notable coincidence, were the -same colour as her own handsome hose. Huxley had a feeling that she had -cunningly arranged the succession of turns in order to secure him to -her chair—which shows that he was still young and very impressionable. -Such a feeling is one of the customary assumptions of vanity, the -natural and prized, but much-denied, possession of all agreeable -people. Huxley, as the girl had already noted, and now saw more vividly -in the mirror fronting them, _was_ agreeable, was attractive. (My dear -reader, both you and Huxley Rustem are right, the dainty barbaress -_had_ laid her nets for this particular victim.) - -“How would you like it cut, sir?” she asked, placing a hand upon each -of his shoulders, and peering round at him with enamouring eyes. - -“Oh, with a pair of scissors, don’t you think?” he replied at a -venture, for he was not often waggish. But it was a very successful -sally, the girl chuckled with rapture, loose fringes of her hair -tickled his cheek, and he caught puffs of her sweet-scented breath. She -was gold-haired, not very tall, and had pleasant turns about her neck -and face and wrists that almost fascinated him. When they had agreed -upon the range and extent of his shearing, the girl proceeded to the -accomplishment of the task in complete silence, almost with gravity. -Huxley began wondering how many hundreds and thousands of crops were -squeezed annually by the delicious fingers, how many polls denuded by -those competent shears. Very sad. Once a year, he supposed, she would -go holidaying for a week or ten days; she would go to Bournemouth for -the bathing or for whatever purpose it is people go to Bournemouth, -Barmouth, or Blackpool. He determined to come in again the day after -to-morrow and be shaved by her. - -At the conclusion of the rite she brushed his coat collar very -meticulously, tiptoeing a little, and remarked in a bright manner upon -the weather, which was also bright. Then she went back to shave what -Huxley described to himself as a “red-faced old cockalorum,” whom he -at once disliked very thoroughly. She had given him a check with a fee -marked upon it; he took this down the stairs and paid his dues to “a -bald-headed old god-like monster”—Huxley felt sure he was—who sat in -the shop below, surrounded by fringe-nets, stuffings, moustache wax, -creams, toothbrushes, and sponges. - -Two days later Huxley Rustem repeated his visit, but not all the -intrigue of the girl nor his own manœuvring could effect the happy -arrangement again, although he sat for a long time feeling sure that -there was no other establishment of its kind in which the elements -of celerity were so unreservedly abandoned, and the flunkeyism so -peculiarly viscous. The many mirrors, of course, multiplied the -objects of his factitious contempt; those male barbers were small vain -beings of disagreeable outline to whom the doom of shaving tens of -thousands of chins for ever and ever afforded a white-faced languid -happiness. Huxley was exasperated—his personality always ran so easily -to exasperation—by the care with which the wrinkled face of a sportive -old gent of sixty was being massaged with steaming cloths. He wore -pretty brown button boots and large check trousers; there was still a -vain wisp or two of white hair left upon his tight round skull and his -indescribably silly old face. In the outcome our hero had perforce to -be shaved by a youth of the last revolting assiduity, who caressed his -chin with strong, excoriating palms. - -In the ensuing weeks Huxley Rustem became a regular visitor to the -saloon, but he suffered repeated disappointments. He was disconsolate; -it was most baffling; not once did he secure the bliss of her -attentions. He felt himself a fool; some men could do these things -as easily as they grew whiskers, but Rustem was not one of them, for -the traditions of virtue and sweet conduct were very firmly rooted in -him; he was like a mouse living in a large white empty bath which, -if it was unscaleable, was clean, and if it was rather blank was -never terrifying. It is easy, so very easy, to be virtuous when you -can’t be anything else. But still he very much desired to take the -fair barber out to dinner, say, just for an hour or two in a quiet -place where one eats and chats and listens to the pleasant shrilling -of restaurant violins. He would be able to amuse her with tales and -recitals of his experiences and she would constantly exclaim “Really!” -as if entranced—as she probably would be. In his imagined hour her -conversational exchanges never developed beyond that, yet it was enough -to thrill him with a mild happiness. An egoist is a mystic without a -god, but seldom ever without a goddess. It was bliss to adore her, but -very heaven for her to be adoring him. To be just to Huxley Rustem -that was all he meant, but try as he would he could never make up the -happy occasion. It was a most discomfiting experience. It is true that -he saw her in the street on three or four occasions, but each time he -was accompanied by his wife, and each time he was guilty of a vain -pretence, his behaviour to his companion being extremely casual—as if -she were just an acquaintance instead of being an important alliance. -But no one could possibly have mistaken the lady for anything but -Huxley’s very own wife, and the little barber was provocatively demure -at these encounters. Once, however, he was alone, and she passed, -ogling him in a very frank way. But she did not understand egoists like -Rustem. He was impervious to any such direct challenge; he thought it -a little silly, coarse even. Had she been shy and diffident, allowing -him to be masterful instead of confusing him, he would have fluttered -easily into her flame. - -So the affair remained, and would have remained for ever but that, -by the grace of fortune, he found himself one day at last actually -sitting again in front of the charming girl, who was not less aware -of the attraction than he himself. She was nervous and actually with -her shears clipped a part of his ear. Huxley was rather glad of that, -it eased the situation, but on his departure he committed the rash -act for which he never afterwards forgave himself. Her fingers were -touching his as she gave him the pay check, when he took suddenly from -his pocket a silver coin and pressed it into her hand, smiling. It -was as if he had struck her a blow. He was shocked at the surprised -resentment in the fierce glance she flung him. She tossed the coin into -a tray for catching tobacco ash and cigarette ends. He realized at once -the enormity of the affront; his vulgar act had smashed the delicate -little coil between them. Vague and almost frivolous as it was, she had -prized it. Poor as it was, it could yet deeply humiliate him. But it -was a blunder that could never be retrieved, and he turned quickly and -sadly out of the saloon, feeling the awful sting of his own contempt. -Crass fool that he was, didn’t he realize that even barbers had their -altitudes? Did he think he could buy a jewel like that, as he bought -a packet of tobacco, with a miserable shilling? Perhaps Huxley Rustem -was unduly sensitive about it, but he could never again bring himself -to enter the saloon and meet that wounded gaze. He only recovered his -balance when, a fortnight later, he encountered her in the street -wearing the weeds of a widow! Then he felt almost as indignant as if -she had indeed deceived him! - - - - - _Big Game_ - - -Old Squance was the undertaker, but in the balmy, healthy, equable air -of Tamborough undertaking was not a thriving trade; its opportunities -were but an ornamental adjunct to his more vital occupation of -builder. Even so those old splendid stone-built cottages never needed -repairs, or if they did Squance didn’t do them. Storms wouldn’t visit -Tamborough, fires didn’t occur, the hand of decay was, if anything, -more deliberate than the hand of time itself, and no newcomer, loving -the old houses so much, ever wanted to build a new one: so Mrs. Squance -had to sell hard-looking bullseyes and stiff-looking fruit in a hard, -stiff-looking shop. Also knitting needles and, in their time of the -year, garden seeds. Squance was a meek person whom you would never have -credited with heroic tendencies; nevertheless, with no more romantic -background than a coffin or two, a score of scaffold poles, and sundry -hods and shovels, he had acquired in a queer, but still not unusual, -way the repute of a lion-slayer. Mrs. Squance was not so meek, she was -not meek at all, she was ambitious—but vainly so. Her ambitions secured -their fulfilment only in her nocturnal dreams, but in that sphere they -were indeed triumphant and she was satisfied. The most frequent setting -of her unconscious imagination happened to be a tiny modern flat in -which she and old Ben seemed to be living in harmony and luxury. It -was a delightful flat, very high up—that was the proper situation for -a flat, mind you, just under the roof—with stairs curling down, and -down, and down till it made you giddy to think of them. The kitchen, -well, really Mrs. Squance could expatiate endlessly on that and the -tiny corner place with two wash-basins in it and room enough to install -a bath if you went in for that kind of thing. Best of all was the -sitting-room in front, looking into a street so very far below that -Mrs. Squance declared she felt as if she had been sitting in a balloon. -Here Mrs. Squance, so she dreamed, would sit and browse. She didn’t -have to look at ordinary things like trees and mud and other people’s -windows. That was what made it so nice, Mrs. Squance declared. She had -instead a vista of roofs and chimneys, beautiful telephone standards, -and clouds. The people, too, who walked far down beneath were always -unrecognizable; a multitude of hat crowns seemed to collect her gaze, -linked with queer movements, right, left, right, left, of knees and -boots, though sometimes she would be lucky enough to observe a very -fat man, just a glimpse perhaps of his watch-guard lying like a chain -of oceanic islands across a scholastic globe. In the way of dreams -she knew the street by the name of Lather Lane. It was cobbled with -granite setts. There was a barber’s shop at one corner and a depot for -foreign potatoes and bananas at another. That flat was so constantly -the subject of her dream visitations that she came to invest it with -a romantic reality, to regard it as an ultimate real possession lying -fortuitously somewhere, at no very great remove, in some quarter she -might actually, any day now, luckily stumble across. - -And it was in that very flat she beheld Mr. Squance’s heroism. It -seemed to be morning in her dream, early; it must have been early. -She and Squance were at breakfast when what should walk deliberately -and astoundingly into the room but a lion. Mrs. Squance, never having -seen a lion before, took it to be a sheepdog, and she shouted, “Go -out, you dirty thing!” waving a threatening hand towards it. But the -animal did not go out; it pranced up to Mrs. Squance in a genial way, -seized her admonishing hand and playfully tried to bite it off. Really! -Mr. Squance had risen to his startled feet shouting “Lion! lion!” and -then Mrs. Squance realized that she had to contend with a monster -that kept swelling bigger and bigger before her very eyes, until it -seemed that it would never be able to go out of that door again. It -had a tremendous head and mane, with whiskers on its snout as stiff as -knitting needles, and claws like tenpenny nails; but its tail was the -awfullest thing, long and very flexible, with a bush of hair at the end -just like a mop, which it wagged about, smashing all sorts of things. - -“Ben,” said Mrs. Squance, “'ave you a pistol?” - -“No, I ’ave not,” said Ben. - -“Then we’re done,” she had declared. “Oh, no, we ain’t, though! You -’old ’im, Ben, and I’ll go and get a pistol; ’old ’im!” - -Ben valiantly seized the lion by its mane and tail, but it did not -care for such treatment; it began to snarl and swish about the room, -dragging poor Ben as if he had been just a piece of rabbit pie. - -“'Old ’im! ’old ’im!” exhorted Mrs. Squance, as she popped on her -bonnet and shawl. “You ’old 'im!” - -“All right,” breathed Ben, as she ran off and began the descent of the -long narrow staircase. Almost at the bottom she met a piano coming -upwards. It was not a very large piano, but it was large enough to -prevent her from descending any further. It was resting upon the backs -of two men, one in front, whose entirely bald, perspiring, projecting -head reminded her of the head of a tortoise, and one who followed him -unseen. They crawled on all fours, while the piano was balanced by a -man who pulled it in front and another who pushed it from behind. - -“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Squance. “I ’ope you won’t be long.” - -They made no reply; the piano continued to advance, the bald man -swaying his head still more like a tortoise. She began to retire before -them, and continued retiring step by step until she became irritated -and demanded to know the owner of that piano. The men seemed to be -dumb, so she skipped up to the second floor to make enquiries, knocking -at the first door with her left hand—the right one still hurting her -very much. It was exasperating. Someone had just painted and varnished -the doors, and she was compelled to tap very lightly instead of giving -the big bang the occasion required. Consequently no one heard her, -while her hand became covered with a glutinous evil liquid. She ran up -to the third floor. Here the doors were all right, but although she -set up a vigorous cannonade again no one heard her, at least, no one -replied except some gruff voice that kept repeating “Gone, no address! -Gone, no address!” She opened the doors, but there seemed to be no one -about, although each room had every appearance of recent occupation: -fires alight, breakfast things recently used, and in the bedrooms the -disordered beds. She was now extremely annoyed. She opened all the -doors quickly until she came to the last room, which was occupied -by the old clergyman who kept ducks there and fed them on macaroni -cheese. It was just as she feared; the ducks were waiting, they flocked -quacking upon the passage and stairs before she could prevent them. - -“I’m sure,” screamed Mrs. Squance, in her dreadful rage, “it’s that -lion responsible for all this!” - -She wasted no more time upon the matter. She rapidly descended the -stairs again, treading upon innumerable indignant ducks, until she -came to the piano. Here she said not a word, but, brushing the leading -man aside, placed her foot roughly upon the slippery head of the first -crawling man and scrambled over the top of the instrument, jumping -thence upon the back part of the hindmost man, who turned his feet -comically inwards, and wore round his loins a belt as large as the -belly-band of a waggon horse. - -She proceeded breathlessly until she came to the last flight, where, -behold! the stairs had all been smashed in by those awkward pianists, -and she stood on the dreadful verge of a drop into a cellar full of -darkness and disgusting smells. But she was able to leap upon the -banister-rail which was intact, and slide splendidly to the ground -floor. An unusual sight awaited her. Mrs. Squance did not remember -ever to have seen such a thing before, but there in the hall a -marvellous eustacia tree was growing out of the floor. She was not -surprised at the presence of a tree in that unwonted situation. She had -not noticed it before, but it did not seem out of place. Why shouldn’t -trees grow where they liked? They always did. Mrs. Squance invariably -took life as she found it, even in dreams. While she was surveying -the beautiful proportions of the eustacia tree, the richness of its -leaves, and its fine aroma a small bird, without warning or apology, -alighted upon her right hand—which she carried against her chest as if -it were in a sling, though it wasn’t—and laid an egg on it. It _was_ -so annoying, she did not know what to do with it; she was afraid of -smashing it. She rushed from the building, and entered the butcher’s -shop a few doors away. The shop was crowded with customers, and the -butcher perspired and joked with geniality, as is the immemorial -custom with butchers. His boy, a mere tot of five or six years of age, -observed to Mrs. Squance that it was “a lovely day, ma’am,” and she -replied that it was splendid. So it was. People were buying the most -extraordinarily fleshly fare, the smelt of an ox, a rib of suet, a -fillet of liver, and one little girl purchased nineteen lambs’ tongues, -which she took away secretly in a portmanteau. - -“Now Mrs. Squance, what can I do for you?” enquired the butcher. -Without comment she handed him the egg of the bird. He cast it into the -till as if it were a crown piece. “And the next thing, ma’am?” - -“'Ave you got such a thing as a pistol, Mr. Verryspice?” - -Mr. Verryspice had, he had got two, and drawing them from the belt -wherefrom dangled his sharpener, he laid two remarkable pieces of -ordnance before her. In her renewed agitation she would have snatched -up one of the pistols, but Mr. Verryspice prevented her. - -“No, no, ma’am, I shall have to get permission for you to use it first.” - -“But I really must ’ave it immediate....” - -“Yes?” said the butcher. - -“ ... for my husband.” - -“I see,” he replied sympathetically. “Well, come along then and I’ll -get an interim permission at once.” Seizing a tall silk hat from -its hook and placing it firmly upon his head he led her from his -establishment. - -“Singular that the trams are all so full this morning,” commented Mrs. -Squance as they awaited a conveyance. - -“Most unusual, ma’am,” replied Mr. Verryspice. But at last they -persuaded a bathchair man to give them a lift to their destination, -where they arrived a little indecorously perhaps, for the top-hatted -butcher was sitting as unconcernedly and as upright as a wax figure -upon Mrs. Squance’s knees. The office they sought lay somewhere in a -vast cavernous building full of stairs and corridors, long, exhausting, -hollow corridors like the Underground railway, and on every floor and -turning were signposts of the turnpike variety with directions: - -“To the Bedel of St. Thomas’s Basket, 3 miles.” - -“Registrar of Numismatics and Obligations, 2¼.” - -Along one of these passages they plunged, and after some aggravating -hindrances, including a demand from a humpty-backed clerk for a packet -of No. 19 egg-eyed sharps, and five pennyworth of cachous which she -found in her bosom, the permission was secured, and the butcher -thereupon handed the weapon to Mrs. Squance. - -“What did you say you wanted it for?” he asked. - -Mrs. Squance’s gratitude was great, but her indignation was deep and -disdained reply. She seized the pistol and began to run home. Rather -a stout lady, too, and the exercise embarrassed her. Her hair fetched -loose, her stockings slipped down, and her strange, hurrying figure, -brandishing a pistol, soon attracted the notice of policemen and a -certain young greengrocer with a tray of onions, who trotted in her -wake until she threatened them all with the firearm. - -Breathlessly at last she mounted the tremendous staircase. Happily in -the interval the damage had been repaired, the tree chopped down, piano -delivered, and ducks recaptured. She reached her rooms only in time to -hear a great crash of glass from within. Old Ben was strutting about -with a triumphant air. - -“I done ’im—I done ’im,” he called. “You can come in now; I’ve just -chucked ’im through the window!” And sure enough he had. The sash -looked as if it had been blown out by a cannon-ball. Mrs. Squance -peered out, and there, far down at the front door, curled up as if -asleep, lay the lion. At that moment the milkman arrived, with that -dissonant clatter peculiar to milkmen. He dashed down his cans close -by the nose of the lion, which apparently he had not seen. The scared -animal leaped up in its terror, and darting down an alley was seen no -more. - -So far this narrative, devoid as it is of moral grandeur and literary -grace, has subjected the reader’s comprehension to no scientific -rigours; but he who reads on will discern its cunning import—a -psychological outcome with the profoundest implications. Listen. Mrs. -Squance awoke that morning in her own hard-looking little house of one -floor, with the hard-looking shop, startled to find the window of their -room actually smashed, and inexplicable pains in her right hand. She -related these circumstances in after years with so many symptoms of -truth and propriety that she herself at last vividly believed in the -figure of old Ben as a lion-slayer. “Saved my life when I was ’tacked -by a lion!” she would say to her awed grandchildren, and she would -proceed to regale them with a narration which, I regret to say, had -only the remotest likeness to the foregoing story. - - - - - _The Poor Man_ - - -One of the commonest sights in the vale was a certain man on a bicycle -carrying a bag full of newspapers. He was as much a sound as a sight, -for what distinguished him from all other men to be encountered there -on bicycles was not his appearance, though that was noticeable; it was -his sweet tenor voice, heard as he rode along singing each morning from -Cobbs Mill, through Kezzal Predy Peter, Thasper, and Buzzlebury, and -so on to Trinkel and Nuncton. All sorts of things he sang, ballads, -chanties, bits of glees, airs from operas, hymns, and sacred anthems—he -was leader of Thasper church choir—but he seemed to observe some sort -of rotation in their rendering. In the forepart of the week it was -hymns and anthems; on Wednesday he usually turned to modestly secular -tunes; he was rolling on Thursday and Friday through a gamut of love -songs and ballads undoubtedly secular and not necessarily modest, -while on Saturday—particularly at eve, spent in the tap of “The White -Hart”—his programme was entirely ribald and often a little improper. -But always on Sunday he was the most decorous of men, no questionable -liquor passed his lips, and his comportment was a credit to the church, -a model even for soberer men. - -Dan Pavey was about thirty-five years old, of medium height and of -medium appearance except as to his hat (a hard black bowler which -seemed never to belong to him, though he had worn it for years) and as -to his nose. It was an ugly nose, big as a baby’s elbow; he had been -born thus, it had not been broken or maltreated, though it might have -engaged in some pre-natal conflict when it was malleable, since when -nature had healed, but had not restored it. But there was ever a soft -smile that covered his ugliness, which made it genial and said, or -seemed to say: Don’t make a fool of me, I am a friendly man, this is -really my hat, and as for my nose—God made it so. - -The six hamlets which he supplied with newspapers lie along the -Icknield Vale close under the ridge of woody hills, and the inhabitants -adjacent to the woods fell the beech timber and, in their own homes, -turn it into rungs or stretchers for chair manufacturers who, somewhere -out of sight beyond the hills, endlessly make chair, and nothing but -chair. Sometimes in a wood itself there may be seen a shanty built -of faggots in which sits a man turning pieces of chair on a treadle -lathe. Tall, hollow, and greenly dim are the woods, very solemn places, -and they survey the six little towns as a man might look at six tiny -pebbles lying on a green rug at his feet. - -One August morning the newspaper man was riding back to Thasper. The -day was sparkling like a diamond, but he was not singing, he was -thinking of Scroope, the new rector of Thasper parish, and the thought -of Scroope annoyed him. It was not only the tone of the sermon he had -preached on Sunday, “The poor we have always with us,” though that was -in bad taste from a man reputed rich and with a heart—people said—as -hard as a door-knocker; it was something more vital, a congenital -difference between them as profound as it was disagreeable. The Rev. -Faudel Scroope was wealthy, he seemed to have complete confidence in -his ability to remain so, and he was the kind of man with whom Dan -Pavey would never be able to agree. As for Mrs. Scroope, gloom pattered -upon him in a strong sighing shower at the least thought of her. - -At Larkspur Lane he came suddenly upon the rector talking to an oldish -man, Eli Bond, who was hacking away at a hedge. Scroope never wore a -hat, he had a curly bush of dull hair. Though his face was shaven clean -it remained a regular plantation of ridges and wrinkles; there was a -stoop in his shoulders, a lurch in his gait, and he had a voice that -howled. - -“Just a moment, Pavey,” he bellowed, and Dan dismounted. - -“All those years,” the parson went on talking to the hedger; “all those -years, dear me!” - -“I were born in Thasper sixty-six year ago, come the twenty-third of -October, sir, the same day—but two years before—as Lady Hesseltine -eloped with Rudolf Moxley. I was reared here and I worked here sin’ I -were six year old. Twalve children I have had (though five on ’em come -to naught and two be in the army) and I never knowed what was to be out -of work for one single day in all that sixty year. Never. I can’t thank -my blessed master enough for it.” - -“Isn’t that splendidly feudal,” murmured the priest, “who is your good -master?” - -The old man solemnly touched his hat and said: “God.” - -“O, I see, yes, yes,” cried the Rev. Scroope. “Well, good health and -constant, and good work and plenty of it, are glorious things. The man -who has never done a day’s work is a dog, and the man who deceives his -master is a dog too.” - -“I never donn that, sir.” - -“And you’ve had happy days in Thasper, I’m sure?” - -“Right-a-many, sir.” - -“Splendid. Well ... um ... what a heavy rain we had in the night.” - -“Ah, that _was_ heavy! At five o’clock this morning I daren’t let my -ducks out—they’d a bin drownded, sir.” - -“Ha, now, now, now!” warbled the rector as he turned away with Dan. - -“Capital old fellow, happy and contented. I wish there were more of -the same breed. I wish....” The parson sighed pleasantly as he and Dan -walked on together until they came to the village street where swallows -were darting and flashing very low. A small boy stood about, trying to -catch them in his hands as they swooped close to him. Dan’s own dog -pranced up to his master for a greeting. It was black, somewhat like a -greyhound, but stouter. Its tail curled right over its back and it was -cocky as a bird, for it was young; it could fight like a tiger and run -like the wind—many a hare had had proof of that. - -Said Mr. Scroope, eyeing the dog: “Is there much poaching goes on -here?” - -“Poaching, sir?” - -“I am told there is. I hope it isn’t true for I have rented most of the -shooting myself.” - -“I never heard tell of it, sir. Years ago, maybe. The Buzzlebury chaps -one time were rare hands at taking a few birds, so I’ve heard, but I -shouldn’t think there’s an onlicensed gun for miles around.” - -“I’m not thinking so much of guns. Farmer Prescott had his warren -netted by someone last week and lost fifty or sixty rabbits. There’s -scarcely a hare to be seen, and I find wires wherever I go. It’s a -crime like anything else, you know,” Scroope’s voice was loud and -strident, “and I shall deal very severely with poaching of any kind. O -yes, you have to, you know, Pavey. O yes. There was a man in my last -parish was a poacher, cunning scoundrel of the worst type, never did a -stroke of work, and _he_ had a dog, it wasn’t unlike your dog—this _is_ -your dog, isn’t it? You haven’t got your name on its collar, you should -have your name on a dog’s collar—well, he had a perfect brute of a dog, -carried off my pheasants by the dozen; as for hares, he exterminated -them. Man never did anything else, but we laid him by the heels and in -the end I shot the dog myself.” - -“Shot it?” said Dan. “No, I couldn’t tell a poacher if I was to see -one. I know no more about 'em than a bone in the earth.” - -“We shall be,” continued Scroope, “very severe with them. Let me -see—are you singing the Purcell on Sunday evening?“ - -”_He Shall Feed His Flock_—sir—_like a Shepherd_.” - -“Splendid! _Good_-day, Pavey.” - -Dan, followed by his bounding, barking dog, pedalled home to a little -cottage that seemed to sag under the burden of its own thatch; it had -eaves a yard wide, and birds’ nests in the roof at least ten years old. -Here Dan lived with his mother, Meg Pavey, for he had never married. -She kept an absurd little shop for the sale of sweets, vinegar, boot -buttons and such things, and was a very excellent old dame, but as -naïve as she was vague. If you went in to her counter for a newspaper -and banged down a halfcrown she would as likely as not give you change -for sixpence—until you mentioned the discrepancy, when she would -smilingly give you back your halfcrown again. - -Dan passed into the back room where Meg was preparing dinner, threw off -his bag, and sat down without speaking. His mother was making a heavy -succession of journeys between the table and a larder. - -“Mrs. Scroope’s been here,” said Meg, bringing a loaf to the table. - -“What did _she_ want?” - -“She wanted to reprimand me.” - -“And what have _you_ been doing?” - -Meg was in the larder again. “’Tis not me, ’tis you.” - -“What do you mean, mother?” - -“She’s been a-hinting,” here Meg pushed a dish of potatoes to the right -of the bread, and a salt-cellar to the left of the yawning remains of a -rabbit pie, “about your not being a teetotal. She says the boozing do -give the choir a bad name and I was to persuade you to give it up.” - -“I should like to persuade her it was time she is dead. I don’t go for -to take any pattern from that rich trash. Are we the grass under their -feet? And can you tell me why parsons’ wives are always so much more -awful than the parsons themselves? I never shall understand that if I -lives a thousand years. Name o’ God, what next?” - -“Well, ’tis as she says. Drink is no good to any man, and she can’t say -as I ain’t reprimanded you.” - -“Name o’ God,” he replied, “do you think I booze just for the sake o’ -the booze, because I like booze? No man does that. He drinks so that he -shan’t be thought a fool, or rank himself better than his mates—though -he knows in his heart he might be if he weren’t so poor or so timid. -Not that one would mind to be poor if it warn’t preached to him that -he must be contented. How can the poor be contented as long as there’s -the rich to serve? The rich we have always with _us_, that’s _our_ -responsibility, we are the grass under their feet. Why should we be -proud of that? When a man’s poor the only thing left him is hope—for -something better: and that’s called envy. If you don’t like your riches -you can always give it up, but poverty you can’t desert, nor it won’t -desert you.” - -“It’s no good flying in the face of everything like that, Dan, it’s -folly.” - -“If I had my way I’d be an independent man and live by myself a hundred -miles from anywheres or anybody. But that’s madness, that’s madness, -the world don’t expect you to go on like that, so I do as other -folks do, not because I want to, but because I a’nt the pluck to be -different. You taught me a good deal, mother, but you never taught me -courage and I wasn’t born with any, so I drinks with a lot of fools who -drink with me for much the same reason, I expect. It’s the same with -other things besides drink.” - -His indignation lasted throughout the afternoon as he sat in the shed -in his yard turning out his usual quantity of chair. He sang not one -note, he but muttered and mumbled over all his anger. Towards evening -he recovered his amiability and began to sing with a gusto that -astonished even his mother. He went out into the dusk humming like a -bee, taking his dog with him. In the morning the Rev. Scroope found a -dead hare tied by the neck to his own door-knocker, and at night (it -being Saturday) Dan Pavey was merrier than ever in “The White Hart.” -If he was not drunk he was what Thasper calls “tightish,” and had -never before sung so many of those ribald songs (mostly of his own -composition) for which he was noted. - -A few evenings later Dan attended a meeting of the Church Men’s Guild. -A group of very mute countrymen sat in the village hall and were goaded -into speech by the rector. - -“Thasper,” declared Mr. Scroope, “has a great name for its singing. All -over the six hamlets there is surprising musical genius. There’s the -Buzzlebury band—it is a capital band.” - -“It is that,” interrupted a maroon-faced butcher from Buzzlebury, -“it can play as well at nine o’clock in the morning as it can at nine -o’clock at night, and that’s a good band as can do it.” - -“Now I want our choir to compete at the county musical festival next -year. Thasper is going to show those highly trained choristers what -a native choir is capable of. Yes, and I’m sure our friend Pavey can -win the tenor solo competition. Let us all put our backs into it and -work agreeably and consistently. Those are the two main springs of -good human conduct—consistency and agreeability. The consistent man -will always attain his legitimate ends, always. I remember a man in my -last parish, Tom Turkem, known and loved throughout the county; he was -not only the best cricketer in our village, he was the best for miles -around. He revelled in cricket, and cricket only; he played cricket -and lived for cricket. The years went on and he got old, but he never -dreamed of giving up cricket. His bowling average got larger every year -and his batting average got smaller, but he still went on, consistent -as ever. His order of going in dropped down to No. 6 and he seldom -bowled; then he got down to No. 8 and never bowled. For a season or -two the once famous Tom Turkem was really the last man in! After that -he became umpire, then scorer, and then he died. He had got a little -money, very little, just enough to live comfortably on. No, he never -married. He was a very happy, hearty, hale old man. So you see? Now -there is a cricket club at Buzzlebury, and one at Trinkel. Why not a -cricket club at Thasper? Shall we do that?... Good!” - -The parson went on outlining his projects, and although it was plain -to Dan that the Rev. Scroope had very little, if any, compassion for -the weaknesses natural to mortal flesh, and attached an extravagant -value to the virtues of decency, sobriety, consistency, and, above all, -loyalty to all sorts of incomprehensible notions, yet his intentions -were undeniably agreeable and the Guild was consistently grateful. - -“One thing, Pavey,” said Scroope when the meeting had dispersed, “one -thing I will not tolerate in this parish, and that is gambling.” - -“Gambling? I have never gambled in my life, sir. I couldn’t tell you -hardly the difference between spades and clubs.” - -“I am speaking of horse-racing, Pavey.” - -“Now that’s a thing I never see in my life, Mr. Scroope.” - -“Ah, you need not go to the races to bet on horses; the slips of paper -and money can be collected by men who are agents for racing bookmakers. -And that is going on all round the six hamlets, and the man who does -the collecting, even if he does not bet himself, is a social and moral -danger, he is a criminal, he is against the law. Whoever he is,” said -the vicar, moderating his voice, but confidently beaming and patting -Dan’s shoulder, “I shall stamp him out mercilessly. _Good_-night, -Pavey.” - -Dan went away with murder in his heart. Timid strangers here and there -had fancied that a man with such a misshapen face would be capable of -committing a crime, not a mere peccadillo—you wouldn’t take notice of -that, of course—but a solid substantial misdemeanour like murder. And -it was true, he _was_ capable of murder—just as everybody else is, -or ought to be. But he was also capable of curbing that distressing -tendency in the usual way, and in point of fact he never did commit a -murder. - -These rectorial denunciations troubled the air but momentarily, and -he still sang gaily and beautifully on his daily ride from Cobbs Mill -along the little roads to Trinkel and Nuncton. The hanging richness -of the long woods yellowing on the fringe of autumn, the long solemn -hills themselves, cold sunlight, coloured berries in briary loops, the -brown small leaves of hawthorn that had begun to drop from the hedge -and flutter in the road like dying moths, teams of horses sturdily -ploughing, sheepfolds already thatched into little nooks where the ewes -could lie—Dan said—as warm as a pudding: these things filled him with -tiny ecstasies too incoherent for him to transcribe—he could only sing. - -On Bonfire Night the lads of the village lit a great fire on the space -opposite “The White Hart.” Snow was falling; it was not freezing -weather, but the snow lay in a soft thin mat upon the road. Dan was -returning on his bicycle from a long journey and the light from the -bonfire was cheering. It lit up the courtyard of the inn genially and -curiously, for the recumbent hart upon the balcony had a pad of snow -upon its wooden nose, which somehow made it look like a camel, in spite -of the huddled snow on its back which gave it the resemblance of a -sheep. A few boys stood with bemused wrinkled faces before the roaring -warmth. Dan dismounted very carefully opposite the blaze, for a tiny -boy rode on the back of the bicycle, wrapped up and tied to the frame -by a long scarf; very small, very silent, about five years old. A red -wool wrap was bound round his head and ears and chin, and a green scarf -encircled his neck and waist, almost hiding his jacket; gaiters of grey -wool were drawn up over his knickerbockers. Dan lifted him down and -stood him in the road, but he was so cumbered with clothing that he -could scarcely walk. He was shy; he may have thought it ridiculous; he -moved a few paces and turned to stare at his footmarks in the snow. - -“Cold?” asked Dan. - -The child shook its head solemnly at him and then put one hand in -Dan’s and gazed at the fire that was bringing a brightness into the -longlashed dark eyes and tenderly flushing the pale face. - -“Hungry?” - -The child did not reply. It only silently smiled when the boys brought -him a lighted stick from the faggots. Dan caught him up into his arms -and pushed the cycle across the way into his own home. - -Plump Meg had just shredded up two or three red cabbages and rammed -them into a crock with a shower of peppercorns and some terrible knots -of ginger. There was a bright fire and a sharp odour of vinegar—always -some strange pleasant smell in Meg Pavey’s home—she had covered the top -of the crock with a shield of brown paper, pinioned that with string, -licked a label: “Cabege Novenbr 5t,” and smoothed it on the crock, when -the latch lifted and Dan carried in his little tiny boy. - -“Here he is, mother.” - -Where Dan stood him, there the child remained; he did not seem to see -Mother Pavey, his glance had happened to fall on the big crock with the -white label—and he kept it there. - -“Whoever’s that?” asked the astonished Meg with her arms akimbo as Dan -began to unwrap the child. - -“That’s mine,” said her son, brushing a few flakes of snow from the -curls on its forehead. - -“Yours! How long have it been yours?” - -“Since ’twas born. No, let him alone, I’ll undo him, he’s full up wi’ -pins and hooks. I’ll undo him.” - -Meg stood apart while Dan unravelled his offspring. - -“But it is not your child, surely, Dan?” - -“Ay, I’ve brought him home for keeps, mother. He can sleep wi’ me.” - -“Who’s its mother?” - -“’Tis no matter about that. Dan Cupid did it.” - -“You’re making a mock of me. Who is his mother? Where is she? You’re -fooling, Dan, you’re fooling!” - -“I’m making no mock of anyone. There, there’s a bonny grandson for you!” - -Meg gathered the child into her arms, peering into its face, perhaps to -find some answer to the riddle, perhaps to divine a familiar likeness. -But there was nothing in its soft smooth features that at all resembled -her rugged Dan’s. - -“Who are you? What’s your little name?” - -The child whispered: “Martin.” - -“It’s a pretty, pretty thing, Dan.” - -“Ah!” said her son, “that’s his mother. We were rare fond of each -other—once. Now she’s wedd’n another chap and I’ve took the boy, for -it’s best that way. He’s five year old. Don’t ask me about her, it’s -_our_ secret and always has been. It was a good secret and a grand -secret, and it was well kept. That’s her ring.” - -The child’s thumb had a ring upon it, a golden ring with a small green -stone. The thumb was crooked, and he clasped the ring safely. - -For a while Meg asked no more questions about the child. She pressed it -tenderly to her bosom. - -But the long-kept secret, as Dan soon discovered, began to bristle -with complications. The boy was his, of course it was his—he seemed to -rejoice in his paternity of the quiet, pretty, illegitimate creature. -As if that brazen turpitude was not enough to confound him he was taken -a week later in the act of receiving betting commissions and heavily -fined in the police court, although it was quite true that he himself -did not bet, and was merely a collecting agent for a bookmaker who -remained discreetly in the background and who promptly paid his fine. - -There was naturally a great racket in the vestry about these -things—there is no more rhadamanthine formation than that which can -mount the ornamental forehead of a deacon—and Dan was bidden to an -interview at the “Scroopery.” After some hesitation he visited it. - -“Ah, Pavey,” said the rector, not at all minatory but very subdued -and unhappy. “So the blow has fallen, in spite of my warning. I am -more sorry than I can express, for it means an end to a very long -connection. It is very difficult and very disagreeable for me to -deal with the situation, but there is no help for it now, you must -understand that. I offer no judgment upon these unfortunate events, no -judgment at all, but I can find no way of avoiding my clear duty. Your -course of life is incompatible with your position in the choir, and I -sadly fear it reveals not only a social misdemeanour but a religious -one—it is a mockery, a mockery of God.” - -The rector sat at a table with his head pressed on his hands. Pavey sat -opposite him, and in his hands he dangled his bowler hat. - -“You may be right enough in your way, sir, but I’ve never mocked God. -For the betting, I grant you. It may be a dirty job, but I never ate -the dirt myself, I never betted in my life. It’s a way of life, a poor -man has but little chance of earning more than a bare living, and -there’s many a dirty job there’s no prosecution for, leastways not in -this world.” - -“Let me say, Pavey, that the betting counts less heavily with me than -the question of this unfortunate little boy. I offer no judgment upon -the matter, your acknowledgment of him is only right and proper. But -the fact of his existence at all cannot be disregarded; that at least -is flagrant, and as far as concerns your position in my church, it is a -mockery of God.” - -“You may be right, sir, as far as your judgment goes, or you may not -be. I beg your pardon for that, but we can only measure other people by -our own scales, and as we can never understand one another entirely, so -we can’t ever judge them rightly, for they all differ from us and from -each other in some special ways. But as for being a mocker of God, why -it looks to me as if you was trying to teach the Almighty how to judge -me.” - -“Pavey,” said the rector with solemnity, “I pity you from the bottom -of my heart. We won’t continue this painful discussion, we should both -regret it. There was a man in the parish where I came from who was an -atheist and mocked God. He subsequently became deaf. Was he convinced? -No, he was not—because the punishment came a long time after his -offence. He mocked God again, and became blind. Not at once: God has -eternity to work in. Still he was not convinced. That,” said the rector -ponderously, “is what the Church has to contend with; a failure to -read the most obvious signs, and an indisposition even to remedy that -failure. Klopstock was that poor man’s name. His sister—you know her -well, Jane Klopstock—is now my cook.” - -The rector then stood up and held out his hand. “God bless you, Pavey.” - -“I thank you, sir,” said Dan. “I quite understand.” - -He went home moodily reflecting. Nobody else in the village minded his -misdeeds, they did not care a button, and none condemned him. On the -contrary, indeed. But the blow had fallen, there was nothing that he -could now do, the shock of it had been anticipated, but it was severe. -And the pang would last, for he was deprived of his chief opportunity -for singing, that art in which he excelled, in that perfect quiet -setting he so loved. Rancour grew upon him, and on Saturday he had a -roaring audacious evening at “The White Hart” where, to the tune of -“The British Grenadiers,” he sung a doggerel: - - Our parson loves his motor car - His garden and his mansion, - And he loves his beef for I’ve remarked - His belly’s brave expansion; - He loves all mortal mundane things - As he loved his beer at college, - And so he loves his housemaid (not - With Mrs. parson’s knowledge.) - - Our parson lies both hot and strong, - It does not suit his station, - But still his reverend soul delights - In much dissimulation; - Both in and out and roundabout - He practises distortion, - And he lies with a public sinner when - Grass widowhood’s his portion. - -All of which was a savage libel on a very worthy man, composed in anger -and regretted as soon as sung. - -From that time forward Dan gave up his boozing and devoted himself to -the boy, little Martin, who, a Thasper joker suggested, might have some -kinship with the notorious Betty of that name. But Dan’s voice was now -seldom heard singing upon the roads he travelled. They were icy wintry -roads, but that was not the cause of his muteness. It was severance -from the choir; not from its connoted spirit of religion—there was -little enough of that in Dan Pavey—but from the solemn beauty of the -chorale, which it was his unique gift to adorn, and in which he had -shared with eagerness and pride since his boyhood. To be cast out from -that was to be cast from something he held most dear, the opportunity -of expression in an art which he had made triumphantly his own. - -With the coming of spring he repaired one evening to a town some miles -away and interviewed a choirmaster. Thereafter Dan Pavey journeyed -to and fro twice every Sunday to sing in a church that lay seven or -eight miles off, and he kept it all a profound secret from Thasper -until his appearance at the county musical festival, where he won the -treasured prize for tenor soloists. Then Dan was himself again. To his -crude apprehension he had been vindicated, and he was heard once more -carolling in the lanes of the Vale as he had been heard any time for -these twenty years. - -The child began its schooling, but though he was free to go about the -village little Martin did not wander far. The tidy cluster of hair -about his poll was of deep chestnut colour. His skin—Meg said—was like -“ollobarster”: it was soft and unfreckled, always pale. His eyes were -two wet damsons—so Meg declared: they were dark and ever questioning. -As for his nose, his lips, his cheeks, his chin, Meg could do no other -than call it the face of a blessed saint; and indeed, he had some of -the bearing of a saint, so quiet, so gentle, so shy. The golden ring he -no longer wore; it hung from a tintack on the bedroom wall. - -Old John, who lived next door, became a friend of his. He was very -aged—in the Vale you got to be a hundred before you knew where you -were—and he was very bent; he resembled a sickle standing upon its -handle. Very bald, too, and so very sharp. - -Martin was staring up at the roof of John’s cottage. - -“What you looking at, my boy?” - -“Chimbley,” whispered the child. - -“O ah! that’s crooked, a’nt it?” - -“Yes, crooked.” - -“I know ’tis, but I can’t help it; my chimney’s crooked, and I can’t -putt it straight, neither, I can’t putt it right. My chimney’s crooked, -a’nt it, ah, and I’m crooked, too.” - -“Yes,” said Martin. - -“I know, but I can’t help it. It _is_ crooked, a’nt it?” said the old -man, also staring up at a red pot tilted at an angle suggestive of -conviviality. - -“Yes.” - -“That chimney’s crooked. But you come along and look at my beautiful -bird.” - -A cock thrush inhabited a cage in the old gaffer’s kitchen. Martin -stood before it. - -“There’s a beautiful bird. Hoicks!” cried old John, tapping the bars of -the cage with his terrible finger-nail. “But he won’t sing.” - -“Won’t he sing?” - -“He donn make hisself at home. He donn make hisself at home at all, do -’ee, my beautiful bird? No, he donn’t. So I’m a-going to chop his head -off,” said the laughing old man, “and then I shall bile him.” - -Afterwards Martin went every day to see if the thrush was still there. -And it was. - -Martin grew. Almost before Dan was aware of it the child had grown -into a boy. At school he excelled nobody in anything except, perhaps, -behaviour, but he had a strange little gift for unobtrusively not doing -the things he did not care for, and these were rather many unless his -father was concerned in them. Even so, the affection between them was -seldom tangibly expressed, their alliance was something far deeper than -its expression. Dan talked with him as if he were a grown man, and -perhaps he often regarded him as one; he was the only being to whom he -ever opened his mind. As they sat together in the evening while Dan -put in a spell at turning chair—at which he was astoundingly adept—the -father would talk to his son, or rather he would heap upon him all the -unuttered thoughts that had accumulated in his mind during his adult -years. The dog would loll with its head on Martin’s knees; the boy -would sit nodding gravely, though seldom speaking: he was an untiring -listener. “Like sire, like son,” thought Dan, “he will always coop his -thoughts up within himself.” It was the one characteristic of the boy -that caused him anxiety. - -“Never take pattern by me,” he would adjure him, “not by me. I’m a -fool, a failure, just grass, and I’m trying to instruct you, but you’ve -no call to follow in my fashion; I’m a weak man. There’s been thoughts -in my mind that I daren’t let out. I wanted to do things that other men -don’t seem to do and don’t want to do. They were not evil things—and -what they were I’ve nigh forgotten now. I never had much ambition, I -wasn’t clever, I wanted to live a simple life, in a simple way, the -way I had a mind to—I can’t remember that either. But I did not do -any of those things because I had a fear of what other people might -think of me. I walked in the ruck with the rest of my mates and did -the things I didn’t ever want to do—and now I can only wonder why I -did them. I sung them the silly songs they liked, and not the ones I -cherished. I agreed with most everybody, and all agreed with me. I’m a -friendly man, too friendly, and I went back on my life, I made nought -of my life, you see, I just sat over the job like a snob codgering an -old boot.” - -The boy would sit regarding him as if he already understood. Perhaps -that curious little mind did glean some flavour of his father’s tragedy. - -“You’ve no call to follow me, you’ll be a scholar. Of course I know -some of those long words at school take a bit of licking together—like -elephant and saucepan. You get about half-way through ’em and then -you’re done, you’re mastered. I was just the same (like sire, like -son), and I’m no better now. If you and me was to go to yon school -together, and set on the same stool together, I warrant you would win -the prize and I should wear the dunce’s cap—all except sums, and there -I should beat ye. You’d have all the candy and I’d have all the cane, -you’d be king and I’d be the dirty rascal, so you’ve no call to follow -me. What you want is courage, and to do the things you’ve a mind to. I -never had any and I didn’t.” - -Dan seldom kissed his son, neither of them sought that tender -expression, though Meg was for ever ruffling the boy for these pledges -of affection, and he was always gracious to the old woman. There was -a small mole in the centre of her chin, and in the centre of the mole -grew one short stiff hair. It was a surprise to Martin when he first -kissed her. - -Twice a week father and son bathed in the shed devoted to chair. The -tub was the half of a wooden barrel. Dan would roll up two or three -buckets of water from the well, they would both strip to the skin, the -boy would kneel in the tub and dash the water about his body for a -few moments. While Martin towelled himself Dan stepped into the tub, -and after laving his face and hands and legs he would sit down in it. -“Ready?” Martin would ask, and scooping up the water in an iron basin -he would pour it over his father’s head. - -“Name O’ God, that’s sharpish this morning,” Dan would say, “it would -strip the bark off a crocodile. Broo-o-o-oh! But there: winter and -summer I go up and down the land and there’s not—Broo-o-o-oh!—a mighty -difference between ’em, it’s mostly fancy. Come day, go day, frost -or fair doings, all alike I go about the land, and there’s little in -winter I havn’t the heart to rejoice in. (On with your breeches or I’ll -be at the porridge pot afore you’re clad.) All their talk about winter -and their dread of it shows poor spirit. Nothing’s prettier than a -fall of snow, nothing more grand than the storms upending the woods. -There’s no more rain in winter than in summer, you can be shod for it, -and there’s a heart back of your ribs that’s proof against any blast. -(Is this my shirt or yours? Dashed if they buttons a’nt the plague of -my life.) Country is grand year’s end to year’s end, whether or no. I -once lived in London—only a few weeks—and for noise, and for terror, -and for filth—name O’ God, there was bugs in the butter there, once -there was!” - -But the boy’s chosen season was that time of year when the plums -ripened. Pavey’s garden was then a tiny paradise. - -“You put a spell on these trees,” Dan would declare to his son every -year when they gathered the fruit. “I planted them nearly twenty years -ago, two 'gages and one magny bonum, but they never growed enough to -make a pudden. They always bloomed well and looked well. I propped ’em -and I dunged 'em, but they wouldn’t beer at all, and I’m a-going to cut -’em down—when, along comes you!” - -Well, hadn’t those trees borne remarkable ever since he’d come there? - -“Of course, good luck’s deceiving, and it’s never bothered our family -overmuch. Still, bad luck is one thing and bad life’s another. And -yet—I dunno—they come to much the same in the end, there’s very little -difference. There’s so much misunderstanding, half the folks don’t know -their own good intentions, nor all the love that’s sunk deep in their -own minds.” - -But nothing in the world gave (or could give) Dan such flattering joy -as his son’s sweet treble voice. Martin could sing! In the dark months -no evening passed without some instruction by the proud father. The -living room at the back of the shop was the tiniest of rooms, and -its smallness was not lessened, nor its tidiness increased, by the -stacks of merchandise that had strayed from Meg’s emporium into every -corner, and overflowed every shelf in packages, piles, and bundles. -The metalliferous categories—iron nails, lead pencils, tintacks, zinc -ointment, and brass hinges—were there. Platoons of bottles were there, -bottles of blue-black writing fluid, bottles of scarlet—and presumably -plebeian—ink, bottles of lollipops and of oil (both hair and castor). -Balls of string, of blue, of peppermint, and balls to bounce were -adjacent to an assortment of prim-looking books—account memorandum, -exercise, and note. But the room was cosy, and if its inhabitants -fitted it almost as closely as birds fit their nests they were as happy -as birds, few of whom (save the swallows) sing in their nests. With -pitchpipe to hand and a bundle of music before them Dan and Martin -would begin. The dog would snooze on the rug before the fire; Meg -would snooze amply in her armchair until roused by the sudden terrific -tinkling of her shop-bell. She would waddle off to her dim little -shop—every step she took rattling the paraffin lamp on the table, the -coal in the scuttle, and sometimes the very panes in the window—and the -dog would clamber into her chair. Having supplied an aged gaffer with -an ounce of carraway seed, or some gay lad with a packet of cigarettes, -Meg would waddle back and sink down upon the dog, whereupon its awful -indignation would sound to the very heavens, drowning the voices even -of Dan and his son. - -“What shall we wind up with?” Dan would ask at the close of the lesson, -and as often as not Martin would say: “You must sing ‘Timmie.’” - -This was “Timmie,” and it had a tune something like the chorus to -“Father O’Flynn.” - - O Timmie my brother, - Best son of our mother, - Our labour it prospers, the mowing is done; - A holiday take you, - The loss it won’t break you, - A day’s never lost if a holiday’s won. - - We’ll go with clean faces - To see the horse races, - And if the luck chances we’ll gather some gear; - But never a jockey - Will win it, my cocky, - Who catches one glance from a girl I know there. - - There’s lords and there’s ladies - Wi’ pretty sunshadies, - And farmers and jossers and fat men and small; - But the pride of these trips is - The scallywag gipsies - Wi’ not a whole rag to the backs of ’em all. - - There ’s cokernut shying, - And devil defying, - And a racket and babel to hear and to see, - Wi’ boxing and shooting, - And fine high faluting - From chaps wi’ a table and thimble and pea. - - My Nancy will be there, - The best thing to see there, - She’ll win all the praises wi’ ne’er a rebuke; - And she has a sister— - I wonder you’ve missed her— - As sweet as the daisies and fit for a duke. - - Come along, brother Timmie, - Don’t linger, but gimme - My hat and my purse and your company there; - For sporting and courting, - The cream of resorting, - And nothing much worse, Timmie—Come to the fair. - -On the third anniversary of Martin’s homecoming Dan rose up very early -in the dark morn, and leaving his son sleeping he crept out of the -house followed by his dog. They went away from Thasper, though the -darkness was profound and the grass filled with dew, out upon the hills -towards Chapel Cheary. The night was starless, but Dan knew every trick -and turn of the paths, and after an hour’s walk he met a man waiting -by a signpost. They conversed for a few minutes and then went off -together, the dog at their heels, until they came to a field gate. Upon -this they fastened a net and then sent the dog into the darkness upon -his errand, while they waited for the hare which the dog would drive -into the net. They waited so long that it was clear the dog had not -drawn its quarry. Dan whistled softly, but the dog did not return. Dan -opened the gate and went down the fields himself, scouring the hedges -for a long time, but he could not find the dog. The murk of the night -had begun to lift, but the valley was filled with mist. He went back to -the gate: the net had been taken down, his friend had departed—perhaps -he had been disturbed? The dog had now been missing for an hour. Dan -still hung about, but neither friend nor dog came back. It grew grey -and more grey, though little could be distinguished, the raw mist -obscuring everything that the dawn uncovered. He shivered with gloom -and dampness, his boots were now as pliable as gloves, his eyebrows -had grey drops upon them, so had his moustache and the backs of his -hands. His dark coat looked as if it was made of grey wool; it was -tightly buttoned around his throat and he stood with his chin crumpled, -unconsciously holding his breath until it burst forth in a gasp. But he -could not abandon his dog, and he roamed once more down into the misty -valley towards woods that he knew well, whistling softly and with great -caution a repetition of two notes. - -And he found his dog. It was lying on a heap of dead sodden leaves. -It just whimpered. It could not rise, it could not move, it seemed -paralysed. Dawn was now really upon them. Dan wanted to get the dog -away, quickly, it was a dangerous quarter, but when he lifted it to his -feet the dog collapsed like a scarecrow. In a flash Dan knew he was -poisoned, he had probably picked up some piece of dainty flesh that a -farmer had baited for the foxes. He seized a knob of chalk that lay -thereby, grated some of it into his hands, and forced it down the dog’s -throat. Then he tied the lead to its neck. He was going to drag the -dog to its feet and force it to walk. But the dog was past all energy, -it was limp and mute. Dan dragged him by the neck for some yards as a -man draws behind him a heavy sack. It must have weighed three stone, -but Dan lifted him on to his own shoulders and staggered back up the -hill. He carried it thus for half a mile, but then he was still four -miles from home, and it was daylight, at any moment he might meet -somebody he would not care to meet. He entered a ride opening into some -coverts, and, bending down, slipped the dog over his head to rest upon -the ground. He was exhausted and felt giddy, his brains were swirling -round—trying to slop out of his skull—and—yes—the dog was dead, his old -dog dead. When he looked up, he saw a keeper with a gun standing a few -yards off. - -“Good morning,” said Dan. All his weariness was suddenly gone from him. - -“I’ll have your name and address,” replied the keeper, a giant of a -man, with a sort of contemptuous affability. - -“What for?” - -“You’ll hear about what for,” the giant grinned. “I’ll be sure to let -ye know, in doo coorse.” He laid his gun upon the ground and began -searching in his pockets, while Dan stood up with rage in his heart and -confusion in his mind. So the Old Imp was at him again! - -“Humph!” said the keeper. “I’ve alost my notebook somewheres. Have you -got a bit of paper on ye?” - -The culprit searched his pockets and produced a folded fragment. - -“Thanks.” The giant did not cease to grin. “What is it?” - -“What?” queried Dan. - -“Your name and address.” - -“Ah, but what do you want it for. What do you think I’m doing?” -protested Dan. - -“I’ve a net in my pocket which I took from a gate about an hour ago. I -saw summat was afoot, and me and a friend o’ mine have been looking for -’ee. Now let’s have your name and no nonsense.” - -“My name,” said Dan, “my name? Well, it is ... Piper.” - -“Piper is it, ah! Was you baptized ever?” - -“Peter,” said Dan savagely. - -“Peter Piper! Well, you’ve picked a tidy pepper-carn this time.” - -Again he was searching his pockets. There was a frown on his face. -“You’d better lend me a bit o’ pencil too.” - -Dan produced a stump of lead pencil and the gamekeeper, smoothing the -paper on his lifted knee, wrote down the name of Peter Piper. - -“And where might you come from?” He peered up at the miserable man, who -replied: “From Leasington”—naming a village several miles to the west -of his real home. - -“Leasington!” commented the other. “You must know John Eustace, then?” -John Eustace was a sporting farmer famed for his stock and his riches. - -“Know him!” exclaimed Dan. “He’s my uncle!” - -“O ah!” The other carefully folded the paper and put it into his breast -pocket. “Well, you can trot along home now, my lad.” - -Dan knelt down and unbuckled the collar from his dead dog’s neck. He -was fond of his dog, it looked piteous now. And kneeling there it -suddenly came upon Dan that he had been a coward again, he had told -nothing but lies, foolish lies, and he had let a great hulking flunkey -walk roughshod over him. In one astonishing moment the reproving face -of his little son seemed to loom up beside the dog, the blood flamed in -his brain. - -“I’ll take charge of that,” said the keeper, snatching the collar from -his hand. - -“Blast you!” Dan sprang to his feet, and suddenly screaming like a -madman: “I’m Dan Pavey of Thasper,” he leapt at the keeper with a fury -that shook even that calm stalwart. - -“You would, would ye?” he yapped, darting for his gun. Dan also seized -it, and in their struggle the gun was fired off harmlessly between -them. Dan let go. - -“My God!” roared the keeper, “you’d murder me, would ye? Wi’ my own -gun, would ye?” He struck Dan a swinging blow with the butt of it, -yelling: “Would ye? Would ye? Would ye?” And he did not cease striking -until Dan tumbled senseless and bloody across the body of the dog. - -Soon another keeper came hurrying through the trees. - -“Tried to murder me—wi’ me own gun, he did,” declared the big man, “wi’ -me own gun!” - -They revived the stricken Pavey after a while and then conveyed him to -a policeman, who conveyed him to a gaol. - -The magistrates took a grave view of the case and sent it for trial at -the assizes. They were soon held, he had not long to wait, and before -the end of November he was condemned. The assize court was a place of -intolerable gloom, intolerable formality, intolerable pain, but the -public seemed to enjoy it. The keeper swore Dan had tried to shoot -him, and the prisoner contested this. He did not deny that he was -the aggressor. The jury found him guilty. What had he to say? He had -nothing to say, but he was deeply moved by the spectacle of the Rev. -Scroope standing up and testifying to his sobriety, his honesty, his -general good repute, and pleading for a lenient sentence because he was -a man of considerable force of character, misguided no doubt, a little -unfortunate, and prone to recklessness. - -Said the judge, examining the papers of the indictment: “I see there is -a previous conviction—for betting offences.” - -“That was three years ago, my lord. There has been nothing of the kind -since, my lord, of that I am sure, quite sure.” - -Scroope showed none of his old time confident aspect, he was perspiring -and trembling. The clerk of the assize leaned up and held a whispered -colloquy with the judge, who then addressed the rector. - -“Apparently he is still a betting agent. He gave a false name and -address, which was taken down by the keeper on a piece of paper -furnished by the prisoner. Here it is, on one side the name of Peter -Pope (Piper, sir!) Piper: and on the other side this is written: - - _3 o/c race. Pretty Dear, 5/- to win. J. Klopstock._ - -Are there any Klopstocks in your parish?” - -“Klopstock!” murmured the parson, “it is the name of my cook.” - -What had the prisoner to say about that? The prisoner had nothing to -say, and he was sentenced to twelve months’ imprisonment with hard -labour. - -So Dan was taken away. He was a tough man, an amenable man, and the -mere rigours of the prison did not unduly afflict him. His behaviour -was good, and he looked forward to gaining the maximum remission of his -sentence. Meg, his mother, went to see him once, alone, but she did -not repeat the visit. The prison chaplain paid him special attention. -He, too, was a Scroope, a huge fellow, not long from Oxford, and Pavey -learned that he was related to the Thasper rector. The new year came, -February came, March came, and Dan was afforded some privileges. His -singing in chapel was much admired, and occasionally he was allowed to -sing to the prisoners. April came, May came, and then his son Martin -was drowned in a boating accident, on a lake, in a park. The Thasper -children had been taken there for a holiday. On hearing it, Pavey sank -limply to the floor of his cell. The warders sat him up, but they could -make nothing of him, he was dazed, and he could not speak. He was taken -to the hospital wing. “This man has had a stroke, he is gone dumb,” -said the doctor. On the following day he appeared to be well enough, -but still he could not speak. He went about the ward doing hospital -duty, dumb as a ladder; he could not even mourn, but a jig kept -flickering through his voiceless mind: - - In a park there was a lake, - On the lake there was a boat, - In the boat there was a boy. - -Hour after hour the stupid jingle flowed through his consciousness. -Perhaps it kept him from going mad, but it did not bring him back -his speech, he was dumb, dumb. And he remembered a man who had been -stricken deaf, and then blind—Scroope knew him too, it was some man who -had mocked God. - - In a park there was a lake, - On the lake there was a boat, - In the boat there was a boy. - -On the day of the funeral Pavey imagined that he had been let out of -prison; he dreamed that someone had been kind and set him free for an -hour or two to bury his dead boy. He seemed to arrive at Thasper when -the ceremony was already begun, the coffin was already in the church. -Pavey knelt down beside his mother. The rector intoned the office, -the child was taken to its grave. Dumb dreaming Pavey turned his eyes -from it. The day was too bright for death, it was a stainless day. -The wind seemed to flow in soft streams, rolling the lilac blooms. A -small white feather, blown from a pigeon on the church gable, whirled -about like a butterfly. “We give thee hearty thanks,” the priest was -saying, “for that it hath pleased thee to deliver this our brother -out of the miseries of this sinful world.” At the end of it all Pavey -kissed his mother, and saw himself turn back to his prison. He went by -the field paths away to the railway junction. The country had begun to -look a little parched, for rain was wanted—vividly he could see all -this—but things were growing, corn was thriving greenly, the beanfields -smelled sweet. A frill of yellow kilk and wild white carrot spray lined -every hedge. Cattle dreamed in the grass, the colt stretched itself -unregarded in front of its mother. Larks, wrens, yellow-hammers. There -were the great beech trees and the great hills, calm and confident, -overlooking Cobbs and Peter, Thasper and Trinkel, Buzzlebury and -Nuncton. He sees the summer is coming on, he is going back to prison. -“Courage is vain,” he thinks, “we are like the grass underfoot, a blade -that excels is quickly shorn. In this sort of a world the poor have no -call to be proud, they had only need be penitent.” - - In the park there was a lake, - On the lake ... boat, - In the boat.... - - - - - _Luxury_ - - -Eight o’clock of a fine spring morning in the hamlet of Kezzal Predy -Peter, great horses with chains clinking down the road, and Alexander -Finkle rising from his bed singing: “O lah soh doh, soh lah me doh,” -timing his notes to the ching of his neighbour’s anvil. He boils a -cupful of water on an oil stove, his shaving brush stands (where it -always stands) upon the window-ledge (“Soh lah soh do-o-o-oh, soh -doh soh la-a-a-ah!”) but as he addresses himself to his toilet the -clamour of the anvil ceases and then Finkle too becomes silent, for the -unresting cares of his life begin again to afflict him. - -“This cottage is no good,” he mumbles, “and I’m no good. Literature is -no good when you live too much on porridge. Your writing’s no good, -sir, you can’t get any glow out of oatmeal. Why did you ever come here? -It’s a hopeless job and you know it!” Stropping his razor petulantly as -if the soul of that frustrating oatmeal lay there between the leather -and the blade, he continues: “But it isn’t the cottage, it isn’t me, it -isn’t the writing—it’s the privation. I must give it up and get a job -as a railway porter.” - -And indeed he was very impoverished, the living he derived from his -writings was meagre; the cottage had many imperfections, both its -rooms were gloomy, and to obviate the inconvenience arising from its -defective roof he always slept downstairs. - -Two years ago he had been working for a wall-paper manufacturer in -Bethnal Green. He was not poor then, not so very poor, he had the -clothes he stood up in (they were good clothes) and fifty pounds in -the bank besides. But although he had served the wall-paper man for -fifteen years that fifty pounds had not been derived from clerking, -he had earned it by means of his hobby, a little knack of writing -things for provincial newspapers. On his thirty-first birthday Finkle -argued—for he had a habit of conducting long and not unsatisfactory -discussions between himself and a self that apparently wasn’t him—that -what he could do reasonably well in his scanty leisure could be -multiplied exceedingly if he had time and opportunity, lived in the -country, somewhere where he could go into a garden to smell the roses -or whatever was blooming and draw deep draughts of happiness, think -his profound thoughts and realize the goodness of God, and then sit -and read right through some long and difficult book about Napoleon -or Mahomet. Bursting with literary ambition Finkle had hesitated no -longer: he could live on nothing in the country—for a time. He had -the fifty pounds, he had saved it, it had taken him seven years, but -he had made it and saved it. He handed in his notice. That was very -astonishing to his master, who esteemed him, but more astonishing to -Finkle was the parting gift of ten pounds which the master had given -him. The workmen, too, had collected more money for him, and bought -for him a clock, a monster, it weighed twelve pounds and had a brass -figure of Lohengrin on the top, while the serene old messenger man who -cleaned the windows and bought surreptitious beer for the clerks gave -him a prescription for the instantaneous relief of a painful stomach -ailment. “It might come in handy,” he had said. That was two years ago, -and now just think! He had bought himself an inkpot of crystalline -glass—a large one, it held nearly half a pint—and two pens, one for -red ink and one for black, besides a quill for signing his name with. -Here he was at “Pretty Peter” and the devil himself was in it! Nothing -had ever been right, the hamlet itself was poor. Like all places near -the chalk hills its roads were of flint, the church was of flint, the -farms and cots of flint with brick corners. There was an old milestone -outside his cot, he was pleased with that, it gave the miles to London -and the miles to Winchester, it was nice to have a milestone there like -that—your very own. - -He finished shaving and threw open the cottage door; the scent of -wallflowers and lilac came to him as sweet almost as a wedge of newly -cut cake. The may bloom on his hedge drooped over the branches like -crudded cream, and the dew in the gritty road smelled of harsh dust in -a way that was pleasant. Well, if the cottage wasn’t much good, the bit -of a garden was all right. - -There was a rosebush too, a little vagrant in its growth. He leaned -over his garden gate; there was no one in sight. He took out the fire -shovel and scooped up a clot of manure that lay in the road adjacent to -his cottage and trotted back to place it in a little heap at the root -of those scatter-brained roses, pink and bulging, that never seemed to -do very well and yet were so satisfactory. - -“Nicish day,” remarked Finkle, lolling against his doorpost, “but -it’s always nice if you are doing a good day’s work. The garden is all -right, and literature is all right, and life’s all right—only I live -too much on porridge. It isn’t the privation itself, it’s the things -privation makes a man do. It makes a man do things he ought not want to -do, it makes him mean, it makes him feel mean, I tell you, and if he -feels mean and thinks mean he writes meanly, that’s how it is.” - -He had written topical notes and articles, stories of gay life (of -which he knew nothing), of sport (of which he knew less), a poem about -“hope,” and some cheerful pieces for a girls’ weekly paper. And yet his -outgoings still exceeded his income, painfully and perversely after two -years. It was terrifying. He wanted success, he had come to conquer—not -to find what he _had_ found. But he would be content with encouragement -now even if he did not win success; it was absolutely necessary, he -had not sold a thing for six months, his public would forget him, his -connection would be gone. - -“There’s no use though,” mused Finkle, as he scrutinized his worn -boots, “in looking at things in detail, that’s mean; a large view is -the thing. Whatever is isolated is bound to look alarming.” - -But he continued to lean against the doorpost in the full blaze of the -stark, almost gritty sunlight, thinking mournfully until he heard the -porridge in the saucepan begin to bubble. Turning into the room he felt -giddy, and scarlet spots and other phantasmagoria waved in the air -before him. - -Without an appetite he swallowed the porridge and ate some bread and -cheese and watercress. Watercress, at least, was plentiful there, for -the little runnels that came down from the big hills expanded in the -Predy Peter fields and in their shallow bottoms the cress flourished. - -He finished his breakfast, cleared the things away, and sat down to -see if he could write, but it was in vain—he could not write. He could -think, but his mind would embrace no subject, it just teetered about -with the objects within sight, the empty, disconsolate grate, the -pattern of the rug, and the black butterfly that had hung dead upon -the wall for so many months. Then he thought of the books he intended -to read but could never procure, the books he had procured but did not -like, the books he had liked but was already, so soon, forgetting. -Smoking would have helped and he wanted to smoke, but he could not -afford it now. If ever he had a real good windfall he intended to buy a -tub, a little tub it would have to be of course, and he would fill it -to the bung with cigarettes, full to the bung, if it cost him pounds. -And he would help himself to one whenever he had a mind to do so. - -“Bah, you fool!” he murmured, “you think you have the whole world -against you, that you are fighting it, keeping up your end with -heroism! Idiot! What does it all amount to? You’ve withdrawn yourself -from the world, run away from it, and here you sit making futile dabs -at it, like a child sticking pins into a pudding and wondering why -nothing happens. What _could_ happen? What? The world doesn’t know -about you, or care, you are useless. It isn’t aware of you any more -than a chain of mountains is aware of a gnat. And whose fault is -that—is it the mountains’ fault? Idiot! But I can’t starve and I must -go and get a job as a railway porter, it’s all I’m fit for.” - -Two farmers paused outside Finkle’s garden and began a solid -conversation upon a topic that made him feel hungry indeed. He -listened, fascinated, though he was scarcely aware of it. - -“Six-stone lambs,” said one, “are fetching three pounds apiece.” - -“Ah!” - -“I shall fat some.” - -“Myself I don’t care for lamb, never did care.” - -“It’s good eating.” - -“Ah, but I don’t care for it. Now we had a bit of spare rib last night -off an old pig. ’Twas cold, you know, but beautiful. I said to my dame: -‘What can mortal man want better than spare rib off an old pig? Tender -and white, ate like lard.’” - -“Yes, it’s good eating.” - -“Nor veal, I don’t like—nothing that’s young.” - -“Veal’s good eating.” - -“Don’t care for it, never did, it eats short to my mind.” - -Then the school bell began to ring so loudly that Finkle could hear -no more, but his mind continued to hover over the choice of lamb or -veal or old pork until he was angry. Why had he done this foolish -thing, thrown away his comfortable job, reasonable food, ease of mind, -friendship, pocket money, tobacco? Even his girl had forgotten him. -Why had he done this impudent thing, it was insanity surely? But he -knew that man has instinctive reasons that transcend logic, what a -parson would call the superior reason of the heart. - -“I wanted a change, and I got it. Now I want another change, but -what shall I get? Chance and change, they are the sweet features of -existence. Chance and change, and not too much prosperity. If I were an -idealist I could live from my hair upwards.” - -The two farmers separated. Finkle staring haplessly from his window saw -them go. Some schoolboys were playing a game of marbles in the road -there. Another boy sat on the green bank quietly singing, while one in -spectacles knelt slyly behind him trying to burn a hole in the singer’s -breeches with a magnifying glass. Finkle’s thoughts still hovered over -the flavours and satisfactions of veal and lamb and pig until, like -mother Hubbard, he turned and opened his larder. - -There, to his surprise, he saw four bananas lying on a saucer. Bought -from a travelling hawker a couple of days ago they had cost him -threepence halfpenny. And he had forgotten them! He could not afford -another luxury like that for a week at least, and he stood looking at -them, full of doubt. He debated whether he should take one now, he -would still have one left for Wednesday, one for Thursday, and one -for Friday. But he thought he would not, he had had his breakfast -and he had not remembered them. He grew suddenly and absurdly angry -again. That was the worst of poverty, not what it made you endure, but -what it made you _want_ to endure. Why shouldn’t he eat a banana—why -shouldn’t he eat all of them? And yet bananas always seemed to him -such luxuriant, expensive things, so much peel, and then two, or not -more than three, delicious bites. But if he fancied a banana—there it -was. No, he did not want to destroy the blasted thing! No reason at -all why he should not, but that was what continuous hardship did for -you, nothing could stop this miserable feeling for economy now. If he -had a thousand pounds at this moment he knew he would be careful about -bananas and about butter and about sugar and things like that; but he -would never have a thousand pounds, nobody had ever had it, it was -impossible to believe that anyone had ever had wholly and entirely to -themselves a thousand pounds. It could not be believed. He was like a -man dreaming that he had the hangman’s noose around his neck; yet the -drop did not take place, it did not take place, and it would not take -place. But the noose was still there. He picked up the bananas one -by one, the four bananas, the whole four. No other man in the world, -surely, had ever had four such fine bananas as that and not wanted to -eat them? O, why had such stupid, mean scruples seized him again? It -was disgusting and ungenerous to himself, it made him feel mean, it -_was_ mean! Rushing to his cottage door he cried: “Here y’are!” to the -playing schoolboys and flung two of the bananas into the midst of them. -Then he flung another. He hesitated at the fourth, and tearing the peel -from it he crammed the fruit into his own mouth, wolfing it down and -gasping: “So perish all such traitors.” - -When he had completely absorbed its savour, he stared like a fool -at the empty saucer. It was empty, the bananas were gone, all four -irrecoverably gone. - -“Damned pig!” cried Finkle. - -But then he sat down and wrote all this, just as it appears. - - -[Illustration: Publisher's device] - - LONDON: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND GRIGGS (PRINTERS), LTD. - CHISWICK PRESS, TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. - - - - - * * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber’s note: - -Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. - -Variations in hyphenation have been standardised but all other -spelling and punctuation remains unchanged. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK DOG*** - - -******* This file should be named 61016-0.txt or 61016-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/1/0/1/61016 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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E. (Alfred Edgar) Coppard</title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -h1 -{ - margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; - text-align: center; - font-size: x-large; - font-weight: normal; - line-height: 1.6; -} - - h2,h3,h4 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; - } - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} - -.half-title { - margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; - text-align: center; - font-size: x-large; - font-weight: normal; - line-height: 1.6; - } - -/* Paragraphs */ - -p {text-indent: 1em; - margin-top: .75em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .75em; - } - -.pnind {text-indent: 0em;} -.psig {text-align: right; margin-right: 2em;} -.pdate {margin-left: 2em;} - - -.space-above {margin-top: 3em;} -.space-below {margin-bottom: 3em;} -.mleft {margin-left: 20%; text-indent: 0em;} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -hr.small {width: 25%; margin-left: 37.5%; margin-right: 37.5%;} - - -table { - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; -} - .tdl {text-align: left;} - .tdr {text-align: right;} - -.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - /* visibility: hidden; */ - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; -} /* page numbers */ - - -.blockquote { - margin-left: 5%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -div.hangsection p {text-indent: -3em; margin-left: 3em;} - - -.center {text-align: center;} - - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.small {font-size: small;} - -.large {font-size: large;} - -/* Images */ - -img {border: none; max-width: 100%} - -.figcenter { - margin: 1em auto; - text-align: center; - } - - -/* Poetry */ - - .poetry-container { - text-align: center; - margin: -1em 0; - } - - .poetry { - display: inline-block; - text-align: left; - } - -.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} - -.poetry .verse { - text-indent: -3em; - padding-left: 3em; - } - -.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2em;} -.poetry .indent10 {text-indent: 2em;} - - -@media handheld { - .poetry { - display: block; - margin-left: 1em; - } - -} - -/* Transcriber's notes */ - -.transnote { - background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; - } - - - h1.pg { margin-top: 0em; - font-weight: bold; - line-height: 1; - clear: both; } - hr.full { width: 100%; - margin-top: 3em; - margin-bottom: 0em; - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; - height: 4px; - border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ - border-style: solid; - border-color: #000000; - clear: both; } - </style> -</head> -<body> -<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Black Dog, by A. E. (Alfred Edgar) Coppard</h1> -<p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States -and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no -restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: The Black Dog</p> -<p> And Other Stories</p> -<p>Author: A. E. (Alfred Edgar) Coppard</p> -<p>Release Date: December 25, 2019 [eBook #61016]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: UTF-8</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK DOG***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4>E-text prepared by ellinora, Les Galloway,<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (<a href="https://archive.org">https://archive.org</a>)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - <a href="https://archive.org/details/blackdogothersto00coppuoft"> - https://archive.org/details/blackdogothersto00coppuoft</a> - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<p class="half-title">THE BLACK DOG<br /> - -<i><small>Tales</small></i></p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<p class="center"><i>By the Same Author</i></p> - - -<p class="mleft"> -ADAM AND EVE AND PINCH ME<br /> -CLORINDA WALKS IN HEAVEN<br /> -HIPS AND HAWS</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<h1> -<i><small>The</small></i><br /> -BLACK DOG</h1> - -<p class="center"><i>and other stories by</i></p> - -<p class="center space-below">A. E. COPPARD</p> - - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="Publishers Device" /> -</div> - - -<p class="center space-above">NEW YORK<br /> -ALFRED A. KNOPF<br /> -1923</p> - - - - - -<p class="center small"><i>Made and printed in Great Britain by Charles Whittingham<br /> -and Griggs (Printers), Ltd., London.</i></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<p class="half-title"> -<i>to</i><br /> -GAY</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">7</span></p> - - - - -<p><span class="large">I</span> record my acknowledgments to the Editors -of the following journals in which some of these -tales first appeared:</p> - -<p class="pdate"> -<i>The Saturday Review</i>, <i>The Westminster Gazette</i>,<br /> -<i>The Sovereign Magazine</i>, <i>The English Review</i>,<br /> -<i>The Dial</i>, <i>The Metropolitan</i>, <i>The Double Dealer</i>.</p> -<p class="psig">A. E. C.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">9</span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="Contents" id="Contents"><i>Contents</i></a></h2> - - -<div class="center"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"></td><td class="tdr"><small>PAGE</small></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Black_Dog">THE BLACK DOG</a></td> - <td class="tdr">13</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#Alas_Poor_Bollington">ALAS, POOR BOLLINGTON!</a></td> - <td class="tdr">50</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Ballet_Girl">THE BALLET GIRL</a></td> - <td class="tdr">62</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#Simple_Simon">SIMPLE SIMON</a></td> - <td class="tdr">79</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Tiger">THE TIGER</a></td> - <td class="tdr">91</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#Mordecai_and_Cocking">MORDECAI AND COCKING</a></td> - <td class="tdr">107</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Man_from_Kilsheelan">THE MAN FROM KILSHEELAN</a></td> - <td class="tdr">113</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#Tribute">TRIBUTE</a></td> - <td class="tdr">133</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Handsome_Lady">THE HANDSOME LADY</a></td> - <td class="tdr">139</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Fancy_Dress_Ball">THE FANCY DRESS BALL</a></td> - <td class="tdr">173</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Cat_the_Dog_and_the_bad_old_Dame">THE CAT, THE DOG, AND THE BAD OLD DAME</a></td> - <td class="tdr">188</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Wife_of_Ted_Wickham">THE WIFE OF TED WICKHAM</a></td> - <td class="tdr">195</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#Tanil">TANIL</a></td> - <td class="tdr">206</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Devil_in_the_Churchyard">THE DEVIL IN THE CHURCHYARD</a></td> - <td class="tdr">228</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#Huxley_Rustem">HUXLEY RUSTEM</a></td> - <td class="tdr">236</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#Big_Game">BIG GAME</a></td> - <td class="tdr">243</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Poor_Man">THE POOR MAN</a></td> - <td class="tdr">252</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><a href="#Luxury">LUXURY</a></td> - <td class="tdr">286</td> -</tr> -</table></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">11</span></p> - - -<p class="center">THE BLACK DOG<br /> - -<i>Tales</i></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">13</span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - - -<h2 id="The_Black_Dog"><i>The Black Dog</i></h2> - - -<p>Having pocketed his fare the -freckled rustic took himself and his antediluvian -cab back to the village limbo from -which they had briefly emerged. Loughlin checked -his luggage into the care of the porter, an angular -man with one eye who was apparently the only other -living being in this remote minute station, and sat -down in the platform shade. July noon had a stark -eye-tiring brightness, and a silence so very deep—when -that porter ceased his intolerable clatter—that -Loughlin could hear footsteps crunching in the road -half a mile away. The train was late. There were no -other passengers. Nothing to look at except his -trunks, two shiny rails in the grim track, red hollyhocks -against white palings on the opposite bank.</p> - -<p>The holiday in this quiet neighbourhood had -delighted him, but its crowning experience had been -too brief. On the last day but one the loveliest -woman he had ever known had emerged almost as -briefly as that cabman. Some men are constantly -meeting that woman. Not so the Honourable -Gerald Loughlin, but no man turns his back tranquilly -on destiny even if it is but two days old and -already some half-dozen miles away. The visit had -come to its end, Loughlin had come to his station, the -cab had gone back to its lair, but on reflection he -could find no other reasons for going away and denying -himself the delight of this proffered experience. -Time was his own, as much as he could buy of it, and -he had an income that enabled him to buy a good deal.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">14</span></p> - -<p>Moody and hesitant he began to fill his pipe when -the one-eyed porter again approached him.</p> - -<p>“Take a pipe of that?” said Loughlin, offering -him the pouch.</p> - -<p>“Thanky, sir, but I can’t smoke a pipe; a cigarette -I take now and again, thanky, sir, not often, just -to keep me from cussing and damming. My wife -buys me a packet sometimes, she says I don’t swear -so much then, but I don’t know, I has to knock ’em -off soon’s they make me feel bad, and then, dam it all, -I be worsen ever....”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said the other, interrupting him, -“I’m not going by this train after all. Something -I have forgotten. Now look after my bags and I’ll -come along later, this afternoon.” He turned and -left the station as hurriedly as if his business was -really of the high importance the porter immediately -conceived it to be.</p> - -<p>The Honourable Gerald, though handsome and -honest, was not a fool. A fool is one who becomes -distracted between the claims of instinct and common -sense; the larger foolishness is the peculiar doom of -imaginative people, artists and their kind, while the -smaller foolishness is the mark of all those who have -nothing but their foolishness to endorse them. -Loughlin responded to this impulse unhesitatingly -but without distraction, calmly and directly as became -a well-bred bachelor in the early thirties. He might -have written to the young beauty with the queer -name, Orianda Crabbe, but that course teemed with -absurdities and difficulties for he was modest, his -romantic imagination weak, and he had only met her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">15</span> -at old Lady Tillington’s a couple of days before. Of -this mere girl, just twenty-three or twenty-four, he -knew nothing save that they had been immediately -and vividly charming to each other. That was no -excuse for presenting himself again to the old invalid -of Tillington Park, it would be impossible for him -to do so, but there had been one vague moment of -their recalled intercourse, a glimmering intimation, -which just now seemed to offer a remote possibility -of achievement, and so he walked on in the direction -of the park.</p> - -<p>Tillington was some miles off and the heat was -oppressive. At the end of an hour’s stroll he stepped -into “The Three Pigeons” at Denbury and drank -a deep drink. It was quiet and deliciously cool in the -taproom there, yes, as silent as that little station had -been. Empty the world seemed to-day, quite empty; -he had not passed a human creature. Happily -bemused he took another draught. Eighteen small -panes of glass in that long window and perhaps as -many flies buzzing in the room. He could hear and -see a breeze saluting the bright walled ivy outside and -the bushes by a stream. This drowsiness was heaven, -it made so clear his recollection of Orianda. It was -impossible to particularize but she was in her way, -her rather uncultured way, just perfection. He had -engaged her upon several themes, music, fishing -(Loughlin loved fishing), golf, tennis, and books; -none of these had particularly stirred her but she had -brains, quite an original turn of mind. There had -been neither time nor opportunity to discover anything -about her, but there she was, staying there, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">16</span> -was the one thing certain, apparently indefinitely, for -she described the park in a witty detailed way even to -a certain favourite glade which she always visited in -the afternoons. When she had told him that, he -could swear she was not finessing; no, no, it was a -most engaging simplicity, a frankness that was -positively marmoreal.</p> - -<p>He would certainly write to her; yes, and he began -to think of fine phrases to put in a letter, but could -there be anything finer, now, just at this moment, -than to be sitting with her in this empty inn. It was -not a fair place, though it was clean, but how she -would brighten it, yes! there were two long settles -and two short ones, two tiny tables and eight spittoons -(he <i>had</i> to count them), and somehow he felt her -image flitting adorably into this setting, defeating -with its native glory all the scrupulous beer-smelling -impoverishment. And then, after a while, he would -take her, and they would lie in the grass under a deep-bosomed -tree and speak of love. How beautiful she -would be. But she was not there, and so he left the -inn and crossed the road to a church, pleasant and -tiny and tidy, whitewalled and clean-ceilinged. A -sparrow chirped in the porch, flies hummed in the -nave, a puppy was barking in the vicarage garden. -How trivial, how absurdly solemn, everything seemed. -The thud of the great pendulum in the tower had the -sound of a dead man beating on a bar of spiritless -iron. He was tired of the vapid tidiness of these -altars with their insignificant tapestries, candlesticks -of gilded wood, the bunches of pale flowers oppressed -by the rich glow from the windows. He longed for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">17</span> -an altar that should be an inspiring symbol of belief, -a place of green and solemn walls with a dark velvet -shrine sweeping aloft to the peaked roof unhindered -by tarnishing lustre and tedious linen. Holiness was -always something richly dim. There was no more -holiness here than in the tough hassocks and rush-bottomed -chairs; not here, surely, the apple of Eden -flourished. And yet, turning to the lectern, he noted -the large prayer book open at the office of marriage. -He idly read over the words of the ceremony, filling -in at the gaps the names of Gerald Wilmot Loughlin -and Orianda Crabbe.</p> - -<p>What a fool! He closed the book with a slam and -left the church. Absurd! You <i>couldn’t</i> fall in love -with a person as sharply as all that, could you? But -why not? Unless fancy was charged with the lightning -of gods it was nothing at all.</p> - -<p>Tramping away still in the direction of Tillington -Park he came in the afternoon to that glade under -a screen of trees spoken of by the girl. It was -green and shady, full of scattering birds. He flung -himself down in the grass under a deep-bosomed -tree. She had spoken delightfully of this delightful -spot.</p> - -<p>When she came, for come she did, the confrontation -left him very unsteady as he sprang to his feet. -(Confound that potation at “The Three Pigeons”! -Enormously hungry, too!) But he was amazed, -entranced, she was so happy to see him again. They -sat down together, but he was still bewildered and -his confusion left him all at sixes and sevens. Fortunately -her own rivulet of casual chatter carried them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">18</span> -on until he suddenly asked: “Are you related -to the Crabbes of Cotterton—I fancy I know -them?”</p> - -<p>“No, I think not, no, I am from the south country, -near the sea, nobody at all, my father keeps an inn.”</p> - -<p>“An inn! How extraordinary! How very ... -very ...”</p> - -<p>“Extraordinary?” Nodding her head in the -direction of the hidden mansion she added: “I am -her companion.”</p> - -<p>“Lady Tillington’s?”</p> - -<p>She assented coolly, was silent, while Loughlin -ransacked his brains for some delicate reference that -would clear him over this ... this ... cataract. But -he felt stupid—that confounded potation at “The -Three Pigeons”! Why, that was where he had -thought of her so admirably, too. He asked if she -cared for the position, was it pleasant, and so on. -Heavens, what an astonishing creature for a domestic, -quite positively lovely, a compendium of delightful -qualities, this girl, so frank, so simple!</p> - -<p>“Yes, I like it, but home is better. I should love -to go back to my home, to father, but I can’t, I’m -still afraid—I ran away from home three years ago, -to go with my mother. I’m like my mother, she ran -away from home too.”</p> - -<p>Orianda picked up the open parasol which she had -dropped, closed it in a thoughtful manner, and laid -its crimson folds beside her. There was no other -note of colour in her white attire; she was without a -hat. Her fair hair had a quenching tinge upon it that -made it less bright than gold, but more rare. Her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">19</span> -cheeks had the colour of homely flowers, the lily and -the pink. Her teeth were as even as the peas in a -newly opened pod, as clear as milk.</p> - -<p>“Tell me about all that. May I hear it?”</p> - -<p>“I have not seen him or heard from him since, but -I love him very much now.”</p> - -<p>“Your father?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but he is stern, a simple man, and he is so -just. We live at a tiny old inn at the end of a village -near the hills. ‘The Black Dog.’ It is thatched -and has tiny rooms. It’s painted all over with pink, -pink whitewash.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I know.”</p> - -<p>“There’s a porch, under a sycamore tree, where -people sit, and an old rusty chain hanging on a hook -just outside the door.”</p> - -<p>“What’s that for?”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">20</span></p> -<p>“I don’t know what it is for, horses, perhaps, but -it is always there, I always see that rusty chain. And -on the opposite side of the road there are three lime -trees and behind them is the yard where my father -works. He makes hurdles and ladders. He is the -best hurdle maker in three counties, he has won many -prizes at the shows. It is splendid to see him working -at the willow wood, soft and white. The yard is full -of poles and palings, spars and fagots, and long -shavings of the thin bark like seaweed. It smells so -nice. In the spring the chaffinches and wrens are -singing about him all day long; the wren is lovely, but -in the summer of course it’s the whitethroats come -chippering, and yellow-hammers.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, blackbirds, thrushes, nightingales!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but it’s the little birds seem to love my -father’s yard.”</p> - -<p>“Well then, but why did you, why did you run -away?”</p> - -<p>“My mother was much younger, and different -from father; she was handsome and proud too, and -in all sorts of ways superior to him. They got to hate -each other; they were so quiet about it, but I could -see. Their only common interest was me, they both -loved me very much. Three years ago she ran away -from him. Quite suddenly, you know; there was -nothing at all leading up to such a thing. But I could -not understand my father, not then, he took it all so -calmly. He did not mention even her name to me -for a long time, and I feared to intrude; you see, I -did not understand, I was only twenty. When I did -ask about her he told me not to bother him, forbade -me to write to her. I didn’t know where she was, but -he knew, and at last I found out too.”</p> - -<p>“And you defied him, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“No, I deceived him. He gave me money for -some purpose—to pay a debt—and I stole it. I left -him a letter and ran away to my mother. I loved her.”</p> - -<p>“O well, that was only to be expected,” said -Loughlin. “It was all right, quite right.”</p> - -<p>“She was living with another man. I didn’t know. -I was a fool.”</p> - -<p>“Good lord! That was a shock for you,” Loughlin -said. “What did you do?”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">21</span></p> -<p>“No, I was not shocked, she was so happy. I -lived with them for a year....”</p> - -<p>“Extraordinary!”</p> - -<p>“And then she died.”</p> - -<p>“Your mother died!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, so you see I could not stop with my ... -I could not stay where I was, and I couldn’t go back -to my father.”</p> - -<p>“I see, no, but you want to go back to your father -now.”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid. I love him, but I’m afraid. I don’t -blame my mother, I feel she was right, quite right—it -was such happiness. And yet I feel, too, that -father was deeply wronged. I can’t understand that, -it sounds foolish. I should so love to go home again. -This other kind of life doesn’t seem to eclipse me—things -have been extraordinary kind—I don’t feel -out of my setting, but still it doesn’t satisfy, it is -polite and soft, like silk, perhaps it isn’t barbarous -enough, and I want to live, somehow—well, I have -not found what I wanted to find.”</p> - -<p>“What did you want to find?”</p> - -<p>“I shan’t know until I have found it. I do want -to go home now, but I am full of strange feelings -about it. I feel as if I was bearing the mark of something -that can’t be hidden or disguised of what my -mother did, as if I were all a burning recollection for -him that he couldn’t fail to see. He is good, a just -man. He ... he is the best hurdle maker in three -counties.”</p> - -<p>While listening to this daughter of a man who -made ladders the Honourable Gerald had been -swiftly thinking of an intriguing phrase that leaped -into his mind. Social plesiomorphism, that was it! -Caste was humbug, no doubt, but even if it was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">22</span> -conscious humbug it was there, really there, like the -patterned frost upon a window pane, beautiful though -a little incoherent, and conditioned only by the size -and number of your windows. (Eighteen windows -in that pub!) But what did it amount to, after all? -It was stuck upon your clear polished outline for -every eye to see, but within was something surprising -as the sight of a badger in church—until you got -used to the indubitable relation of such badgers to -such churches. Fine turpitudes!</p> - -<p>“My dear girl,” he burst out, “your mother and -you were right, absolutely. I am sure life is enhanced -not by amassing conventions, but by destroying them. -And your feeling for your father is right, too, rightest -of all. Tell me ... let me ... may I take you back -to him?”</p> - -<p>The girl’s eyes dwelt upon his with some intensity.</p> - -<p>“Your courage is kind,” she said, “but he doesn’t -know you, nor you him.” And to that she added, -“You don’t even know me.”</p> - -<p>“I have known you for ten thousand years. Come -home to him with me, we will go back together. Yes, -you can explain. Tell him”—the Honourable -Gerald had got the bit between his teeth now—“tell -him I’m your sweetheart, will you—will -you?”</p> - -<p>“Ten thousand ...! Yes, I know; but it’s -strange to think you have only seen me just once -before!”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">23</span></p> -<p>“Does that matter? Everything grows from that -one small moment into a world of ... well of ... -boundless admiration.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want,” said Orianda, reopening her -crimson parasol, “to grow into a world of any kind.”</p> - -<p>“No, of course you don’t. But I mean the -emotion is irresistible, ‘the desire of the moth for the -star,’ that sort of thing, you know, and I immolate -myself, the happy victim of your attractions.”</p> - -<p>“All that has been said before.” Orianda -adjusted her parasol as a screen for her raillery.</p> - -<p>“I swear,” said he, “I have not said it before, -never to a living soul.”</p> - -<p>Fountains of amusement beamed in her brilliant -eyes. She was exquisite; he was no longer in doubt -about the colour of her eyes—though he could not -describe them. And the precise shade of her hair was—well, -it was extraordinarily beautiful.</p> - -<p>“I mean—it’s been said to me!”</p> - -<p>“O damnation! Of course it’s been said to you. -Ah, and isn’t that my complete justification? But -you agree, do you not? Tell me if it’s possible. -Say you agree, and let me take you back to your -father.”</p> - -<p>“I think I would like you to,” the jolly girl said, -slowly.</p> - - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>On an August morning a few weeks later they -travelled down together to see her father. In -the interim Orianda had resigned her appointment, -and several times Gerald had met her secretly -in the purlieus of Tillington Park. The girl’s cool -casual nature fascinated him not less than her -appearance. Admiration certainly outdistanced his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">24</span> -happiness, although that also increased; but the bliss -had its shadow, for the outcome of their friendship -seemed mysteriously to depend on the outcome of the -proposed return to her father’s home, devotion to -that project forming the first principle, as it were, of -their intercourse. Orianda had not dangled before -him the prospect of any serener relationship; she took -his caresses as naturally and undemonstratively as a -pet bird takes a piece of sugar. But he had begun to -be aware of a certain force behind all her charming -naivete; the beauty that exhaled the freshness, the -apparent fragility, of a drop of dew had none the less -a savour of tyranny which he vowed should never, -least of all by him, be pressed to vulgar exercise.</p> - -<p>When the train reached its destination Orianda -confided calmly that she had preferred not to write to -her father. Really she did not know for certain -whether he was alive or even living on at the old home -she so loved. And there was a journey of three miles -or more which Orianda proposed to walk. So they -walked.</p> - -<p>The road lay across an expanse of marshy country -and approached the wooded uplands of her home -only by numerous eccentric divagations made -necessary by culverts that drained the marsh. The -day was bright; the sky, so vast an arch over this -flat land, was a very oven for heat; there were cracks -in the earth, the grass was like stubble. At the mid -journey they crossed a river by its wooden bridge, -upon which a boy sat fishing with stick and string. -Near the water was a long white hut with a flag; a -few tethered boats floated upon the stream. Gerald<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</span> -gave a shilling to a travelling woman who carried a -burden on her back and shuffled slowly upon the -harsh road sighing, looking neither to right nor left; -she did not look into the sky, her gaze was fastened -upon her dolorous feet, one two, one two, one two; -her shift, if she had such a garment, must have clung -to her old body like a shrimping net.</p> - -<p>In an hour they had reached the uplands and soon, -at the top of a sylvan slope where there was shade and -cooling air, Gerald saw a sign hung upon a sycamore -tree, <i>The Black Dog by Nathaniel Crabbe</i>. The inn -was small, pleasant with pink wash and brown paint, -and faced across the road a large yard encircled by -hedges, trees, and a gate. The travellers stood -peeping into the enclosure which was stocked with -new ladders, hurdles, and poles of various sizes. -Amid them stood a tall burly man at a block, -trimming with an axe the butt of a willow rod. He -was about fifty, clad in rough country clothes, a white -shirt, and a soft straw hat. He had mild simple -features coloured, like his arms and neck, almost to -the hue of a bay horse.</p> - -<p>“Hullo!” called the girl. The man with the axe -looked round at her unrecognizingly. Orianda -hurried through the gateway. “Father!” she cried.</p> - -<p>“I did not know. I was not rightly sure of ye,” -said the man, dropping the axe, “such a lady you’ve -grown.”</p> - -<p>As he kissed his daughter his heavy discoloured -hands rested on her shoulders, her gloved ones lay -against his breast. Orianda took out her purse.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</span></p> -<p>“Here is the money I stole, father.”</p> - -<p>She dropped some coins one by one into his palm. -He counted them over, and saying simply “Thank -you, my dear,” put them into his pocket.</p> - -<p>“I’m dashed!”—thought Loughlin, who had -followed the girl—“it’s exactly how <i>she</i> would take -it; no explanation, no apology. They do not know -what reproach means. Have they no code at all?”</p> - -<p>She went on chatting with her father, and seemed -to have forgotten her companion.</p> - -<p>“You mean you want to come back!” exclaimed -her father eagerly, “come back here? That would -be grand, that would. But look, tell me what I am -to do. I’ve—you see—this is how it is—”</p> - -<p>He spat upon the ground, picked up his axe, -rested one foot upon the axe-block and one arm upon -his knee. Orianda sat down upon a pile of the logs.</p> - -<p>“This is how it is ... be you married?”</p> - -<p>“Come and sit here, Gerald,” called the girl. -As he came forward Orianda rose and said: “This -is my very dear friend, father, Gerald Loughlin. -He has been so kind. It is he who has given me the -courage to come back. I wanted to for so long. O, -a long time, father, a long time. And yet Gerald had -to drag me here in the end.”</p> - -<p>“What was you afraid of, my girl?” asked the -big man.</p> - -<p>“Myself.”</p> - -<p>The two visitors sat upon the logs. “Shall I tell -you about mother?” asked the girl.</p> - -<p>Crabbe hesitated; looked at the ground.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, you might,” he said.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</span></p> -<p>“She died, did you know?”</p> - -<p>The man looked up at the trees with their myriads -of unmoving leaves; each leaf seemed to be listening.</p> - -<p>“She died?” he said softly. “No, I did not -know she died.”</p> - -<p>“Two years ago,” continued the girl, warily, as if -probing his mood.</p> - -<p>“Two years!” He repeated it without emotion. -“No, I did not know she died. ’Tis a bad job.” He -was quite still, his mind seemed to be turning over -his own secret memories, but what he bent forward -and suddenly said was: “Don’t say anything about -it in there.” He nodded towards the inn.</p> - -<p>“No?” Orianda opened her crimson parasol.</p> - -<p>“You see,” he went on, again resting one foot on -the axe-block and addressing himself more particularly -to Gerald: “I’ve ... this is how it is. When I -was left alone I could not get along here, not by -myself. That’s for certain. There’s the house and -the bar and the yard—I’d to get help, a young woman -from Brighton. I met her at Brighton.” He rubbed -the blade of the axe reflectively across his palm—“And -she manages house for me now, you see.”</p> - -<p>He let the axe fall again and stood upright. “Her -name’s Lizzie.”</p> - -<p>“O, quite so, you could do no other,” Gerald -exclaimed cheerfully, turning to the girl. But -Orianda said softly: “What a family we are! He -means he is living with her. And so you don’t want -your undutiful daughter after all, father?” Her -gaiety was a little tremulous.</p> - -<p>“No, no!” he retorted quickly,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">28</span> “you must come -back, you must come back, if so be you can. There’s -nothing I’d like better, nothing on this mortal earth. -My God, if something don’t soon happen I don’t -know what <i>will</i> happen.” Once more he stooped -for the axe. “That’s right, Orianda, yes, yes, but -you’ve no call to mention to her”—he glared uneasily -at the inn doorway—“that ... that about your -mother.”</p> - -<p>Orianda stared up at him though he would not -meet her gaze.</p> - -<p>“You mean she doesn’t know?” she asked, “you -mean she would want you to marry her if she did -know?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that’s about how it is with us.”</p> - -<p>Loughlin was amazed at the girl’s divination. It -seemed miraculous, what a subtle mind she had, -extraordinary! And how casually she took the old -rascal’s—well, what could you call it?—effrontery, -shame, misdemeanour, helplessness. But was not -her mother like it too? He had grasped nothing at -all of the situation yet, save that Nathaniel Crabbe -appeared to be netted in the toils of this housekeeper, -this Lizzie from Brighton. Dear Orianda was -“dished” now, poor girl. She could not conceivably -return to such a menage.</p> - -<p>Orianda was saying: “Then I may stay, father, -mayn’t I, for good with you?”</p> - -<p>Her father’s eyes left no doubt of his pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Can we give Gerald a bedroom for a few days? -Or do we ask Lizzie?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, better ask her,” said the shameless man. -“You want to make a stay here, sir?”</p> - -<p>“If it won’t incommode you,” replied Loughlin.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">29</span></p> - -<p>“O, make no doubt about that, to be sure no, I -make no doubt about that.”</p> - -<p>“Have you still got my old bedroom?” asked -Orianda, for the amount of dubiety in his air was in -prodigious antagonism to his expressed confidence.</p> - -<p>“Why yes, it may happen,” he replied slowly.</p> - -<p>“Then Gerald can have the spare room. It’s all -wainscot and painted dark blue. It’s a shrimp of a -room, but there’s a preserved albatross in a glass case -as big as a van.”</p> - -<p>“I make no doubt about that,” chimed in her -father, straightening himself and scratching his chin -uneasily, “you must talk to Lizzie.”</p> - -<p>“Splendid!” said Gerald to Orianda, “I’ve -never seen an albatross.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll ask Lizzie,” said she, “at once.”</p> - -<p>Loughlin was experiencing not a little inward -distress at this turn in the affair, but it was he who had -brought Orianda to her home, and he would have to -go through with the horrid business.</p> - -<p>“Is she difficult, father?”</p> - -<p>“No, she’s not difficult, not difficult, so to say, -you must make allowance.”</p> - -<p>The girl was implacable. Her directness almost -froze the blood of the Hon. Loughlin.</p> - -<p>“Are you fond of her. How long has she been -here?”</p> - -<p>“O, a goodish while, yes, let me see—no, she’s -not difficult, if that’s what you mean—three years, -perhaps.”</p> - -<p>“Well, but that’s long enough!”</p> - -<p>(Long enough for what—wondered Loughlin?)</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">30</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, it is longish.”</p> - -<p>“If you really want to get rid of her you could -tell her ...”</p> - -<p>“Tell her what?”</p> - -<p>“You know what to tell her!”</p> - -<p>But her father looked bewildered and professed his -ignorance.</p> - -<p>“Take me in to her,” said Orianda, and they all -walked across to “The Black Dog.” There was -no one within; father and daughter went into the -garden while Gerald stayed behind in a small parlour. -Through the window that looked upon a grass plot -he could see a woman sitting in a deck chair under a -tree. Her face was turned away so that he saw only -a curve of pink cheek and a thin mound of fair hair -tossed and untidy. Lizzie’s large red fingers were -slipping a sprig of watercress into a mouth that was -hidden round the corner of the curve. With her -other hand she was caressing a large brown hen that -sat on her lap. Her black skirt wrapped her limbs -tightly, a round hip and a thigh being rigidly outlined, -while the blouse of figured cotton also seemed -strained upon her buxom breast, for it was torn and -split in places. She had strong white arms and holes -in her stockings. When she turned to confront -the others it was easy to see that she was a foolish, -untidy, but still a rather pleasant woman of about -thirty.</p> - -<p>“How do you do, Lizzie?” cried Orianda, -offering a cordial hand. The hen fluttered away as, -smiling a little wanly, the woman rose.</p> - -<p>“Who is it, ’Thaniel?” she asked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</span></p> - -<p>Loughlin heard no more, for some men came noisily -into the bar and Crabbe hurried back to serve them.</p> - - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>In the afternoon Orianda drove Gerald in the gig -back to the station to fetch the baggage.</p> - -<p>“Well, what success, Orianda?” he asked as -they jogged along.</p> - -<p>“It would be perfect but for Lizzie—that <i>was</i> -rather a blow. But I should have foreseen her—Lizzies -are inevitable. And she <i>is</i> difficult—she -weeps. But, O I am glad to be home again. Gerald, -I feel I shall not leave it, ever.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Orianda,” he protested, “leave it for me. -I’ll give your nostalgia a little time to fade. I think -it was a man named Pater said: ‘All life is a wandering -to find home.’ You don’t want to omit the -wandering?”</p> - -<p>“Not if I have found my home again?”</p> - -<p>“A home with Lizzie!”</p> - -<p>“No, not with Lizzie.” She flicked the horse -with the whip. “I shall be too much for Lizzie; -Lizzie will resume her wandering. She’s as stupid -as a wax widow in a show. Nathaniel is tired of -Lizzie, and Lizzie of Nathaniel. The two wretches! -But I wish she did not weep.”</p> - -<p>Gerald had not observed any signs of tearfulness in -Lizzie at the midday dinner; on the contrary, she -seemed rather a jolly creature, not that she had spoken -much beyond “Yes, ’Thaniel, No, ’Thaniel,” or -Gerald, or Orianda, as the case had been. Her use -of his Christian name, which had swept him at once<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">32</span> -into the bosom of the family, shocked him rather -pleasantly. But he did not know what had taken -place between the two women; perhaps Lizzie had -already perceived and tacitly accepted her displacement.</p> - -<p>He was wakened next morning by unusual sounds, -chatter of magpies in the front trees, and the ching of -hammers on a bulk of iron at the smithy. Below his -window a brown terrier stood on its barrel barking -at a goose. Such common simple things had power -to please him, and for a few days everything at “The -Black Dog” seemed planned on this scale of novel -enjoyment. The old inn itself, the log yard, harvesting, -the chatter of the evening topers, even the village -Sunday delighted him with its parade of Phyllis and -Corydon, though it is true Phyllis wore a pink frock, -stockings of faint blue, and walked like a man, while -Corydon had a bowler hat and walked like a bear. -He helped ’Thaniel with axe, hammer, and plane, but -best of all was to serve mugs of beer nightly in the -bar and to drop the coins into the drawer of money. -The rest of the time he spent with Orianda whom he -wooed happily enough, though without establishing -any marked progress. They roamed in fields and in -copses, lounged in lanes, looking at things and idling -deliciously, at last returning home to be fed by Lizzie, -whose case somehow hung in the air, faintly deflecting -the perfect stream of felicity.</p> - -<p>In their favourite glade a rivulet was joined by a -number of springs bubbling from a pool of sand and -rock. Below it the enlarged stream was dammed into -a small lake once used for turning a mill, but now,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</span> -since the mill was dismantled, covered with arrow -heads and lily leaves, surrounded by inclining trees, -bushes of rich green growth, terraces of willow herb, -whose fairy-like pink steeples Orianda called “codlins -and cream,” and catmint with knobs of agreeable -odour. A giant hornbeam tree had fallen and lay half -buried in the lake. This, and the black poplars whose -vacillating leaves underscored the solemn clamour -of the outfall, gave to it the very serenity of desolation.</p> - -<p>Here they caught sight of the two woodpeckers -bathing in the springs, a cock and his hen, who had -flown away yaffling, leaving a pretty mottled feather -tinged with green floating there. It was endless -pleasure to watch each spring bubble upwards from -a pouch of sand that spread smoke-like in the water, -turning each cone into a midget Vesuvius. A wasp -crawled laboriously along a flat rock lying in the -pool. It moved weakly, as if, marooned like a -mariner upon some unknown isle, it could find no -way of escape; only, this isle was no bigger than a -dish in an ocean as small as a cartwheel. The wasp -seemed to have forgotten that it had wings, it creepingly -examined every inch of the rock until it came -to a patch of dried dung. Proceeding still as wearily -it paused upon a dead leaf until a breeze blew leaf -and insect into the water. The wasp was overwhelmed -by the rush from the bubbles, but at last -it emerged, clutching the woodpecker’s floating -feather and dragged itself into safety as a swimmer -heaves himself into a boat. In a moment it preened -its wings, flew back to the rock, and played at Crusoe -again. Orianda picked the feather from the pool.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">34</span></p> - -<p>“What a fool that wasp is,” declared Gerald, “I -wonder what it is doing?”</p> - -<p>Orianda, placing the feather in his hat, told him -it was probably wandering to find home.</p> - -<p>One day, brightest of all days, they went to picnic -in the marshes, a strange place to choose, all rank -with the musty smell of cattle, and populous with -grasshoppers that burred below you and millions, -quadrillions of flies that buzzed above. But Orianda -loved it. The vast area of coarse pasture harboured -not a single farmhouse, only a shed here and there -marking a particular field, for a thousand shallow -brooks flowed like veins from all directions to the -arterial river moving through its silent leagues. -Small frills of willow curving on the river brink, and -elsewhere a temple of lofty elms, offered the only -refuge from sun or storm. Store cattle roamed -unchecked from field to field, and in the shade of -gaunt rascally bushes sheep were nestling. Green -reeds and willow herb followed the watercourses -with endless efflorescence, beautiful indeed.</p> - -<p>In the late afternoon they had come to a spot where -they could see their village three or four miles away, -but between them lay the inexorable barrier of the -river without a bridge. There was a bridge miles -away to the right, they had crossed it earlier in the -day; and there was another bridge on the left, but -that also was miles distant.</p> - -<p>“Now what are we to do?” asked Orianda. She -wore a white muslin frock, a country frock, and a -large straw hat with poppies, a country hat. They -approached a column of trees. In the soft smooth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">35</span> -wind the foliage of the willows was tossed into delicate -greys. Orianda said they looked like cockshy heads -on spindly necks. She would like to shy at them, -but she was tired. “I know what we <i>could</i> do.” -Orianda glanced around the landscape, trees, and -bushes; the river was narrow, though deep, not more -than forty feet across, and had high banks.</p> - -<p>“You can swim, Gerald?”</p> - -<p>Yes, Gerald could swim rather well.</p> - -<p>“Then let’s swim it, Gerald, and carry our own -clothes over.”</p> - -<p>“Can you swim, Orianda?”</p> - -<p>Yes, Orianda could swim rather well.</p> - -<p>“All right then,” he said. “I’ll go down here -a little way.”</p> - -<p>“O, don’t go far, I don’t want you to go far away, -Gerald,” and she added softly, “my dear.”</p> - -<p>“No, I won’t go far,” he said, and sat down -behind a bush a hundred yards away. Here he -undressed, flung his shoes one after the other across -the river, and swimming on his back carried his -clothes over in two journeys. As he sat drying in the -sunlight he heard a shout from Orianda. He peeped -out and saw her sporting in the stream quite close -below him. She swam with a graceful overarm stroke -that tossed a spray of drops behind her and launched -her body as easily as a fish’s. Her hair was bound in a -handkerchief. She waved a hand to him. “You’ve -done it! Bravo! What courage! Wait for me. -Lovely.” She turned away like an eel, and at every -two or three strokes she spat into the air a gay little -fountain of water. How extraordinary she was.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</span> -Gerald wished he had not hurried. By and by he -slipped into the water again and swam upstream. -He could not see her.</p> - -<p>“Have you finished?” he cried.</p> - -<p>“I have finished, yes.” Her voice was close above -his head. She was lying in the grass, her face -propped between her palms, smiling down at him. -He could see bare arms and shoulders.</p> - -<p>“Got your clothes across?”</p> - -<p>“Of course.”</p> - -<p>“All dry?”</p> - -<p>She nodded.</p> - -<p>“How many journeys? I made two.”</p> - -<p>“Two,” said Orianda briefly.</p> - -<p>“You’re all right then.” He wafted a kiss, swam -back, and dressed slowly. Then as she did not appear -he wandered along to her humming a discreet and -very audible hum as he went. When he came upon -her she still lay upon the grass most scantily clothed.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” he said hastily, and full of -surprise and modesty walked away. The unembarrassed -girl called after him: “Drying my hair.”</p> - -<p>“All right”—he did not turn round—“no -hurry.”</p> - -<p>But what sensations assailed him. They aroused -in his decent gentlemanly mind not exactly a tumult, -but a flux of emotions, impressions, and qualms; -doubtful emotions, incredible impressions, and torturing -qualms. That alluring picture of Orianda, -her errant father, the abandoned Lizzie! Had the -water perhaps heated his mind though it had cooled -his body? He felt he would have to urge her, drag<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</span> -her if need be, from this “Black Dog.” The setting -was fair enough and she was fair, but lovely as she -was not even she could escape the brush of its -vulgarity, its plebeian pressure.</p> - -<p>And if all this has, or seems to have, nothing, or -little enough to do with the drying of Orianda’s hair, -it is because the Honourable Gerald was accustomed -to walk from grossness with an averted mind.</p> - -<p>“Orianda,” said he, when she rejoined him, -“when are you going to give it up. You cannot stay -here ... with Lizzie ... can you?”</p> - -<p>“Why not?” she asked, sharply tossing back her -hair. “I stayed with my mother, you know.”</p> - -<p>“That was different from this. I don’t know how, -but it must have been.”</p> - -<p>She took his arm. “Yes, it was. Lizzie I hate, -and poor stupid father loves her as much as he loves -his axe or his handsaw. I hate her meekness, too. -She has taken the heart out of everything. I must -get her away.”</p> - -<p>“I see your need, Orianda, but what can you do?”</p> - -<p>“I shall lie to her, lie like a libertine. And I shall -tell her that my mother is coming home at once. No -Lizzie could face that.”</p> - -<p>He was silent. Poor Lizzie did not know that -there was now no Mrs. Crabbe.</p> - -<p>“You don’t like my trick, do you?” Orianda -shook his arm caressingly.</p> - -<p>“It hasn’t any particular grandeur about it, you -know.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</span></p> -<p>“Pooh! You shouldn’t waste grandeur on clearing -up a mess. This is a very dirty Eden.”</p> - -<p>“No, all’s fair, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“But it isn’t war, you dear, if that’s what you -mean. I’m only doing for them what they are -naturally loth to do for themselves.” She pronounced -the word “loth” as if it rimed with moth.</p> - -<p>“Lizzie,” he said, “I’m sure about Lizzie. I’ll -swear there is still some fondness in her funny little -heart.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t love, though; she’s just sentimental in her -puffy kind of way. My dear Honourable, you don’t -know what love is.” He hated her to use his title, -for there was then always a breath of scorn in her -tone. Just at odd times she seemed to be—not -vulgar, that was unthinkable—she seemed to display -a contempt for good breeding. He asked with a -stiff smile “What <i>is</i> love?”</p> - -<p>“For me,” said Orianda, fumbling for a definition, -“for me it is a compound of anticipation and gratitude. -When either of these two ingredients is -absent love is dead.”</p> - -<p>Gerald shook his head, laughing. “It sounds like -a malignant bolus that I shouldn’t like to take. I feel -that love is just self-sacrifice. Apart from the taste -of the thing or the price of the thing, why and for -what this anticipation, this gratitude?</p> - -<p>“For the moment of passion, of course. Honour -thy moments of passion and keep them holy. But O, -Gerald Loughlin,” she added mockingly, “this you -cannot understand, for you are not a lover; you are -not, no, you are not even a good swimmer.” Her -mockery was adorable, but baffling.</p> - -<p>“I do not understand you,” he said. Now why in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</span> -the whole world of images should she refer to his -swimming? He <i>was</i> a good swimmer. He was -silent for a long time and then again he began to speak -of marriage, urging her to give up her project and -leave Lizzie in her simple peace.</p> - -<p>Then, not for the first time, she burst into a strange -perverse intensity that may have been love but might -have been rage, that was toned like scorn and yet -must have been a jest.</p> - -<p>“Lovely Gerald, you must never marry, Gerald, -you are too good for marriage. All the best women -are already married, yes, they are—to all the worst -men.” There was an infinite slow caress in her tone -but she went on rapidly. “So I shall never marry -you, how should I marry a kind man, a good man? -I am a barbarian, and want a barbarian lover, to crush -and scarify me, but you are so tender and I am so -crude. When your soft eyes look on me they look -on a volcano.”</p> - -<p>“I have never known anything half as lovely,” he -broke in.</p> - -<p>Her sudden emotion, though controlled, was unconcealed -and she turned away from him.</p> - -<p>“My love is a gentleman, but with him I should -feel like a wild bee in a canary cage.”</p> - -<p>“What are you saying!” cried Gerald, putting -his arms around her. “Orianda!”</p> - -<p>“O yes, we do love in a mezzotinted kind of way. -You could do anything with me short of making me -marry you, anything, Gerald.” She repeated it -tenderly. “Anything. But short of marrying me I -could make you do nothing.” She turned from him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</span> -again for a moment or two. Then she took his arm -and as they walked on she shook it and said chaffingly, -“And what a timid swimmer my Gerald is.”</p> - -<p>But he was dead silent. That flux of sensations in -his mind had taken another twist, fiery and exquisite. -Like rich clouds they shaped themselves in the sky of -his mind, fancy’s bright towers with shining pinnacles.</p> - -<p>Lizzie welcomed them home. Had they enjoyed -themselves—yes, the day had been fine—and so they -had enjoyed themselves—well, well, that was right. -But throughout the evening Orianda hid herself from -him, so he wandered almost distracted about the -village until in a garth he saw some men struggling -with a cow. Ropes were twisted around its horns and -legs. It was flung to the earth. No countryman ever -speaks to an animal without blaspheming it, although -if he be engaged in some solitary work and inspired -to music, he invariably sings a hymn in a voice that -seems to have some vague association with wood pulp. -So they all blasphemed and shouted. One man, with -sore eyes, dressed in a coat of blue fustian and brown -cord trousers, hung to the end of a rope at an angle of -forty-five degrees. His posture suggested that he -was trying to pull the head off the cow. Two other -men had taken turns of other rope around some stout -posts, and one stood by with a handsaw.</p> - -<p>“What are you going to do?” asked Gerald.</p> - -<p>“Its harns be bent, yeu see,” said the man with the -saw, “they be going into its head. ’Twill blind or -madden the beast.”</p> - -<p>So they blasphemed the cow, and sawed off its -crumpled horns.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">41</span></p> - -<p>When Gerald went back to the inn Orianda was -still absent. He sat down but he could not rest. -He could never rest now until he had won her -promise. That lovely image in the river spat fountains -of scornful fire at him. “Do not leave me, -Gerald,” she had said. He would never leave her, -he would never leave her. But the men talking in the -inn scattered his flying fiery thoughts. They discoursed -with a vacuity whose very endlessness was -transcendent. Good God! Was there ever a living -person more magnificently inane than old Tottel, the -registrar. He would have inspired a stork to protest. -Of course, a man of his age should not have worn a -cap, a small one especially; Tottel himself was small, -and it made him look rumpled. He was bandy: his -intellect was bandy too.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” Mr. Tottel was saying, “it’s very interesting -to see interesting things, no matter if it’s man, -woman, or a object. The most interesting man as -I ever met in my life I met on my honeymoon. -Years ago. He made a lifelong study of railways, -that man, knew ’em from Alpha to ... to ... what -is it?”</p> - -<p>“Abednego,” said someone.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">42</span></p> -<p>“Yes, the trunk lines, the fares, the routs, the -junctions of anywheres in England or Scotland or -Ireland or Wales. London, too, the Underground. -I tested him, every station in correct order from -South Kensington to King’s Cross. A strange thing! -Nothing to do with railways in ’imself, it was just his -’obby. Was a Baptist minister, really, but still a most -interesting man.”</p> - -<p>Loughlin could stand it no longer, he hurried away -into the garden. He could not find her. Into the -kitchen—she was not there. He sat down excited -and impatient, but he must wait for her, he wanted to -know, to know at once. How divinely she could -swim! What was it he wanted to know? He tried -to read a book there, a ragged dusty volume about the -polar regions. He learned that when a baby whale -is born it weighs at least a ton. How horrible!</p> - -<p>He rushed out into the fields full of extravagant -melancholy and stupid distraction. That! All that -was to be her life here! This was your rustic beauty, -idiots and railways, boors who could choke an ox and -chop off its horns—maddening doubts, maddening -doubts—foul-smelling rooms, darkness, indecency. -She held him at arm’s length still, but she was dovelike, -and he was grappled to her soul with hoops of -steel, yes, indeed.</p> - -<p>But soon this extravagance was allayed. Dim -loneliness came imperceivably into the fields and he -turned back. The birds piped oddly; some wind -was caressing the higher foliage, turning it all one -way, the way home. Telegraph poles ahead looked -like half-used pencils; the small cross on the steeple -glittered with a sharp and shapely permanence.</p> - -<p>When he came to the inn Orianda was gone to -bed.</p> - - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>The next morning an air of uneasy bustle crept -into the house after breakfast, much going in and out -and up and down in restrained perturbation.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">43</span></p> - -<p>Orianda asked him if he could drive the horse and -trap to the station. Yes, he thought he could drive it.</p> - -<p>“Lizzie is departing,” she said, “there are her -boxes and things. It is very good of you, Gerald, if -you will be so kind. It is a quiet horse.”</p> - -<p>Lizzie, then, had been subdued. She was faintly -affable during the meal, but thereafter she had been -silent; Gerald could not look at her until the last -dreadful moment had come and her things were in -the trap.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, ’Thaniel,” she said to the innkeeper, -and kissed him.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, Orianda,” and she kissed Orianda, -and then climbed into the trap beside Gerald, who -said “Click click,” and away went the nag.</p> - -<p>Lizzie did not speak during the drive—perhaps -she was in tears. Gerald would have liked to comfort -her, but the nag was unusually spirited and clacked so -freshly along that he did not dare turn to the sorrowing -woman. They trotted down from the uplands -and into the windy road over the marshes. The -church spire in the town ahead seemed to change its -position with every turn of that twisting route. It -would have a background now of high sour-hued -down, now of dark woodland, anon of nothing but -sky and cloud; in a few miles further there would -be the sea. Hereabout there were no trees, few -houses, the world was vast and bright, the sky vast -and blue. What was prettiest of all was a windmill -turning its fans steadily in the draught from the sea. -When they crossed the river its slaty slow-going flow -was broken into blue waves.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">44</span></p> - -<p>At the station Lizzie dismounted without a word -and Gerald hitched the nag to a tree. A porter took -the luggage and labelled it while Gerald and Lizzie -walked about the platform. A calf with a sack over -its loins, tied by the neck to a pillar, was bellowing -deeply; Lizzie let it suck at her finger for a while, but -at last she resumed her walk and talked with her -companion.</p> - -<p>“She’s a fine young thing, clever, his daughter; -I’d do anything for her, but for him I’ve nothing to -say. What can I say? What could I do? I gave -up a great deal for that man, Mr. Loughlin—I’d -better not call you Gerald any more now—a great -deal. I knew he’d had trouble with his wicked wife, -and now to take her back after so many years, eh! -It’s beyond me, I know how he hates her. I gave up -everything for him, I gave him what he can’t give -back to me, and he hates her; you know?”</p> - -<p>“No, I did not know. I don’t know anything -of this affair.”</p> - -<p>“No, of course, you would not know anything of -this affair,” said Lizzie with a sigh. “I don’t want -to see him again. I’m a fool, but I got my pride, and -that’s something to the good, it’s almost satisfactory, -ain’t it?”</p> - -<p>As the train was signalled she left him and went -into the booking office. He marched up and down, -her sad case affecting him with sorrow. The poor -wretch, she had given up so much and could yet smile -at her trouble. He himself had never surrendered to -anything in life—that was what life demanded of you—surrender. -For reward it gave you love, this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">45</span> -swarthy, skin-deep love that exacted remorseless -penalties. What German philosopher was it who -said Woman pays the debt of life not by what she -does, but by what she suffers? The train rushed in. -Gerald busied himself with the luggage, saw that it -was loaded, but did not see its owner. He walked -rapidly along the carriages, but he could not find her. -Well, she was sick of them all, probably hiding from -him. Poor woman. The train moved off, and he -turned away.</p> - -<p>But the station yard outside was startlingly empty, -horse and trap were gone. The tree was still there, but -with a man leaning against it, a dirty man with a dirty -pipe and a dirty smell. Had he seen a horse and trap?</p> - -<p>“A brown mare?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Trap with yaller wheels?”</p> - -<p>“That’s it.”</p> - -<p>“O ah, a young ooman druv away in that....”</p> - -<p>“A young woman!”</p> - -<p>“Ah, two minutes ago.” And he described -Lizzie. “Out yon,” said the dirty man, pointing -with his dirty pipe to the marshes.</p> - -<p>Gerald ran until he saw a way off on the level -winding road the trap bowling along at a great pace; -Lizzie was lashing the cob.</p> - -<p>“The damned cat!” He puffed large puffs of -exasperation and felt almost sick with rage, but there -was nothing now to be done except walk back to -“The Black Dog,” which he began to do. Rage -gave place to anxiety, fear of some unthinkable -disaster, some tragic horror at the inn.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">46</span></p> - -<p>“What a clumsy fool! All my fault, my own -stupidity!” He groaned when he crossed the bridge -at the half distance. He halted there: “It’s dreadful, -dreadful!” A tremor in his blood, the shame of his -foolishness, the fear of catastrophe, all urged him to -turn back to the station and hasten away from these -miserable complications.</p> - -<p>But he did not do so, for across the marshes at the -foot of the uplands he saw the horse and trap coming -back furiously towards him. Orianda was driving it.</p> - -<p>“What has happened?” she cried, jumping from -the trap. “O, what fear I was in, what’s happened?” -She put her arms around him tenderly.</p> - -<p>“And I was in great fear,” he said with a laugh -of relief. “What has happened?”</p> - -<p>“The horse came home, just trotted up to the door -and stood still. Covered with sweat and foam, you -see. The trap was empty. We couldn’t understand -it, anything, unless you had been flung out and were -bleeding on the road somewhere. I turned the thing -back and came on at once.” She was without a hat; -she had been anxious and touched him fondly. “Tell -me what’s the scare?”</p> - -<p>He told her all.</p> - -<p>“But Lizzie was not in the trap,” Orianda -declared excitedly. “She has not come back. What -does it mean, what does she want to do? Let us find -her. Jump up, Gerald.”</p> - -<p>Away they drove again, but nobody had seen anything -of Lizzie. She had gone, vanished, dissolved, -and in that strong warm air her soul might indeed -have been blown to Paradise. But they did not know<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">47</span> -how or why. Nobody knew. A vague search was -carried on in the afternoon, guarded though fruitless -enquiries were made, and at last it seemed clear, -tolerably clear, that Lizzie had conquered her mad -impulse or intention or whatever it was, and walked -quietly away across the fields to a station in another -direction.</p> - - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>For a day or two longer time resumed its sweet slow -delightfulness, though its clarity was diminished and -some of its enjoyment dimmed. A village woman -came to assist in the mornings, but Orianda was now -seldom able to leave the inn; she had come home to a -burden, a happy, pleasing burden, that could not often -be laid aside, and therefore a somewhat lonely -Loughlin walked the high and the low of the country -by day and only in the evenings sat in the parlour -with Orianda. Hope too was slipping from his heart -as even the joy was slipping from his days, for the -spirit of vanished Lizzie, defrauded and indicting, -hung in the air of the inn, an implacable obsession, a -triumphant forboding that was proved a prophecy -when some boys fishing in the mill dam hooked dead -Lizzie from the pool under the hornbeam tree.</p> - -<p>Then it was that Loughlin’s soul discovered to him -a mass of feelings—fine sympathy, futile sentiment, -a passion for righteousness, morbid regrets—from -which a tragic bias was born. After the dread ordeal -of the inquest, which gave a passive verdict of Found -Drowned, it was not possible for him to stem this -disloyal tendency of his mind. It laid that drowned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">48</span> -figure accusatively at the feet of his beloved girl, and -no argument or sophistry could disperse the venal -savour that clung to the house of “The Black Dog.” -“To analyse or assess a person’s failings or -deficiencies,” he declared to himself, “is useless, not -because such blemishes are immovable, but because -they affect the mass of beholders in divers ways. -Different minds perceive utterly variant figures in the -same being. To Brown Robinson is a hero, to Jones -a snob, to Smith a fool. Who then is right? You are -lucky if you can put your miserable self in relation at -an angle where your own deficiencies are submerged -or minimized, and wise if you can maintain your -vision of that interesting angle.” But embedded in -Loughlin’s modest intellect there was a stratum of -probity that was rock to these sprays of the casuist; -and although Orianda grew more alluring than ever, -he packed his bag, and on a morning she herself -drove him in the gig to the station.</p> - -<p>Upon that miserable departure it was fitting that -rain should fall. The station platform was piled -with bushel baskets and empty oil barrels. It rained -with a quiet remorselessness. Neither spoke a word, -no one spoke, no sound was uttered but the faint -flicking of the raindrops. Her kiss to him was long -and sweet, her good-bye almost voiceless.</p> - -<p>“You will write?” she whispered.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will write.”</p> - -<p>But he does not do so. In London he has not -forgotten, but he cannot endure the thought of that -countryside—to be far from the madding crowd is to -be mad indeed. It is only after some trance of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">49</span> -recollection, when his fond experience is all delicately -and renewingly there, that he wavers; but time and -time again he relinquishes or postpones his return. -And sometimes he thinks he really will write a letter -to his friend who lives in the country.</p> - -<p>But he does not do so.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">50</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="Alas_Poor_Bollington"><i>Alas, Poor Bollington!</i></h2> - - -<p>“I walked out of the hotel, just -as I was, and left her there. I never went back -again. I don’t think I intended anything quite -so final, so dastardly; I had not intended it, I had not -thought of doing so, but that is how it happened. I -lost her, lost my wife purposely. It was heartless, it -was shabby, for she was a nice woman, a charming -woman, a good deal younger than I was, a splendid -woman, in fact she was very beautiful, and yet I ran -away from her. How can you explain that, Turner?”</p> - -<p>Poor Bollington looked at Turner, who looked at -his glass of whiskey, and that looked irresistible—he -drank some. Bollington sipped a little from his glass -of milk.</p> - -<p>I often found myself regarding Bollington as a -little old man. Most of the club members did so too, -but he was not that at all, he was still on the sunny side -of fifty, but <i>so</i> unassertive, no presence to speak of, no -height, not enough hair to mention—if he had had it -would surely have been yellow. So mild and modest -he cut no figure at all, just a man in glasses that -seemed rather big for him. Turner was different, -though he was just as bald; he had stature and bulk, -his very pince-nez seemed twice the size of -Bollington’s spectacles. They had not met each -other for ten years.</p> - -<p>“Well, yes,” Turner said, “but that was a serious -thing to do.”</p> - -<p>“Wasn’t it!” said the other, “and I had no idea -of the enormity of the offence—not at the time.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">51</span> -She might have been dead, poor girl, and her executors -advertising for me. She had money you know, -her people had been licensed victuallers, quite -wealthy. Scandalous!”</p> - -<p>Bollington brooded upon his sin until Turner -sighed: “Ah well, my dear chap.”</p> - -<p>“But you have no idea,” protested Bollington, -“how entirely she engrossed me. She was twenty-five -and I was forty when we married. She was -entrancing. She had always lived in a stinking hole -in Balham, and it is amazing how strictly some of -those people keep their children; licensed victuallers, -did I tell you? Well I was forty, and she was -twenty-five; we lived for a year dodging about -from one hotel to another all over the British Isles, -she was a perfect little nomad. Are you married, -Turner?”</p> - -<p>No, Turner was not married, he never had been.</p> - -<p>“O, but you should be,” cried little Bollington, -“it’s an extraordinary experience, the real business -of the world is marriage, marriage. I was deliriously -happy and she was learning French and Swedish—that’s -where we were going later. She was an -enchanting little thing, fair, with blue eyes; Phoebe -her name was.”</p> - -<p>Turner thoughtfully brushed his hand across his -generous baldness, then folded his arms.</p> - -<p>“You really should,” repeated Bollington, “you -ought to, really. But I remember we went from -Killarney to Belfast, and there something dreadful -happened. I don’t know, it had been growing on her -I suppose, but she took a dislike to me there, had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">52</span> -strange fancies, thought I was unfaithful to her. You -see she was popular wherever we went, a lively little -woman, in fact she wasn’t merely a woman, she was -a little magnet, men congregated and clung to her -like so many tacks and nails and pins. I didn’t object -at all—on the contrary, ‘Enjoy yourself, Phoebe,’ -I said, ‘I don’t expect you always to hang around an -old fogey like me.’ Fogey was the very word I used; -I didn’t mean it, of course, but that was the line I -took, for she was so charming until she began to get so -bad tempered. And believe me, that made her -angry, furious. No, not the fogey, but the idea that I -did not object to her philandering. It was fatal, it -gave colour to her suspicions of me—Turner, I was -as innocent as any lamb—tremendous colour. And -she had such a sharp tongue! If you ventured to -differ from her—and you couldn’t help differing -sometimes—she’d positively bludgeon you, and you -couldn’t help being bludgeoned. And she had a -passion for putting me right, and I always seemed to -be so very wrong, always. She would not be satisfied -until she had proved it, and it was so monstrous -to be made feel that because you were rather different -from other people you were an impertinent fool. Yes, -I seemed at last to gain only the pangs and none of the -prizes of marriage. Now there was a lady we met -in Belfast to whom I paid some attention....”</p> - -<p>“O, good lord!” groaned Turner.</p> - -<p>“No, but listen,” pleaded Bollington, “it was a -very innocent friendship—nothing was further from -my mind—and she was very much like my wife, -very much, it was noticeable, everybody spoke of it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">53</span>— -I mean the resemblance. A Mrs. Macarthy, a -delightful woman, and Phoebe simply loathed her. -I confess that my wife’s innuendoes were so mean and -persistent that at last I hadn’t the strength to deny -them, in fact at times I wished they were true. Love -is idolatry if you like, but it cannot be complete -immolation—there’s no such bird as the phœnix, is -there, Turner?”</p> - -<p>“What, what?”</p> - -<p>“No such bird as the phœnix.”</p> - -<p>“No, there is no such bird, I believe.”</p> - -<p>“And sometimes I had to ask myself quite -seriously if I really hadn’t been up to some infidelity! -Nonsense, of course, but I assure you that was the -effect it was having upon me. I had doubts of -myself, frenzied doubts! And it came to a head -between Phoebe and me in our room one day. We -quarrelled, O dear, how we quarrelled! She said -I was sly, two-faced, unfaithful, I was a scoundrel, -and so on. Awfully untrue, all of it. She accused me -of dreadful things with Mrs. Macarthy and she -screamed out: ‘I hope you will treat her better than -you have treated me.’ Now what did she mean by -that, Turner?”</p> - -<p>Bollington eyed his friend as if he expected an -oracular answer, but just as Turner was about to -respond, Bollington continued:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">54</span> “Well, I never -found out, I never knew, for what followed was too -terrible. ‘I shall go out,’ I said, ‘it will be better, -I think.’ Just that, nothing more. I put on my hat -and I put my hand on the knob of the door when she -said most violently: ‘Go with your Macarthys, I -never want to see your filthy face again!’ Extraordinary -you know, Turner. Well, I went out, and -I will not deny I was in a rage, terrific. It was raining -but I didn’t care, and I walked about in it. Then I -took shelter in a bookseller’s doorway opposite a shop -that sold tennis rackets and tobacco, and another one -that displayed carnations and peaches on wads of -coloured wool. The rain came so fast that the streets -seemed to empty, and the passers-by were horridly -silent under their umbrellas, and their footsteps -splashed so dully, and I tell you I was very sad, -Turner, there. I debated whether to rush across the -road and buy a lot of carnations and peaches and take -them to Phoebe. But I did not do so, Turner, I -never went back, never.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Bollington, you, you were a positive -ruffian, Bollington.”</p> - -<p>“O, scandalous,” rejoined the ruffian.</p> - -<p>“Well, out with it, what about this Mrs. -Macarthy?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Macarthy? But, Turner, I never saw her -again, never, I ... I forgot her. Yes, I went prowling -on until I found myself at the docks and there it -suddenly became dark; I don’t know, there was no -evening, no twilight, the day stopped for a moment—and -it did not recover. There were hundreds of -bullocks slithering and panting and steaming in the -road, thousands; lamps were hung up in the harbour, -cabs and trollies rattled round the bullocks, the rain -fell dismally and everybody hurried. I went into the -dock and saw them loading the steamer, it was called -s.s. <i>Frolic</i>, and really, Turner, the things they put into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">55</span> -the belly of that steamer were rather funny: tons and -tons of monstrous big chain, the links as big as soup -plates, and two or three pantechnicon vans. Yes, but -I was anything but frolicsome, I assure you, I was full -of misery and trepidation and the deuce knows what. -I did not know what I wanted to do, or what I was -going to do, but I found myself buying a ticket to go -to Liverpool on that steamer, and, in short, I embarked. -How wretched I was, but how determined. -Everything on board was depressing and dirty, and -when at last we moved off the foam slewed away in -filthy bubbles as if that dirty steamer had been sick -and was running away from it. I got to Liverpool in -the early morn, but I did not stay there, it is such a -clamouring place, all trams and trollies and teashops. -I sat in the station for an hour, the most miserable -man alive, the most miserable ever born. I wanted -some rest, some peace, some repose, but they never -ceased shunting an endless train of goods trucks, -banging and screeching until I almost screamed at -the very porters. Criff was the name on some of the -trucks, I remember, Criff, and everything seemed to -be going criff, criff, criff. I haven’t discovered to -this day what Criff signifies, whether it’s a station or a -company, or a manufacture, but it was Criff, I -remember. Well, I rushed to London and put my -affairs in order. A day or two later I went to Southampton -and boarded another steamer and put to sea, -or rather we were ignominiously lugged out of the -dock by a little rat of a tug that seemed all funnel and -hooter. I was off to America, and there I stopped for -over three years.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">56</span></p> - -<p>Turner sighed. A waiter brought him another -glass of spirit.</p> - -<p>“I can’t help thinking, Bollington, that it was all -very fiery and touchy. Of course, I don’t know, but -really it was a bit steep, very squeamish of you. What -did your wife say?”</p> - -<p>“I never communicated with her, I never heard -from her, I just dropped out. My filthy face, you -know, she did not want to see it again.”</p> - -<p>“Oh come, Bollington! And what did Mrs. -Macarthy say?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Macarthy! I never saw or heard of her -again. I told you that.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, you told me. So you slung off to -America.”</p> - -<p>“I was intensely miserable there for a long while. -Of course I loved Phoebe enormously, I felt the -separation, I.... O, it is impossible to describe. But -what was worst of all was the meanness of my behaviour, -there was nothing heroic about it, I soon saw -clearly that it was a shabby trick, disgusting, I had -bolted and left her to the mercy of ... well, of whatever -there was. It made such an awful barrier—you’ve -no idea of my compunction—I couldn’t make -overtures—‘Let us forgive and forget.’ I was a mean -rascal, I <i>was</i> filthy. That was the barrier—myself; -I was too bad. I thought I should recover and enjoy -life again, I began to think of Phoebe as a cat, a little -cat. I went everywhere and did everything. But -America is a big country, I couldn’t get into contact, -I was lonely, very lonely, and although two years went -by I longed for Phoebe. Everything I did I wanted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">57</span> -to do with Phoebe by my side. And then my cousin, -my only relative in the world—he lived in England—he -died. I scarcely ever saw him, but still he was -my kin. And he died. You’ve no comprehension, -Turner, of the truly awful sensation such a bereavement -brings. Not a soul in the world now would -have the remotest interest in my welfare. O, I tell -you, Turner, it was tragic, tragic, when my cousin -died. It made my isolation complete. I was alone, -a man who had made a dreadful mess of life. What -with sorrow and remorse I felt that I should soon -die, not of disease, but disgust.”</p> - -<p>“You were a great ninny,” ejaculated his friend. -“Why the devil didn’t you hurry back, claim your -wife, bygones be bygones; why bless my conscience, -what a ninny, what a great ninny!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Turner, it is as you say. But though -conscience is a good servant it is a very bad master, it -overruled me, it shamed me, and I hung on to -America for still another year. I tell you my situation -was unbearable, I was tied to my misery, I was a -tethered dog, a duck without water—even dirty -water. And I hadn’t any faith in myself or in my -case; I knew I was wrong, had always been wrong, -Phoebe had taught me that. I hadn’t any faith, I -wish I had had. Faith can move mountains, so they -say, though I’ve never heard of it actually being -done.”</p> - -<p>“No, not in historical times,” declared Turner.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by that?”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">58</span></p> -<p>“O well, time is nothing, it’s nothing, it comes and -off it goes. Has it ever occurred to you, Bollington, -that in 5,000 years or so there will be nobody in the -world speaking the English language, our very existence -even will be speculated upon, as if we were the -Anthropophagi? O good lord, yes.”</p> - -<p>And another whiskey.</p> - -<p>“You know, Bollington, you were a perfect fool. -You behaved like one of those half-baked civil service -hounds who lunch in a dairy on a cup of tea and a -cream horn. You wanted some beef, some ginger. -You came back, you must have come back because -there you are now.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Turner, I came back after nearly four years. -Everything was different, ah, how strange! I could -not find Phoebe, it is weird how people can disappear. -I made enquiries, but it was like looking for a lost -umbrella, fruitless after so long.”</p> - -<p>“Well, but what about Mrs. Macarthy?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Bollington said, slowly and with the utmost -precision: “I did not see Mrs. Macarthy again.”</p> - -<p>“O, of course, you did not see her again, not ever.”</p> - -<p>“Not ever. I feared Phoebe had gone abroad too, -but at last I found her in London....”</p> - -<p>“No,” roared Turner, “why the devil couldn’t -you say so and done with it? I’ve been sweating with -sympathy for you. O, I say, Bollington!”</p> - -<p>“My dear Turner, listen. Do you know, she was -delighted to see me, she even kissed me, straight off, -and we went out to dine and had the very deuce of a -spread and we were having the very deuce of a good -time. She was lovelier than ever, and I could see all -her old affection for me was returning, she was so ... -well, I can’t tell you, Turner, but she had no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">59</span> -animosity whatever, no grievance, she would certainly -have taken me back that very night. O dear, dear -... and then! I was anxious to throw myself at her -feet, but you couldn’t do that in a public café, I could -only touch her hands, beautiful, as they lay on the -white linen cloth. I kept asking: ‘Do you forgive -me?’ and she would reply: ‘I have nothing to -forgive, dear, nothing.’ How wonderful that -sounded to my truly penitent soul—I wanted to die.</p> - -<p>“‘But you don’t ask me where I’ve been!’ she -cried gaily, ‘or what I’ve been doing, you careless old -Peter. I’ve been to France, and Sweden too!’</p> - -<p>“I was delighted to hear that, it was so very -plucky.</p> - -<p>“‘When did you go?’ I asked.</p> - -<p>“‘When I left you,’ she said.</p> - -<p>“‘You mean when I went away?’</p> - -<p>“‘Did you go away? O, of course, you must -have. Poor Peter, What a sad time he has had.’</p> - -<p>“I was a little bewildered, but I was delighted; -in fact, Turner, I was hopelessly infatuated again, I -wanted to wring out all the dregs of my detestable -villainy and be absolved. All I could begin with was: -‘Were you not very glad to be rid of me?’</p> - -<p>“‘Well,’ she said, ‘my great fear at first was that -you would find me again and make it up. I didn’t -want that then, at least, I thought I didn’t.’</p> - -<p>“‘That’s exactly what I felt,’ I exclaimed, ‘but -how could I find you?’</p> - -<p>“‘Well,’ Phoebe said,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">60</span> ‘you might have found out -and followed me. But I promise never to run away -again, Peter dear, never.’</p> - -<p>“Turner, my reeling intelligence swerved like a -shot bird.</p> - -<p>“‘Do you mean, Phoebe, that you ran away from -<i>me</i>?’</p> - -<p>“‘Yes, didn’t I?’ she answered.</p> - -<p>“‘But I ran away from <i>you</i>,’ I said. ‘I walked -out of the hotel on that dreadful afternoon we -quarrelled so, and I never went back. I went to -America. I was in America nearly four years.’</p> - -<p>“‘Do you mean you ran away from me?’ she -cried.</p> - -<p>“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘didn’t I?’</p> - -<p>“‘But that is exactly what I did—I mean, I ran -away from you. <i>I</i> walked out of the hotel directly -you had gone—<i>I</i> never went back, and I’ve been -abroad thinking how tremendously I had served you -out, and wondering what you thought of it all and -where you were.’</p> - -<p>“I could only say ‘Good God, Phoebe, I’ve had -the most awful four years of remorse and sorrow, all -vain, mistaken, useless, thrown away.’ And she -said: ’And I’ve had four years—living in a fool’s -paradise after all. How dared you run away, it’s -disgusting!’</p> - -<p>“And, Turner, in a moment she was at me again -in her old dreadful way, and the last words I had from -her were: ‘Now I <i>never</i> want to see your face again, -never, this <i>is</i> the end!’</p> - -<p>“And that’s how things are now, Turner. It’s -rather sad, isn’t it?”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">61</span></p> -<p>“Sad! Why you chump, when was it you saw -her?”</p> - -<p>“O, a long time ago, it must be nearly three years -now.”</p> - -<p>“Three years! But you’ll see her again!”</p> - -<p>“Tfoo! No, no, no, Turner. God bless me, no, -no, no!” said the little old man.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">62</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="The_Ballet_Girl"><i>The Ballet Girl</i></h2> - - -<p>On the last night of Hilary -term Simpkins left his father’s shop a quarter -before the closing hour in order to deliver -personally a letter to John Evans-Antrobus, Esq., of -St. Saviour’s College. Simpkins was a clerk to his -father, and the letter he carried was inscribed on its -envelope as “Important,” and a further direction, -“Wait Answer,” was doubly underlined. Acting as -he was told to act by his father, than whom he was -incapable of recognizing any bigger authority either -in this world or, if such a slight, shrinking fellow -could ever project his comprehension so far, in the -next, he passed the porter’s lodge under the archway -of St. Saviour’s, and crossing the first quadrangle, -entered a small hall that bore the names J. Evans-Antrobus -with half a dozen others neatly painted on -the wall. He climbed two flights of wooden stairs, -and knocking over a door whose lintel was marked -“5, Evans-Antrobus,” was invited to “Come in.” -He entered a study, and confronted three hilarious -young men, all clothed immaculately in evening -dress, a costume he himself privily admired much as a -derelict might envy the harp of an angel. The -noisiest young gentleman, the tall one with a monocle, -was his quarry; he handed the letter to him. Mr. -Evans-Antrobus then read the letter, which invited -him to pay instanter a four-year-old debt of some -nine or ten pounds which he had inexplicably but -consistently overlooked. And there was a half-hidden -but unpleasant alternative suggested should<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">63</span> -Mr. Evans-Antrobus fail to comply with this not -unreasonable request. Mr. Evans-Antrobus said -“Damn!” In point of fact he enlarged the scope of -his vocabulary far beyond the limits of that modest -expletive, while his two friends, being invited to read -the missive, also exclaimed in terms that were not at -all subsidiary.</p> - -<p>“My compliments to Messrs. Bagshot and -Buffle!” exclaimed the tall young man with the -monocle angrily; “I shall certainly call round and -see them in the morning. Good evening!”</p> - -<p>Little Simpkins explained that Bagshot and Buffle -were not in need of compliments, their business being -to sell boots and to receive payment for them. Two -of the jolly young gentlemen proposed to throw him -down the stairs, and were only persuaded not to by -the third jolly young gentleman, who much preferred -to throw him out of the window. Whereupon -Simpkins politely hinted that he would be compelled -to interview the college dean and await developments -in his chambers. Simpkins made it quite clear that, -whatever happened, he was going to wait somewhere -until he got the money. The three jolly young -gentlemen then told little Simpkins exactly what they -thought of him, exactly, omitting no shade of denunciation, -fine or emphatic. They told him where -he ought to be at the very moment, where he would -quickly be unless he took himself off; in short, they -told him a lot of prophetic things which, as is the way -of prophecy, invited a climax of catastrophic horror.</p> - -<p>“What is your name? Who the devil are you?”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">64</span></p> -<p>“My name is Simpkins.”</p> - -<p>Then the three jolly young gentlemen took counsel -together in whispers, and at last Mr. Evans-Antrobus -said: “Well if you insist upon waiting, Mr. Simpkins, -I must get the money for you. I can borrow it, -I suppose, boys, from Fazz, can’t I?”</p> - -<p>Again they consulted in whispers, after which two -of the young gents said they ought to be going, and -so they went.</p> - -<p>“Wait here for me,” said Mr. Evans-Antrobus, -“I shall not be five minutes.”</p> - -<p>But Mr. Simpkins was so firmly opposed to this -course that the other relented. “Damn you! come -along with me, then; I must go and see Fazz.” So -off they went to some rooms higher up the same flight -of stairs, beyond a door that was marked “F. A. -Zealander.” When they entered Fazz sat moping -in front of the fire; he was wrapped as deeply as an -Esquimaux in some plaid travelling rugs girt with -the pink rope of a dressing-gown that lay across his -knees. The fire was good, but the hearth was full of -ashes. The end of the fender was ornamented with -the strange little iron face of a man whose eyes were -shut but whose knobby cheeks fondly glowed. -Fazz’s eyes were not shut, they were covered by dim -glasses, and his cheeks had no more glow than a -sponge.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Fazz. You better to-day?”</p> - -<p>“No, dearie, I am not conscious of any improvement. -This influenza’s a thug; I am being deprived -of my vitality as completely as a fried rasher.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, by the by,” said his friend, “you don’t -know each other: Mr. Simpkins—Mr. Zealander.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">65</span></p> - -<p>The former bowed awkwardly and unexpectedly -shook Mr. Zealander’s hot limp hand. At that -moment a man hurried in, exclaiming: “Mr. -Evans-Antrobus, sir, the Dean wants to see you in his -rooms at once, sir!”</p> - -<p>“That is deuced awkward,” said that gentleman -blandly. “Just excuse me for a moment or two, -Fazz.”</p> - -<p>He hurried out, leaving Simpkins confronting Mr. -Zealander in some confusion. Fazz poked his -flaming coal. “This fire! Did you ever see such a -morbid conflagration?”</p> - -<p>“Rather nice, I thought,” replied Simpkins -affably; “quite cool to-night, outside, rather.”</p> - -<p>The host peered at him through those dim glasses. -“There’s a foggy humidity about everything, like -the inside of a cream tart. But sit down,” said Fazz, -With the geniality of a man who was about to be hung -and was rather glad that he was no longer to be -exposed to the fraudulent excess of life, “and tell me -a bawdy story.”</p> - -<p>Simpkins sank into an armchair and was silent.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you don’t care for bawdy stories?” -continued Fazz. “I do, I do. I love vulgarity; -there is certainly a niche in life for vulgarity. If ever -I possess a house of my own I will arrange—I will, -upon my soul—one augustly vulgar room, divinely -vulgar, upholstered in sallow pigskin. Do tell me -something. You haven’t got a spanner on you, I -suppose? There is something the matter with my -bed. Once it was full of goose feathers, but now I -sleep, as it were, on the bulge of a barrel; I must do<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">66</span> -something to it with a spanner. I hate spanners—such -dreadful democratic tools; they terrify me, they -gape at you as if they wanted to bite you. Spanners -are made of iron, and this is a funny world, for it is -full of things like spanners.”</p> - -<p>Simpkins timidly rose up through the waves of this -discourse and asked if he could “do” anything. -He was mystified, amused, and impressed by this -person; he didn’t often meet people like that, he -didn’t often meet anybody; he rather liked him. -On each side of the invalid there were tables and -bottles of medicine.</p> - -<p>“I am just going to take my temperature,” said -Fazz. “Do have a cigarette, dearie, or a cigar. Can -you see the matches? Yes; now do you mind -surrounding me with my medicines? They give -such a hopeful air to the occasion. There’s a phial -of sodium salicylate tabloids, I must take six of them -in a minute or two. Then there are the quinine -capsules; the formalin, yes; those lozenges I suck—have -one?—they are so comforting, and that depressing -laxative; surround me with them. Oh, -glorious, benignant, isn’t it? Now I shall take my -temperature; I shall be as stolid as the sphinx for -three minutes, so do tell me that story. Where is my -thermometer, oh!” He popped the thermometer -into his mouth, but pulled it out again. “Do you -know L. G.? He’s a blithe little fellow, oh, very -blithe. He was in Jacobsen’s rooms the other day—Jacobsen’s -a bit of an art connoisseur, you know, and -draws and paints, and Jacobsen drew attention to the -portrait of a lady that was hanging on the wall.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">67</span> ‘Oh, -dear,’ said L. G., ‘what a hag! Where did you get -that thing?’ just like that. Such a perfect fool, -L. G. ‘It’s my mother,’ says Jacobsen. ‘Oh, of -course,’ explained L. G., ‘I didn’t mean <i>that</i>, of -course, my dear fellow; I referred to the horrible -treatment, entirely to the horrible treatment; it is a -wretched daub.’ ‘I did it myself!’ said Jacobsen. -You don’t know L. G.? Oh, he is very blithe. -What were you going to tell me? I am just going -to take my temperature; yesterday it was ninety -odd point something. I do hope it is different -now. I can’t bear those points, they seem so -equivocal.”</p> - -<p>Fazz sat with the tube of the thermometer projecting -from his mouth. At the end of the test he -regarded it very earnestly before returning it disconsolately -to the table. Then he addressed his -visitor with considerable gloom.</p> - -<p>“Pardon me, I did not catch your name.”</p> - -<p>“Simpkins.”</p> - -<p>“Simpkins!” repeated Fazz, with a dubious -drawl. “Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t like Simpkins, it -sounds so minuscular. What are you taking?”</p> - -<p>“I won’t take anything, sir, thank you,” replied -Simpkins.</p> - -<p>“I mean, what schools are you taking?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no school at all.”</p> - -<p>Fazz was mystified: “What college are you?”</p> - -<p>“I’m not at a college,” confessed the other. “I -came to see Mr. Evans-Antrobus with a note. I’m -waiting for an answer.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">68</span></p> -<p>“Where do you come from?”</p> - -<p>“From Bagshot and Buffle’s.” After a silence he -added: “Bespoke boots.”</p> - -<p>“Hump, you are very young to make bespoke -boots, aren’t you, Simpkins, surely? Are you an -Agnostic? Have a cigar? You must, you’ve been -very good, and I am so interested in your career; -but tell me now what it exactly is that you are sitting -in my room for?”</p> - -<p>Simpkins told him all he could.</p> - -<p>“It’s interesting, most fascinating,” declared -Fazz, “but it is a little beyond me all the same. I am -afraid, Simpkins, that you have been deposited with -me as if I were a bank and you were something not -negotiable, as you really are, I fear. But you mustn’t -tell the Dean about Evans-Antrobus, no, you mustn’t, -it’s never done. Tell me, why do you make bespoke -boots? It’s an unusual taste to display. Wouldn’t -you rather come to college, for instance, and study -... er ... anthropology—nothing at all about boots -in anthropology?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Simpkins. He shuffled in his chair -and felt uneasy. “I’d be out of my depth.” Fazz -glared at him, and Simpkins repeated: “Out of my -depth, that would be, sure.”</p> - -<p>“This is very shameful,” commented the other, -“but it’s interesting, most fascinating. You brazenly -maintain that you would rather study boots than ... -than books and brains!”</p> - -<p>“A cobbler must stick to his last,” replied Simpkins, -recalling a phrase of his father’s.</p> - -<p>“Bravo!” cried Fazz,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">69</span> “but not to an everlasting -last!”</p> - -<p>“And I don’t know anything about all this; -there’s nothing about it I’d want to know, it wouldn’t -be any good to me. It’s no use mixing things, and -there’s a lot to be learnt about boots—you’d be surprised. -You got to keep yourself to yourself and not -get out of your depth—take a steady line and stick -to it, and not get out of your depth.”</p> - -<p>“But, dearie, you don’t sleep with a lifebelt girt -about your loins, do you now? I’m not out of my -depth; I shouldn’t be even if I started to make -boots....”</p> - -<p>“Oh, wouldn’t you?” shouted Simpkins.</p> - -<p>“I should find it rather a shallow occupation; -mere business is the very devil of a business; business -would be a funny sort of life.”</p> - -<p>“Life’s a funny business; you look after your -business and that will look after you.”</p> - -<p>“But what in the world are we in the world at all -for, Simpkins? Isn’t it surely to do just the things -we most intensely want to do? And you do boots -and boots and boots. Don’t you ever get out and -about?—theatres—girls—sport—or do you insist on -boot, the whole boot, and nothing but boot?”</p> - -<p>“No, none of them,” replied Simpkins. “Don’t -care for theatres, I’ve never been. Don’t care for -girls, I like a quiet life. I keep myself to myself—it’s -safer, don’t get out of your depth then. I do go -and have a look at the football match sometimes, but -it’s only because we make the boots for some of your -crack players, and you want to know what you are -making them for. Work doesn’t trouble me, nothing -troubles me, and I got money in the bank.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">70</span></p> - -<p>“Damme, Simpkins, you have a terrible conviction -about you; if I listen to you much longer I shall bind -myself apprentice to you. I feel sure that you -make nice, soft, watertight, everlasting boots, -and then we should rise in the profession together. -Discourse, Simpkins; you enchant mine ears—both -of them.”</p> - -<p>“What I say is,” concluded Simpkins, “you can’t -understand everything. I shouldn’t want to; I’m -all right as it is.”</p> - -<p>“Of course you are, you’re simply too true. This -is a place flowing with afternoon tea, tutors, and clap-trap. -It’s a city in which everything is set upon a -bill. You’re simply too true, if we are not out of our -depth we are in up to our ears—I am. It’s most -fascinating.”</p> - -<p>Soon afterwards Simpkins left him. Descending -the stairs to the rooms of Evans-Antrobus he -switched on the light. It was very quiet and snug -in those rooms, with the soft elegant couch, the -reading-lamp with the delicious violet shade, the -decanter with whiskey, the box of chocolate biscuits, -and the gramophone. He sat down by the fire, -waiting and waiting. Simpkins waited so long that -he got used to the room, he even stole a sip of -whiskey and some of the chocolate biscuits. Then to -show his independence, his contempt for Mr. Evans-Antrobus -and his trickery, he took still more of the -whiskey—a drink he had never tasted before—he -really took quite a lot. He heaped coal upon the fire, -and stalked about the room with his hands in his -pockets or examined the books, most of which were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">71</span> -about something called Jurisprudence, and suchlike. -Simpkins liked books; he began reading:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>That the Pleuronectidæ are admirably adapted by their -flattened and asymmetrical structure for their habits of life, -is manifest from several species, such as soles and flounders, -etc., being extremely common.</p></blockquote> - -<p>He did not care much for science; he opened -another:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>It is difficult indeed to imagine that anything can -oscillate so rapidly as to strike the retina of the eye -831,479,000,000,000 in one second, as must be the case with -violet light according to this hypothesis.</p></blockquote> - -<p>Simpkins looked at the light and blinked his eyes. -That had a violet shade. He really did not care for -science, and he had an inclination to put the book -down as his head seemed to be swaying, but he -continued to turn the pages.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>Snowdon is the highest mountain in England or Wales. -Snowdon is not so high as Ben Nevis.</p> - -<p>Therefore the highest mountain in England or Wales is -not so high as Ben Nevis.</p></blockquote> - -<p>“Oh, my head!” mumbled Simpkins.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>Water must be either warm or not warm, but it does not -follow that it must be warm or cold.</p></blockquote> - -<p>Simpkins felt giddy. He dropped the book, and -tottered to the couch. Immediately the room spun -round and something in his head began to hum, to -roar like an aeroplane a long way up in the sky. He -felt that he ought to get out of the room, quickly, and -get some water, either not or cold warm—he did<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span>n’t -mind which! He clapped on his hat and, slipping -into his overcoat, he reached a door. It opened into a -bedroom, very bare indeed compared with this other -room, but Simpkins rolled in; the door slammed -behind him, and in the darkness he fell upon a bed, -with queer sensations that seemed to be dividing and -subtracting in him.</p> - -<p>When he awoke later—oh, it seemed much later—he -felt quite well again. He had forgotten where he -was. It was a strange place he was in, utterly dark; -but there was a great noise sounding quite close to -him—a gramophone, people shouting choruses and -dancing about in the adjoining room. He could hear -a lady’s voice too. Then he remembered that he -ought not to be in that room at all; it was, why, yes, -it was criminal; he might be taken for a burglar or -something! He slid from the bed, groped in the -darkness until he found his hat, unbuttoned his coat, -for he was fearfully hot, and stood at the bedroom -door trembling in the darkness, waiting and listening -to that tremendous row. He <i>had</i> been a fool to come -in there! How was he to get out—how the deuce -was he to get out? The gramophone stopped. He -could hear the voices more plainly. He grew silently -panic-stricken; it was awful, they’d be coming in to -him perhaps, and find him sneaking there like a thief—he -must get out, he must, he must get out; yes, -but how?</p> - -<p>The singing began again. The men kept calling -out “Lulu! Lulu!” and a lady’s gay voice would -reply to a Charley or a George, and so on, when all -at once there came a peremptory knock at the outer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">73</span> -door. The noise within stopped immediately. Deep -silence. Simpkins could hear whispering. The -people in there were startled; he could almost feel -them staring at each other with uneasiness. The -lady laughed out startlingly shrill. “Sh-s-s-sh!” -the others cried. The loud knocking began again, -emphatic, terrible. Simpkins’ already quaking -heart began to beat ecstatically. Why, oh why, didn’t -they open that door?—open it! open it! There was -shuffling in the room, and when the knocking was -repeated for the third time the outer door was -apparently unlocked.</p> - -<p>“Fazz! Oh, Fazz, you brute!” cried the relieved -voices in the room. “You fool, Fazz! Come in, -damn you, and shut the door.”</p> - -<p>“Good gracious!” exclaimed the apparently -deliberating Fazz, “what is that?”</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Rob Roy!” cried the lady, “it’s me.”</p> - -<p>“Charmed to meet you, madame. How interesting, -most fascinating; yes, I am quite charmed, -but I wish somebody would kindly give me the loose -end of it all. I’m suffering, as you see, dearies, and -I don’t understand all this, I’m quite out of my depth. -The noise you’ve been making is just crushing me.”</p> - -<p>Several voices began to explain at once: “We -captured her, Fazz, yes—Rape of the Sabines, what!—from -the Vaudeville. Had a rag, glorious—corralled -all the attendants and scene-shifters—rushed -the stage—we did! we did!—everybody -chased somebody, and we chased Lulu—we did! -we did!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, shut up, everybody!” cried out Fazz.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, listen,” cried the voice of Evans-Antrobus. -“This is how it happened: they chased the eight -Sisters Victoria off the stage, and we spied dear little -Lulu—she was one of those eight Victorias—bolting -down a passage to the stage entrance. She fled into -the street just as she was—isn’t she a duck? There -was a taxi standing there, and Lulu, wise woman, -jumped in—and we jumped in too. (We did! We -did!) ‘Where for?’ says taximan. ‘Saviour’s -College,’ say we, and here you are—Lulu—what do -you think of her?”</p> - -<p>“Charming, utterly charming,” replied Fazz. -“The details are most clarifying; but how did you -manage to usher her into the college?”</p> - -<p>“My overcoat on,” explained one voice.</p> - -<p>“And my hat,” cried another.</p> - -<p>“And we dazzled the porter,” said a third. There -were lots of other jolly things to explain: Lulu had -not resisted at all, she had enjoyed it; it was a lark!</p> - -<p>“Oh, beautiful! Most fascinating!” agreed -Fazz. “But how you propose to get her out of the -college I have no more notion than Satan has of -sanctity—it’s rather late, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>Simpkins, in his dark room, could hear someone -rushing up the stairs with flying leaps that ceased at -the outer door. Then a breathless voice hissed out: -“You fellows, scat, scat! Police are in the lodge with -the proctors and that taximan!”</p> - -<p>In a moment Evans-Antrobus began to groan. -“Oh, my God, what can we do with her? We must -get her out at once—over the wall, eh, at once, quick! -Johnstone, quick, go and find a rope, quick, a rope.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span></p> - -<p>And Fazz said: “It does begin to look a little -foolish. Oh, I am feeling so damn bad—but you -can’t blame a fool for anything it does, can you? -But I am bad; I am going to bed instantly, I feel -quite out of my depth here. Oh, that young friend -of yours, that Simpkins, charming young person! -Very blithe he was, dear Evans-Antrobus!”</p> - -<p>Everybody now seemed to rush away from the -room except the girl Lulu and Evans-Antrobus. He -was evidently very agitated and in a bad humour. -He clumped about the room exclaiming, “Oh, -damnation, do hurry up, somebody. What am I to -do with her, boozy little pig! Do hurry up!”</p> - -<p>“Who’s a pig? I want to go out of here,” -shrilled Lulu, and apparently she made for the door.</p> - -<p>“You can’t go like that!” he cried; “you can’t, -you mustn’t. Don’t be a fool, Lulu! Lulu! Now, -isn’t this a fearful mess?”</p> - -<p>“I’m not going to stop here with you, ugly thing! -I don’t like it; I’m going now, let go.”</p> - -<p>“But you can’t go, I tell you, in these things, not -like that. Let me think, let me think, can’t you! -Why don’t you let me think, you little fool! Put -something on you, my overcoat; cover yourself up. -I shall be ruined, damn you! Why the devil did you -come here, you ...!”</p> - -<p>“And who brought me here, Mr. Antibus? -Oh yes, I know you; I shall have something to say -to the vicar, or whoever it is you’re afraid of, baby-face! -Let me go; I don’t want to be left here alone -with you!” she yelled. Simpkins heard an awful -scuffle. He could wait no longer; he flung open<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span> -the door, rushed into the room, and caught up a -syphon, the first handy weapon. They saw him at -once, and stood apart amazed.</p> - -<p>“Fine game!” said the trembling Simpkins to the -man, with all the sternness at his command. As -nobody spoke he repeated, quite contemptuously: -“Fine game!”</p> - -<p>Lulu was breathing hard, with her hands resting -upon her bosom. Her appearance was so startling -to the boy that he nearly dropped the syphon. He -continued to face her, hugging it with both hands -against his body. She was clad in pink tights—they -were of silk, they glistened in the sharper light from -under the violet shade—a soft white tarlatan skirt -that spread around her like a carnation, and a rose-coloured -bodice. She was dainty, with a little round -head and a little round face like a briar rose; but he -guessed she was strong, though her beauty had -apparently all the fragility of a flower. Her hair, of -dull dark gold, hung in loose tidiness without pin or -braid, the locks cut short to her neck, where they -curved in to brush the white skin; a deep straight -fringe of it was combed upon the childish brow. Grey -were her surprised eyes, and wide the pouting lips. -Her lovely naked arms—oh, he could scarcely bear -to look at them. She stood now, with one hand upon -her hip and the other lying against her cheek, staring -at Simpkins. Then she danced delightfully up to him -and took the syphon away.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said Evans-Antrobus to Lulu—he -had recovered his nerve, and did not express any -astonishment at Simpkins’ sudden appearance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span>—“he -is just your size, you dress up in his clothes, quick, -then it’s simple.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said the girl.</p> - -<p>“And no for me,” said Simpkins fiercely—almost.</p> - -<p>Just then the door was thrust partly open and a -rope was flung into the room. The bringer of it -darted away downstairs again.</p> - -<p>“Hi! here!” called Evans-Antrobus, rushing to -the door; but nobody stayed for him, nobody -answered him. He came back and picked up the rope.</p> - -<p>“Put on that coat,” he commanded Lulu, “and -that hat. Now, look here, not a word, not a giggle -even, or we are done, and I might just as well screw -your blessed neck!”</p> - -<p>“Would you?” snorted Simpkins, with not a -little animosity.</p> - -<p>“Yes, would you!” chimed Lulu, but nevertheless -she obeyed and followed him down the stairs. -When she turned and beckoned, Simpkins followed -too. They crossed a dark quadrangle, passed down a -passage that was utter darkness, through another quad, -another passage, and halted in a gloomy yard behind -the chapel, where Evans-Antrobus struck a match, -and where empty boxes, bottles, and other rubbish -had accumulated under a wall about ten feet high.</p> - -<p>“You first, and quiet, quiet,” growled Evans-Antrobus -to Simpkins. No one spoke again. Night -was thickly dark, the stars were dim, the air moist -and chill. Simpkins, assisted by the other man, -clambered over rickety boxes and straddled the high -thick wall. The rope was hungover, too, and when -the big man had jumped to earth again, dragging his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span> -weight against it, Simpkins slid down on the other -side. He was now in a narrow street, with a dim -lamp at one end that cast no gleam to the spot where -he had descended. There were dark high-browed -buildings looming high around him. He stood holding -the end of the rope and looking up at the stars—very -faint they were. The wall was much higher on -this side, looked like a mountain, and he thought of -Ben Nevis again. This was out of your depth, if you -like, out of your depth entirely. It was all wrong -somehow, or, at any rate, it was not all right; it -couldn’t be right. Never again would he mess about -with a lot of lunatics. He hadn’t done any good, he -hadn’t even got the money—he had forgotten it. -He had not got anything at all except a headache.</p> - -<p>The rope tightened. Lulu was astride the wall, -quarrelling with the man on the other side.</p> - -<p>“Keep your rotten coat!” She slipped it off and -flung it down from the wall. “And your rotten hat, -too, spider-face!” She flung that down from the -wall, and spat into the darkness. Turning to the -other side, she whispered: “I’m coming,” and -scrambled down, sliding into Simpkins’ arms. And -somehow he stood holding her so, embracing her -quite tightly. She was all softness and perfume, he -could not let her go; she had scarcely anything on—he -would not let her go. It was marvellous and -beautiful to him; the glimmer of her white face was -mysterious and tender in the darkness. She put her -arms around his neck:</p> - -<p>“Oh ... I rather love you,” she said.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="Simple_Simon"><i>Simple Simon</i></h2> - - -<p>This simple man lived lonely in a -hut in the depths of a forest, just underneath three -hovering trees, a pine tree and two beeches. The -sun never was clear in the forest, but the fogs that -rose in its unshaken shade were neither sweet nor -sour. Lonely was Simon, for he had given up all the -sweet of the world and had received none of the sweet -of heaven. Old now, and his house falling to ruin, he -said he would go seek the sweet of heaven, for what -was there in the mortal world to detain him? Not -peace, certainly, for time growled and scratched at -him like a mangy dog, and there were no memories -to cherish; he had had a heavy father, a mother who -was light, and never a lay-by who had not deceived -him. So he went in his tatters and his simplicity to -the lord of the manor.</p> - -<p>“I’m bound for heaven, sir,” says Simon, “will -you give me an old coat, or an odd rag or so? There’s a -hole in my shoe, sir, and good fortune slips out of it.”</p> - -<p>No—the lord of the manor said—he could not -give him a decent suit, nor a shoe, nor the rags -neither. Had he not let him dwell all life long in his -forest? With not a finger of rent coming? Snaring -the conies—(May your tongue never vex you, sir!)—and -devouring the birds—(May God see me, sir!)—and -cutting the fuel, snug as a bee in a big white hive. -(Never a snooze of sleep, with the wind howling in -the latch of it and the cracks gaping, sir!) What -with the taxes and the ways of women—said the lord—he -had but a scrimping time of it himself, so he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span> -had. There was neither malt in the kiln nor meal in -the hopper, and there were thieves in the parish. -Indeed, he would as lief go with Simon, but it was -such a diggins of a way off.</p> - -<p>So Simon went walking on until he came to the -godly man who lived in a blessed mansion, full of -delights for the mind and eye as well as a deal of -comfort for his belly.</p> - -<p>No—the godly man said—he would not give him -anything, for the Lord took no shame of a man’s -covering.</p> - -<p>“Ah, but your holiness,” said Simon, “I’ve a care -to look decent when I go to the King of All.”</p> - -<p>“My poor man, how will you get there, my poor -man?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Maybe,” says Simon, “I’ll get a lift on my way.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll get no lift,” the godly man said, “for it’s -a hard and lonely road to travel.”</p> - -<p>“My sorrow! And I heard it was a good place to -go to!”</p> - -<p>“It is a good place, my simple man, but the road -to it is difficult and empty and hard. You will get no -lift, you will lose your way, you will be taken with a -sickness.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, and I heard it was a good kind road, and help -in the end of it and warmth and a snap of victuals.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt, no doubt, but I tell you, don’t be -setting yourself up for to judge of it. Go back to -your home and be at peace with the world.”</p> - -<p>“Mine’s all walk-on,” said Simon, and turning -away he looked towards his home. Distant or near -there was nothing he could see but trees, not a glint<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span> -of sea, and little of sky, and nothing of a hill or the -roof of a friendly house—just a trap of trees as close -as a large hand held before a large face, beeches and -beeches, pines and pines. And buried in the middle -of it was a tiny hut, sour and broken; in the time of -storms the downpour would try to dash it into the -ground, and the wind would try to tear it out. Well, -he had had his enough of it, so he went to another -man, a scholar for learning, and told him his intentions -and his wishes.</p> - -<p>“To heaven!” said the scholar. “Well, it’s a -fair day for that good-looking journey.”</p> - -<p>“It is indeed a fine day,” said Simon. As clear as -crystal it was, yet soft and mellow as snuff.</p> - -<p>“Then content you, man Simon, and stay in it.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, sir,” he says, “I’ve a mind and a will that -makes me serve them.”</p> - -<p>“Cats will mouse and larks will sing,” the scholar -said, “but you are neither the one nor the other. -What you seek is hidden, perhaps hidden for ever; -God remove discontent and greed from the world: -why should you look on the other side of a wall—what -is a wall for?”</p> - -<p>The old man was silent.</p> - -<p>“How long has this notion possessed you?”</p> - -<p>The old man quavered “Since ... since ...” but -he could say no more. A green bird flew laughing -above them.</p> - -<p>“What bird is that—what is it making that noise -for?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span></p> - -<p>“It is a woodpecker, sir; he knows he can sing a -song for Sixpence.”</p> - -<p>The scholar stood looking up into the sky. His -boots were old—well, that is the doom of all boots, -just as it is of man. His clothes were out of fashion, -so was his knowledge; stripped of his gentle dignity -he was but dust and ashes.</p> - -<p>“To travel from the world?” he was saying. -“That is not wise.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, sir, wisdom was ever deluding me, for I’m -not more than half done—like a poor potato. First, -of course, there’s the things you don’t know; then -there’s the things you do know but can’t understand; -then there’s the things you do understand but which -don’t matter. Saving your presence, sir, there’s a -heap of understanding to be done before you’re -anything but a fool.”</p> - -<p>“He is not a fool who is happy; mortal pleasures -decline as the bubble of knowledge grows; that’s the -long of it, and it’s the short of it too.”</p> - -<p>Simon was silent, adding up the buttons on the -scholar’s tidy coat. He counted five of them, they -shone like gold and looked—oh, very well they -looked.</p> - -<p>“I was happy once,” then he said. “Ah, and I -remember I was happy twice, yes, and three times I -was happy in this world. I was not happy since....”</p> - -<p>“Yes, since what?” the scholar asked him: but -the old man was dumb.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, Simon, what made you happy.”</p> - -<p>“I was happy, sir, when I first dwelled in the wood -and made with my own hands a house of boards. -Why—you’d not believe—but it had a chimney then, -and was no ways draughty then, and was not creaky<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span> -then, nor damp then; a good fine house with a door -and a half door, birds about it, magpies and tits and -fine boy blackbirds! A lake with a score of mallards -on it! And for conies and cushats you could take -your oath of a meal any day in the week, and twice a -day, any day. But ’tis falling with age and weather -now, I see it go; the rain wears it, the moss rots it, -the wind shatters it. The lake’s as dry as a hen’s foot, -and the forest changes. What was bushes is timber -now, and what was timber is ashes; the forest has -spread around me and the birds have left me and -gone to the border. As for conies, there’s no contriving -with those foxes and weasels so cunning at -them; not the trace of a tail, sir, nothing but snakes -and snails now. I was happy when I built that house; -that’s what I was; I was then.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, so, indeed. And the other times—the -second time?”</p> - -<p>“Why, that was the time I washed my feet in the -lake and I saw....”</p> - -<p>“What, man Simon, what did you see?”</p> - -<p>Simon passed his hand across his brow. “I see -... ah, well, I saw it. I saw something ... but I -forget.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you have forgotten your happiness,” said -the scholar in a soft voice: “Yes, yes.” He went on -speaking to himself: “Death is a naked Ethiope with -flaming hair. I don’t want to live for ever, but I -want to live.”</p> - -<p>He took off his coat and gave it to Simon, who -thanked him and put it on. It seemed a very heavy -coat.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">84</span></p> - -<p>“Maybe,” the old man mumbled, “I’ll get a lift -on the way.”</p> - -<p>“May it be so. And good-bye to you,” said the -scholar, “’Tis as fine a day as ever came out of Eden.”</p> - -<p>They parted so, and old Simon had not been gone -an hour when the scholar gave a great shout and -followed after him frantic, but he could not come up -with him, for Simon had gone up in a lift to heaven—a -lift with cushions in it, and a bright young girl -guiding the lift, dressed like a lad, but with a sad -stern voice.</p> - -<p>Several people got into the lift, the most of them -old ladies, but no children, so Simon got in too and -sat on a cushion of yellow velvet. And he was near -sleeping when the lift stopped of a sudden and a lady -who was taken sick got out. “Drugs and lounge!” -the girl called out, “Second to the right and keep -straight on. Going up?”</p> - -<p>But though there was a crowd of young people -waiting nobody else got in. They slid on again, -higher and much higher. Simon dropped into sleep -until the girl stopped at the fourth floor: “Refreshments,” -she said, “and Ladies’ Cloak Room!” All -the passengers got out except Simon: he sat still -until they came to the floor of heaven. There he -got out, and the girl waved her hand to him and said -“Good-bye.” A few people got in the lift. “Going -down?” she cried. Then she slammed the door and -it sank into a hole and Simon never laid an eye on it -or her from that day for ever.</p> - -<p>Now it was very pleasant where he found himself, -very pleasant indeed and in no ways different from the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">85</span> -fine parts of the earth. He went onwards and the -first place he did come to was a farmhouse with a -kitchen door. He knocked and it was opened. It -was a large kitchen; it had a cracked stone floor and -white rafters above it with hooks on them and shearing -irons and a saddle. And there was a smoking -hearth and an open oven with bright charred wood -burning in it, a dairy shelf beyond with pans of -cream, a bed of bracken for a dog in the corner by the -pump, and a pet sheep wandering about. It had the -number 100 painted on its fleece and a loud bell was -tinkling round its neck. There was a fine young girl -stood smiling at him; the plait of her hair was thick -as a rope of onions and as shining with the glint in it. -Simon said to her: “I’ve been a-walking, and I seem -to have got a bit dampified like, just a touch o’ damp -in the knees of my breeches, that’s all.”</p> - -<p>The girl pointed to the fire and he went and dried -himself. Then he asked the girl if she would give -him a true direction, and so she gave him a true -direction and on he went. And he had not gone far -when he saw a place just like the old forest he had -come from, but all was delightful and sunny, and -there was the house he had once built, as beautiful -and new, with the shining varnish on the door, a -pool beyond, faggots and logs in the yard, and inside -the white shelves were loaded with good food, the -fire burning with a sweet smell, and a bed of rest in -the ingle. Soon he was slaking his hunger; then he -hung up his coat on a peg of iron, and creeping into -the bed he went into the long sleep in his old happy -way of sleeping.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">86</span></p> - -<p>But all this time the scholar was following after -him, searching under the sun, and from here to -there, calling out high and low, and questioning the -travelling people: had they seen a simple man, an -old man who had been but three times happy?—but -not a one had seen him. He was cut to the heart with -anxiety, with remorse, and with sorrow, for in a -secret pocket of the coat he had given to Simon he -had left—unbeknown, but he remembered it now—a -wallet of sowskin, full of his own black sins, and -nothing to distinguish them in any way from any -other man’s. It was a dark load upon his soul that -the poor man might be punished with an everlasting -punishment for having such a tangle of wickedness -on him and he unable to explain it. An old man like -that, who had been happy but the three times! He -enquired upon his right hand, and upon his left hand -he enquired, but not a walking creature had seen -him and the scholar was mad vexed with shame. -Well, he went on, and on he went, but he did not get -a lift on the way. He went howling and whistling -like a man who would frighten all the wild creatures -down into the earth, and at last he came by a back way -to the borders of heaven. There he was, all of a day -behind the man he was pursuing, in a great wilderness -of trees. It began to rain, a soft meandering fall -that you would hardly notice for rain, but the birds -gave over their whistling and a strong silence grew -everywhere, hushing things. His footfall as he -stumbled through briars and the wild gardens of the -wood seemed to thump the whole earth, and he could -hear all the small noises like the tick of a beetle and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">87</span> -the gasping of worms. In a grove of raspberry canes -he stood like a stock with the wonder of that stillness. -Clouds did not move, he could but feel the rain that -he could not see. Each leaf hung stiff as if it was -frozen, though it was summer. Not a living thing -was to be seen, and the things that were not living -were not more dead than those that lived but were so -secret still. He picked a few berries from the canes, -and from every bush as he pulled and shook it a -butterfly or a moth dropped or fluttered away, quiet -and most ghostly. “An old bit of a man”—he kept -repeating in his mind—“with three bits of joy, an -old bit of a man.”</p> - -<p>Suddenly a turtle dove with clatter enough for a -goose came to a tree beside him and spoke to him! -A young dove, and it crooed on the tree branch, croo, -croo, croo, and after each cadence it heaved the air -into its lungs again with a tiny sob. Well, it would -be no good telling what the bird said to the scholar, -for none would believe it, they could not; but speak -it did. After that the scholar tramped on, and on -again, until he heard voices close ahead from a group -of frisky boys who were chasing a small bird that -could hardly fly. As the scholar came up with them -one of the boys dashed out with his cap and fell upon -the fledgling and thrust it in his pocket.</p> - -<p>Now, by God, that scholar was angry, for a thing -he liked was the notes of birds tossed from bush to -bush like aery bubbles, and he wrangled with the -boy until the little lad took the crumpled bird out of -his pocket and flung it saucily in the air as you would -fling a stone. Down dropped the bird into a gulley<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">88</span> -as if it was shot, and the boys fled off. The scholar -peered into the gulley, but he could not see the young -finch, not a feather of it. Then he jumped into the -gulley and stood quiet, listening to hear it cheep, for -sure a wing would be broken, or a foot. But nothing -could he see, nothing, though he could hear hundreds -of grasshoppers leaping among the dead leaves with a -noise like pattering rain. So he turned away, but -as he shifted his foot he saw beneath it the shattered -bird: he had jumped upon it himself and destroyed -it. He could not pick it up, it was bloody; he leaned -over it, sighing: “Poor bird, poor bird, and is this -your road to heaven? Or do you never share the -heaven that you make?” There was a little noise -then added to the leaping of the grasshoppers—it -was the patter of tears he was shedding from himself. -Well, when the scholar heard that he gave a good -shout of laughter, and he was soon contented, forgetting -the bird. He was for sitting down awhile -but the thought of the old man Simon, with that -sinful wallet—a rare budget of his own mad joys—urged -him on till he came by the end of the wood, -the rain ceasing, and beyond him the harmony of a -flock roaming and bleating. Every ewe of the flock -had numbers painted on it, that ran all the way up to -ninety and nine.</p> - -<p>Soon he came to the farmhouse and the kitchen -and the odd sheep and a kind girl with a knot of hair -as thick as a twist of bread. He told her the thing -that was upon his conscience.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">89</span></p> -<p>“Help me to come up with him, for I’m a day -to the bad, and what shall I do? I gave him a coat, -an old coat, and all my sins were hidden in it, but -I’d forgotten them. He was an old quavering man -with but three spells of happiness in the earthly -world.” He begged her to direct him to the man -Simon. The smiling girl gave him a good direction, -the joyful scholar hurried out and on, and in a score -of minutes he was peeping in the fine hut, with his -hand on the latch of the half door, and Simon snoring -in bed, a quiet decent snore.</p> - -<p>“Simon!” he calls, but he didn’t wake. He -shook him, but he didn’t budge. There was the coat -hanging down from the iron peg, so he went to it -and searched it and took out the wallet. But when -he opened it—a black sowskin wallet it was, very -strong with good straps—his sins were all escaped -from it, not one little sin left in the least chink of the -wallet, it was empty as a drum. The scholar knew -something was wrong, for it was full once, and quite -full.</p> - -<p>“Well, now,” thought he, scratching his head -and searching his mind, “did I make a mistake of it? -Would they be by chance in the very coat that is on -me now, for I’ve not another coat to my name?” He -gave it a good strong search, in the patch pockets and -the inside pockets and in the purse on his belt, but -there was not the scrap of a tail of a sin of any sort, -good or bad, in that coat, and all he found was a few -cachous against the roughening of his voice.</p> - -<p>“Did I make another mistake of it,” he says again, -“and put those solemn sins in the fob of my fancy -waistcoat? Where are they?” he shouts out.</p> - -<p>Simon lifted his head out of sleeping for a moment.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">90</span> -“It was that girl with the hair,” Simon said. “She -took them from the wallet—they are not allowed in -this place—and threw them in the pigwash.”</p> - -<p>With that he was asleep again, snoring his decent -snore.</p> - -<p>“Glory be to God,” said the scholar, “am I not a -great fool to have come to heaven looking for my -sins!”</p> - -<p>He took the empty wallet and tiptoed back to the -world, and if he is not with the saints yet, it is with the -saints he will be one day—barring he gets another -budget of sins in his eager joy. And <i>that</i> I wouldn’t -deny him.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">91</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="The_Tiger"><i>The Tiger</i></h2> - - -<p>The tiger was coming at last; -the almost fabulous beast, the subject of so much -conjecture for so many months, was at the docks -twenty miles away. Yak Pedersen had gone to fetch -it, and Barnabe Woolf’s Menagerie was about to -complete its unrivalled collection by the addition of a -full-grown Indian tiger of indescribable ferocity, -newly trapped in the forest and now for the first -time exhibited, and so on, and so on. All of which, -as it happened, was true. On the previous day -Pedersen the Dane and some helpers had taken a -brand new four-horse exhibition waggon, painted and -carved with extremely legendary tigers lapped in -blood—even the bars were gilded—to convey this -unmatchable beast to its new masters. The show -had had to wait a long time for a tiger, but it had got a -beauty at last, a terror indeed by all accounts, though -it is not to be imagined that everything recorded of it -by Barnabe Woolf was truth and nothing but truth. -Showmen do not work in that way.</p> - -<p>Yak Pedersen was the tamer and menagerie -manager, a tall, blonde, angular man about thirty-five, -of dissolute and savage blood himself, with the very -ample kind of moustache that bald men often -develop; yes, bald, intemperate, lewd, and an -interminable smoker of Cuban cigarettes, which -seemed constantly to threaten a conflagration in that -moustache. Marie the Cossack hated him, but Yak -loved her with a fierce deep passion. Nobody knew -why she was called Marie the Cossack. She came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">92</span> -from Canning Town—everybody knew that, and her -proper name was Fascota, Mrs. Fascota, wife of -Jimmy Fascota, who was the architect and carpenter -and builder of the show. Jimmy was not much to -look at, so little in fact that you couldn’t help wondering -what it was Marie had seen in him when she -could have had the King of Poland, as you might say, -almost for the asking. But still Jimmy was the boss -ganger of the show, and even that young gentleman -in frock coat and silk hat who paraded the platform -entrance to the arena and rhodomontadoed you into -it, often against your will, by the seductive recital of -the seven ghastly wonders of the world, all certainly -to be seen, to be seen inside, waiting to be seen, must -be seen, roll up—even he was subject to the commands -of Jimmy Fascota when the time came to -dismantle and pack up the show, although the transfer -of his activities involved him temporarily in a -change, a horrid change, of attire and language. -Marie was not a lady, but she was not for Pedersen -anyway. She swore like a factory foreman, or a -young soldier, and when she got tipsy she was full of -freedoms. By the power of God she was beautiful, -and by the same gracious power she was virtuous. -Her husband knew it; he knew all about master -Pedersen’s passion, too, and it did not even interest -him. Marie did feats in the lion cages, whipping -poor decrepit beasts, desiccated by captivity, through -a hoop or over a stick of wood and other kindergarten -disportings; but there you are, people must live, -and Marie lived that way. Pedersen was always -wooing her. Sometimes he was gracious and kind,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">93</span> -but at other times when his failure wearied him he -would be cruel and sardonic, with a suggestive tongue -whose vice would have scourged her were it not that -Marie was impervious, or too deeply inured to mind -it. She always grinned at him and fobbed him off -with pleasantries, whether he was amorous or -acrid.</p> - -<p>“God Almighty!” he would groan, “she is not -good for me, this Marie. What can I do for her? -She is burning me alive and the Skaggerack could not -quench me, not all of it. The devil! What can I -do with this? Some day I shall smash her across the -eyes, yes, across the eyes.”</p> - -<p>So you see the man really loved her.</p> - -<p>When Pedersen returned from the docks the car -with its captive was dragged to a vacant place in the -arena, and the wooden front panel was let down from -the bars. The marvellous tiger was revealed. It -sprung into a crouching attitude as the light surprised -the appalling beauty of its smooth fox-coloured -coat, its ebony stripes, and snowy pads and belly. -The Dane, who was slightly drunk, uttered a yell and -struck the bars of the cage with his whip. The tiger -did not blench, but all the malice and ferocity in the -world seemed to congregate in its eyes and impress -with a pride and ruthless grandeur the colossal -brutality of its face. It did not move its body, but its -tail gradually stiffened out behind it as stealthily as -fire moves in the forest undergrowth, and the hair -along the ridge of its back rose in fearful spikes. -There was the slightest possible distension of the -lips, and it fixed its marvellous baleful gaze upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">94</span> -Pedersen. The show people were hushed into -silence, and even Pedersen was startled. He showered -a few howls and curses at the tiger, who never -ceased to fix him with eyes that had something of -contempt in them and something of a horrible presage. -Pedersen was thrusting a sharp spike through the -bars when a figure stepped from the crowd. It was -an old negro, a hunchback with a white beard, dressed -in a red fez cap, long tunic of buff cotton, and blue -trousers. He laid both his hands on the spike and -shook his head deprecatingly, smiling all the while. -He said nothing, but there was nothing he could say—he -was dumb.</p> - -<p>“Let him alone, Yak; let the tiger alone, Yak!” -cried Barnabe Woolf. “What is this feller?”</p> - -<p>Pedersen with some reluctance turned from the -cage and said: “He is come with the animal.”</p> - -<p>“So?” said Barnabe. “Vell, he can go. Ve do -not vant any black feller.”</p> - -<p>“He cannot speak—no tongue—it is gone,” Yak -replied.</p> - -<p>“No tongue! Vot, have they cut him out?”</p> - -<p>“I should think it,” said the tamer. “There was -two of them, a white keeper, but that man fell off the -ship one night and they do not see him any more. -This chap he feed it and look after it. No information -of him, dumb you see, and a foreigner; don’t -understand. He have no letters, no money, no name, -nowheres to go. Dumb, you see, he has nothing, -nothing but a flote. The captain said to take him -away with us. Give a job to him, he is a proposition.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">95</span></p> -<p>“Vot is he got you say?”</p> - -<p>“Flote.” Pedersen imitated with his fingers and -lips the actions of a flute-player.</p> - -<p>“O ya, a vloot! Vell, ve don’t want no vloots -now; ve feeds our own tigers, don’t ve, Yak?” -And Mr. Woolf, oily but hearty—and well he might -be so for he was beautifully rotund, hair like satin, -extravagantly clothed, and rich with jewellery—surveyed -first with a contemplative grin, and then -compassionately, the figure of the old negro, who -stood unsmiling with his hands crossed humbly -before him. Mr. Woolf was usually perspiring, and -usually being addressed by perspiring workmen, -upon whom he bellowed orders and such anathemas -as reduced each recipient to the importance of a -potato, and gave him the aspect of a consumptive -sheep. But to-day Mr. Woolf was affable and calm. -He took his cigar from his mouth and poured a flood -of rich grey air from his lips. “O ya, look after him -a day, or a couple of days.” At that one of the boys -began to lead the hunchback away as if he were a -horse. “Come on, Pompoon,” he cried, and thenceforward -the unknown negro was called by that name.</p> - -<p>Throughout the day the tiger was the sensation of -the show, and the record of its ferocity attached to the -cage received thrilling confirmation whenever Pedersen -appeared before the bars. The sublime concentration -of hatred was so intense that children -screamed, women shuddered, and even men held -their breath in awe. At the end of the day the beasts -were fed. Great hacks of bloody flesh were forked -into the bottoms of the cages, the hungry victims -pouncing and snarling in ecstasy. But no sooner<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">96</span> -were they served than the front panel of each cage -was swung up, and the inmate in the seclusion of his -den slaked his appetite and slept. When the public -had departed the lights were put out and the doors -of the arena closed. Outside in the darkness only -its great rounded oblong shape could be discerned, -built high of painted wood, roofed with striped -canvas, and adorned with flags. Beyond this matchbox -coliseum was a row of caravans, tents, naphtha -flares, and buckets of fire on which suppers were -cooking. Groups of the show people sat or lounged -about, talking, cackling with laughter, and even -singing. No one observed the figure of Pompoon -as he passed silently on the grass. The outcast, -doubly chained to his solitariness by the misfortune of -dumbness and strange nationality, was hungry. He -had not tasted food that day. He could not understand -it any more than he could understand the -speech of these people. In the end caravan, nearest -the arena, he heard a woman quietly singing. He -drew a shining metal flute from his breast, but stood -silently until the singer ceased. Then he repeated -the tune very accurately and sweetly on his flute. -Marie the Cossack came to the door in her green -silk tights and high black boots with gilded fringes; -her black velvet doublet had plenty of gilded buttons -upon it. She was a big, finely moulded woman, her -dark and splendid features were burned healthily by -the sun. In each of her ears two gold discs tinkled and -gleamed as she moved. Pompoon opened his mouth -very widely and supplicatingly; he put his hand -upon his stomach and rolled his eyes so dreadfully<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">97</span> -that Mrs. Fascota sent her little daughter Sophy -down to him with a basin of soup and potatoes. -Sophy was partly undressed, in bare feet and red -petticoat. She stood gnawing the bone of a chicken, -and grinning at the black man as he swallowed and -dribbled as best he could without a spoon. She cried -out: “Here, he’s going to eat the bloody basin and -all, mum!” Her mother cheerfully ordered her to -“give him those fraggiments, then!” The child -did so, pausing now and again to laugh at the satisfied -roll of the old man’s eyes. Later on Jimmy Fascota -found him a couple of sacks, and Pompoon slept -upon them beneath their caravan. The last thing the -old man saw was Pedersen, carrying a naphtha flare, -unlocking a small door leading into the arena, and -closing it with a slam after he had entered. Soon the -light went out.</p> - - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>After a week the show shifted and Pompoon -accompanied it. Mrs. Kavanagh, who looked after -the birds, was, a little fortunately for him, kicked in -the stomach by a mule and had to be left at an infirmary. -Pompoon, who seemed to understand birds, -took charge of the parakeets, love birds, and other -highly coloured fowl, including the quetzal with -green mossy head, pink breast, and flowing tails, and -the primrose-breasted toucans with bills like a -butcher’s cleaver.</p> - -<p>The show was always moving on and moving on. -Putting it up and taking it down was a more entertaining -affair than the exhibition itself. With<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">98</span> -Jimmy Fascota in charge, and the young man of the -frock coat in an ecstasy of labour, half-clothed husky -men swarmed up the rigged frameworks, dismantling -poles, planks, floors, ropes, roofs, staging, tearing at -bolts and bars, walking at dizzying altitudes on -narrow boards, swearing at their mates, staggering -under vast burdens, sweating till they looked like -seals, packing and disposing incredibly of it all, -furling the flags, rolling up the filthy awnings, -then Right O! for a market town twenty miles -away.</p> - -<p>In the autumn the show would be due at a great -gala town in the north, the supreme opportunity of -the year, and by that time Mr. Woolf expected to -have a startling headline about a new tiger act and the -intrepid tamer. But somehow Pedersen could make -no progress at all with this. Week after week went -by, and the longer he left that initial entry into the -cage of the tiger, notwithstanding the comforting -support of firearms and hot irons, the more remote -appeared the possibility of its capitulation. The -tiger’s hatred did not manifest itself in roars and -gnashing of teeth, but by its rigid implacable pose -and a slight flexion of its protruded claws. It -seemed as if endowed with an imagination of blood-lust, -Pedersen being the deepest conceivable excitation -of this. Week after week went by and the show -people became aware that Pedersen, their Pedersen, -the unrivalled, the dauntless tamer, had met his -match. They were proud of the beast. Some said -it was Yak’s bald crown that the tiger disliked, but -Marie swore it was his moustache, a really remarkable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">99</span> -piece of hirsute furniture, that he would not have -parted with for a pound of gold—so he said. But -whatever it was—crown, moustache, or the whole -conglomerate Pedersen—the tiger remarkably loathed -it and displayed his loathing, while the unfortunate -tamer had no more success with it than he had ever -had with Marie the Cossack, though there was at -least a good humour in her treatment of him which -was horribly absent from the attitude of the beast. -For a long time Pedersen blamed the hunchback for -it all. He tried to elicit from him by gesticulations in -front of the cage the secret of the creature’s enmity, -but the barriers to their intercourse were too great -to be overcome, and to all Pedersen’s illustrative -frenzies Pompoon would only shake his sad head and -roll his great eyes until the Dane would cuff him -away with a curse of disgust and turn to find the eyes -of the tiger, the dusky, smooth-skinned tiger with -bitter bars of ebony, fixed upon him with tenfold -malignity. How he longed in his raging impotence -to transfix the thing with a sharp spear through the -cage’s gilded bars, or to bore a hole into its vitals -with a red-hot iron! All the traditional treatment in -such cases, combined first with starvation and then -with rich feeding, proved unavailing. Pedersen -always had the front flap of the cage left down at -night so that he might, as he thought, establish some -kind of working arrangement between them by the -force of propinquity. He tried to sleep on a bench -just outside the cage, but the horror of the beast so -penetrated him that he had to turn his back upon it. -Even then the intense enmity pierced the back of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">100</span> -brain and forced him to seek a bench elsewhere out of -range of the tiger’s vision.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, the derision of Marie was not concealed—it -was even blatant—and to the old contest -of love between herself and the Dane was now added -a new contest of personal courage, for it had come to -be assumed, in some undeclarable fashion, that if Yak -Pedersen could not tame that tiger, then Marie the -Cossack would. As this situation crystallized daily -the passion of Pedersen changed to jealousy and -hatred. He began to regard the smiling Marie in -much the same way as the tiger regarded him.</p> - -<p>“The hell-devil! May some lightning scorch her -like a toasted fish!”</p> - -<p>But in a short while this mood was displaced by -one of anxiety; he became even abject. Then, -strangely enough, Marie’s feelings underwent some -modification. She was proud of the chance to -subdue and defeat him, but it might be at a great -price—too great a price for her. Addressing herself -in turn to the dim understanding of Pompoon she had -come to perceive that he believed the tiger to be not -merely quite untamable, but full of mysterious -dangers. She could not triumph over the Dane -unless she ran the risk he feared to run. The risk -was colossal then, and with her realization of this -some pity for Yak began to exercise itself in her; -after all, were they not in the same boat? But the -more she sympathized the more she jeered. The -thing had to be done somehow.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Barnabe Woolf wants that headline -for the big autumn show, and a failure will mean a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">101</span> -nasty interview with that gentleman. It may end by -Barnabe kicking Yak Pedersen out of his wild beast -show. Not that Mr. Woolf is so gross as to suggest -that. He senses the difficulty, although his manager -in his pride will not confess to any. Mr. Woolf -declares that his tiger is a new tiger; Yak must watch -out for him, be careful. He talks as if it were just -a question of giving the cage a coat of whitewash. -He never hints at contingencies; but still, there is -his new untamed tiger, and there is Mr. Yak Pedersen, -his wild beast tamer—at present.</p> - - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>One day the menagerie did not open. It had -finished an engagement, and Jimmy Fascota had -gone off to another town to arrange the new pitch. -The show folk made holiday about the camp, or -flocked into the town for marketing or carousals. -Mrs. Fascota was alone in her caravan, clothed in her -jauntiest attire. She was preparing to go into the -town when Pedersen suddenly came silently in and -sat down.</p> - -<p>“Marie,” he said, after a few moments, “I give -up that tiger. To me he has given a spell. It is like -a mesmerize.” He dropped his hands upon his -knees in complete humiliation. Marie did not speak, -so he asked: “What you think?”</p> - -<p>She shrugged her shoulders, and put her brown -arms akimbo. She was a grand figure so, in a cloak -of black satin and a huge hat trimmed with crimson -feathers.</p> - -<p>“If <i>you</i> can’t trust him,” she said,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">102</span> “who can?”</p> - -<p>“It is myself I am not to trust. Shameful! But -that tiger will do me, yes, so I will not conquer him. -It’s bad, very, very bad, is it not so? Shameful, but -I will not do it!” he declared excitedly.</p> - -<p>“What’s Barnabe say?”</p> - -<p>“I do not care, Mr. Woolf can think what he can -think! Damn Woolf! But for what I do think of -my own self.... Ah!” He paused for a moment, -dejected beyond speech. “Yes, miserable it is, in -my own heart very shameful, Marie. And what -you think of me, yes, that too!”</p> - -<p>There was a note in his voice that almost confounded -her—why, the man was going to cry! -In a moment she was all melting compassion and -bravado.</p> - -<p>“You leave the devil to me, Yak. What’s come -over you, man? God love us, I’ll tiger him!”</p> - -<p>But the Dane had gone as far as he could go. He -could admit his defeat, but he could not welcome her -all too ready amplification of it.</p> - -<p>“Na, na, you are good for him, Marie, but you -beware. He is not a tiger; he is beyond everything, -foul—he has got a foul heart and a thousand demons -in it. I would not bear to see you touch him; no, -no, I would not bear it!”</p> - -<p>“Wait till I come back this afternoon—you wait!” -cried Marie, lifting her clenched fist. “So help me, -I’ll tiger him, you’ll see!”</p> - -<p>Pedersen suddenly awoke to her amazing attraction. -He seized her in his arms. “Na, na, Marie! God -above! I will not have it.”</p> - -<p>“Aw, shut up!” she commanded, impatiently, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">103</span> -pushing him from her she sprang down the steps and -proceeded to the town alone.</p> - -<p>She did not return in the afternoon; she did not -return in the evening; she was not there when the -camp closed up for the night. Sophy, alone, was -quite unconcerned. Pompoon sat outside the -caravan, while the flame of the last lamp was perishing -weakly above his head. He now wore a coat of shag-coloured -velvet. He was old and looked very wise, -often shaking his head, not wearily, but as if in doubt. -The flute lay glittering upon his knees and he was -wiping his lips with a green silk handkerchief when -barefoot Sophy in her red petticoat crept behind -him, unhooked the lamp, and left him in darkness. -Then he departed to an old tent the Fascotas had -found for him.</p> - -<p>When the mother returned the camp was asleep -in its darkness and she was very drunk. Yak -Pedersen had got her. He carried her into the -arena, and bolted and barred the door.</p> - - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Marie Fascota awoke next morning in broad -daylight; through chinks and rents in the canvas -roof of the arena the brightness was beautiful to -behold. She could hear a few early risers bawling -outside, while all around her the caged beasts and -birds were squeaking, whistling, growling, and -snarling. She was lying beside the Dane on a great -bundle of straw. He was already awake when she -became aware of him, watching her with amused eyes.</p> - -<p>“Yak Pedersen! Was I drunk?” Marie asked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">104</span> -dazedly in low husky tones, sitting up. “What’s -this, Yak Pedersen? Was I drunk? Have I been -here all night?”</p> - -<p>He lay with his hands behind his head, smiling -in the dissolute ugliness of his abrupt yellow skull so -incongruously bald, his moustache so profuse, his -nostrils and ears teeming with hairs.</p> - -<p>“Can’t you speak?” cried the wretched woman. -“What game do you call this? Where’s my Sophy, -and my Jimmy—is he back?”</p> - -<p>Again he did not answer; he stretched out a hand -to caress her. Unguarded as he was, Marie smashed -down both her fists full upon his face. He lunged -back blindly at her and they both struggled to their -feet, his fingers clawing in her thick strands of hair -as she struck at him in frenzy. Down rolled the -mass and he seized it; it was her weakness, and she -screamed. Marie was a rare woman—a match for -most men—but the capture of her hair gave her -utterly into his powerful hands. Uttering a torrent -of filthy oaths, Pedersen pulled the yelling woman -backwards to him and grasping her neck with both -hands gave a murderous wrench and flung her to -the ground. As she fell Marie’s hand clutched a -small cage of fortune-telling birds. She hurled this -at the man, but it missed him; the cage burst against -a pillar and the birds scattered in the air.</p> - -<p>“Marie! Marie!” shouted Yak, “listen! listen!”</p> - -<p>Remorsefully he flung himself before the raging -woman who swept at him with an axe, her hair -streaming, her eyes blazing with the fire of a thousand -angers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">105</span></p> - -<p>“Drunk, was I!” she screamed at him. “That’s -how ye got me, Yak Pedersen? Drunk, was I!”</p> - -<p>He warded the blow with his arm, but the shock -and pain of it was so great that his own rage burst -out again, and leaping at the woman he struck her a -horrible blow across the eyes. She sunk to her knees -and huddled there without a sound, holding her -hands to her bleeding face, her loose hair covering it -like a net. At the pitiful sight the Dane’s grief -conquered him again, and bending over her imploringly -he said: “Marie, my love, Marie! Listen! -It is not true! Swear me to God, good woman, it is -not true, it is not possible! Swear me to God!” he -raged distractedly. “Swear me to God!” Suddenly -he stopped and gasped. They were in front of the -tiger’s cage, and Pedersen was as if transfixed by that -fearful gaze. The beast stood with hatred concentrated -in every bristling hair upon its hide, and -in its eyes a malignity that was almost incandescent. -Still as a stone, Marie observed this, and began to -creep away from the Dane, stealthily, stealthily. -On a sudden, with incredible agility, she sprang up -the steps of the tiger’s cage, tore the pin from the -catch, flung open the door, and, yelling in madness, -leapt in. As she did so, the cage emptied. In one -moment she saw Pedersen grovelling on his knees, -stupid, and the next....</p> - -<p>All the hidden beasts, stirred by instinctive knowledge -of the tragedy, roared and raged. Marie’s -eyes and mind were opened to its horror. She -plugged her fingers into her ears; screamed; but -her voice was a mere wafer of sound in that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">106</span> -pandemonium. She heard vast crashes of someone -smashing in the small door of the arena, and then -swooned upon the floor of the cage.</p> - -<p>The bolts were torn from their sockets at last, the -slip door swung back, and in the opening appeared -Pompoon, alone, old Pompoon, with a flaming lamp -and an iron spear. As he stepped forward into the -gloom he saw the tiger, dragging something in its -mouth, leap back into its cage.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">107</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="Mordecai_and_Cocking"><i>Mordecai and Cocking</i></h2> - - -<p>Two men sat one afternoon -beside a spinney of beeches near the top of a wild -bare down. Old shepherd Mordecai was admonishing -a younger countryman, Eustace Cocking, -now out of work, who held beside him in leash a -brindled whippet dog, sharp featured and lean, its -neck clipped in a broad leather collar. The day was -radiant, the very air had bloom; bright day is never -so bright as upon these lonely downs, and the grim -face of storm never so tragic elsewhere. From the -beeches other downs ranged in every direction, -nothing but downs in beautiful abandoned masses. -In a valley below the men a thousand sheep were -grazing; they looked no more than a handful of -white beach randomly scattered.</p> - -<p>“The thing’s forbidden, Eustace; it always has -and always will be, I say, and thereby ’tis wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Well, if ever I doos anything wrong I allus -feel glad of it next morning.”</p> - -<p>“’Tis against law, Eustace, and to be against law is -the downfall of mankind. What I mean to say—I’m -a national man.”</p> - -<p>“The law! Foo! That’s made by them as don’t -care for my needs, and don’t understand my rights. -Is it fair to let them control your mind as haven’t got a -grip of their own? I worked for yon farmer a matter -of fourteen years, hard, I tell you, I let my back -sweat....”</p> - -<p>The dog at his side was restless; he cuffed it -impatiently: “and twice a week my wife she had to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</span> -go to farmhouse; twice a week; doing up their -washing and their muck—‘Lie down!’” he interjected -sternly to the querulous dog—“two days in -every seven. Then the missus says to my wife, ‘I -shall want you to come four days a week in future, -Mrs. Cocking; the house is too much of a burden -for me.’ My wife says: ‘I can’t come no oftener, -ma’am; I’d not have time to look after my own place, -my husband, and the six children, ma’am.’ Then -missus flew into a passion. ‘Oh, so you won’t come, -eh!’</p> - -<p>“‘I’d come if I could, ma’am,’ my wife says, ‘and -gladly, but it ain’t possible, you see.’</p> - -<p>“‘Oh, very well!’ says the missus. And that -was the end of that, but come Saturday, when the -boss pays me: ‘Cocking,’ he says, ‘I shan’t want -you no more arter next week.’ No explanation, mind -you, and I never asked for none. I know’d what -’twas for, but I don’t give a dam. What meanness, -Mordecai! Of course I don’t give a dam whether I -goes or whether I stops; you know my meaning—I’d -much rather stop; my home’s where I be known; but -I don’t give a dam. ’Tain’t the job I minds so much -as to let him have that power to spite me so at a -moment after fourteen years because of his wife’s -temper. ’Tis not decent. ’Tis under-grading a -man.’”</p> - -<p>There was no comment from the shepherd. -Eustace continued: “If that’s your law, Mordecai, -I don’t want it. I ignores it.”</p> - -<p>“And that you can’t do,” retorted the old man.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</span> -“God A’mighty can look after the law.”</p> - -<p>“If He be willing to take the disgrace of it, -Mordecai Stavely, let Him.”</p> - -<p>The men were silent for a long time, until the -younger cheerfully asked: “How be poor old Harry -Mixen?”</p> - -<p>“Just alive.”</p> - -<p>Eustace leaned back, munching a strig of grass -reflectively and looking at the sky: “Don’t seem no -sign of rain, however?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>The old man who said “No” hung his melancholy -head, and pondered; he surveyed his boots, -which were of harsh hard leather with deep soles. -He then said: “We ought to thank God we had such -mild weather at the back end of the year. If you -remember, it came a beautiful autumn and a softish -winter. Things are growing now; I’ve seen oats -as high as my knee; the clover’s lodged in places. -It will be all good if we escape the east winds—hot -days and frosty nights.”</p> - -<p>The downs, huge and bare, stretched in every -direction, green and grey, gentle and steep, their vast -confusion enlightened by a small hanger of beech or -pine, a pond, or more often a derelict barn; for -among the downs there are barns and garners ever -empty, gone into disuse and abandoned. They are -built of flint and red brick, with a roof of tiles. The -rafters often bear an eighteenth-century date. Elsewhere -in this emptiness even a bush will have a -name, and an old stone becomes a track mark. Upon -the soft tufts and among the triumphant furze live a -few despised birds, chats and finches and that blithe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</span> -screamer the lark, but above all, like veins upon the -down’s broad breast, you may perceive the run-way -of the hare.</p> - -<p>“Why can’t a man live like a hare?” broke out -the younger man. “I’d not mind being shot at a -time and again. It lives a free life, anyway, not like a -working man with a devil on two legs always cracking -him on.”</p> - -<p>“Because,” said Mordecai, “a hare is a vegetarian -creature, what’s called a rubinant, chewing the cud -and dividing not the hoof. And,” he added significantly, -“there be dogs.”</p> - -<p>“It takes a mazin’ good dog to catch ever a hare -on its own ground. Most hares could chase any dog -ever born, believe you me, if they liked to try at that.”</p> - -<p>“There be traps and wires!”</p> - -<p>“Well, we’ve no call to rejoice, with the traps set -for a man, and the wires a choking him.”</p> - -<p>At that moment two mating hares were roaming -together on the upland just below the men. The -doe, a small fawn creature, crouched coyly before -the other, a large nut-brown hare with dark ears. -Soon she darted away, sweeping before him in a great -circle, or twisting and turning as easily as a snake. -She seemed to fly the faster, but when his muscular -pride was aroused he swooped up to her shoulder, -and, as if in loving derision, leaped over her from -side to side as she ran. She stopped as sharply as -a shot upon its target and faced him, quizzing him -gently with her nose. As they sat thus the dark-eared -one perceived not far off a squatting figure; it -was another hare, a tawny buck, eyeing their dalliance.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">111</span> -The doe commenced to munch the herbage; the -nut-brown one hobbled off to confront this wretched, -rash, intruding fool. When they met both rose upon -their haunches, clawing and scraping and patting at -each other with as little vigour as mild children put -into their quarrels—a rigmarole of slapping hands. -But, notwithstanding the delicacy of the treatment, -the interloper, a meek enough fellow, succumbed, -and the conqueror loped back to his nibbling mistress.</p> - -<p>Yet, whenever they rested from their wooing -flights, the tawny interloper was still to be seen near -by. Hapless mourning seemed to involve his -hunched figure; he had the aspect of a deferential, -grovelling man; but the lover saw only his provocative, -envious eye—he swept down upon him. -Standing up again, he slammed and basted him with -puny velvet blows until he had salved his indignation, -satisfied his connubial pride, or perhaps merely some -strange fading instinct—for it seemed but a mock -combat, a ritual to which they conformed.</p> - -<p>Away the happy hare would prance to his mate, -but as often as he came round near that shameless -spy he would pounce upon him and beat him to the -full, like a Turk or like a Russian. But though he -could beat him and disgrace him, he could neither -daunt nor injure him. The vanquished miscreant -would remain watching their wooing with the eye of -envy—or perhaps of scorn—and hoping for a miracle -to happen.</p> - -<p>And a miracle did happen. Cocking, unseen, near -the beeches released his dog. The doe shot away over -the curve of the hill and was gone. She did not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</span> -merely gallop, she seemed to pass into ideal flight, -the shadow of wind itself. Her fawn body, with -half-cocked ears and unperceivable convulsion of the -leaping haunches, soared across the land with the -steady swiftness of a gull. The interloping hare, in a -blast of speed, followed hard upon her traces. But -Cocking’s hound had found at last the hare of its -dreams, a nut-brown, dark-eared, devil-guided, -eluding creature, that fled over the turf of the hill as -lightly as a cloud. The long leaping dog swept in its -track with a stare of passion, following in great curves -the flying thing that grew into one great throb of fear -all in the grand sunlight on the grand bit of a hill. -The lark stayed its little flood of joy and screamed -with notes of pity at the protracted flight; and bloodless -indeed were they who could view it unmoved, -nor feel how sweet a thing is death if you be hound, -how fell a thing it is if you be hare. Too long, O -delaying death, for this little heart of wax; and too -long, O delaying victory, for that pursuer with the -mouth of flame. Suddenly the hound faltered, -staggered a pace or two, then sunk to the grass, its -lips dribbling blood. When Cocking reached him -the dog was dead. He picked the body up.</p> - -<p>“It’s against me, like everything else,” he -muttered.</p> - -<p>But a voice was calling “Oi! Oi!” He turned to -confront a figure rapidly and menacingly approaching.</p> - -<p>“I shall want you, Eustace Cocking,” cried the -gamekeeper, “to come and give an account o’ yourself.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">113</span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - - - -<h2 id="The_Man_from_Kilsheelan"><i>The Man from Kilsheelan</i></h2> - - -<p>If you knew the Man from Kilsheelan -it was no use saying you did not believe in -fairies and secret powers; believe it or no, but -believe it you should; there he was. It is true he was -in an asylum for the insane, but he was a man with age -upon him so he didn’t mind; and besides, better men -than himself have been in such places, or they ought -to be, and if there is justice in the world they will be.</p> - -<p>“A cousin of mine,” he said to old Tom Tool one -night, “is come from Ameriky. A rich person.”</p> - -<p>He lay in the bed next him, but Tom Tool didn’t -answer so he went on again: “In a ship,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I hear you,” answered Tom Tool.</p> - -<p>“I see his mother with her bosom open once, and -it stuffed with diamonds, bags full.”</p> - -<p>Tom Tool kept quiet.</p> - -<p>“If,” said the Man from Kilsheelan, “if I’d the -trusty comrade I’d make a break from this and go -seek him.”</p> - -<p>“Was he asking you to do that?”</p> - -<p>“How could he an’ all and he in a ship?”</p> - -<p>“Was he writing fine letters to you then?”</p> - -<p>“How could he, under the Lord? Would he give -them to a savage bird or a herring to bring to me so?”</p> - -<p>“How did he let on to you?”</p> - -<p>“He did not let on,” said the Man from Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>Tom Tool lay long silent in the darkness; he had -a mistrust of the Man, knowing him to have a forgetful -mind; everything slipped through it like rain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">114</span> -through the nest of a pigeon. But at last he asked -him: “Where is he now?”</p> - -<p>“He’ll be at Ballygoveen.”</p> - -<p>“You to know that and you with no word from -him?”</p> - -<p>“O, I know it, I know; and if I’d a trusty comrade -I’d walk out of this and to him I would go. -Bags of diamonds!”</p> - -<p>Then he went to sleep, sudden; but the next night -he was at Tom Tool again: “If I’d a trusty -comrade,” said he; and all that and a lot more.</p> - -<p>“’Tis not convenient to me now,” said Tom Tool, -“but to-morrow night I might go wid you.”</p> - -<p>The next night was a wild night, and a dark night, -and he would not go to make a break from the -asylum, he said: “Fifty miles of journey, and I with -no heart for great walking feats! It is not convenient, -but to-morrow night I might go wid you.”</p> - -<p>The night after that he said: “Ah, whisht wid -your diamonds and all! Why would you go from the -place that is snug and warm into a world that is like -a wall for cold dark, and but the thread of a coat to -divide you from its mighty clasp, and only one thing -blacker under the heaven of God and that’s the road -you walk on, and only one thing more shy than your -heart and that’s your two feet worn to a tissue -tramping in dung and ditches....”</p> - -<p>“If I’d a trusty comrade,” said the Man from -Kilsheelan, “I’d go seek my rich cousin.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">115</span></p> -<p>“ ... stars gaping at you a few spans away, and -the things that have life in them, but cannot see or -speak, begin to breathe and bend. If ever your hair -stood up it is then it would be, though you’ve no -more than would thatch a thimble, God help you.”</p> - -<p>“Bags of gold he has,” continued the Man, “and -his pockets stuffed with the tobacca.”</p> - -<p>“Tobacca!”</p> - -<p>“They were large pockets and well stuffed.”</p> - -<p>“Do you say, now!”</p> - -<p>“And the gold! large bags and rich bags.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I might do it to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>And the next day Tom Tool and the Man from -Kilsheelan broke from the asylum and crossed the -mountains and went on.</p> - -<p>Four little nights and four long days they were -walking; slow it was for they were oldish men and -lost they were, but the journey was kind and the -weather was good weather. On the fourth day Tom -Tool said to him: “The Dear knows what way -you’d be taking me! Blind it seems, and dazed I -am. I could do with a skillet of good soup to steady -me and to soothe me.”</p> - -<p>“Hard it is, and hungry it is,” sighed the Man; -“starved daft I am for a taste of nourishment, a -blind man’s dog would pity me. If I see a cat I’ll eat -it; I could bite the nose off a duck.”</p> - -<p>They did not converse any more for a time, not -until Tom Tool asked him what was the name of his -grand cousin, and then the Man from Kilsheelan was -in a bedazement, and he was confused.</p> - -<p>“I declare, on my soul, I’ve forgot his little name. -Wait now while I think of it.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">116</span></p> -<p>“Was it McInerney then?”</p> - -<p>“No, not it at all.”</p> - -<p>“Kavanagh? the Grogans? or the Duffys?”</p> - -<p>“Wait, wait while I think of it now.”</p> - -<p>Tom Tool waited; he waited and all until he -thought he would burst.</p> - -<p>“Ah, what’s astray wid you? Was it Phelan—or -O’Hara—or Clancy—or Peter Mew?”</p> - -<p>“No, not it at all.”</p> - -<p>“The Murphys. The Sweeneys. The Moores.”</p> - -<p>“Divil a one. Wait while I think of it now.”</p> - -<p>And the Man from Kilsheelan sat holding his face -as if it hurt him, and his comrade kept saying at him: -“Duhy, then? Coman? McGrath?” and driving -him distracted with his O this and O that, his Mc -he—s and Mc she—s.</p> - -<p>Well, he could not think of it; but when they -walked on they had not far to go, for they came over a -twist of the hills and there was the ocean, and the neat -little town of Ballygoveen in a bay of it below, with -the wreck of a ship lying sunk near the strand. There -was a sharp cliff at either horn of the bay, and between -them some bullocks stravaiging on the beach.</p> - -<p>“Truth is a fortune,” cried the Man from Kilsheelan, -“this it is.”</p> - -<p>They went down the hill to the strand near the -wreck, and just on the wing of the town they saw a -paddock full of hemp stretched drying, and a house -near it, and a man weaving a rope. He had a great -cast of hemp around his loins, and a green apron. -He walked backwards to the sea, and a young girl -stood turning a little wheel as he went away from her.</p> - -<p>“God save you,” said Tom Tool to her,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">117</span> “for who -are you weaving this rope?”</p> - -<p>“For none but God himself and the hangman,” -said she.</p> - -<p>Turning the wheel she was, and the man going -away from it backwards, and the dead wreck in the -rocky bay; a fine sweet girl of good dispose and no -ways drifty.</p> - -<p>“Long life to you then, young woman,” says he. -“But that’s a strong word, and a sour word, the Lord -spare us all.”</p> - -<p>At that the rope walker let a shout to her to stop -the wheel; then he cut the rope at the end and tied it -to a black post. After that he came throwing off his -green apron and said he was hungry.</p> - -<p>“Denis, avick!” cried the girl. “Come, and I’ll -get your food.” And the two of them went away into -the house.</p> - -<p>“Brother and sister they are,” said the Man from -Kilsheelan, “a good appetite to them.”</p> - -<p>“Very neat she is, and clean she is, and good and -sweet and tidy she is,” said Tom Tool. They stood -in the yard watching some white fowls parading and -feeding and conversing in the grass; scratch, peck, -peck, ruffle, quarrel, scratch, peck, peck, cock a -doodle doo.</p> - -<p>“What will we do now, Tom Tool? My belly -has a scroop and a screech in it. I could eat the full of -Isknagahiny Lake and gape for more, or the Hill of -Bawn and not get my enough.”</p> - -<p>Beyond them was the paddock with the hemp -drying across it, long heavy strands, and two big -stacks of it beside, dark and sodden, like seaweed. -The girl came to the door and called:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">118</span> “Will ye -take a bite?” They said they would, and that she -should eat with spoons of gold in the heaven of God -and Mary. “You’re welcome,” she said, but no -more she said, for while they ate she was sad and -silent.</p> - -<p>The young man Denis let on that their father, one -Horan, was away on his journeys peddling a load of -ropes, a long journey, days he had been gone, and he -might be back to-day, or to-morrow, or the day after.</p> - -<p>“A great strew of hemp you have,” said the Man -from Kilsheelan. The young man cast down his -eyes; and the young girl cried out: “’Tis foul hemp, -God preserve us all!”</p> - -<p>“Do you tell me of that now,” he asked; but she -would not, and her brother said: “I will tell you. -It’s a great misfortune, mister man. ’Tis from the -wreck in the bay beyant, a good stout ship, but burst -on the rocks one dark terror of a night and all the -poor sailors tipped in the sea. But the tide was low -and they got ashore, ten strong sailor men, with a -bird in a cage that was dead drowned.”</p> - -<p>“The Dear rest its soul,” said Tom Tool.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">119</span></p> -<p>“There was no rest in the ocean for a week, the -bay was full of storms, and the vessel burst, and the -big bales split, and the hemp was scattered and torn -and tangled on the rocks, or it did drift. But at last -it soothed, and we gathered it and brought it to the -field here. We brought it, and my father did buy it -of the salvage man for a price; a Mexican valuer he -was, but the deal was bad, and it lies there; going -rotten it is, the rain wears it, and the sun’s astray, and -the wind is gone.”</p> - -<p>“That’s a great misfortune. What is on it?” -said the Man from Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>“It is a great misfortune, mister man. Laid out -it is, turned it is, hackled it is, but faith it will not dry -or sweeten, never a hank of it worth a pig’s eye.”</p> - -<p>“’Tis the devil and all his injury,” said Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>The young girl, her name it was Christine, sat -grieving. One of her beautiful long hands rested on -her knee, and she kept beating it with the other. -Then she began to speak.</p> - -<p>“The captain of that ship lodged in this house with -us while the hemp was recovered and sold; a fine -handsome sport he was, but fond of the drink, and -very friendly with the Mexican man, very hearty they -were, a great greasy man with his hands covered with -rings that you’d not believe. Covered! My father -had been gone travelling a week or a few days when -a dark raging gale came off the bay one night till the -hemp was lifted all over the field.”</p> - -<p>“It would have lifted a bullock,” said Denis, -“great lumps of it, like trees.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">120</span></p> -<p>“And we sat waiting the captain, but he didn’t -come home and we went sleeping. But in the -morning the Mexican man was found dead murdered -on the strand below, struck in the skull, and the two -hands of him gone. ’Twas not long when they came -to the house and said he was last seen with the captain, -drunk quarrelling; and where was he? I said -to them that he didn’t come home at all and was away -from it. ‘We’ll take a peep at his bed,’ they said, -and I brought them there, and my heart gave a strong -twist in me when I see’d the captain stretched on it, -snoring to the world and his face and hands smeared -with the blood. So he was brought away and -searched, and in his pocket they found one of the -poor Mexican’s hands, just the one, but none of the -riches. Everything to be so black against him and -the assizes just coming on in Cork! So they took -him there before the judge, and he judged him and -said it’s to hang he was. And if they asked the -captain how he did it, he said he did not do -it at all.”</p> - -<p>“But there was a bit of iron pipe beside the body,” -said Denis.</p> - -<p>“And if they asked him where was the other hand, -the one with the rings and the mighty jewels on them, -and his budget of riches, he said he knew nothing of -that nor how the one hand got into his pocket. -Placed there it was by some schemer. It was all he -could say, for the drink was on him and nothing he -knew.</p> - -<p>“‘You to be so drunk,’ they said, ‘how did you -get home to your bed and nothing heard?’</p> - -<p>“‘I don’t know,’ says he. Good sakes, the poor -lamb, a gallant strong sailor he was! His mind was a -blank, he said. ‘’Tis blank,’ said the judge, ‘if it’s -as blank as the head of himself with a gap like that -in it, God rest him!’”</p> - -<p>“You could have put a pound of cheese in it,” -said Denis.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">121</span></p> -<p>“And Peter Corcoran cried like a loony man, for -his courage was gone, like a stream of water. To -hang him, the judge said, and to hang him well, was -their intention. It was a pity, the judge said, to rob -a man because he was foreign, and destroy him for -riches and the drink on him. And Peter Corcoran -swore he was innocent of this crime. ‘Put a clean -shirt to me back,’ says he, ‘for it’s to heaven I’m -going.’”</p> - -<p>“And,” added Denis, “the peeler at the door said -‘Amen.’”</p> - -<p>“That was a week ago,” said Christine, “and in -another he’ll be stretched. A handsome sporting -sailor boy.”</p> - -<p>“What ... what did you say was the name of -him?” gasped the Man from Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>“Peter Corcoran, the poor lamb,” said Christine.</p> - -<p>“Begod,” he cried out as if he was choking, “’tis -me grand cousin from Ameriky!”</p> - -<p>True it was, and the grief on him so great that -Denis was after giving the two of them a lodge till the -execution was over. “Rest here, my dad’s away,” -said he, “and he knowing nothing of the murder, or -the robbery, or the hanging that’s coming, nothing. -Ah, what will we tell him an’ all? ’Tis a black story -on this house.”</p> - -<p>“The blessing of God and Mary on you,” said -Tom Tool. “Maybe we could do a hand’s turn for -you; me comrade’s a great wonder with the miracles, -maybe he could do a stroke would free an innocent -man.”</p> - -<p>“Is it joking you are?” asked Christine sternly.</p> - -<p>“God deliver him, how would I joke on a man -going to his doom and destruction?”</p> - -<p>The next day the young girl gave them jobs to do, -but the Man from Kilsheelan was destroyed with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">122</span> -trouble and he shook like water when a pan of it is -struck.</p> - -<p>“What is on you?” said Tom Tool.</p> - -<p>“Vexed and waxy I am,” says he, “in regard of the -great journey we’s took, and sorra a help in the end -of it. Why couldn’t he do his bloody murder after -we had done with him?”</p> - -<p>“Maybe he didn’t do it at all.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, what are you saying now, Tom Tool? -Wouldn’t anyone do it, a nice, easy, innocent crime. -The cranky gossoon to get himself stretched on the -head of it, ’tis the drink destroyed him! Sure’s -there’s no more justice in the world than you’d find -in the craw of a sick pullet. Vexed and waxy I am -for me careless cousin. Do it! Who wouldn’t do -it?”</p> - -<p>He went up to the rope that Denis and Christine -were weaving together and he put his finger on it.</p> - -<p>“Is that the rope,” says he, “that will hang my -grand cousin?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Denis, “it is not. His rope came -through the post office yesterday. For the prison -master it was, a long new rope—saints preserve us—and -Jimmy Fallon the postman getting roaring drunk -showing it to the scores of creatures would give him -a drink for the sight of it. Just coiled it was, and no -way hidden, with a label on it, ‘O.H.M.S.’”</p> - -<p>“The wind’s rising, you,” said Christine. “Take -a couple of forks now, and turn the hemp in the field. -Maybe ’twill scour the Satan out of it.”</p> - -<p>“Stormy it does be, and the bay has darkened in -broad noon,” said Tom Tool.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">123</span></p> - -<p>“Why wouldn’t the whole world be dark and a -man to be hung?” said she.</p> - -<p>They went to the hemp so knotted and stinking, -and begun raking it and raking it. The wind was -roaring from the bay, the hulk twitching and tottering; -the gulls came off the wave, and Christine’s -clothes stretched out from her like the wings of a -bird. The hemp heaved upon the paddock like a -great beast bursting a snare that was on it, and a -strong blast drove a heap of it upon the Man from -Kilsheelan, twisting and binding him in its clasp till -he thought he would not escape from it and he went -falling and yelping. Tom Tool unwound him, and -sat him in the lew of the stack till he got his -strength again, and then he began to moan of his -misfortune.</p> - -<p>“Stint your shouting,” said Tom Tool, “isn’t it -as hard to cure as a wart on the back of a hedgehog?”</p> - -<p>But he wouldn’t stint it. “’Tis large and splendid -talk I get from you, Tom Tool, but divil a deed of -strength. Vexed and waxy I am. Why couldn’t he -do his murder after we’d done with him. What a -cranky cousin. What a foolish creature. What a -silly man, the devil take him!”</p> - -<p>“Let you be aisy,” the other said, “to heaven he -is going.”</p> - -<p>“And what’s the gain of it, he to go with his neck -stretched?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I did know a man went to heaven once,” -began Tom Tool, “but he did not care for it.”</p> - -<p>“That’s queer,” said the Man,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">124</span> “for it couldn’t be -anything you’d not want, indeed to glory.”</p> - -<p>“Well, he came back to Ireland on the head of it. -I forget what was his name.”</p> - -<p>“Was it Corcoran, or Tool, or Horan?”</p> - -<p>“No, none of those names. He let on it was a -lonely place, not fit for living people or dead people, -he said; nothing but trees and streams and beasts -and birds.”</p> - -<p>“What beasts and birds?”</p> - -<p>“Rabbits and badgers, the elephant, the dromedary, -and all those ancient races; eagles and hawks -and cuckoos and magpies. He wandered in a thick -forest for nights and days like a flea in a great beard, -and the beasts and the birds setting traps and hooks -and dangers for a poor feller; the worst villains of all -was the sheep.”</p> - -<p>“The sheep! What could a sheep do then?” -asked Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know the right of it, but you’d not believe -me if I told you at all. If you went for the little swim -you was not seen again.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">125</span></p> -<p>“I never heard the like of that in Roscommon.”</p> - -<p>“Not another holy soul was in it but himself, and -if he was taken with the thirst he would dip his hand -in a stream that flowed with rich wine and put it to -his lips, but if he did it turned into air at once and -twisted up in a blue cloud. But grand wine to look -at, he said. If he took oranges from a tree he could -not bite them, they were chiny oranges, hard as a -plate. But beautiful oranges to look at they were. -To pick a flower it burst on you like a gun. What -was cold was too cold to touch, and what was warm was -too warm to swallow, you must throw it up, or die.”</p> - -<p>“Faith, it’s no region for a Christian soul, Tom -Tool. Where is it at all?”</p> - -<p>“High it may be, low it may be, it may be here, -it may be there.”</p> - -<p>“What could the like of a sheep do? A -sheep!”</p> - -<p>“A devouring savage creature it is there, the most -hard to come at, the most difficult to conquer, with -the teeth of a lion and a tiger, the strength of a bear -and a half, the deceit of two foxes, the run of a deer, -the...”</p> - -<p>“Is it heaven you call it! I’d not look twice at a -place the like of that.”</p> - -<p>“No, you would not, no.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but wait now,” said Kilsheelan, “wait till -the day of Judgment.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I will not wait then,” said Tom Tool -sternly. “When the sinners of the world are called -to their judgment, scatter they will all over the face -of the earth, running like hares till they come to the -sea, and there they will perish.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, the love of God on the world!”</p> - -<p>They went raking and raking, till they came to a -great stiff hump of it that rolled over, and they could -see sticking from the end of it two boots.</p> - -<p>“O, what is it, in the name of God?” asks -Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>“Sorra and all, but I’d not like to look,” says Tom -Tool, and they called the girl to come see what -was it.</p> - -<p>“A dead man!” says Christine, in a thin voice -with a great tremble coming on her, and she white<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">126</span> -as a tooth. “Unwind him now.” They began to -unwind him like a tailor with a bale of tweed, and -at last they came to a man black in the face. Strangled -he was. The girl let a great cry out of her. “Queen -of heaven, ’tis my dad; choked he is, the long strands -have choked him, my good pleasant dad!” and she -went with a run to the house crying.</p> - -<p>“What has he there in his hand?” asked Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>“’Tis a chopper,” says he.</p> - -<p>“Do you see what is on it, Tom Tool?”</p> - -<p>“Sure I see, and you see, what is on it; blood is -on it, and murder is on it. Go fetch a peeler, and I’ll -wait while you bring him.”</p> - -<p>When his friend was gone for the police Tom Tool -took a little squint around him and slid his hand into -the dead man’s pocket. But if he did he was nearly -struck mad from his senses, for he pulled out a loose -dead hand that had been chopped off as neat as the -foot of a pig. He looked at the dead man’s arms, and -there was a hand to each; so he looked at the hand -again. The fingers were covered with the rings of -gold and diamonds. Covered!</p> - -<p>“Glory be to God!” said Tom Tool, and he put -his hand in another pocket and fetched a budget full -of papers and banknotes.</p> - -<p>“Glory be to God!” he said again, and put the -hand and the budget back in the pockets, and turned -his back and said prayers until the peelers came and -took them all off to the court.</p> - -<p>It was not long, two days or three, until an inquiry -was held; grand it was and its judgment was good.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">127</span> -And the big-Wig asked: “Where is the man that -found the body?”</p> - -<p>“There are two of him,” says the peeler.</p> - -<p>“Swear ’em,” says he, and Kilsheelan stepped up -to a great murdering joker of a clerk, who gave him -a book in his hand and roared at him: “I swear by -Almighty God....”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” says Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>“Swear it,” says the clerk.</p> - -<p>“Indeed I do.”</p> - -<p>“You must repeat it,” says the clerk.</p> - -<p>“I will, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Well, repeat it then,” says he.</p> - -<p>“And what will I repeat?”</p> - -<p>So he told him again and he repeated it. Then the -clerk goes on: “... that the evidence I give....”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” says Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>“Say those words, if you please.”</p> - -<p>“The words! Och, give me the head of ’em -again!”</p> - -<p>So he told him again and he repeated it. Then the -clerk goes on: “ ... shall be the truth....”</p> - -<p>“It will,” says Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>“ ... and nothing but the truth....”</p> - -<p>“Yes, begod, indeed!”</p> - -<p>“Say ‘nothing but the truth,’” roared the clerk.</p> - -<p>“No!” says Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>“Say ‘nothing.’”</p> - -<p>“All right,” says Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>“Can’t you say ’nothing but the truth'?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he says.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">128</span></p> -<p>“Well, say it!”</p> - -<p>“I will, so,” says he, “the scrapings of sense on it -all!”</p> - -<p>So they swore them both, and their evidence they -gave.</p> - -<p>“Very good,” his lordship said, “a most important -and opportune discovery, in the nick of time, by -the tracing of God. There is a reward of fifty pounds -offered for the finding of this property and jewels: -fifty pounds you will get in due course.”</p> - -<p>They said they were obliged to him, though sorrow -a one of them knew what he meant by a due course, -nor where it was.</p> - -<p>Then a lawyer man got the rights of the whole -case; he was the cunningest man ever lived in the -city of Cork; no one could match him, and he made -it straight and he made it clear.</p> - -<p>Old Horan must have returned from his journey -unbeknown on the night of the gale when the deed -was done. Perhaps he had made a poor profit on his -toil, for there was little of his own coin found on his -body. He saw the two drunks staggering along the -bay—he clove in the head of the one with a bit of -pipe—he hit the other a good whack to still or stiffen -him—he got an axe from the yard—he shore off the -Mexican’s two hands, for the rings were grown -tight and wouldn’t be drawn from his fat fingers. -Perhaps he dragged the captain home to his bed—you -couldn’t be sure of that—but put the hand in the -captain’s pocket he did, and then went to the paddock -to bury the treasure. But a blast of wind whipped -and wove some of the hemp strand around his limbs, -binding him sudden. He was all huffled and hogled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">129</span> -and went mad with the fear struggling, the hemp -rolling him and binding him till he was strangled or -smothered.</p> - -<p>And that is what happened him, believe it or no, -but believe it you should. It was the tracing of God -on him for his dark crime.</p> - -<p>Within a week of it Peter Corcoran was away out -of gaol, a stout walking man again, free in Ballygoveen. -But on the day of his release he did not go -near the ropewalker’s house. The Horans were there -waiting, and the two old silly men, but he did not go -next or near them. The next day Kilsheelan said to -her: “Strange it is my cousin not to seek you, and -he a sneezer for gallantry.”</p> - -<p>“’Tis no wonder at all,” replied Christine, “and -he with his picture in all the papers.”</p> - -<p>“But he had a right to have come now and you -caring him in his black misfortune,” said Tom -Tool.</p> - -<p>“Well, he will not come then,” Christine said in -her soft voice, “in regard of the red murder on the -soul of my dad. And why should he put a mark on -his family, and he the captain of a ship.”</p> - -<p>In the afternoon Tom Tool and the other went -walking to try if they should see him, and they did -see him at a hotel, but he was hurrying from it; he -had a frieze coat on him and a bag in his hand.</p> - -<p>“Well, who are you at all?” asks Peter Corcoran.</p> - -<p>“You are my cousin from Ameriky,” says Kilsheelan.</p> - -<p>“Is that so? And I never heard it,” says Peter.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">130</span> -“What’s your name?”</p> - -<p>The Man from Kilsheelan hung down his old -head and couldn’t answer him, but Tom Tool said: -“Drifty he is, sir, he forgets his little name.”</p> - -<p>“Astray is he? My mother said I’ve cousins in -Roscommon, d’ye know ’em? the Twingeings....”</p> - -<p>“Twingeing! Owen Twingeing it is!” roared -Kilsheelan. “’Tis my name! ’Tis my name! ’Tis -my name!” and he danced about squawking like a -parrot in a frenzy.</p> - -<p>“If it’s Owen Twingeing you are, I’ll bring you to -my mother in Manhattan.” The captain grabbed -up his bag. “Haste now, come along out of it. I’m -going from the cunning town this minute, bad sleep -to it for ever and a month! There’s a cart waiting to -catch me the boat train to Queenstown. Will you -go? Now?”</p> - -<p>“Holy God contrive it,” said Kilsheelan; his -voice was wheezy as an old goat, and he made to go -off with him. “Good-day to you, Tom Tool, you’ll -get all the reward and endure a rich life from this -out, fortune on it all, a fortune on it all!”</p> - -<p>And the two of them were gone in a twink.</p> - -<p>Tom Tool went back to the Horans then; night -was beginning to dusk and to darken. As he went up -the ropewalk Christine came to him from her potato -gardens and gave him signs, he to be quiet and follow -her down to the strand. So he followed her down to -the strand and told her all that happened, till she was -vexed and full of tender words for the old fool.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">131</span></p> -<p>“Aren’t you the spit of misfortune? It would -daunt a saint, so it would, and scrape a tear from silky -Satan’s eye. Those two deluderers, they’ve but the -drainings of half a heart between ’em. And he not -willing to lift the feather of a thought on me? I’d -not forget him till there’s ten days in a week and -every one of ’em lucky. But ... but ... isn’t Peter -Corcoran the nice name for a captain man, the very -pattern?”</p> - -<p>She gave him a little bundle into his hands. -“There’s a loaf and a cut of meat. You’d best be -stirring from here.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, and stood looking stupid, for his -mind was in a dream. The rock at one horn of the -bay had a red glow on it like the shawl on the neck -of a lady, but the other was black now. A man was -dragging a turf boat up the beach.</p> - -<p>“Listen, you,” said Christine. “There’s two -upstart men in the house now, seeking you and the -other. There’s trouble and damage on the head of it. -From the asylum they are. To the police they have -been, to put an embargo on the reward, and sorra a -sixpence you’ll receive of the fifty pounds of it: to -the expenses of the asylum it must go, they say. The -treachery! Devil and all, the blood sweating on every -coin of it would rot the palm of a nigger. Do you -hear me at all?”</p> - -<p>She gave him a little shaking for he was standing -stupid, gazing at the bay which was dying into -grave darkness except for the wash of its broken -waves.</p> - -<p>“Do you hear me at all? It’s quit now you should, -my little old man, or they’ll be taking you.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">132</span></p> -<p>“Ah, yes, sure, I hear you, Christine; thank you -kindly. Just looking and listening I was. I’ll be -stirring from it now, and I’ll get on and I’ll go. Just -looking and listening I was, just a wee look.”</p> - -<p>“Then good-bye to you, Mr. Tool,” said Christine -Horan, and turning from him she left him in the -darkness and went running up the ropewalk to her -home.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">133</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="Tribute"><i>Tribute</i></h2> - - -<p>Two honest young men lived in -Braddle, worked together at the spinning mills at -Braddle, and courted the same girl in the town of -Braddle, a girl named Patience who was poor and -pretty. One of them, Nathan Regent, who wore -cloth uppers to his best boots, was steady, silent, and -dignified, but Tony Vassall, the other, was such a -happy-go-lucky fellow that he soon carried the good -will of Patience in his heart, in his handsome face, in -his pocket at the end of his nickel watch chain, or -wherever the sign of requited love is carried by the -happy lover. The virtue of steadiness, you see, can -be measured only by the years, and this Tony had put -such a hurry into the tender bosom of Patience: -silence may very well be golden, but it is a currency -not easy to negotiate in the kingdom of courtship; -dignity is so much less than simple faith that it is -unable to move even one mountain, it charms the -hearts only of bank managers and bishops.</p> - -<p>So Patience married Tony Vassall and Nathan -turned his attention to other things, among them to a -girl who had a neat little fortune—and Nathan -married that.</p> - -<p>Braddle is a large gaunt hill covered with dull little -houses, and it has flowing from its side a stream -which feeds a gigantic and beneficent mill. Without -that mill—as everybody in Braddle knew, for it was -there that everybody in Braddle worked—the heart -of Braddle would cease to beat. Tony went on working -at the mill. So did Nathan in a way, but he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">134</span> -a cute ambitious wife, and what with her money and -influence he was soon made a manager of one of the -departments. Tony went on working at the mill. -In a few more years Nathan’s steadiness so increased -his opportunities that he became joint manager of the -whole works. Then his colleague died; he was -appointed sole manager, and his wealth became so -great that eventually Nathan and Nathan’s wife -bought the entire concern. Tony went on working -at the mill. He now had two sons and a daughter, -Nancy, as well as his wife Patience, so that even his -possessions may be said to have increased although -his position was no different from what it had been -for twenty years.</p> - -<p>The Regents, now living just outside Braddle, had -one child, a daughter named Olive, of the same age -as Nancy. She was very beautiful and had been educated -at a school to which she rode on a bicycle until -she was eighteen.</p> - -<p>About that time, you must know, the country -embarked upon a disastrous campaign, a war so -calamitous that every sacrifice was demanded of -Braddle. The Braddle mills were worn from their -very bearings by their colossal efforts, increasing by -day or by night, to provide what were called the -sinews of war. Almost everybody in Braddle grew -white and thin and sullen with the strain of constant -labour. Not quite everybody, for the Regents -received such a vast increase of wealth that their eyes -sparkled; they scarcely knew what to do with it; -their faces were neither white nor sullen.</p> - -<p>“In times like these,” declared Nathan’s wife,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">135</span> -“we must help our country still more, still more We -must help; let us lend our money to the country.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Nathan.</p> - -<p>So they lent their money to their country. The -country paid them tribute, and therefore, as the -Regent wealth continued to flow in, they helped their -country more and more; they even lent the tribute -back to the country and received yet more tribute for -that.</p> - -<p>“In times like these,” said the country, “we must -have more men, more men we must have.” And so -Nathan went and sat upon a Tribunal; for, as everybody -in Braddle knew, if the mills of Braddle ceased -to grind, the heart of Braddle would cease to beat.</p> - -<p>“What can we do to help our country?” asked -Tony Vassall of his master, “we have no money to -lend.”</p> - -<p>“No?” was the reply. “But you can give your -strong son Dan.”</p> - -<p>Tony gave his son Dan to the country.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, dear son,” said his father, and his -brother and his sister Nancy said “Good-bye.” His -mother kissed him.</p> - -<p>Dan was killed in battle; his sister Nancy took -his place at the mill.</p> - -<p>In a little while the neighbours said to Tony -Vassall: “What a fine strong son is your young -Albert Edward!”</p> - -<p>And Tony gave his son Albert Edward to the -country.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, dear son,” said his father; his sister -kissed him, his mother wept on his breast.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">136</span></p> - -<p>Albert Edward was killed in battle; his mother -took his place at the mill.</p> - -<p>But the war did not cease; though friend and foe -alike were almost drowned in blood it seemed as -powerful as eternity, and in time Tony Vassall too -went to battle and was killed. The country gave -Patience a widow’s pension, as well as a touching -inducement to marry again; she died of grief. -Many people died in those days, it was not strange -at all. Nathan and his wife got so rich that after the -war they died of over-eating, and their daughter Olive -came into a vast fortune and a Trustee.</p> - -<p>The Trustee went on lending the Braddle money -to the country, the country went on sending large -sums of interest to Olive (which was the country’s -tribute to her because of her parents’ unforgotten, -and indeed unforgettable, kindness), while Braddle -went on with its work of enabling the country to do -this. For when the war came to an end the country -told Braddle that those who had not given their lives -must now turn to and really work, work harder than -before the war, much, much harder, or the tribute -could not be paid and the heart of Braddle would -therefore cease to beat. Braddle folk saw that this -was true, only too true, and they did as they were told.</p> - -<p>The Vassall girl, Nancy, married a man who had -done deeds of valour in the war. He was a mill hand -like her father, and they had two sons, Daniel and -Albert Edward. Olive married a grand man, though -it is true he was not very grand to look at. He had a -small sharp nose, but they did not matter very much -because when you looked at him in profile his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">137</span> -bouncing red cheeks quite hid the small sharp nose, -as completely as two hills hide a little barn in a -valley. Olive lived in a grand mansion with numerous -servants who helped her to rear a little family of -one, a girl named Mercy, who also had a small sharp -nose and round red cheeks.</p> - -<p>Every year after the survivors’ return from the war -Olive gave a supper to her workpeople and their -families, hundreds of them; for six hours there -would be feasting and toys, music and dancing. -Every year Olive would make a little speech to them -all, reminding them all of their duty to Braddle and -Braddle’s duty to the country, although, indeed, she -did not remind them of the country’s tribute to -Olive. That was perhaps a theme unfitting to touch -upon, it would have been boastful and quite unbecoming.</p> - -<p>“These are grave times for our country,” Olive -would declare, year after year: “her responsibilities -are enormous, we must all put our shoulders to the -wheel.”</p> - -<p>Every year one of the workmen would make a -little speech in reply, thanking Olive for enabling the -heart of Braddle to continue its beats, calling down -the spiritual blessings of heaven and the golden -blessings of the world upon Olive’s golden head. -One year the honour of replying fell to the husband -of Nancy, and he was more than usually eloquent for -on that very day their two sons had commenced to -doff bobbins at the mill. No one applauded louder -than Nancy’s little Dan or Nancy’s Albert Edward, -unless it was Nancy herself. Olive was always much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">138</span> -moved on these occasions. She felt that she did not -really know these people, that she would never -know them; she wanted to go on seeing them, being -with them, and living with rapture in their workaday -world. But she did not do this.</p> - -<p>“How beautiful it all is!” she would sigh to her -daughter, Mercy, who accompanied her. “I am so -happy. All these dear people are being cared for -by us, just simply us. God’s scheme of creation—you -see—the Almighty—we are his agents—we must -always remember that. It goes on for years, years -upon years it goes on. It will go on, of course, yes, -for ever; the heart of Braddle will not cease to beat. -The old ones die, the young grow old, the children -mature and marry and keep the mill going. When -I am dead ...”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, mamma!”</p> - -<p>“O yes, indeed, one day! Then <i>you</i> will have to -look after all these things, Mercy, and you will talk -to them—just like me. Yes, to own the mill is a -grave and difficult thing, only those who own them -know how grave and difficult; it calls forth all one’s -deepest and rarest qualities; but it is a divine position, -a noble responsibility. And the people really -love me—I think.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">139</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="The_Handsome_Lady"><i>The Handsome Lady</i></h2> - - -<p>Towards the close of the nineteenth -century the parish of Tull was a genial but -angular hamlet hung out on the north side of a -midland hill, with scarcely renown enough to get -itself marked on a map. Its felicities, whatever they -might be, lay some miles distant from a railway -station, and so were seldom regarded, being neither -boasted of by the inhabitants nor visited by strangers.</p> - -<p>But here as elsewhere people were born and, as -unusual, unconspicuously born. John Pettigrove -made a note of them then, and when people came in -their turns to die Pettigrove made a note of that too, -for he was the district registrar. In between whiles, -like fish in a pond, they were immersed in labour until -the Divine Angler hooked them to the bank, and -then, as is the custom, they were conspicuously -buried and laboured presumably no more.</p> - -<p>The registrar was perhaps the one person who had -love and praise for the simple place. He was born -and bred in Tull, he had never left Tull, and at forty -years of age was as firmly attached to it as the black -clock to the tower of Tull Church, which never -recorded anything but twenty minutes past four. -His wife Carrie, a delicate woman, was also satisfied -with Tull, but as she owned two or three small pieces -of house property there her fancy may not have been -entirely beyond suspicion; possession, as you might -say, being nine points of the prejudice just as it is of -the law. A year or two after their marriage Carrie -began to suffer from a complication of ailments that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">140</span> -turned her into a permanent invalid; she was seldom -seen out of the house and under her misfortunes she -peaked and pined, she was troublesome, there was no -pleasing her. If Pettigrove went about unshaven -she was vexed; it was unclean, it was lazy, disgusting; -but when he once appeared with his moustache -shaven off she was exceedingly angry; it was scandalous, -it was shameful, maddening. There is no -pleasing some women—what is a man to do? When -he began to let it grow again and encouraged a beard -she was more tyrannical than ever.</p> - -<p>The grey church was small and looked shrunken, -as if it had sagged; it seemed to stoop down upon the -green yard, but the stones and mounds, the cypress -and holly, the strangely faded blue of a door that led -through the churchyard wall to the mansion of the -vicar, were beautiful without pretence, and though as -often as not the parson’s goats used to graze among -the graves and had been known to follow him into -the nave, there was about the ground, the indulgent -dimness under the trees, and the tower with its -unmoving clock, the very delicacy of solitude. It -inspired compassion and not cynicism as, peering as -it were through the glass of antiquity, the stranger -gazed upon its mortal register. In its peace, its -beauty, and its age, all those pious records and hopes -inscribed upon its stones, seemed not uttered in pride -nor all in vain. But to speak truth the church’s grace -was partly the achievement of its lofty situation. A -road climbing up from sloping fields turned abruptly -and traversed the village, sidling up to the church; -there, having apparently satisfied some itch of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">141</span> -curiosity, it turned abruptly again and trundled back -another way into that northern prospect of farms and -forest that lay in the direction of Whitewater Copse, -Hangman’s Corner, and One O’clock.</p> - -<p>It was that prospect which most delighted Pettigrove, -for he was a simple-minded countryman full -of ambling content. Not even the church allured -him so much, for though it pleased him and was -just at his own threshold, he never entered it at all. -Once upon a time there had been talk of him joining -the church choir, for he had a pleasant singing voice, -but he would not go.</p> - -<p>“It’s flying in the face of Providence,” cried his -exasperated wife—her mind, too, was a falsetto one: -“You’ve as strong a voice as anyone in Tull, in fact -stronger, not that that is saying much, for Tull air -don’t seem good for songsters if you may judge by -that choir. The air is too thick maybe, I can’t say, -it certainly oppresses my own chest, or perhaps it’s -too thin, I don’t thrive on it myself; but you’ve the -strength and it would do you credit; you’d be a -credit to yourself and it would be a credit to me. But -that won’t move you! I can’t tell what you’d be at; -a drunken man ’ull get sober again, but a fool ... -well, there!”</p> - -<p>John, unwilling to be a credit, would mumble an -objection to being tied down to that sort of thing. -That was just like him, no spontaneity, no tidiness in -his mind. Whenever he addressed himself to any -discussion he had, as you might say, to tuck up his -intellectual sleeves, give a hitch to his argumentative -trousers. So he went on singing, just when he had a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">142</span> -mind to it, old country songs, for he disliked what he -called “gimcrack ballads about buzzums and roses.”</p> - -<p>Pettigrove’s occupation dealt with the extreme -features of existence, but he himself had no extreme -notions. He was a good medium type of man -mentally and something more than that physically, -but nevertheless he was a disappointment to his wife—he -never gave her any opportunity to shine by his -reflected light. She had nurtured foolish ideas of him -first as a figure of romance, then of some social -importance; he ought to be a parish councillor or -develop eminence somehow in their way of life. But -John was nothing like this, he did not develop, or -shine, or offer counsel, he was just a big, solid, happy -man. There were times when his childless wife -hated every ounce and sign of him, when his fair -clipped beard and hair, which she declared were the -colour of jute, and his stolidity, sickened her.</p> - -<p>“I do my duty by him and, please God, I’ll continue -to do it. I’m a humble woman and easily -satisfied. An afflicted woman has no chance, no -chance at all,” she said. After twelve years of -wedded life Pettigrove sometimes vaguely wondered -what it would have been like not to have married -anybody.</p> - -<p>One Michaelmas a small house belonging to Mrs. -Pettigrove was let to a widow from Eastbourne. -Mrs. Cronshaw was a fine upstanding woman, gracefully -grave and, as the neighbours said, clean as a -pink. For several evenings after she had taken -possession of the house Pettigrove, who was a very -handy sort of man, worked upon some alterations to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">143</span> -her garden, and at the end of the third or fourth -evening she had invited him into her bower to sip a -glass of some cordial, and she thanked him for his -labours.</p> - -<p>“Not at all, Mrs. Cronshaw.” And he drank -to her very good fortune. Just that and no more.</p> - -<p>The next evening she did the same, and the very -next evening to that again. And so it was not long -before they spoke of themselves to each other, turn -and turn about as you might say. She was the widow -of an ironmonger who had died two years before, and -the ironmonger’s very astute brother had given her -an annuity in exchange for her interest in the business. -Without family and with few friends she had been -lonely.</p> - -<p>“But Tull is such a hearty place,” she said. “It’s -beautiful. One might forget to be lonely.”</p> - -<p>“Be sure of that,” commented Pettigrove. They -had the light of two candles and a blazing fire. She -grew kind and more communicative to him; a -strangely, disturbingly attractive woman, dark, with -an abundance of well-dressed hair and a figure of -charm. She had carpet all over her floor; nobody -else in Tull dreamed of such a thing. She did not -cover her old dark table with a cloth as everybody -else habitually did. The pictures on the wall were -real, and the black-lined sofa had cushions on it of -violet silk which she sometimes actually sat upon. -There was a dainty dresser with china and things, a -bureau, and a tall clock that told the exact time. But -there was no music, music made her melancholy. -In Pettigrove’s home there were things like these but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">144</span> -they were not the same. His bureau was jammed in a -corner with flowerpots upon its top; his pictures -comprised two photo prints of a public park in -Swansea—his wife had bought them at an auction -sale. Their dresser was a cumbersome thing with -knobs and hooks and jars and bottles, and the tall -clock never chimed the hours. The very armchairs -at Mrs. Cronshaw’s were wells of such solid -comfort that it made him feel uncomfortable to use -them.</p> - -<p>“Ah, I should like to be sure of it!” she continued. -“I have not found kindly people in the -cities—they do not even seem to notice a fine day!—I -have not found them anywhere, so why should they -be in Tull? You are a wise man, tell me, is Tull the -exception?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Mrs. Cronshaw. You must come and visit -us whenever you’ve a mind to; have no fear of -loneliness.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will come and visit you,” she declared, -“soon, I will.”</p> - -<p>“That’s right, you must visit us.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, soon, I must.”</p> - -<p>But weeks passed over and the widow did not keep -her promise although she only lived a furlong from -his door. Pettigrove made no further invitation for -he found excuses on many evenings to visit her. It -was easy to see that she did not care for his wife, -and he did not mind this for neither did he care for -her now. The old wish that he had never been married -crept back into his mind, a sly, unsavoury visitant; -it was complicated by a thought that his wife might<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">145</span> -not live long, a dark, shameful thought that nevertheless -trembled into hope. So on many of the long -winter evenings, while his wife dozed in her bed, he -sat in the widow’s room talking of things that were -strange and agreeable. She could neither understand -nor quite forgive his parochialism; this was sweet -flattery to him. He had scarcely ever set foot outside -a ten-mile radius of Tull, but he was an intelligent -man, and all her discourse was of things he could -perfectly understand! For the first time in his life -Pettigrove found himself lamenting the dullness of -existence. He tried to suppress this tendency, but -words would come and he was distressed. He had -always been in love with things that lasted, that had -stability, that gave him a recognition and guidance, -but now his feelings were flickering like grass in a gale.</p> - -<p>“How strange that is,” she said, when he told -her this, “we seem to have exchanged our feelings. -I am happy here, but I know that dark thought, yes, -that life is a dull journey on which the mind searches -for variety, unvarying variety.”</p> - -<p>“But what for?” he cried.</p> - -<p>“It is constantly seeking change.”</p> - -<p>“But for why? It seems like treachery to life.”</p> - -<p>“It may be so, but if you seek, you find.”</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“Whatever you are seeking.”</p> - -<p>“What am I seeking?”</p> - -<p>“Not to know that is the blackest treachery to life. -We are growing old,” she added inconsequently, -stretching her hands to the fire. She wore black silk -mittens.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">146</span></p> - -<p>“Perhaps that’s it,” he allowed, with a laugh. -“Childhood’s best.”</p> - -<p>“Surely not,” she protested.</p> - -<p>“Ah, but I was gay enough then. I’m not a -religious man, you know—and perhaps that’s the -reason—but however—I can remember things of -great joy and pleasure then.”</p> - -<p>And it seemed from his recollections that not the -least pleasant and persistent was his memory of the -chapel, a Baptist hall long since closed and decayed, -to which his mother had sent him on Sunday afternoons. -It was a plain, tough, little tabernacle, with -benches of deal, plain deal, very hard, covered with a -clear varnish that smelled pleasant. The platform -and its railing, the teacher’s desk, the pulpit were all -of deal, the plainest deal, very hard and all covered -with the clear varnish that smelled very pleasant. -And somehow the creed and the teacher and the -attendants were like that too, all plain and hard, -covered with a varnish that was pleasant. But there -was a way in which the afternoon sun beamed through -the cheap windows that lit up for young Pettigrove -an everlasting light. There were hymns with tunes -that he hoped would be sung in Paradise. The texts, -the stories, the admonitions of the teachers, were -vivid and evidently beautiful in his memory. Best -of all was the privilege of borrowing a book at the -end of school time—<i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i> or <i>Uncle Tom’s -Cabin</i>.</p> - -<p>For a While his recollections restored him to cheerfulness, -but his dullness soon overcame him again.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">147</span></p> -<p>“I have been content all my life. Never was a -man more content. And now! It’s treachery if -you like. My faith’s gone, content gone, for -why?”</p> - -<p>He rose to go, and as he paused at the door to bid -her good-night she took his hand and softly and -tenderly said: “Why are you depressed? Don’t -be so. Life is not dull, it is only momentarily -unkind.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I’ll get used to it.”</p> - -<p>“John Pettigrove, you must never get used to -dullness, I forbid you.”</p> - -<p>“But I thought Tull was beautiful,” he said as he -paused upon the doorsill. “I thought Tull was -beautiful....”</p> - -<p>“Until I came?” It was so softly uttered and -she closed the door so quickly upon him. They -called “Good-night, good-night” to each other -through the door.</p> - -<p>He went away through the village, his mind streaming -with strange emotions. He exulted, and yet he -feared for himself and for the widow, but he could not -summon from the depths of his mind what it was he -feared. He passed a woman in the darkness who, -perhaps mistaking him for another, said “Good-night, -my love.”</p> - -<p>The next morning he sat in the kitchen after breakfast. -It wanted but a few days to Christmas. There -was no frost in the air; the wind roared, but the day, -though grey, was not gloomy; only the man was -gloomy.</p> - -<p>“Nothing ever happens,” he murmured.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">148</span> “True, -but what would you want to happen?”</p> - -<p>Out in the scullery a village girl was washing -dishes; as she rattled the ware she hummed a song. -From his back window Pettigrove could see a barn -in a field, two broken gates, a pile of logs, faggots, and -a single pollarded willow whose head was strangled -under a hat of ivy. Beside a barley stack was a goose -with a crooked neck; it stood sulking. High aloft -in the sky thousands of blown rooks wrangled like -lost men. And Pettigrove vowed he would go no -more to the widow—not for a while. Something -inside him kept asking, Why not? And he as quickly -replied to himself: “You know, you know. You’ll -find it all in God-a-mighty’s own commandments. -Stick to them, you can’t do more—at least, you -might, but what would be the good?”</p> - -<p>So that evening he went along to the Christmas -lottery held in a vast barn, dimly lit and smelling of -vermin. A rope hung over each of its two giant -beams, dangling smoky lanterns. There was a crowd -of men and boys inspecting the prizes in the gloomy -corners, a pig sulking in a pen of hurdles, sacks of -wheat, live hens in coops, a row of dead hares hung -on the rail of a wagon. Amid silence a man plunged -his hand into a corn measure and drew forth a -numbered ticket; another man drew from a similar -measure a blank ticket or a prize ticket. Each time -a prize was drawn a hum of interest spread through -the onlookers, but when the chief prize, the fat pig, -was drawn against number seventy-nine there was -agitation, excitement even.</p> - -<p>“Who be it?” cried several.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">149</span> “Who be number -seventy-nine for the fat pig?”</p> - -<p>A man consulted a list and said doubtfully: “Miss -Subey Jones—who be she?”</p> - -<p>No one seemed to know until a husky alto voice -from a corner piped: “I know her. She’s from -Shottsford way, over by Squire Marchand’s.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” murmured the disappointed men; the -husky voice continued: “Day afore yesterday she -hung herself.”</p> - -<p>For a few seconds there was a pained silence, until -a powerful voice cried: “It’s a mortal shame, chaps.”</p> - -<p>The ceremony proceeded until all the tickets were -drawn and all the prizes won and distributed. The -cackling hens were seized from the pens by their -legs and handed upside down to their new owners. -The pig was bundled squealing into a sack. Bags of -wheat were shouldered and the white-bellied hares -were held up to the light. Everybody was animated -and chattered loudly.</p> - -<p>“I had number thirty in the big chance and I won -nothing. And I had number thirty-one in the little -chance and I won a duck. Number thirty-one was -my number, and number thirty in the big draw; I -won nothing in that, but in the little draw I won a -duck. Well, there’s flesh for you.”</p> - -<p>Some of those who had won hens held them out -to a white-faced youth who smoked a large rank pipe; -he took each fowl quietly by the neck and twisted it -till it died. A few small feathers stuck to his hands -or wavered to the floor, and even after the bird was -dead and carried away it continued slowly and vaguely -to flap its big wings and scatter its lorn feathers.</p> - -<p>Pettigrove spent most of the next day in the forest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">150</span> -plantation south of Tull Great Wood, where a few -chain of soil had been cultivated and reserved for -seedlings, trees of larch and pine no bigger than -potted geraniums, groves of oaks with stems slender -as a cockerel’s leg and most of the stiff brown leaves -still clinging to the famished twigs; or sycamores, -thin but tall, flourishing in a mat of their own dropped -foliage that was the colour of butter fringed with -blood and stained with black gouts like a child’s -copy-book. It was a toy forest, dense enough for the -lair of a beast, and dim enough for an anchorite’s -meditations, but a dog could leap over it, and a boy -could stand amid its growth and look like Gulliver in -Lilliput.</p> - -<p>“May I go into the wood?” a voice called to -Pettigrove. Looking sharply up he saw Mrs. Cronshaw, -clad in a long dark blue cloak with a fur necklet, -a grey velvet hat trimmed with a pigeon’s wing -confining her luxuriant hair.</p> - -<p>“Ah, you may,” he said, stalking to her side, “but -you’d best not, ’tis a heavy marshy soil within and the -ways are stabbled by the hunters’ horses. Better -keep out till summer comes, then ’tis dry and -pleasant-like.”</p> - -<p>She sat down awkwardly on a heap of faggots, her -feet turned slightly inwards, but her cheeks were -dainty pink in the cold air. What a smart lady! -He stood telling her things about the wood, its birds -and foxes; deep in the heart of it all was a lovely -open space covered with the greenest grass and a -hawthorn tree in the middle of that. It bloomed in -spring with heavy creamy blossom. No, he had never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">151</span> -seen any fairies there. Come to that, he did not -expect to, he had never thought of it.</p> - -<p>“But there are fairies, you know,” cried the -widow. “O yes, in old times, I mean very old times, -before the Romans, in fact before Abraham, Isaac, -and Jacob then, the Mother of the earth had a big -family, thousands, something like the old woman who -lived in a shoe she was. And one day God sent word -to say he was coming to visit her. Well, then! She -was so excited—the Mother of the earth—that she -made a great to do you may be sure, and after she -had made her house sparkle with cleanliness and had -baked a great big pie she began to wash her children. -All of a sudden she heard the trumpets blow—God -was just a-coming! So as she hadn’t got time to -finish them all, she hid those unwashed ones away -out of sight, and bade them to remain there and make -no noise or she would be angry and punish them. -But you can’t conceal anything from the King of All -and He knew of those hidden children, and he caused -them to be hidden from mortal eyes for ever, and -they are the fairies, O yes!”</p> - -<p>“No, nothing can be concealed,” Pettigrove -admitted in his slow grave fashion, “murder will out, -as they say, but that’s a tough morsel if you’re going -to swallow it all.”</p> - -<p>“But I like to believe in those things I Wish were -true.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, so, yes,” said Pettigrove.</p> - -<p>It was an afternoon of damp squally blusters, -uncheering, with slaty sky; the air itself seemed -slaty, and though it had every opportunity and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">152</span> -invitation to fall, the rain, with strange perversity, -held off. In the oddest corners of the sky, north and -east, a miraculous glow could be seen, as if the sun in a -moment of aberration had determined to set just then -and just there. The wind made a long noise in the -sky, the smell of earth rose about them, of timber and -of dead leaves; except for rooks, or a wren cockering -itself in a bush, no birds were to be seen.</p> - -<p>Letting his spade fall Pettigrove sat down beside -the widow and kissed her. She blushed red as a -cherry and he got up quickly.</p> - -<p>“I ought not to ha’ done it, I ought not to ha’ -done that, Mrs. Cronshaw!”</p> - -<p>“Caroline!” said she, smiling the correction at him.</p> - -<p>“Is that your name?” He sat down by her -again. “Why, it is the same as my wife’s.”</p> - -<p>And Caroline said “Humph! You’re a strange -man, but you are wise and good. Tell me, does she -understand you?”</p> - -<p>“What is there to understand? We are wed and -we are faithful to each other, I can take my oath on -that to God or man.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, but what is faith—without love -between you? You see? You have long since -broken your vows to love and cherish, understand -that, you have broken them in half.”</p> - -<p>She had picked up a stick and was drawing -patterns of cubes and stars in the soil.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">153</span></p> -<p>“But what is to be done, Caroline? Life is good, -but there is good living and there is bad living, there -is fire and there is water. It is strange what the -Almighty permits to happen.”</p> - -<p>A slow-speaking man; scrupulous of thought and -speech he weighed each idea before its delivery as -carefully as a tobacconist weighs an ounce of tobacco.</p> - -<p>“Have some cake?” said Caroline, drawing a -package from a pocket. “Will you have a piece ... -John?”</p> - -<p>She seemed to be on the point of laughing aloud -at him. He took the fragment of cake but he did not -eat it as she did. He held it between finger and -thumb and stared at it.</p> - -<p>“It’s strange how a man let’s his tongue wag now -and again as if he’d got the universe stuck on the end -of a common fork.”</p> - -<p>“Or at the end of a knitting needle, yes, I know,” -laughed Caroline, brushing the crumbs from her -lap. Then she bent her head, patted her lips, and -regurgitated with a gesture of apology—just like a -lady. “But what are you saying? If there is love -between you there is faithfulness, if there is no love -there is no fidelity.”</p> - -<p>He bit a mouthful off the cake at last.</p> - -<p>“Maybe true, but you must have respect for the -beliefs of others....”</p> - -<p>“How can you if they don’t fit in with your own?”</p> - -<p>“Or there is sorrow.” He bolted the rest of his -cake. “O you are right, I daresay, Caroline, no -doubt; it’s right, I know, but is it reasonable?”</p> - -<p>“There are afflictions,” she said,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">154</span> “which time -will cure, so they don’t matter; but there are others -which time only aggravates, so what can we do? -I daresay it’s different with a man, but a woman, you -know, grasps at what she wants. That sounds -reasonable, but you don’t think it’s right?”</p> - -<p>In the cold whistling sky a patch of sunset had now -begun to settle in its proper quarter, but as frigid and -unconvincing as a stage fireplace. Pettigrove sat -with his great hands clasped between his knees. -Perhaps she grew tired of watching the back of him; -she rose to go, but she said gently enough: “Come -in to-night, I want to tell you something.”</p> - -<p>“I will, Caroline.”</p> - -<p>Later, when he reached home, he found two little -nieces had arrived, children of some relatives who -lived a dozen miles away. A passing farmer had -dropped them at Tull; their parents were coming a -day later to spend Christmas with the Pettigroves.</p> - -<p>They sat up in his wife’s room after tea, for Carrie -left her bed only for an hour or two at noon. She -dozed against her pillows, a brown shawl covering -her shoulders, while the two children played by the -hearth. Pettigrove sat silent, gazing in the fire.</p> - -<p>“What a racket you are making, Polly and Jane!” -quavered Carrie.</p> - -<p>The little girls thereupon ceased their sporting and -took a picture book to the hearthrug where they -examined it in awed silence by the firelight. After -some minutes the invalid called out: “Don’t make -such a noise turning over all them leaves.”</p> - -<p>Polly made a grimace and little Jane said: “We -are looking at the pictures.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” snapped Mrs. Pettigrove, “why can’t -you keep to the one page!”</p> - -<p>John sat by the fire vowing to himself that he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">155</span> -would not go along to the widow, and in the very act -of vowing he got up and began putting on his -coat.</p> - -<p>“Are you going out, John?”</p> - -<p>“There’s a window catch to put right along at -Mrs. Cronshaw’s,” he said. At other times it had -been a pump to mend, a door latch to adjust, or a -jamb to ease.</p> - -<p>“I never knew things to go like it before—I can’t -understand it,” his wife commented. “What with -windows and doors and pumps and bannisters anyone -would think the house had got the rot. It’s done -for the purpose, or my name’s not what it is.”</p> - -<p>“It won’t take long,” he said as he went.</p> - -<p>The wind had fallen away, but the sky, though -clearer, had a dull opaque mean appearance, and the -risen moon, without glow, without refulgence, was -like a brass-headed nail stuck in a kitchen wall.</p> - -<p>The yellow blind at the widow’s cot was drawn -down and the candles within cast upon the blind -a slanting image of the birdcage hanging at the -window; a fat dapper bird appeared to be snoozing -upon its rod; a tiny square was probably a lump of -sugar; the glass well must have been half full of -water, it glistened and twinkled on the blind. The -shadowy bird shifted one foot, then the other, and -just opened its beak as Pettigrove tapped at the door.</p> - -<p>They did not converse very easily, there was -constraint between them, Pettigrove’s simple mind -had a twinge of guilt.</p> - -<p>“Will you take lime juice or cocoa?” asked the -widow, and he said:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">156</span> “Cocoa.”</p> - -<p>“Little or large?”</p> - -<p>And he said: “Large.”</p> - -<p>While they sat sipping the cocoa Caroline began: -“Well, I am going away, you know. No, not for -good, just a short while, for Christmas only, or -very little longer. I must go.”</p> - -<p>She nestled her blue shawl more snugly round her -shoulders. A cough seemed to trouble her. “There -are things you can’t put on one side for ever....”</p> - -<p>“Even if they don’t fit in with your own ideas!” -he said slyly.</p> - -<p>“Yes, even then.”</p> - -<p>He put down his cup and took both her hands in -his own. “How long?”</p> - -<p>“Not long, not very long, not long enough....”</p> - -<p>“Enough for what?” He broke up her hesitation. -“For me to forget you? No, no, not in the -fifty-two weeks of the whole world of time.”</p> - -<p>“I did want to stay here,” she said, “and see all -the funny things country people do now.” She was -rather vague about those funny things. “Carols, -mumming, visiting; go to church on Christmas -morning, though how I should get past those dreadful -goats, I don’t know; why are they always in the -churchyard?”</p> - -<p>“Teasy creatures they are! Followed parson into -service one Sunday, indeed, ah! one of ’em did. -Jumped up in his pulpit, too, so ’tis said. But when -are you coming back?”</p> - -<p>She told him it was a little uncertain, she was not -sure, she could not say, it was a little uncertain.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">157</span></p> -<p>“In a week, maybe?”</p> - -<p>Yes, a week; but perhaps it would be longer, she -could not say, it was uncertain.</p> - -<p>“So. Well, all right then, I shall watch for you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, watch for me.”</p> - -<p>They gave each other good wishes and said good-bye -in the little dark porch. The shadowy bird on -the blind stood up and shrugged itself. Pettigrove’s -stay had scarcely lasted an hour, but in that time the -moon had gone, the sky had cleared, and in its -ravishing darkness the stars almost crackled, so -fierce was their mysterious perturbation. The -village man felt Caroline’s arms about him and her -lips against his mouth as she whispered a “God bless -you.” He turned away home, dazed, entranced, he -did not heed the stars. In the darkness a knacker’s -cart trotted past him with a dim lantern swinging at -its tail and the driver bawling a song. In the keen -air the odour from the dead horse sickened him.</p> - -<p>Pettigrove passed Christmas gaily enough with his -kindred, and even his wife indulged in brief gaieties. -Her cousin was one of those men full of affable -disagreements; an attitude rather than an activity of -mind. He had a curious face resembling an owl’s -except in its colour (which was pink) and in its tiny -black moustache curling downwards like a dark ring -under his nose. If Pettigrove remarked upon a fine -sunset the cousin scoffed, scoffed benignantly; there -was a sunset every day, wasn’t there?—common as -grass, weren’t they? As for the farming hereabouts, -nothing particular in it was there? The scenery was, -well, it was just scenery, a few hills, a few woods, -plenty of grass fields. No special suitability of soil<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">158</span> -for any crop; corn would be just average, wasn’t that -so? And the roots, well, on his farm at home he -could show mangolds as big as young porkers, forty -to the cartload, or thereabouts. There weren’t no -farmers round here making a fortune, he’d be bound, -and as for their birds, he should think they lived on -rook pie.</p> - -<p>Pettigrove submitted that none of the Tull farmers -looked much the worse for farming.</p> - -<p>“Well, come,” said the other, “I hear your workhouses -be middling full. Now an old neighbour of -mine, old Frank Stinsgrove, was a man as <i>could</i> farm, -any mortal thing. He wouldn’t have looked at this -land, not at a crown an acre, and he was a man as -<i>could</i> farm, any mortal thing, oranges and lemons if -he’d a mind to it. What a head that man had, God -bless, his brain was stuffed! Full!! He’d declare -black was white, and what’s more he could prove it. -I like a man like that.”</p> - -<p>The cousin’s wife was a vast woman, shaped like a -cottage loaf. For some reason she clung to her stays: -it could not be to disguise or curb her bulk, for they -merely put a gloss upon it. You could only view -her as a dimension, think of her as a circumference, -and wonder grimly what she looked like when she -prepared for the bath. She devoured turkey and pig -griskin with such audible voracity that her husband -declared that he would soon be compelled to wear -corks in his earholes at meal times, yes, the same as -they did in the artillery. She was quite unperturbed -by this even when little Jane giggled, and she -avowed that good food was a great enjoyment to her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">159</span></p> - -<p>“O ’tis a good thing and a grand thing, but take -that child now,” said her father. Resting his elbow -on the table he indicated with his fork the diminutive -Jane; upon the fork hung a portion of meat large -enough to half-sole a lady’s shoe. “She’s just the -reverse, she eats as soft as a fly, a spillikin a day, and -not a mite more; no, very dainty is our Jane.” -Here he swallowed the meat and treated four promising -potatoes with very great savagery. “Do you -know our Jane is going to marry a house-painter, -yah, a house-painter, or is it a coach-painter? ’Tis -smooth and gentle work, she says, not like rough -farmers or chaps that knock things pretty hard, -smiths and carpenters, you know. O Lord! eight -years old, would you believe it? The spillikin! -John, this griskin’s a lovely bit of meat.”</p> - -<p>“Beautiful meat,” chanted his wife, “like a pig -we killed a month ago. That was a nice pig, fat and -contented as you’d find any pig, ’twould have been a -shame to keep him alive any longer. It dressed so -well, a picture it was, the kidneys shun like gold.”</p> - -<p>“That reminds me of poor old Frank Stinsgrove,” -said her husband. “He’d a mint of money, a very -wealthy man, but he didn’t like parting with it. -He’d got oldish and afraid of his death, must have a -doctor calling to examine him every so often. Didn’t -mind spending a fortune on doctors, but every other -way he’d skin a flint. And there was nought wrong -with him, ’cept age. So his daughter ups and says -to him one day—You are wasting your money on all -these doctors, father, they do you no good, what you -must have is nice, dainty, nourishing food. Now<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">160</span> -what about some of these new laid eggs? How -much are they fetching now? old Frank says. A -penny farthing, says she. A penny farthing! I -cannot afford it. And there was that man with a -mint of money, a mint, could have bought Buckingham -Palace—you understand me—and yet he must -go on with his porridge and his mustard plasters and -his syrup of squills, until at last a smartish doctor -really did find something the matter with him, in his -kidneys. They operated, mark you, and they say—but -I never quite had the rights of it—they say they -gave him a new kidney made of wax; a new wax -kidney, ah, and I believe it was successful, only he -had not to get himself into any kind of a heat, of -course, nor sit too close to the fire. ’Stonishing what -they doctors can do with your innards. But of course -he was too old, soon died. Left a fortune, a mint of -money, could have bought the crown of England. -Staunch old chap, you know.”</p> - -<p>Throughout the holidays John sang his customary -ballads, “The Bicester Ram,” “The Unquiet -Grave,” and dozens of others. After songs there -would be things to eat. Then a game of cards, and -after that things to eat. Then a walk to the inn, to -the church, to a farm, or to a friend’s where, in all -jollity, there would be things to eat and drink. They -went to a meet of the hounds, a most successful -outing for it gave them ravening appetites. In short, -as the cousin’s wife said when bidding farewell, it was -a time of great enjoyment.</p> - -<p>And Pettigrove said so too. He believed it, and -yet was glad to be quit of his friends in order to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">161</span> -contemplate the serene dawn that was to come at any -hour now. By New Year’s Day Mrs. Cronshaw had -not returned, but the big countryman was patient, -his mind, though not at rest, was confident. The -days passed as invisibly as warriors in a hostile -country, and almost before he had begun to despair -February came, a haggard month to follow a frosty -January. Mist clung to the earth as tightly as the -dense grey fur on the back of a cat, ice began to -uncongeal, adjacent lands became indistinct, and -distant fields could not be seen at all. The banks of -the roads and the squat hedges were heavily dewed. -The cries of invisible rooks, the bleat of unseen sheep, -made yet more gloomy the contours of motionless -trees wherefrom the slightest movement of a bird -fetched a splatter of drops to the road, cold and uncheering.</p> - -<p>All this inclemency crowded into the heart of the -waiting man, a distress without a gleam of anger or -doubt, but only a fond anxiety. Other anxieties -came upon him which, without lessening his melancholy, -somewhat diverted it: his wife suffered a -sudden grave decline in health, and on calling in the -doctor Pettigrove was made aware of her approaching -end. Torn between a strange recovered fondness for -his sinking wife and the romantic adventure with the -widow, which, to his mind at such a juncture, wore -the sourest aspect of infidelity, Pettigrove dwelt in -remorse and grief until the night of St. Valentine’s -Day, when he received a letter. It came from a coast -town in Norfolk, from a hospital; Caroline, too, was -ill. She made light of her illness, but it was clear to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">162</span> -him now that this and this alone was the urgent -reason of her retreat from Tull at Christmas. It was -old tubercular trouble (that was consumption, wasn’t -it?) which had driven her into sanatoriums on several -occasions in recent years. She was getting better -now, she wrote, but it would be months before she -would be allowed to return. It had been rather a bad -attack, so sudden. Now she had no other thought or -desire in the world but to be back at Tull with her -friend, and in time to see that fairy may tree at bloom -in the wood—he had promised to show it to her—they -would often go together, wouldn’t they—and she -signed herself his, “with the deepest affection.”</p> - -<p>He did not remember any promise to show her the -tree, but he sat down straightway and wrote her a -letter of love, incoherently disclosed and obscurely -worded for any eyes but hers. He did not mention -his wife; he had suddenly forgotten her. He sealed -the letter and put it aside to be posted on the morrow. -Then he crept back to his wife’s room and continued -his sick vigil.</p> - -<p>But in that dim room, lit by one small candle, he -did not heed the invalid. His mind, feverishly alert, -was devoted to thoughts of that other who also lay -sick, and who had intimidated him. He had feared -her, feared for himself. He had behaved like a lost -wanderer who at night, deep in a forest, had come -upon the embers of a fire left mysteriously glowing, -and had crept up to it frightened, without stick or -stone: if only he had conquered his fear he might -have lain down and rested by its strange comfort. -But now he was sure of her love, sure of his own, he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">163</span> -was secure, he would lay down and rest. She would -come with all the sweetness of her passion and the -valour of her frailty, stretching smooth, quiet wings -over his lost soul.</p> - -<p>Then he began to be aware of a soft, insistent -noise, tapping, tapping, tapping, that seemed to come -from the front door below. To assure himself he -listened intently, and soon it became almost the only -sound in the world, clear but soft, sharp and thin, as -if struck with the finger nails only, tap, tap, tap, -quickly on the door. When the noise ceased he got -up and groped stealthily down his narrow crooked -staircase. At the bottom he waited in an uncanny -pause until just beyond him he heard the gentle -urgency again, tap, tap, and he flung open the door. -There was enough gloomy light to reveal the emptiness -of the porch; there was nothing there, nothing -to be seen, but he could distinctly hear the sound of -feet being vigorously shuffled on the doormat below -him, as if the shoes of some light-foot visitor were -being carefully cleaned before entry. Then it -stopped. Beyond that—nothing. Pettigrove was -afraid, he dared not cross the startling threshold, he -shot back the door, bolted it in a fluster, and blundered -away up the stairs.</p> - -<p>And there was now darkness, the candle in his -wife’s room having spent itself, but as a glow from -the fire embers remained he did not hasten to light -another candle. Instead, he fastened the bedroom -door also, and stood filled with wondering uneasiness, -dreading to hear the tap, tap, tap come again, just -there, behind him. He listened for it with stopped<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">164</span> -breath, but he could hear nothing, not the faintest -scruple of sound, not the beat of his own heart, not a -flutter from the fire, not a rustle of feet, not a breath—no! -not even a breathing! He rushed to the bed and -struck a match: that was a dead face.... Under the -violence of his sharpening shock he sank upon the -bed beside dead Carrie and a faint crepuscular agony -began to gleam over the pensive darkness of his -mind, with a promise of mad moonlight to follow.</p> - -<p>Two days later a stranger came to the Pettigrove’s -door, a short brusque, sharp-talking man with iron-grey -hair and iron-rimmed spectacles. He was an -ironmonger.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Pettigrove? My name is Cronshaw, of -Eastbourne, rather painful errand, my sister-in-law, -Mrs. Cronshaw, tenant of yours, I believe.”</p> - -<p>Pettigrove stiffened into antagonism: what the -devil was all this? “Come in,” he remarked grimly.</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” said Cronshaw, following Pettigrove -into the parlour where, with many sighs and -much circumstance, he doffed his overcoat and stood -his umbrella in a corner. “Had to walk from the -station, no conveyances; that’s pretty stiff, miles and -miles.”</p> - -<p>“Have a drop of wine?” invited Pettigrove.</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” said the visitor.</p> - -<p>“It’s dandelion.”</p> - -<p>“Very kind of you, I’m sure.” Cronshaw drew -a chair up to the fireplace, though the fire had not -been lit, and the grate was full of ashes, and asked if -he might smoke. Pettigrove did not mind; he -poured out a glass of the yellow wine while Cronshaw<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">165</span> -lit his pipe. The room smelled stuffy, heavy noises -came from overhead as if men were moving furniture. -The stranger swallowed a few drops of the wine, -coughed, and said: “My sister-in-law is dead, I’m -sorry to say. You had not heard, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Dead!” whispered Pettigrove. “Mrs. Cronshaw! -No, no, I had not, I had not heard that, I did -not know. Mrs. Cronshaw dead—is it true?”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said the stranger with a laboured sigh. -“Two nights ago in a hospital at Mundesley. I’ve -just come on from there. It was very sudden, O, -frightfully sudden, but it was not unexpected, poor -woman, it’s been off and on with her for years. She -was very much attached to this village, I suppose, and -we’re going to bury her here, it was her last request. -That’s what I want to do now. I want to arrange -about the burial and the disposal of her things and to -give up possession of your house. I’m very sorry -for that.”</p> - -<p>“I’m uncommon grieved to hear this,” said -Pettigrove. “She was a handsome lady.”</p> - -<p>“O yes,” the ironmonger took out his pocket-book -and prepared to write in it.</p> - -<p>“A handsome lady,” continued the countryman -tremulously, “handsome, handsome.”</p> - -<p>At that moment someone came heavily down the -stairs and knocked at the parlour door.</p> - -<p>“Come in,” cried Pettigrove. A man with red -face and white hair shuffled into the room; he was -dressed in a black suit that had been made for a -man not only bigger, but probably different in other -ways.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">166</span></p> - -<p>“We shall have to shift her down here now,” he -began. “I was sure we should, the coffin’s too big -to get round that awkward crook in these stairs when -it’s loaded. In fact, ’tis impossible. Better have her -down now afore we put her in, or there’ll be an accident -on the day as sure as judgment.” The man, -then noticing Cronshaw, said: “Good-morning, sir, -you’ll excuse me.”</p> - -<p>The ironmonger stared at him with horror, and -then put his notebook away.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, then,” mumbled Pettigrove. “I’ll -come up in a few minutes.”</p> - -<p>The man went out and Cronshaw jumped up and -said: “You’ll pardon me, Mr. Pettigrove, I had no -idea that you had had a bereavement too.”</p> - -<p>“My wife,” said Pettigrove dully, “two nights -ago.”</p> - -<p>“Two nights ago! I am very sorry, most sorry,” -stammered the other, picking up his umbrella and -hat. “I’ll go away. What a sad coincidence!”</p> - -<p>“There’s no call to do that; what’s got to be -done must be done.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll not detain you long then, just a few details: -I am most sorry, very sorry, it’s extraordinary.”</p> - -<p>He took out his notebook again—it had red edges -and a fat elastic band—and after conferring with -Pettigrove for some time the stranger went off to see -the vicar, saying, as he shook hands:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">167</span> “I shall of -course see you again when it is all over. How -bewildering it is, and what a shock it is; from one -day to another, and then nothing; and the day after -to-morrow they’ll be buried beside one another. I -am very sorry, most sorry. I shall of course come -and see you again when it is all over.”</p> - -<p>After he had gone Pettigrove walked about the -room murmuring: “She was a lady, a handsome -lady,” and then, still murmuring, he stumbled up the -stairs to the undertakers. His wife lay on the bed in a -white gown. He enveloped her stiff thin body in a -blanket and carried it downstairs to the parlour; the -others, with much difficulty, carried down the coffin -and when they had fixed it upon some trestles they -unwrapped Carrie from the blankets and laid her in -it.</p> - -<p>Caroline and Carrie were buried on the same day -in adjoining graves, buried by the same men, and as -the ironmonger was prevented by some other misfortune -from attending the obsequies there were no -other mourners than Pettigrove. The workshop -sign of the Tull carpenter bore the following notice:</p> - - -<div class="center"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">Small</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">☞ COMPLETE UNDERTAKER </td><td align="left">Hearse</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">Kept.</td></tr> -</table></div> - -<p class="pnind">and therefore it was he who ushered the handsome -lady from the station on that bitter day. Frost was -so heavy that the umbrage of pine and fir looked -woolly, thick grey swabs. Horses stood miserably -in the frozen fields, breathing into any friendly bush. -Rooks pecked industriously at the tough pastures, -but wiser fowls, unlike the fabulous good child, could -be neither seen nor heard. And all day someone was -grinding corn at the millhouse; the engine was old -and kept on emitting explosions that shook the -neighbourhood like a dreadful bomb. Pettigrove,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">168</span> -who had not provided himself with a black overcoat -and therefore wore none at all, shivered so intensely -during the ceremony that the keen edge of his grief -was dulled, and indeed from that time onwards his -grief, whatever its source, seemed deprived of all -keenness: it just dulled him with a permanent dullness.</p> - -<p>He caused to be placed on his wife’s grave a headstone, -quite small, not a yard high, inscribed to</p> - -<p class="center"> -<span class="smcap">Caroline</span><br /> -The beloved wife<br /> -of<br /> -John Pettigrove</p> - -<p>Some days after its erection he was astonished to -find the headstone had fallen flat on its face. It was -very strange, but after all it was a small matter, a -simple affair, so in the dusk he himself took a spade -and set it up again. A day or two later it had fallen -once more. He was now inclined to some suspicion, -he fancied that mischievous boys had done it; he -would complain to the vicar. But Pettigrove was an -easy-going man, he did not complain; he replaced -the stone, setting it more deeply in the earth and -padding the turf more firmly around it.</p> - -<p>When it fell the third time he was astonished and -deeply moved, but he was no longer in doubt, and as -he once more made a good upheaval by the grave in -the dusk he said in his mind, and he felt too in his -heart, that he understood.</p> - -<p>“It will not fall again,” he said, and he was right: -it did not.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">169</span></p> - -<p>Pettigrove himself lived for another score of years, -during which the monotony of his life was but mildly -varied; he just went on registering births and deaths -and rearing little oaks and pines, firs and sycamores. -Sentimental deference to the oft-repeated wish of his -wife led him to join the church choir and sing its -anthems and hymns with a secular blitheness that was -at least mellifluous. Moreover, after a year or two, -he <i>did</i> become a parish councillor and in a modest way -was something of a “shining light.”</p> - -<p>“If I were you,” observed an old countryman to -him, “and I had my way, I know what I would do: -I would live in a little house and have a quiet life, -and I wouldn’t care the toss of a ha’penny for nothing -and nobody!”</p> - -<p>In the time of May, always, Pettigrove would -wander in Tull Great Wood as far as the hidden -pleasaunce where the hawthorn so whitely bloomed. -None but he knew of that, or remembered it, and -when its dying petals were heaped upon the grass he -gathered handfuls to keep in his pocket till they -rotted. Sometimes he thought he would leave Tull -and see something of the world; he often thought of -that, but it seemed as if time had stabilized and -contracted round his heart and he did not go. At -last, after twenty years of widowhood, he died and -was buried, and this was the manner of that.</p> - -<p>Two men were digging his grave on the morning -of the interment, a summer’s day so everlasting -beautiful that it was incredible anyone should be dead. -The two men, an ancient named Jethro and a younger -whom he called Mark, went to sit in the cool porch<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">170</span> -for a brief rest. The work on the grave had been -very much delayed, but now the old headstone was -laid on one side, and most of the earth that had covered -his wife’s body was heaped in untidy mounds upon -the turf close by. Otherwise there was no change in -the yard or the trees that grew so high, the grass that -grew so greenly, the dark brick wall, or the door of -fugitive blue; there was even a dappled goat quietly -cropping. A woman came into the porch, remarked -upon the grand day, and then passed into the church -to her task of tidying up for the ceremony. Jethro -took a swig of drink from a bottle and handed it to -his mate.</p> - -<p>“You don’t remember old Fan as used to clean -the church, do you? No, ’twas ’fore you come about -these parts. She was a smartish old gal. Bother me -if one of they goats didn’t follow her into the darn -church one day, ah, and wouldn’t be drove out on -it, neither, no, and she chasing of it from here to -there and one place and another but out it would not -go, that goat. And at last it act-u-ally marched up -into the pulpit and putt its two forelegs on the holy -book and said ’Baa-a-a!’” Here Jethro gave a -prolonged imitation of a goat’s cry. “Well, old -Fan had been a bit skeered but she was so overcome -by that bit of piety that, darn me, if she didn’t sit -down and play the organ for it!”</p> - -<p>Mark received this narration with a lack-lustre -air and at once the two men resumed their work. -Meanwhile a man ascended the church tower; other -men had gone into the home of the dead man. Soon -the vicar came hurrying through the blue door in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">171</span> -the wall and the bell gave forth its first solemn -toll.</p> - -<p>“Hey, Jethro,” called Mark from the grave. -“What d’you say’s the name of this chap?”</p> - -<p>“Pettigrove. Hurry up, now.”</p> - -<p>Mark, after bending down, whispered from the -grave: “What was his wife’s name?”</p> - -<p>“Why, man alive, that ’ud be Pettigrove, too.”</p> - -<p>The bell in the tower gave another profoundly -solemn beat.</p> - -<p>“What’s the name on that headstone?” asked -Mark.</p> - -<p>“Caroline Pettigrove. What be you thinking -on?”</p> - -<p>“We’re in the wrong hole, Jethro; come and see -for yourself, the plate on this old coffin says Caroline -Cronshaw, see for yourself, we’re in the wrong hole.”</p> - -<p>Again the bell voiced its melancholy admonition.</p> - -<p>Jethro descended the short ladder and stood in the -grave with Mark just as the cortège entered the -church by the door on the opposite side of the yard. -He knelt down and rubbed with his own fingers the -dulled inscription on the mouldering coffin; there -was no doubt about it, Caroline Cronshaw lay there.</p> - -<p>“Well, may I go to glory,” slowly said the old -man. It may have occurred to Mark that this was an -extravagantly remote destination to prescribe; at any -rate he said: “There ain’t no time, now, come on.”</p> - -<p>“Who the devil be she? However come that -wrong headstone to be putt on this wrong grave?” -quavered the kneeling man.</p> - -<p>“Are you coming out?” growled Mark, standing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">172</span> -with one foot on the ladder, “or ain’t you? They’ll -be chucking him on top of you in a couple o’ minutes. -There’s no time, I tell you.”</p> - -<p>“’Tis a strange come-up as ever I see,” said the -old man; striking one wall of the grave with his -hand: “that’s where we should be, Mark, next door, -but there’s no time to change it and it must go as it is, -Mark. Well, it’s fate; what is to be must be -whether it’s good or right and you can’t odds it, you -darn’t go against it, or you be wrong.” They stood in -the grave muttering together. “Not a word, Mark, -mind you!” At last they shovelled some earth -back upon the tell-tale name-plate, climbed out of the -grave, drew up the ladder, and stood with bent heads -as the coffin was borne from the church towards them. -It was lowered into the grave, and at the “earth to -earth” Jethro, with a flirt of his spade dropped in a -handful of sticky marl, another at “ashes to ashes,” -and again at the “dust to dust.” Finally, when they -were alone together again, they covered in the old -lovers, dumping the earth tightly and everlastingly -about them, and reset the headstone, Jethro remarking -as they did so: “That headstone, well, ’tis a -mystery, Mark! And I can’t bottom it, I can’t -bottom it at all, ’tis a mystery.”</p> - -<p>And indeed, how should it not be, for the secret -had long since been forgotten by its originator.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">173</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="The_Fancy_Dress_Ball"><i>The Fancy Dress Ball</i></h2> - - -<p>There was a young fellow named -Bugloss. He wore cufflinks made of agate with -studs to match but was otherwise an agreeable person -who suffered much from a remarkable diffidence, -one of nature’s minor inconsistencies having been to -endow him with a mute desire for romantic adventure -and an entire incapacity to inaugurate any such thing.</p> - -<p>It was in architecture that he found his way of life, -quite a profitable and genteel way; for while other -hands and heads devised the mere details of drainage, -of window and wall, staircase, cupboard, and floor, -in fact each mechanical thing down to the hooks and -bells in every room, he it was who painted those -entrancing draughts of elevation and the general -prospect (with a few enigmatic but graceful trees, -clouds in the offing, and a tiny postman plodding -sideways up the carriage drive) which lured the fond -fly into the architectural parlour. It must be confessed -that he himself lived in rooms over the shop -of a hairdresser, whose window displayed the -elegantly coiffed head and bust of a wax lady suffering -either from an acute attack of jaundice or the effects -of a succession of late nights: next door was an -establishment dealing exclusively, but not exhaustingly, -in mangles and perambulators. In Bugloss’s -room there were two bell handles with wires looking -very handy and complete, yet whenever he desired -the attendance of the maid he had (<i>a</i>) to take a silver -whistle from his pocket; (<i>b</i>) to open the door; and -(<i>c</i>) to blow it smartly in the passage.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">174</span></p> - -<p>His exceeding shyness was humiliating to himself -and annoying to people of friendly disposition, it -could not have been more preposterous had he been -condemned to wear a false nose; he might have gone -(he may even now be going) to his grave without -once looking into a woman’s eyes. What a pity! -His own eyes were worth looking at; he was really -a nice young man, tall and slender with light fluffy -hair, who if he couldn’t hide his amiable light under a -bushel certainly behaved as if it wasn’t there. Things -were so until one day he chanced to read with envious -pleasure but a good deal of scepticism a book called -<i>Anatol</i> by a Viennese writer; almost immediately -the fascinating possibilities of romantic infidelity -were confirmed by a quarrel which began in the -hairdresser’s house between the young hairdresser -and his wife, Monsieur and Madame Rabignol, and -lasted for a week in the course of which Bugloss -learned that the hairdresser was indulging in precisely -one of those intrigues with an unknown lady -living somewhere near by; Madame Rabignol, -charming but virulent, protested a thousand times -that it must be a base woman who walked the streets -at night, and that Monsieur Rabignol was a low pig. -The fair temptress, it appeared, was given to the use -of a toilet unguent with the beguiling misdescription -of “Vanishing Face Cream”; that was an unfortunate -circumstance, because the wife of the hairdresser, -a very cute woman, on her husband’s return -from an evening’s absence, invariably kissed him and -smelt him.</p> - -<p>“Evil communications,” saith St. Paul (borrowing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">175</span> -the phrase from Menander), “corrupt good manners,” -and his notion must have something of truth -in it, for these domestic revelations produced an -unusual stir in the Bugloss bosom—he bought a -ticket for a popular fancy dress ball and made a -mighty resolve to discard his pusillanimous self with -one grand gesture and there and then take the plunge. -At a fancy dress ball you could do that; everyone -made a fool of himself more or less; and Bugloss -determined to plunge into whatever there was to -plunge in. This was desperately unwise, but you are -not to suppose that he harboured any looseness or -want of principle; he was good and modest, and -virtuous as any young man could possibly be; he -only hoped, at the very least, to look some fair girl -deep in the eyes. So he designed an oriental costume, -simple to make (being loose-fitting), and having -bought quantities of purple and crimson fabric he -wrapped them up and sent the office-boy with his -design, materials, measurements, and instructions to -a dressmaker in the neighbourhood, whom he wisely -thought would make a better job of it than a tailor. -When the costume was finished he was delighted; -it was magnificent, resplendent, artistic, and the -dressmaker’s charge was moderate.</p> - -<p>On the night of the ball, a warm August night with -soft thrilling air and a sky of sombre velvet, he drove -in a closed cab. Dancing was in the open, the lawns -of a mansion were lent for the occasion, and Bugloss -went rather late to escape notice—nearly eleven o’clock—but -in the cab his timorousness conspiring against -him had deepened to palpitating dejection; he was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">176</span> -afraid again, the grand gesture was forgotten, and his -attire was fantastically guarded from the public eye. -From his window he had watched the arrival of the -cab and had slunk down to it secretly—not a word to -the Rabignols!—in a bowler hat and a mackintosh -that reached to his feet; his fancy shoes were concealed -under a pair of goloshes, the bright tasselled -cap was in his pocket.</p> - -<p>Heavens! It was too painful. This was no -plunge, this miserable sink or swim—it was delirium, -hell—what a stupid man he had been to come—it was -no go, it was useless—and he was about to order the -cabman to turn back home when the cab stopped at -the gates of the mansion, the door was flung open and -a big policeman almost dragged him out upon the -carpeted pavement. A knot of jocular bystanders -caused him to scurry into the grounds where three -officials—good, bad, and indifferent—examined his -ticket and directed him onwards. But the cloak -rooms were right across the grounds, the great lawn -was simply a bath of illumination, the band played -in the centre and the dancers, madly arrayed, were -waltzing madly. Bugloss, desiring only some far -corner of darkness to flee into, saw on all sides shadowy -trees, dim shrubs, and walks that led to utter gloom—thank -God!—and there was a black moonless sky, -though even that seemed positively to drip with stars.</p> - -<p>At this moment the big policeman, following after -him, said: “What about this cab, sir?”</p> - -<p>“What—yes—this cab!” repeated Bugloss, and -to his agonized imagination every eye in the grounds -became ironically fixed upon him alone; even the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">177</span> -music ceased, and there resounded a flutter of -coruscating amiability.</p> - -<p>“D’ye want him to wait?” the policeman was -grinning—“He ain’t got any orders.”</p> - -<p>“O, O dear, how much, what’s his fare? I don’t -want him again and—gracious! I haven’t a cent -on me—what, what—O, please tell him to call at my -house to-morrow. Pay him then I will. Please!”</p> - -<p>“Righto, my lord!” said the big policeman, -saluting—he was a regular joker that fellow. Then -Bugloss, trembling in every limb, almost leapt -towards one of the dark walks, away from those -grinning eyes. The shrubs and trees concealed him, -though even here an odd paper lantern or two consorted -with a few coloured bulbs of light. Shortly he -began his observations.</p> - -<p>The cloak rooms, he found, could be approached -only by crossing the lawn. In a mackintosh, goloshes, -and a bowler hat, that was too terrific an ordeal; the -trembling Israelite during that affrighting passage of -the Red Sea had all the incitements of escape and the -comfort of friends, but this more violent ordeal led -into captivity, and Bugloss was alone. What was -to be done? The music began again and it was agreeable, -the illuminations were lustrous and pretty, the -dancers gay, but Bugloss was neither agreeable nor -gay, and his prettiness was not yet on the surface. -He was in a highly wrought condition, he was limp, -and he remained in what seclusion he could find in -the garden, peering like a sinner at some assembly of -the blest. At last he snatched off his goloshes and -stuffed them in his pocket. “So far,” he murmured,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">178</span> -“so good. I will hide the mackintosh among the -bushes, I can’t face that dressing room.” Just then -the band gave a heightened blare, drum and cymbals -were rapidly beaten and the music ceased amid -clapping and polite halloing. “Dash it, I must wait -till the next dance,” said Bugloss, “and, O lord, -there’s a lot of them coming this way.” He turned to -retreat into deeper darkness when suddenly, near the -musicians, he saw a fascinating girl, a dainty but -startling figure skimming across the lawn as if to -overtake a friend. Why—yes—she had a wig of -bright green hair, green; a short-waisted cherry silk -jacket and harlequin pantaloons, full at the hips but -narrowing to the ankles, where white stockings -slipped into a pair of gilded leather shoes with heels -of scarlet. Delicately charming were her face and -figure, entrancing were her movements, and she -tinkled all over with hidden bells.</p> - -<p>“Sweet God, what beauty!” thought Bugloss, -“this is She, the Woman to know, I must, I must ... -but how?”</p> - -<p>She disappeared. For the moment he could not -rid himself of the bowler hat and mackintosh, so -many couples roamed in the dark glades; wherever -he went he could see the glow of cigarettes, generally -in twos, and there were whispering or silent couples -standing about in unexpected places. Retiring to the -darkest corner he had previously found he was about -to discard his mackintosh when he was startled by a -cry at his elbow: “Lena, where are you, what’s -that?” and a girl scuttled away, calling “Lena! -Lena!” Her terror dismayed him, the little shock<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">179</span> -itself brought the sweat to his brow, but the music -beginning again drew all the stragglers back to the -lawn. There, from his gloomy retreat, he beheld the -green-haired beauty in the arms of a pirate king who -was adorned with an admiral’s hat and a dangerous -moustache. “If,” thought Bugloss, still in his -mufti, “I couldn’t have discovered a better get-up -than that fellow, I’d have stayed away. There’s no -picture in it, it’s just silly, I couldn’t wear a thing like -that, I couldn’t wear it, I’d have perished rather than -come.” And indeed there was an absence of imagination -about all the male adornment; many of the -ladies were right enough, but some were horrors, and -most of the men were horrors; there was justification -for Bugloss’s subsequent reflection: “I’ll show them, -a little later on, what can be done when an artist takes -the thing in hand; now after this dance is over.... -etc., etc.”</p> - -<p>Two lovers startled him by beginning to quarrel. -They were passing among the trees behind him and -talking quite loudly, both with a slight foreign accent. -“But I shall not let you go, Johannes,” said the lady -with a fierce little cry. Bugloss turned and could just -discern a lady costumed as a vivandière; her companion -was in the uniform Of a Danish soldier.</p> - -<p>“If you forced me to stop I would kill you,” -retorted the man.</p> - -<p>“O, you would kill me!”</p> - -<p>“If you forced me to stop.”</p> - -<p>“You would kill me ... so!”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">180</span></p> -<p>“Yes, I would kill you.”</p> - -<p>“But you have told me that if I <i>can</i> keep you here -in England I may do it. You know. If I can. You -know that, Johannes!”</p> - -<p>Bugloss was persuaded that he had heard her voice -before, though he could not recognize the speaker.</p> - -<p>“Be quiet, you are a fool,” the man said. That -was all Bugloss heard. It was brutal enough. If -only a woman, any woman, had wanted <i>him</i> like that!</p> - -<p>He wandered about during other dances. The -green-haired girl was always with that idiotic pirate, -and it made things very difficult, because although -Bugloss had fallen desperately in love with her he -could not, simply could not, march up and drag her -away from her companion. He could not as yet even -venture from his ambush among the trees, and they -never wandered in the gloom—they were always -dancing together or eating together. He, Bugloss, -had no interest in any other woman there, no spark of -interest whatsoever. That being so, why go to all the -fuss of discarding the mackintosh and making an exhibition -of himself? Why go bothering among that -crowd, he was not a dancer at all, he didn’t want to go! -But still ... by and by perhaps ... when that lovely -treasure was not so extraordinarily engaged. Sweet -God! she was just ... well, but he could not stand -much more of that infernal pirate’s antics with her. -Withdrawing his tantalized gaze he sat down in -darkness behind a clump of yew trimmed in the shape -of some fat animal that resembled a tall hippopotamus. -Here he lit his tenth cigarette. At once a dizziness -assailed him, he began to see scarlet splashes in the -gloom, to feel as if he were being lacerated with tiny -pins. Throwing the cigarette away he stretched<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">181</span> -himself at full length under the bush. Scarcely had -he done so when he became aware that two others -were sitting down on the other side of it, the same -foreign couple, the vivandière and her threatening -cavalier.</p> - -<p>“Listen to me, Hélène,” the man was saying in a -soft consoling voice, “you shall trust to me and come -away. Together we will go. But here I cannot stay. -It is fate. You love, eh? Come then, we will go to -Copenhagen, I will take you to my country. Now, -Hélène!”</p> - -<p>The lady made no reply; Bugloss felt that she must -be crying. The Dane continued to woo and the -Frenchwoman to murmur back to him: “Is it not so, -Johannes?” “No, Hélène, no.” But at last he -cried angrily: “Pah! Then stop with your bandit, -that pig! Pah!” and chattering angrily in his strange -language he sprang up and stalked away. Hélène -rose too and followed him beseechingly into the -gloom: “No, no, Johannes, no!”</p> - -<p>Bugloss got up from the grass; his dizziness was -gone. He knew that voice, it seemed impossible, but -he knew her, and he had half a mind to rush home: -but being without his watch and unable to discover -what o’clock it was, he did not care to walk out into -the streets with the chance of being guyed by any -half-drunken sparks passing late home. He would -wait, he was sure it was past midnight now, there -would be a partial exodus soon, and he would go off -unnoticed in the crowd. There was no more -possibility now of him shedding his coat and joining -the revellers than there was of that beauteous girl<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">182</span> -flying into his arms; his inhibition possessed him -with tenfold power, he was an imbecile. Sad, pitiful, -wretched, outcast! Through the screen of foliage -the music floated with exquisite faintness, luminous -cadenzas from a gleaming but guarded Eldorado -whose light was music, whose music was all a promise -and a mockery; he was a miserable prisoner pent in -his own unbearable but unbreakable shackles and -dressed up like a doll in a pantomime! Many people -had come in their ordinary clothes; why, O why had -he put on this maddening paralysing raiment? Why -had he come at all?</p> - -<p>Some of the lights had begun to fade; at one end -of the lawn most of the small lamps had guttered out, -leaving a line of a dozen chairs in comparative -obscurity. Weary of standing, he slunk to the corner -chair and sat down with a sigh. Just beside him was -a weeping ash that he supposed only looked happy -when it rained, and opposite was a poplar straining -so hard to brush the heavens that he fancied it would -be creaking in every limb. By and by an elderly -decorous lady, accompanied by two girls not so -decorous—the one arrayed as a Puritan maiden and -the other as a Scout mistress—came and sat near him, -but he did not move. They did not perceive the -moody Bugloss. The elderly lady spoke: “Do go -and fetch her here; no, when this waltz is over. She -is very rude, but I want to see her. I can’t understand -why she avoids us, and how she is getting on is -a mystery to everybody. Bring her here.”</p> - -<p>The puritan maiden and the scout mistress, embracing -each other, skipped away to the refreshment<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">183</span> -booth. Glorious people sat about there drinking -wine as if they disliked it, sipping ices as if it were -a penance, and eating remarkable food or doing -some other reasonable things, but Bugloss dared not -join them although he was very hungry. It was not -hunger he wanted to avert, but an impending tragedy.</p> - -<p>The hypersensitive creature sees in the common -mass of his fellows only something that seeks to deny -him, and either in fear of that antagonism or in the -knowledge of his own imperfections he isolates and -envelopes the real issue of his being—much as an -oyster does with the irritant grain in its beard; only -the outcome is seldom a pearl and not always as useful -as a fish. Bugloss was still wholly enveloped, and his -predicament gave a melancholy tone to his thoughts. -He sat hunched in his chair until the dance ended and -the two girls came back, bringing with them the -lovely green-haired one!</p> - -<p>“Hello, aunt,” she cried merrily enough, “why -aren’t you in costume? Like my get-up?”</p> - -<p>Without a word the elderly lady kissed her, and all -sat down within a few feet of Bugloss. It thrilled -him to hear her voice; at least he would be able to -recognize that when she turned back again to daylight’s -cool civilities.</p> - -<p>“Did you know that I had blossomed out in -business?” she was saying. Bugloss thought it a -beautiful voice.</p> - -<p>“I heard of it,” said her aunt, whom you may -figure as a lady with a fan, eyeglasses, and the repellant -profile of a bird of prey,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">184</span> “about half an hour ago. -I wish I had heard of it before.”</p> - -<p>“I am a full-blown modiste.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you might have told me.”</p> - -<p>“But I have told you.”</p> - -<p>“You might have told me before.”</p> - -<p>“But I haven’t seen you before, aunt.”</p> - -<p>“No, we haven’t seen you. How is this business, -Claire, is it thriving, making money?”</p> - -<p>“O, we get along, aunt,” said the radiant niece in a -tone of almost perverse amiability. “I have several -assistants. Do you know, we made seven of the -costumes for this ball—seven—one of them for a -man.”</p> - -<p>“I thought ladies only made for ladies.”</p> - -<p>“So did I, but this order just dropped in upon us -very mysteriously, and we did it, from top to toe, -a most gorgeous arrangement, all crimson and purple -and silver and citron, but I haven’t seen anybody -wearing it yet. I wonder if you have? I’m so -disappointed. It’s a sultan, or a nabob, or a nankipoo -of some kind, I am certain it was for this ball. I was -so anxious to see it worn. I had made up my mind -to dance at least half the dances with the wearer, it -was so lovely. Have you seen such a costume -here?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said the aunt grimly, “I have not, but I -have noticed the pirate king—did you make his -costume too? I hope not!”</p> - -<p>“O no, aunt,” laughed Claire, “isn’t he a fright?”</p> - -<p>“Who is he?”</p> - -<p>“That? O, a friend of mine, a business friend.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">185</span></p> -<p>“He seems fond of you.”</p> - -<p>“I have known him some time. Yes, I like him. -Don’t you like my pirate king?” asked Claire, -turning to her two cousins.</p> - -<p>The cousins both thought he was splendid.</p> - -<p>(“Good God!” groaned Bugloss.)</p> - -<p>“I don’t,” declared auntie. “Do you know him -very well, has he any intentions? An orphan girl -living by herself—you have your way to make in the -world—I am not presuming to criticize, my dear -Claire, but is it wise? Who is he?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, aunt,” said Claire. Bugloss could hear the -tinkle of her bells as she moved a little restlessly.</p> - -<p>“Are his intentions honourable? I should think -they were otherwise.”</p> - -<p>Claire did not reply immediately. It looked as if -the musicians were about to resume. There was a -rattle of plates and things over at the booth. Then -she said reflectively: “I don’t think he has any—what -you call honourable intentions.”</p> - -<p>“Not! Is he a bad man?”</p> - -<p>“O no, I don’t mean that, aunt, no.”</p> - -<p>“But what do you mean then, you’re a strange -girl, what <i>could</i> his intentions be?”</p> - -<p>“He hasn’t any intentions at all.”</p> - -<p>“Not one way or the other?”</p> - -<p>Claire seemed vaguely to hover over the significance -of this. She said calmly enough: “Not in any -way. He’s my hairdresser, a Frenchman, and so -clever. He made this beautiful wig and gave it me. -What do you think of my beautiful wig, isn’t it -sweet?”</p> - -<p>There was a note of exasperation in the elder -woman’s voice:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">186</span> “Why don’t you get married, girl?”</p> - -<p>“I’d rather work,” said Claire, “and besides, he’s -already married.”</p> - -<p>The music did begin, and a gentleman garbed as a -druid came to claim auntie for a dance. The three -girls were left alone.</p> - -<p>“Did he <i>really</i> give you that wig?” asked the -puritan maiden.</p> - -<p>“Yes, isn’t it bonny? I love it.” She shook the -dangling curls about her face. “He’s frightfully -clever with hair. French! You know his saloon -probably, Rabignol’s in the High Street. His wife -is here, you must have seen her too—a French soldier -woman—what do you call them? She hates me. -She’s with a Danish captain. He <i>is</i> a Dane, but he is -really an ice merchant. He thinks she adores him.”</p> - -<p>“O Claire!” cried the two shocked cousins.</p> - -<p>“But she doesn’t,” said Claire. “Sakes, I’m -beginning to shiver; come along.”</p> - -<p>They all romped back towards the orchestra. -Bugloss shivered too and was glad—yes, glad—that -she had gone. The tragedy had floated satisfactorily -out of his hands, thank the fates; it was Rabignol’s -affair. Damn Rabignol! Curse Rabignol! the -bandit, the pig! He hoped that Madame Rabignol -<i>would</i> elope with Johannes. He hoped the green-haired -girl—frail and lovely thing—would behave -well; and he hoped finally and frenziedly that -Rabignol himself would be choked by the common -hangman. Bugloss then wanted to yawn, but somehow -he could not. He put on his rubber goloshes -again. With unwonted audacity he stalked off -firmly, even a little fiercely, across the lawn in his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">187</span> -mackintosh and bowler hat, passing round the fringe -of the dancers but looking neither to the right nor to -the left, then out of the gates into the dark empty -streets and so home. There, feeling rather like a -Cromwell made of chutney, he disarrayed himself and -crept into bed yawning and murmuring to himself:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">188</span> -“So that’s a fancy dress ball! Sweet God, but I’m -glad I went! And I could have shown them something, -I could have. Say what you like, but mine was -the finest costume at the show; there’s no doubt -about that, it was, it was! And I’m very glad I went.”</p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<h2 id="The_Cat_the_Dog_and_the_bad_old_Dame"><i>The Cat, the Dog, and the bad old Dame</i></h2> - - -<p>The chemist had certain odd -notions that were an agreeable reflex of his name, -which was Oddfellow—Herbert Oddfellow. Our -man was odd about diet. It was believed that he -lived without cookery, that he browsed, as it were, -upon fruit and salads. Ironically enough he earned -a considerable income by the sale of nostrums for -indigestion. At any hour of the day you were likely -to find him devouring apples, nibbling artichokes, or -sucking an orange, and your inquiry for a dose of -bismuth or some such aid would cause by an obscure -process a sardonic grin to assemble upon his face. -You would scarcely have expected to find a lot of -indigestion in the working-class neighbourhood -where his pharmacy flourished, but it was there, -certainly; he was quite cynical about it—his business -throve abundantly upon dietary disorders.</p> - -<p>There were four big ornamental carboys in his -shop windows—red, violet, green, and yellow; -incidentally he sold peppermint drops and poisons, -and at forty years of age he was reputed to be the -happiest, as he was certainly the healthiest, man in the -county. This was not merely because he was unmarried -... but there, I declare this tale is not about -Oddfellow himself, but about his lethal chamber.</p> - -<p>You must know that the sacrificial exactions of the -war did not spare cats and dogs. They, too, were -immolated—but painlessly—scores of them, at Oddfellow’s. -He was unhappy about that part of his -business, very much so; he loved animals, perhaps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">189</span> -rather more than people, for, naturally, what he -ministered to in his pharmacy was largely human -misery or human affectation. Evil cruel things—the -bolt of a gaol, the lime of the bird-snarer, the butcher’s -axe—maddened him.</p> - -<p>In the small garden at the back of the dispensary -the interments were carried out by Horace the errand -boy, a juvenile with snub nose and short, tough hair, -who always wore ragged puttees. He delighted in -such obsequies, and had even instituted some ceremonial -orgies. But at last these lethal commissions -were so numerous that the burial-ground began to -resemble the habitat of some vast, inappeasable mole, -and thereupon Oddfellow had to stipulate for sorrowing -owners to conduct the interments themselves in -cemeteries of their own. Even this provision did -not quell the inflow of these easily disposable -victims.</p> - -<p>Mr. Franks brought him a magnificent cat to be -destroyed. (Shortly afterwards Franks was conveyed -to the lunatic asylum, an institution which still -nurtures him in despotic durance.) Pending the -return of Horace, who was disbursing remedial -shrapnel to the neighbourhood, the cat, tied to a rail -in the shop, sat dozing in the sunlight.</p> - -<p>“What a beautiful cat!” exclaimed a lady caller, -stroking its purring majesty. The lady herself was -beautiful. Oddfellow explained that its demise was -imminent—nothing the matter with it—owner didn’t -want it.</p> - -<p>“How cruel, you sweet thing, how cruel!” pronounced -the lady, who really was very beautiful.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">190</span> “I -would love to have it. Why shouldn’t I have it ... -if its owner doesn’t want it? I wonder. May I?”</p> - -<p>Manlike was Oddfellow, beautiful was the lady; -the lady took the cat away. Twenty-four hours later -the shop counter was stormed by the detestable -Franks, incipient insanity already manifest in him. -He carried the selfsame cat under his arm—it had -returned to its old home. Franks assailed the -abashed chemist with language that at its mildest -was abusive and libellous. His chief complaint -seemed to repose upon the circumstance of having -<i>paid</i> for the cat’s destruction, whereupon Oddfellow -who, like an Irishman, never walked into an argument—he -simply bounced in—threw down the fee -upon the counter and urged Mr. Franks to take his -cat, and his money, and himself away as speedily as -might be. This reprehensible behaviour did by no -means allay the tension; the madman-designate -paraded many further signs of his impending doom.</p> - -<p>“Take your cat away, I tell you,” shouted Oddfellow, -“take it away. I wouldn’t destroy it for a -thousand pounds!”</p> - -<p>“You won’t, oh?”</p> - -<p>“Put an end to you with pleasure!”</p> - -<p>“Yes?”</p> - -<p>“Make you a present of a dose of poison whenever -you like to come and take it!”</p> - -<p>“Yes?”</p> - -<p>“I will!”</p> - -<p>Franks went away with his tom-cat.</p> - -<p>“O ... my ... lord!” ejaculated the chemist, that -being his favourite evocation;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">191</span> “I’ll do no more of -this cat-and-dog business. I shall not do any more; -no, I shall not. I do not like it at all.”</p> - -<p>But in the afternoon his assistant, who had not been -informed of this resolve, accepted two more victims -for the lethal chamber, another tom-cat and a collie -dog.</p> - -<p>“O ... my ... lord!” groaned the chemist distractedly; -but there was no help for it, and, calling -his boy Horace, they carried the cat into the storeroom. -The lethal box was in a corner; all round -were shelves of costly drugs. The place did not -smell of death; it smelt of paint, oils, volatile spirits, -tubs of white lead, and packing-cases that contained -scented soap or feeding-bottles. As Oddfellow prepared -his syringe, a sporting friend named Jerry -peeped in to watch the proceedings.</p> - -<p>“Shut the door!” cried little Horace. “I can’t -hold him.... He’s off!”</p> - -<p>Sure enough the cat, sensing its danger, had burst -from his arms and sprung to one of the shelves. -Immediately phials of drugs began to fall and smash -upon the floor, and as the cat rushed and scurried -from their grasp disaster was heaped upon disaster; -the green, glowing eyes, the rigid teeth, that seemed -to grow as large as a tiger’s, confounded them, and -the havoc deterred them; they dared not approach the -spitting fury, it was a wild beast again, and a bold one.</p> - -<p>“O ... my ... lord!” said Oddfellow, also swearing -softly, for bottles continued to slip from shelf to -floor. “What’s to be done?”</p> - -<p>“Open the door—let the flaming thing go,” said -Jerry.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">192</span></p> - -<p>“No fear,” replied the chemist, “I’ve had enough -of these dead cats turning up like Banquo’s ghost—just -enough.”</p> - -<p>Horace intervened. “My father’s got a gun, sir; -shall I run round home and get it?”</p> - -<p>Jerry’s eyes began to gleam, the costly phials kept -dropping to the floor—the chemist distractedly -agreed—the boy Horace ran home and fetched a -rook rifle. But his prowess was so poor, his aim so -disastrous—he shot a hole through a barrel of linseed -oil and received a powerful squirt of it in his eye—that -Jerry deprived him of the weapon. Even then -several rounds had to be fired, a carboy of acid was -cracked, a window smashed, a lamp blown to pieces, -before poor tom was finally subdued. Oddfellow had -gone into the shop. He could not bring himself to -witness the dismal slaughter. Every repercussion -sent a pang of pity to his heart, and when at last the -bleeding body of the cat was laid in the yard to await -removal by its owner he almost vomited and he -almost wept; if he had not sniffed the bunch of early -primroses in his buttonhole he would surely have -done one or the other.</p> - -<p>“Now the dog,” whispered the chemist. The -collie was very subdued, good dog, he gave no trouble -at all, good dog, he was hustled into the big box, good -dog, and quietly chloroformed. Later on, a countryman -with his cart called for the body. The old -woman who owned it was going to make a hearthrug -with the skin. It was enveloped in a sack; the -countryman carried it out on his shoulder like a -butcher carrying the carcase of a sheep and flung it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">193</span> -into the cart. The callousness of this struck Mr. -Oddfellow so profoundly that he announced there -and then, positively and finally, that he would undertake -no more business of that kind, and doubly to -insure this the lethal box was taken into the yard and -chopped up.</p> - -<p>Now, the poor old woman who owned the dog -called next day at the chemist’s shop. Behind her -walked the very collie. For a moment or two Oddfellow -feared that he was to be haunted by the walking -ghost of cats and dogs for evermore. Said the old -woman: “Please, sir, you must do him again; he’s -woke up!”</p> - -<p>She described at great length the dog’s strange -revival. It stood humbly enough in the background, -a little drowsy, but not at all uneasy.</p> - -<p>“No,” cried Oddfellow firmly; “can’t do it—destroyed -my tackle. You take him home, ma’am; -he’s all right. Dog that’s been through that ought -to live a long life. Take him home again, ma’am,” he -urged, “he’s all right.”</p> - -<p>The woman was old; she was feeble and poor; -she was not able to keep him now, he was such a big -dog. Wasn’t it hard enough to get him food, things -were so dear, and now there was the licence money -due! She hadn’t got it; she never would have it; -she really couldn’t afford it.</p> - -<p>“You take him, sir, and keep him, sir.”</p> - -<p>“No, I can’t keep a dog—no room.”</p> - -<p>“Have him, sir,” she pleaded; “you’ll be kind -to him.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">194</span></p> -<p>“No, no; ... but ... if it’s only his licence ... -I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay for his licence rather than -destroy him.”</p> - -<p>Putting his hand into the till, he laid three half-crowns -before her. The old woman stared at the -chemist, but she stared still more at the money. Then, -thanking him with quaint, confused dignity, she -gathered it up, but again stood gazing meditatively -at the three big coins, now lying, so unexpectedly, -in her thin palm.</p> - -<p>“Good dog,” said the chemist, giving him a final -pat. “Good dog!”</p> - -<p>Then the poor old woman, with tears in her eyes, -turned out of Mr. Oddfellow’s shop and, followed -by her dog, walked off to a quarter of the town where -there was another chemist who kept a lethal chamber.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">195</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="The_Wife_of_Ted_Wickham"><i>The Wife of Ted Wickham</i></h2> - - -<p>Perhaps it is a mercy we can’t -see ourselves as others see us. Molly Wickham -was a remarkable pretty woman in days gone by; -maybe she is wiser since she has aged, but when she -was young she was foolish. She never seemed to -realize it, but I wasn’t deceived.</p> - -<p>So said the cattle-dealer, a healthy looking man, -massive, morose, and bordering on fifty. He did not -say it to anybody in particular, for it was said—it was -to himself he said it—privately, musingly, as if to -soothe the still embittered recollection of a beauty -that was foolish, a fondness that was vain.</p> - -<p>Ted Wickham himself was silly, too, when he -married her. Must have been extraordinarily -touched to marry a little soft, religious, teetotal party -like her, and him a great sporting cock of a man, just -come into a public-house business that his aunt had -left him, “The Half Moon,” up on the Bath Road. -He always ate like an elephant, but she’d only the -appetite of a scorpion. And what was worse, he was -a true blood conservative while all her family were a -set of radicals that you couldn’t talk sense to: if you -only so much as mentioned the name of Gladstone they -would turn their eyes up to the ceiling as if he was a -saint in glory. Blood is thicker than water, I know, -but it’s unnatural stuff to drink so much of. Grant -their name was. They christened her Pamela, and -as if that wasn’t cruel enough they messed her initials -up by giving her the middle name of Isabel.</p> - -<p>But she was a handsome creature, on the small side<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">196</span> -but sound as a roach and sweet as an apple tree in -bloom. Pretty enough to convert Ted, and I thought -she would convert him, but she was a cussed woman—never -did what you would expect of her—and so -she didn’t even try. She gave up religion herself, -gave it up altogether and went to church no more. -That was against her inclination, but of course it was -only right, for Ted never could have put up with that. -Wedlock’s one thing and religion’s two: that’s odd -and even: a little is all very well if it don’t go a long -ways. Parson Twamley kept calling on her for a -year or two afterwards, trying to persuade her to -return to the fold—he couldn’t have called oftener if -she had owed him a hundred pound—but she would -not hear of it, she would not go. He was not much -of a parson, not one to wake anybody up, but he had a -good delivery, and when he’d the luck to get hold of a -sermon of any sense his delivery was very good, very -good indeed. She would say: “No, sir, my feelings -aren’t changed one bit, but I won’t come to church any -more, I’ve my private reasons.” And the parson -would glare across at old Ted as if he were a Belzeboob, -for Ted always sat and listened to the parson -chattering to her. Never said a word himself, -always kept his pipe stuck in his jaw. Ted never -persuaded her in the least, just left it to her, and she -would come round to his manner of thinking in the -end, for though he never actually said it, she always -knew what his way of thinking was. A strange thing, -it takes a real woman to do that, silly or no! At -election times she would plaster the place all over -with tory bills, do it with her own hands!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">197</span></p> - -<p>Still, there’s no stability in meekness of that sort, -a weathervane can only go with wind and weather, and -there was no sense in her giving in to Ted as she did, -not in the long run, for he couldn’t help but despise -her. A man wants something or other to whet the -edge of his life on; and he did despise her, I know.</p> - -<p>But she was a fine creature in her way, only her -way wasn’t his. A beautiful woman, too, well-limbered -up, with lovely hair, but always a very proper -sort, a milksop—Ted told me once that he had never -seen her naked. Well, can you wonder at the man? -And always badgering him to do things that could -not be done at the time. To have “The Half Moon” -painted, or enlarged, or insured: she’d keep on -badgering him, and he could not make her see that -any god’s amount of money spent on paint wouldn’t -improve the taste of liquor.</p> - -<p>“I can see as far into a quart pot as the King of -England,” he says, “and I know that if this bar was -four times as big as ’tis a quart wouldn’t hold a drop -more then than it does now.”</p> - -<p>“No, of course,” she says.</p> - -<p>“Nor a drop less neither,” says Ted. He showed -her that all the money expended on improvements and -insurance and such things were so much off something -else. Ted was a generous chap—liked to see plenty -of everything, even though he had to give some of it -away. But you can’t make some women see some -things.</p> - -<p>“Not a roof to our heads, nor a floor to our feet, -nor a pound to turn round on if a fire broke out,” -Molly would say.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">198</span></p> - -<p>“But why should a fire break out?” he’d ask her. -“There never has been a fire here, there never ought -to be a fire here, and what’s more, there never will be -a fire here, so why should there be a fire?”</p> - -<p>And of course she let him have his own way, and -they never had a fire there while he was alive, though -I don’t know that any great harm would have been -done anyways, for after a few years trade began to -slacken off, and the place got dull, and what with the -taxes it was not much more than a bread and cheese -business. Still, there’s no matter of that: a man -don’t ask for a bed of roses: a world without some -disturbance or anxiety would be like a duckpond -where the ducks sleep all day and are carried off at -night by the foxes.</p> - -<p>Molly was like that in many things, not really -contrary, but no tact. After Ted died she kept on at -“The Half Moon” for a year or two by herself, and -regular as clockwork every month Pollock, the insurance -manager, would drop in and try for to persuade -her to insure the house or the stock or the furniture, -any mortal thing. Well, believe you, when she had -only got herself to please in the matter that woman -wouldn’t have anything to say to that insurance—she -never did insure, and never would.</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t run such a risk; upon my soul it’s -flying in the face of possibilities, Mrs. Wickham”—he -was a palavering chap, that Pollock; a tall fellow -with sandy hair, and he always stunk of liniment for -he had asthma on the chest—“A very grave risk, it -is indeed,” he would say,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">199</span> “the Meazer’s family -was burnt clean out of hearth and home last St. -Valentine’s day, and if they hadn’t taken up a policy -what would have become of those Meazers?”</p> - -<p>“I dunno,” Molly says—that was the name Ted -give her—“I dunno, and I’m sorry for unfortunate -people, but I’ve my private reasons.”</p> - -<p>She was always talking about her private reasons, -and they must have been devilish private, for not a -soul on God’s earth ever set eyes on them.</p> - -<p>“Well, Mrs. Wickham,” says Pollock, “they’d -have been a tidy ways up Queer Street, and ruin’s a -long-lasting affair,” Pollock says. He was a rare -palavering chap, and he used to talk about Gladstone, -too, for he knew her family history; but that didn’t -move her, and she did not insure.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I quite agree,” she says, “but I’ve my -private reasons.”</p> - -<p>Sheer female cussedness! But where her own husband -couldn’t persuade her Pollock had no chance at -all. And then, of course, two years after Ted died she -did go and have a fire there. “The Half Moon” was -burnt clean out, rafter and railings, and she had to -give it up and shift into the little bullseye business -where she is now, selling bullseyes to infants and -ginger beer to boy scholars on bicycles. And what -does it all amount to? Why, it don’t keep her in -hairpins. She had the most beautiful hair once. But -that’s telling the story back foremost.</p> - -<p>Ted was a smart chap, a particular friend of mine -(so was Molly), and he could have made something -of himself and of his business, perhaps, if it hadn’t -been for her. He was a sportsman to the backbone; -cricket, shooting, fishing, always game for a bit of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">200</span> -life, any mortal thing—what was there he couldn’t -do? And a perfect demon with women, I’ve never -seen the like. If there was a woman for miles around -as he couldn’t come at, then you could bet a crown -no one else could. He had the gift. Well, when one -woman ain’t enough for a man, twenty ain’t too many. -He and me were in a tight corner together more than -once, but he never went back on a friend, his word -was his Bible oath. And there was he all the while -tied up to this soft wife of his, who never once let on -she knew of it at all, though she knowed much. And -never would she cast the blink of her eyes—splendid -eyes they were, too—on any willing stranger, nor -even a friend, say, like myself; it was all Ted this -and Ted that, though I was just her own age and Ted -was twelve years ahead of us both. She didn’t know -her own value, wouldn’t take her opportunities, -hadn’t the sense, as I say, though she had got everything -else. Ah, she was a woman to be looking at -once, and none so bad now; she wears well.</p> - -<p>But she was too pious and proper, it aggravated -him, but Ted never once laid a finger on her and -never uttered one word of reproach though he -despised her; never grudged her a thing in reason -when things were going well with him. It’s God -Almighty’s own true gospel—they never had a -quarrel in all the twelve years they was wed, and I -don’t believe they ever had an angry word, but how -he kept his hands off her I don’t know. I couldn’t -have done it, but I was never married—I was too -independent for that work. He’d contradict her -sometimes, for she <i>would</i> talk, and Ted was one of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">201</span> -your silent sorts, but <i>she</i>—she would talk for ever -more. She was so artful that she used to invent all -manners of tomfoolery on purpose to make him -contradict her; believe you, she did, even on his -death-bed.</p> - -<p>I used to go and sit with him when he was going, -poor Ted, for I knew he was done for; and on the -day he died, she said to him—and I was there and I -heard it: “Is there anything you would like me to -do, dear?” And he said, “No.” He was almost -at his last gasp, he had strained his heart, but she was -for ever on at him, even then, an unresting woman. -It was in May, I remember it, a grand bright afternoon -outside, but the room itself was dreadful, it -didn’t seem to be afternoon at all; it was unbearable -for a strong man to be dying in such fine weather, and -the carts going by, and though we were a watching -him, it seemed more as if something was watching -us.</p> - -<p>And she says to him again: “Isn’t there anything -you would like me to do?”</p> - -<p>Ted says to her: “Ah! I’d like to hear you -give one downright good damn curse. Swear, my -dear!”</p> - -<p>“At what?” she says.</p> - -<p>“Me, if you like.”</p> - -<p>“What for?” she says. I can see her now, staring -at him.</p> - -<p>“For my sins.”</p> - -<p>“What sins?” she says.</p> - -<p>Now did you ever hear anything like that? What -sins! After a while she began at him once more.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">202</span></p> - -<p>“Ted, if anything happens to you I’ll never marry -again.”</p> - -<p>“Do what you like,” says he.</p> - -<p>“I’ll not do that,” she says, and she put her arms -round him, “for you’d not rest quiet in your grave, -would you, Ted?”</p> - -<p>“Leave me alone,” he says, for he was a very -crusty sick man, very crusty, poor Ted, but could you -wonder? “You leave me alone and I’ll rest sure -enough.”</p> - -<p>“You can be certain,” she cries, “that I’d never, -never do that, I’d never look at another man after you, -Ted, never; I promise it solemnly.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t bother me, don’t bother at all.” And -poor Ted give a grunt and turned over on his side -to get away from her.</p> - -<p>At that moment some gruel boiled over on the hob—gruel -and brandy was all he could take. She -turned to look after it, and just then old Ted gave a -breath and was gone, dead. She turned like a flash, -with the steaming pot in her hand, bewildered for a -moment. She saw he had gone. Then she put the -pot back gently on the fender, walked over to the -window and pulled down the blind. Never dropped -a tear, not one tear.</p> - -<p>Well, that was the end of Ted. We buried him, -one or two of us. There was an insurance on his life -for fifty pounds, but Ted had long before mortgaged -the policy and so there was next to nothing for her. -But what else could the man do? (Molly always -swore the bank defrauded her!) She put a death -notice in the paper, how he was dead, and the date,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">203</span> -and what he died of: “after a long illness, nobly and -patiently borne.” Of course, that was sarcasm, she -never meant one word of it, for he was a terror to -nurse, the worst that ever was; a strong man on his -back is like a wasp in a bottle. But every year, when -the day comes round—and it’s ten years now since he -died—she puts a memorial notice in the same paper -about her loving faithful husband and the long illness -nobly and patiently borne!</p> - -<p>And then, as I said, the insurance man and the -parson began to call again on that foolish woman, but -she would not alter her ways for any of them. Not -one bit. The things she had once enjoyed before her -marriage, the things she had wanted her own husband -to do but were all against his grain, these she could -nohow bring herself to do when he was dead and -gone and she was alone and free to do them. What a -farce human nature can be! There was an Italian -hawker came along with rings in his ears and a -coloured cart full of these little statues of Cupid, and -churches with spires a yard long and red glass in -them, and heads of some of the great people like the -Queen and General Gordon.</p> - -<p>“Have you got a head of Lord Beaconsfield?” -Molly asks him.</p> - -<p>He goes and searches in his cart and brings her -out a beautiful head on a stand, all white and new, -and charges her half a crown for it. Few days later -the parson calls on the job of persuading her to return -to his flock now that she was free to go once more. -But no. She says:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">204</span> “I can never change now, sir, it -may be all wrong of me, but what my man thought -was good enough for me, and I somehow cling to -that. It’s all wrong, I suppose, and you can’t understand -it, sir, but it’s all my life.”</p> - -<p>Well, Twamley chumbled over an argument or -two, but he couldn’t move her; there’s no mortal -man could ever more that woman except Ted—and -he didn’t give a damn.</p> - -<p>“Well,” says parson, “I have hopes, Mrs. Wickham, -that you will come to see the matter in a new -light, a little later on perhaps. In fact, I’m sure you -will, for look, there’s that bust,” he says, and he -points to it on the mantelpiece. “I thought you and -he were all against Gladstone, but now you’ve got his -bust upon your shelf; it’s a new one, I see.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, that isn’t Gladstone,” cried Molly, all -of a tremble, “that isn’t Gladstone, it’s Lord Beaconsfield!”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, but pardon me, Mrs. Wickham, that is -certainly a bust of Mr. Gladstone.”</p> - -<p>So it was. This Italian chap had deceived the -silly creature and palmed her off with any bust that -come handy, and it happened to be Gladstone. She -went white to the teeth, and gave a sort of scream, -and dashed the little bust in a hundred pieces on the -hearth in front of the minister there. O, he had a -very vexing time with her.</p> - -<p>That was years ago. And then came the fire, and -then the bullseye shop. For ten years now I’ve -prayed that woman to marry me, and she just tells me: -No. She says she pledged her solemn word to Ted -as he lay a-dying that she would not wed again. It -was his last wish—she says. But it’s a lie, a lie, for I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">205</span> -heard them both. Such a lie! She’s a mad woman, -but fond of him still in her way, I suppose. She liked -to see Ted make a fool of himself, liked him better so. -Perhaps that’s what she don’t see in me. And what -I see in her—I can’t imagine. But it’s a something, -something in her that sways me now just as it swayed -me then, and I doubt but it will sway me for ever.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">206</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="Tanil"><i>Tanil</i></h2> - - -<p>A Great while ago a man in a -stripéd jacket went travelling almost to the -verge of the world, and there he came upon a -region of green fertility, quiet sounds, and sharp -colour; save for one tiny green mound it was all -smooth and even, as level as the moon’s face, so flat -that you could see the sky rising up out of the end of -everything like a blue dim cliff. He passed into a -city very populous and powerful, and entered the shop -of a man who sold birds in traps of wicker, birds of -rare kinds, the flame-winged antillomeneus and kriffs -with green eyes.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said he to the hawker of birds, “this should -be a city of great occasions, it has the smell of -opulence. But it is all unknown to me, I have not -heard the story of its arts and policy, or of its people -and their governors. What annalists have you -recording all its magnificence and glory, or what -poets to tell if its record be just?”</p> - -<p>The hawker of birds replied: “There are tales -and the tellers of tales.”</p> - -<p>“I have not heard of these,” said the other, “tell -me, tell me.”</p> - -<p>The bird man drew finger and thumb downwards -from the bridge of his long nose to its extremity, and -sliding the finger across his pliant nostrils said: “I -will tell you.” They both sat down upon a coffer of -wheat. “I will tell you,” repeated the bird man, and -he asked the other if he had heard of the tomb in -which none could lie, nor die, nor mortify.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">207</span></p> - -<p>“No,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Or of the oracle that destroys its interpreter?”</p> - -<p>“No,” answered the man in the stripéd jacket, -and a talking bird in a cage screamed: “No, no, -no, no!” The traveller whistled caressingly to the -bird, tapping his finger nail along the rods of its -cage, while the bird man continued: “Or of Fax, -Mint, and Bombassor, the three faithful brothers?”</p> - -<p>“No,” replied he again.</p> - -<p>“They had a sister of beauty, of beauty indeed, -beyond imagination. (<i>Soo-eet! soo-eet!</i> chirped the -oracular bird.) It smote even the hearts of kings like -a reaping hook among grass, and her favour was a -ransom from death itself, as I will tell you.”</p> - -<p>“Friend,” said he of the stripéd jacket, “tell me -of that woman.”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you,” answered the other; and he told -him, and this was the way of it.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>There was once a king of this country, mighty with -riches and homage, with tribute from his enemies—for -he was a great warrior—and the favour of many -excellent queens. His ancestors were numberless as -the hairs of his black beard; so ancient was his -lineage that he may have sprung from divinity itself, -but he had a heart of brass, his bowels were of lead, -and at times he was afflicted with madness.</p> - -<p>One day he called for his captain of the guard, -Tanil, a valiant, debonair man of much courtesy, and -delivered to him his commands.</p> - -<p>Tanil took a company of the guard and they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">208</span> -marched to that green hill on the plain—it is but a -league away. At the foot of the hill they crossed a -stream; beyond that was a white dwelling and a -garden; at the gate of the garden was a stumbling -stone; a flock grazed on the hill. The soldiers threw -down the stone and, coming into the vineyard, they -hacked down the vines until they heard a voice call -to them. They saw at the door of the white dwelling -a woman so beautiful that the weapons slid from their -hands at the wonder of it. “Friends, friends!” said -she. Tanil told her the King’s bidding, how they -must destroy the vineyard, the dwelling, and the -flock, and turn Fax, Mint, and Bombassor, with the -foster sister Flaune, out from the kingdom of Cumac.</p> - -<p>“You have denied the King tribute,” said he.</p> - -<p>“We are wanderers from the eastern world,” -Flaune answered. “Is not the mountain a free -mountain? Does not this stream divide it from -Cumac’s country?”</p> - -<p>She took Tanil into the white dwelling and gave a -pitcher of wine to his men.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said she to Tanil, “I will go to your King. -Take me to your King.”</p> - -<p>And when Tanil agreed to do this she sent a -message secretly to her brothers to drive the flock -away into a hiding-place. So while Flaune was gone -a-journeying to the palace with Tanil’s troup, Fax, -Mint, and Bombassor set back the stumbling stone -and took away the sheep.</p> - -<p>The King was resting in his palace garden, throwing -crumbs into the lake, and beans to his peacocks, -but when Flaune was brought to him he rose and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">209</span> -bowed himself to the pavement at her feet. The -woman said nothing, she walked to and fro before -him, and he was content to let his gaze rest upon her. -The carp under the fountain watched them, the rose -drooped on its envious briar, the heart of King Cumac -was like a tree full of chirping birds.</p> - -<p>Tanil confessed his fault; might the King be -merciful and forgive him! but the lady had taken their -trespass with a soft temper and policy that had overcome -both his loyalty and his mind. It was unpardonable, -but it was not guilt, it was infirmity, she -had bewitched him. Cumac grinned and nodded. -He bade Tanil return to the vineyard and restore the -vines, bade him requite the brothers and confirm -them in those pastures for ever. But as to this Flaune -he would not let her go.</p> - -<p>She paces before him, or she dips her palm into the -fountain, spilling its drops upon the ground; she -smiles and she is silent.</p> - -<p>Cumac gave her into the care of his groom of the -women, Yali, the sister of Tanil, and thereafter, every -day and many a day, the King courted and coveted -Flaune. But he could not take her; her pride, her -cunning words, and her lustre bore her like an -anchored boat upon the tide of his purpose. At one -moment full of pride and gloom, and in the next full -of humility and love, he would bring gifts and praises.</p> - -<p>“I will cover you,” he whispered,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">210</span> “with green -garnets and jargoons. A collar of onyx and ruby, that -is for you; breastknots of beryl, and rings for the -finger, wrist, and ear. Take them, take them! For -you I would tear the moon asunder.”</p> - -<p>But all her desire was only to return to the green -mountain and her brothers and the flock by the -stumbling stone. The King was merged in anger -and in grief.</p> - -<p>“Do not so,” he pleaded, “I have given freedom -to your men; will you not give freedom to me?”</p> - -<p>“What freedom, Cumac?” she asked him.</p> - -<p>And he said: “Love.”</p> - -<p>“How may the bound give freedom?”</p> - -<p>“With the gift of love.”</p> - -<p>“The spirit of the gift lies only in the giver.” Her -voice was mournful and low.</p> - -<p>He was confused and cast down. “You humble -me with words, but words are nothing, beautiful one. -Put on your collar of onyx, and fasten your breastknots -of beryl. Have I not griefs, fierce griefs, that -crash upon my brain, and frenzies that shoot in fire! -Does not your voice—that rest-recovering lure—allay -them, your presence numb them! I cannot let -you go, I cannot let you go.”</p> - -<p>“He who woos and does not win,” so said Flaune, -“wins what he does not woo for.”</p> - -<p>“Though I beg but a rose,” murmured the King, -“do you offer me a sword?”</p> - -<p>“Time’s sword is laid at the breast of every rose.”</p> - -<p>“But I am your lowly servant,” he cried. “You -have that which all secretly seek and denyingly long -for; it is seen without sight and affirmed without -speech.”</p> - -<p>“What is the thing you seek and long for?”</p> - -<p>“Purity,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Purity!” She seemed to muse upon it as a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">211</span> -theme of mystery. “If you found purity, what -would you match it with?”</p> - -<p>“My sins!” he cried again. “Would you waste -purity on purity, or mingle sin with sin?”</p> - -<p>“Cumac,” said the wise woman, with no pride -then but only pity, “you seek to conquer that which -strikes the conqueror dead.”</p> - -<p>Then, indeed, for a while he was mute, and then -for a while he talked of his sickness and his frenzy. -“Are there not charms,” he asked, “or magic herbs, -to find and bind these demons?”</p> - -<p>There was no charm—she told him—but the -mind, and no magic but in the tranquillity of freedom.</p> - -<p>“I do not know this,” he sighed, “it will never -be known.”</p> - -<p>The unknown—she told him—was better than the -known.</p> - -<p>“Alas, then,” sighed the King again, “I shall -never discover it.”</p> - -<p>“It is everywhere,” said Flaune, “but it is like a -sweet herb that withers in the ground. All may -gather it—and it is not gathered. All may see it—and -it is not seen. All destroy it—and it never -dies....”</p> - -<p>“Shall I be a little wind,” laughed Cumac, “and -gush among this grass?”</p> - -<p>“It is the wind’s way among the roses. It has -horns of bright brass and quiet harps of silver. Its -golden boats flash in every tossing bay.”</p> - -<p>Cumac laughed again, but still he would not let -her go.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">212</span> “The fox has many tricks, the cat but one,” -he said, and caused her ankles to be fastened with two -jewelled links tied with a hopple of gold. But in a -day he struck them from her with his own hands, and -hung the hopple upon her lustrous neck.</p> - -<p>And still he would not let her go; so Yali and -Tanil connived to send news to the brothers, and in a -little time Bombassor came to her aid.</p> - -<p>Bombassor was a dancer without blemish, in -beauty or movement either. He came into the palace -to Cumac who did not know him, and the King’s -household came to the beaten gongs to witness the -art of Bombassor. Yali brought Flaune a harp of -ivory, and to its music Bombassor caracoled and -spun before the delighted King. Then Flaune (who -spoke as a stranger to him) asked Bombassor if he -would dance with her, and he said they would take -the dance of “The Flying Phœnix.” The King was -enchanted; he vowed he would grant any wish of -Bombassor’s, any wish; yes, he would cut the moon -in half did he desire it. “I will dance for your -pledge,” said Bombassor.</p> - -<p>It seemed to the King then as if a little whirling -wind made of flame, and a music that was perfume, -gyred and rose before him: the tapped gongs, the -tinkle of harp, the surprise of Flaune’s swaying and -reeling, now coy, now passionate, the lure of her -wooing arms, the rhythm of her flying feet, the -chanting of the onlookers, and the flashing buoyance -of Bombassor, so thrilled and distracted him that he -shouted like an eager boy.</p> - -<p>But when Bombassor desired Cumac to give him -the maiden Flaune, the King was astonished.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">213</span> “No, -no,” he said, “but give him an urn full of diamonds,” -and Bombassor was given an urn full of diamonds. -He let it fall at the King’s feet, and the gems clattered -upon the pavement like a heap of peas. “Give him -Yali, then,” Cumac shouted. Yali was a nymph of -splendour, but Bombassor called aloud, “No, a -pledge is a pledge!”</p> - -<p>Then the King’s joy went from him and, like a -star falling, left darkness and terror.</p> - -<p>“Take,” he cried, “an axe to his head and pitch it -to the crows.”</p> - -<p>And so was Bombassor destroyed, while the King -continued ignorantly to woo his sister. Silent and -proud was she, silent and proud, but her beauty began -to droop until Yali and Tanil, perceiving this, connived -again to send to her brothers, and in a little -time Mint came. To race on foot he was fleeter than -any of Cumac’s champions; they strove with him, -but he was like the unreturning wind, and although -they cunningly moved the bounds of the course, and -threw thorns and rocks under his feet, he defeated -them all, and the King jeered at his own champions. -Then Mint called for an antelope to be set in the -midst of the plain and cried: “Who will catch this -for the King?” All were amazed and Cumac said: -“Whoever will do it I will give him whatever a King -may give, though I crack the moon for it.”</p> - -<p>The men let go the hind and it swooped away, -Mint pursuing. Fast and far they sped until no -man’s gaze could discern them, but in a while Mint -returned bearing the breathing hind upon his back. -“Take off his shoes,” cried the King,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">214</span> “and fill them -with gold.” But when this was done Mint spilled -the gold back at the King’s feet.</p> - -<p>“Give me,” said he, “this maiden Flaune.”</p> - -<p>The King grinned and refused him.</p> - -<p>“Was it not in the bond?” asked Mint.</p> - -<p>“Ay,” replied Cumac, “but choose again.”</p> - -<p>“Is this then a King’s bond?” sneered Mint.</p> - -<p>“It was a living bond,” said the King, “but death -can sever it. Let this dog be riven in sunder and his -bowels spilled to the foxes.” Mint died on the -moment, and Cumac continued ignorantly to woo his -sister.</p> - -<p>Then Flaune conferred with Tanil and with Yali -about a means of escape. Tanil feared to be about -this, but he loved Flaune, and his sister Yali persuaded -him. He showed them a great door in the back of the -palace, a concealed issue through the city wall, from -which Flaune might go in a darkness could but the -door be opened. But it had not been opened for a -hundred years, and they feared the hinges would -shriek and the wards grind in the lock and so discover -them.</p> - -<p>“Let us bring oil to-morrow,” they said, “and -oil it.”</p> - -<p>In the morning they brought oil to the hinge and -brushed it with drops from a cock’s feather. The -hinge gave up its squeak but yet it groaned. They -filled Yali’s thimble that was made of tortoise horn -and poured this upon it. The hinge gave up its groan -but yet it sighed. They filled the eggshell of a goose -with oil and poured upon the hinge until it was silent. -Then they turned to the lock, which, as they threw<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">215</span> -back the wards, cried clack, clack. Tanil lapped the -great key with ointment, but still the lock clattered. -He filled his mouth with oil and spat into the hole, -but still it clinked. Then Flaune caught a grasshopper -which she dipped in oil and cast into the lock. -After that the lock was silent too.</p> - -<p>On the mid of night Tanil ushered Flaune to the -great door, and it opened in peace. She said “Farewell” -to him tenderly, and vanished away into the -darkness, and so to the green mountain. As he -stooped, watching her until his eyes could see no -more, the door suddenly closed and locked against -him, leaving him outside the wall. Lights came, and -an outcry and a voice roaring: “Tanil is fled with -the King’s mistress. Turn out the guard.” Tanil -knew it to be the voice of a jealous captain, and, filled -with consternation, he too turned and fled away into -the night; not towards the mountains, but to the sea, -hoping to catch a ship that would deliver him.</p> - -<p>Throughout the night he was going, striving or -sleeping, and it was stark noon before he came to the -shore and passed over the strait in a ship conveying -merchants to a fair where no one knew him and all -were friendly. He hobnobbed with the merchants -for several days, feeding and sleeping in the booths -until the morning of the sixth day, and on that day -a crier came into the fair ringing and bawling, bawling -and ringing, and what he cried was this:</p> - -<p>That King Cumac, Lord of the Forty Kingdoms, -Prince of the Moon, and Chieftain under God, laid a -ban upon all who should aid or relieve his treacherous -servant Tanil, who had conspired against the King<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">216</span> -and fled. Furthermore it was to be known that Yali, -the sister of Tanil, was taken as hostage for him, that -if he failed to redeem her and deliver up his own body -Yali herself was doomed to perish at sunset of the -seventh day after his flight.</p> - -<p>Tanil scarcely waited to hear the conclusion, for he -had but one day more and he could suffer not his -sister Yali to die. He turned from the fair and ran to -the sea. As he ran he slipped upon a rock and was -stunned, but a good wife restored him and soon he -reached the harbour. Here none of the sailors -would convey him over the strait, for they were -bound to the merchantmen who intended not to sail -that day. Having so little time to reckon Tanil -offered them bribes (but in vain), and threats (but -they would not), and he was in torment and anguish -until he came to an old man who said he would take -him within the hour if the wind held and the tide -turned. But if the wind failed, although the tide -should ebb never so kindly, yet he would not go: -and even should the tide ebb strongly, yet if the wind -wavered from its quarter he would not go: and if by -mysterious caprice (for all was in the hands of God -and a great wonder) the tide itself should not turn, -then the wind might blow a dainty squall but he -would not be able to undertake him. Upon this they -agreed, and Tanil and the old sailor sat down in the -little ship to play at checkers. Alas, fortune was -against Tanil, he could not conquer the sailor, so he -made to pay down his loss.</p> - -<p>“Friend,” said the sailor,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">217</span> “a game is but a game, -put up your purse.”</p> - -<p>Tanil would not put back the money and the sailor -said: “Let us then play on, friend; double or quits.” -They played on, and again Tanil lost, and, as before, -tendered his money. “Nay,” said the sailor, “a -game is but a pastime, put back your money.” But -Tanil laid it in a heap upon one of the thwarts. -The old sailor sighed and said: “Come, you are now -at the turn of fortune; is not an egg made of water -and a stone of fire: let us play once more; double or -quits.” And so continually, until it was long past -noon ere they began to sail in a course for Cumac’s -shore, two leagues over the strait. Now they had -accomplished about three parts of this voyage when -the wind slackened away like a wisp of smoke; -slowly they drifted onwards until at eve the boat lay -becalmed, and as yet some way out from the land. -“Friend,” said the old sailor, laying out the checkers -again, “let us tempt the winds of fortune.” But, -full of grief at having squandered the precious hours, -Tanil leaped into the sea and swam towards the shore. -Soon the tide checked and was changed, and a current -washed him far down the strait until the fading of -day; then he was cast upon a crooking cape of sand -in such darkness of night and such weariness of mind -and body that he could not rise. He lay there for a -while consumed with languor and hunger until the -peace refreshed him; the winds of night were lulled -and the waves; but though there were stars in the -sky they could not guide him.</p> - -<p>“Alas,” he groaned,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">218</span> “darkness and the oddness -of the coast deceive me. Whether I venture to the -right hand or the left, how shall I make my way? -How little is man’s power; the fox and the hare may -wander deceitfully but undeterred, yet here in this -darkness I go groping like a worm laid upon a rock. -Yali, my sister, how shall I preserve you?”</p> - -<p>He went wandering across a hill away from the sea -until he stumbled upon a hurdle and fell; and where -he fell he lay still, sleeping.</p> - -<p>Not until the dawn did Tanil wake; then he lay -shivering in bonds, with a company of sheep watchers -that stood by and mocked at him. Their shadows -were long, a hundred-fold, for day was but newly -dawned.</p> - -<p>Their master was not yet risen from his bed, but -the watchers carried Tanil to the door of his house -and called to him.</p> - -<p>“Master, we have caught a robber of the flock, -lying by the fold and feigning sleep.”</p> - -<p>Now the sleepy master lay with a new bride, and -he would not stir.</p> - -<p>“Come, master, we have taken a robber,” they -cried again. And still he did not move, but the bride -rose and came to the window.</p> - -<p>“What sheep has he stole?”</p> - -<p>They answered her: “None, for we swaddled -him; behold!”</p> - -<p>She looked down at Tanil with her pleasant eyes, -and bade the men unbind him.</p> - -<p>“Who guards now the sheep from robbers and -wolves?” she called. They were all silent, and some -made to go off. She bade them mend their ways, and -went back to her lover. When the thongs were -loosened from Tanil he begged them to give him a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">219</span> -little food for he was empty and weak, but they -scolded him and went hastily away. Their shadows -were long, a hundred-fold.</p> - -<p>Tanil travelled on wings. Yali was to die at fall -of night. He hastened like a lover, but sickness and -hunger overcame him; at noon he lay down in a cool -cavern to recover. No other travellers came by him -and no homes were near, for he was passing across the -fringe of a desert to shorten his journey, and the highway -crooked round far to the eastward. Nothing that -man could eat was there to sustain him, but he slept. -When he rose his legs weakened and he limped -onwards like a slow beggar whose life lies all behind -him. Again he sank down, again he could not keep -from sleeping. The sun was setting when he awoke, -the coloured towers of his city shone only a league -away. Then in his heart despair leaped and maddened -him—Yali had died while he tarried.</p> - -<p>Searching through a thicket for some place where -he could hang himself he came upon a river, and saw, -close to the shore, a small ship standing slowly down -towards the straits from which he had come. Under -her slack sail a man was playing on a pipe; with him -was a monkey gazing sorrowfully from the deck at -the great glow in the sky.</p> - -<p>“Shipman,” cried Tanil, “will you give me bread, -I am at an end?”</p> - -<p>The man with a smile of malice held up from the -deck a dish of fruits and said: “Take. I have done.”</p> - -<p>But the hungry man could not reach it. “Throw -it to me,” he cried, following the ship. But the sailor -had no mind to throw it upon the shore; he went<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">220</span> -leaning against his mast, piping an air, while the -monkey peered at him and gabbled. Tanil plunged -into the river and swam beneath the ship’s keel. -Taking a knife from his girdle he was for mounting -by a little hawser, but the man beflogged him with -a cudgel until he fell back into the water. There he -would have died but that a large barque presently -catched him up on board and recovered him.</p> - -<p>The ship carried Tanil from the river past the -straits and so to the great sea, where for the space of a -year he was borne in absence, willy-nilly, while the -ship voyaged among the archipelagos, coasted grim -seaboards, or lay against strange wharves docking her -cargo of oil. Faithfully he laboured for wages under -this ship’s captain, being a man of pith and limb, -valiant in storm, and enamoured of the uncouth -work: the haul of anchor, and men singing; setting, -reefing, furling, and men singing; the watch, the -sleep, the song; the treading of unknown waters, -the crying gust, the change to glassy endless calm, -and the change again from green day to black night -and the bending of the harsh sheet in a starry squall, -the crumpling of far thunder, the rattle of halyard and -block, the howl of cordage. Grand it was in some -bright tempest to watch the lubber wave slide greenly -to the bows and crack in showers of flying diamonds, -but best of all was the long crunch in from the vast -gulfs, and the wafture to some blue bay sighing below -a white dock and the homes of men.</p> - -<p>Forgotten was Yali his loved sister, but that proud -living Flaune who had brought Yali to her death, she -was not forgotten. He sailed the seas and he sailed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">221</span> -the seas, but she was ever a soft recalling wonder in his -breast, the sound of a bell of glass beaten by a spirit.</p> - -<p>After a year of hazards the ship by chance docked -in that harbour where Tanil had heard the crier -crying of Yali and her doom. Looking about him he -espied an old sailor sitting in his boat playing a game -of checkers with a young man. The crier bawled in -the market place, but he had no news for Tanil. -Standing again amid the merchants and the kind -coloured sweetness of streets and people, this bliss of -home so welled up in his breast that he hastened back -to the ship. “Master,” he said, “give me my wages, -and let me go.” The shipman gave him his wages, -and he went back to the town.</p> - -<p>But only nine days did he linger there, for joy, -like truth, lives in the bottom of a well, and he cast -in his wages. Then he went off with a hunter to trap -leopards in a forest. A month they were gone, and -they trapped the leopards and sold them, and then, -having parted from the hunter, Tanil roved back to -the port to spend his gains among the women of the -town. Often his soul invited him to return to that -city of Cumac, but death awaited him there and he -did not go. Now he was come to poverty, but he was -blithe, and evil could not chain him. “Surely,” said -Tanil, “life is a hope unquenched and a tree of -longing. There is none so poor but he can love -himself.” With a stolen net he used to catch fish and -live. Then he lost the net at dicing. So he went to -bake loaves for certain scholars, but they were unmonied -men and he desisted, and went wandering -from village to village snaring birds, or living like the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">222</span> -wild dogs, until a friendly warrior enlisted him to -convoy a caravan across the desert to the great lakes. -When he came again to the harbour town two years -had withered since he had flown from Cumac’s city.</p> - -<p>He went to lodge at the inn, and as he paced in the -evening along the wharf a man accosted him, called -him by name, and would not let him go, and then -Tanil knew it was Fax, the brother of that Flaune. -His heart rocked in his breast when he took Fax to -the inn and related all his adventure. “Tell me the -tidings of our city, what comes or goes there, what -lives or dies.” And Fax replied: “I have wandered -in the world searching after you from that time. I -bring a greeting from my sister Flaune,” he said, -“and from your sister Yali, my beloved.”</p> - -<p>The wonder then, the joy and shame of Tanil, -cannot be told: he threw himself down and wept, and -begged Fax to tell him of the miracle: “For,” said -he, “my mind has misused me in this.”</p> - -<p>“Know then,” proceeded Fax,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">223</span> “that after the -unlocking of the door my sister flees in darkness to -the green mountain. I go watching and lurking, and -learn that the King is in jealous madness, for your -enemy spreads a slander and Cumac is deceived. He -believes that my sister’s love has been cozened by -you. Yali is caught fast in his net. My heart -quivers in fear of his bloody intent, and I say to -Flaune: ‘What shall follow if Tanil return not?’ -And she smiles and says ever: ‘He will return.’ -And again I say: ‘He tarries. What if he be dead?’ -And she smiles and says ever: ‘He is not dead.’ -But you come not, your steps are turned from us, no -one has seen you, you are like a hare that has fallen -into a pit, and you do not come. Then in that last -hour Flaune goes to Cumac. He raves of deceit and -treachery. ‘It is my sin,’ my sister pleads, ‘the -blame is mine. Spare but this Yali and I will wash -out the blame.’ ’Ay, you will wash it out with -words!‘ ’I will pay the debt in kind,’ says my sister -Flaune, ‘if Tanil does not return.’ But the cunning -King will not yield up Yali unless my sister yield in -love to him. So thus it stands even now, but whether -they live in peace and love I do not know. I only -know that Yali lives and serves her in the palace -there. But they wait, and I too wait. Now the -thread is ravelled to its end; I have lived only to seek -you. My flock is lost, perished; my vineyard fades, -but I came seeking.”</p> - -<p>“Brother,” cried Tanil in grief, “all shall be as -before. Yali shall rest in your bosom.”</p> - -<p>At dawn then they sailed over the straits and landed, -and having bargained with a wine carrier for two -asses they rode off in the direction of the city. Tanil’s -heart was filled with joy and love, his voice carolled, -his mind hummed like a homing bee. “Surely,” he -said, “life is a hope unquenched, a tree of longing. -It yields its branches into a little world of summer. -The asp and the dragon appear, but the tree buds, the -enriching bough cherishes its leaves, and, lo, the -fruit hangs.”</p> - -<p>But the heart of Fax was very grave within him. -“For,” thought he,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">224</span> “this man will surely die. Yet -I would rather this than lose the love of Yali, and -though they slay him I will bring him there.”</p> - -<p>So they rode along upon the asses, and a great bird -on high followed them and hovered on its wings.</p> - -<p>“What bird is that?” asked the one. And the -other, screening his eyes and peering upwards, said:</p> - -<p>“A vulture.”</p> - -<p>When King Cumac heard that they were come he -ordered them to be bound, and they were bound, and -the guard clustered around them. Tanil saw that his -enemy was now captain of the men, and that the King -was sour and distraught.</p> - -<p>“You come!” cried Cumac, “why do you -come?”</p> - -<p>They told him it was to redeem the bond and make -quittance.</p> - -<p>“Bonds and quittances! What bond can lie -between a King and faithless subjects?”</p> - -<p>Said Fax: “It lies between the King and my sister -Flaune.”</p> - -<p>“How if I kill you both?”</p> - -<p>“The bond will hold,” said Fax.</p> - -<p>“Come, is a bond everlasting then, shall nothing -break it?”</p> - -<p>“Neither everlasting, nor to be broken.”</p> - -<p>“What then?”</p> - -<p>“It shall be fulfilled.”</p> - -<p>“Can nothing amend it?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said Fax.</p> - -<p>“Nothing? Nothing? Fools!” laughed the -King, “the woman is happy, and desires not to leave -me!”</p> - -<p>Tanil stood bowed in silence and shame, and -Cumac turned upon him.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">225</span> “What says this rude -passionate beast!” The King’s anger rose like a -blast among oaks. “Has he no talk of bonds, this -toad that crawled into my heart and drank my living -blood? Has he nothing to restore? or gives he and -takes he at the will of the wind?”</p> - -<p>“I have a life to give,” said Tanil.</p> - -<p>“To give! You have a life to lose!”</p> - -<p>“Take it, Cumac,” said he.</p> - -<p>The King sprang up and seized Tanil by the beard, -rocking him, and shouting through his gritting teeth: -“Ay, bonds should be kept—should they not?—in -truth and trust—should they not?”</p> - -<p>Then he flung from him and went wailing in -misery, swinging his hands, and raging to and fro, -up and down.</p> - -<p>“Did she not come to me, come to me? Was it -not agreed? Bonds and again bonds! Yet when I -woo her she denies me still. O, honesty in petticoats -is a saint with a devil’s claw. The bitter virginal -thing turned her wild heart to this piece of cloven -honour. Bonds, more bonds! Spare me these supple -bonds! O, you spread cunning nets, but what fowler -ever thrived in his own snare? Did she not come to -me? Was it not agreed?”</p> - -<p>Suddenly he stopped and made a sign through a -casement. “Is all ready?”</p> - -<p>“Ay,” cried a voice.</p> - -<p>“Now I will make an end,” said King Cumac. -“Prop them against the casements.” They carried -Tanil to a casement on his right hand, and Fax to a -casement on his left hand. Tanil saw Flaune standing -in the palace garden amid a troop of Ethiopians,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">226</span> -each with a green turban and red shoes and a tunic -coloured like a stone, but she half-clad with only black -pantaloons, and her long dark locks flowing. And -Fax saw Yali in fetters amid another troop of black -soldiers.</p> - -<p>Again a sigh from the King; two great swords -flashed, and Tanil, at one casement, saw the head -of Flaune turn over backwards and topple to the -ground, her body falling after with a great swathe -of shorn tresses floating over it. Fax at the other -casement saw Yali die, screaming a long cry that -it seemed would never end. Tanil swayed at the -casement.</p> - -<p>Then Cumac turned with a moan of grief, his -madness all gone. “The bond is ended. I have -done. I say I have done.” He seemed to wake as -from sleep, and, seeing the two captive men, he -asked: “Why did they come? What brought them -here? Take them away, the bond is ended, I say I -have done. There shall be no more bonds given in -the world. But take them out of the city gate and -unbind them and cast them both loose; then clap fast -the gate again. No more death, I would not have -them die; let them wander in the live world, and dog -each other for ever. Tanil, you rotten core of -constancy, Fax brought you here and so Flaune, -bitter and beautiful, dies. But Fax still lives—do -you not see him?—I give Fax to you: may he die -daily for ever. Fax, blundering jackal, you spoke of -bonds. The bond is met, and so Yali is dead, but -Tanil still lives: I give you Tanil as an offering, but -not of peace. May he die daily for ever.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">227</span></p> - -<p>So the guard took Fax and Tamil out of the city, -struck off their shackles, and left them there together.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The bird man finished; there was a silence; the -other yawned. “Did you hear this?” asked the -bird man. And the man in the stripéd jacket replied: -“Ay, with both ears, and so may God bless you.” -So saying, he rose and went out singing.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">228</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="The_Devil_in_the_Churchyard"><i>The Devil in the Churchyard</i></h2> - - -<p>“Henry Turley was one of -those awkward old chaps as had more money -than he knowed what to do wi'. Shadrach -we called him, the silly man. He had worked for it, -worked hard for it, but when he was old he stuck to -his fortune and wouldn’t spend a sixpence of it on -his comforts. What a silly man!”</p> - -<p>The thatcher, who was thus talking of Henry -Turley (long since dead and gone) in the “Black -Cat” of Starncombe, was himself perhaps fifty years -old. Already there was a crank of age or of dampness -or of mere custom in most of his limbs, but he was -bluff and gruff and hale enough, with a bluffness of -manner that could only offend a fool—and fools never -listened to him.</p> - -<p>“Shadrach—that’s what we called him—was a -good man wi’ cattle, a masterpiece; he would strip -a cow as clean as a tooth and you never knowed a cow -have a bad quarter as Henry Turley ever milked. -And when he was buried he was buried with all that -money in his coffin, holding it in his hand, I reckon. -He had plenty of relations—you wouldn’t know ’em, -it is thirty years ago I be speaking of—but it was all -down in black and white so’s no one could touch it. -A lot of people in these parts had a right to some of it, -Jim Scarrott for one, and Issy Hawker a bit, Mrs. -Keelson, poor woman, ought to have had a bit, and -his own brother, Mark Turley; but he left it in the -will as all his fortune was to be buried in the coffin -along of him. ’Twas cruel, but so it is and so it will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">229</span> -be, for whenever such people has a shilling to give -away they goes and claps it on some fat pig’s haunches. -The foolishness! Sixty pounds it was, in a canister, -and he held it in his hand.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe a word of it,” said a mild-faced -man sitting in the corner. “Henry Turley never did -a deed like that.”</p> - -<p>“What?” growled the thatcher with unusual -ferocity.</p> - -<p>“Coorse I’m not disputing what you’re saying, -but he never did such a thing in his life.”</p> - -<p>“Then you calls me a liar?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not. O no, don’t misunderstand me, -but Henry Turley never did any such thing, I can’t -believe it of him.”</p> - -<p>“Huh! I be telling you facts, and facts be true -one way or another. Now you waunts to call over me, -you waunts to know the rights of everything and the -wrongs of nothing.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said the mild-faced man, pushing his -pot toward the teller of tales, “I might believe it -to-morrow, but it’s a bit of a twister now, this -minute!”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that’s all right then”—the thatcher was -completely mollified. “Well the worst part of the -case was his brother Mark. Shadrach served him -shameful, treated him like a dog. (Good health!) -Ah, like a dog. Mark was older nor him, about -seventy, and he lived by himself in a little house out -by the hanging pust, not much of a cottage, it warn’t—just -wattle and daub wi’ a thetch o’ straa'—but the -lease was running out <span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">230</span>(‘twas a lifehold affair) and -unless he bought this little house for fifty pound he’d -got to go out of it. Well, old Mark hadn’t got no -fifty pounds, he was ate up wi’ rheumatics and only -did just a little light labour in the woods, they might -as well a’ asked him for the King’s crown, so he said -to his master: Would he lend him the fifty pounds?</p> - -<p>“‘No, I can’t do that,’ his master says.</p> - -<p>“‘You can reduct it from my wages,’ Mark says.</p> - -<p>“‘Nor I can’t do that neither,’ says his master, -‘but there’s your brother Henry, he’s worth a power -o’ money, ask him.‘ So Mark asks Shadrach to lend -him the fifty pounds, so’s he could buy this little -house. ’No,’ says Henry, ‘I can’t.’ Nor he -wouldn’t. Well—old Mark says to him: ‘I doan -wish you no harm Henry,’ he says, ‘but I hope as how -you’ll die in a ditch.’ (Good health!) And sure -enough he did. That was his own brother, he were -strooken wi’ the sun and died in a ditch, Henry did, -and when he was buried his fortune was buried with -him, in a little canister, holding it in his hand, I -reckons. And a lot of good that was to him! He -hadn’t been buried a month when two bad parties -putt their heads together. Levi Carter, one was, he -was the sexton, a man that was half a loony as I -always thought. O yes, he had got all his wits about -him, somewheres, only they didn’t often get much of -a quorum, still he got them—somewheres. T’other -was a chap by the name of Impey, lived in Slack the -shoemaker’s house down by the old traveller’s garden. -He wasn’t much of a mucher, helped in the fieldwork -and did shepherding at odd times. And these two -chaps made up their minds to goo and collar Henry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">231</span> -Turley’s fortune out of his coffin one night and share -it between theirselves. ’Twas crime, ye know, -might a been prison for life, but this Impey was a bad -lot—he’d the manners of a pig, pooh! filthy!—and I -expects he persuaded old Levi on to do it. Bad as -body-snatchen, coorse ’twas!</p> - -<p>“So they goos together one dark night, ’long in -November it was, and well you knows, all of you, as -well as I, that nobody can’t ever see over our churchyard -wall by day let alone on a dark night. You all -knows that, don’t you?” asserted the thatcher, who -appeared to lay some stress upon this point in his -narrative. There were murmurs of acquiescence by -all except the mild-faced man, and the thatcher -continued: “‘Twere about nine o’clock when they -dug out the earth. ’Twarn’t a very hard job, for -Henry was only just a little way down. He was buried -on top of his old woman, and she was on top of her -two daughters. But when they got down to the -coffin Impey didn’t much care for that part of the -job, he felt a little bit sick, so he gives the hammer and -the screwdriver to Levi and he says: ’Levi,’ he says, -‘are you game to make a good job o’ this?’</p> - -<p>“‘Yes, I be,’ says old Levi.</p> - -<p>“‘Well, then,’ Impey says, ‘yous’ll have my -smock on now while I just creeps off to old Wannaker’s -sheep and collars one of they fat lambs over by the -'lotments.’</p> - -<p>“‘You’re not going to leave me here,’ says Carter, -‘what be I going to do?’</p> - -<p>“‘You go on and finish this ’ere job, Levi,’ he -says,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">232</span> ‘you get the money and put back all the earth -and don’t stir out of the yard afore I comes or I’ll -have yer blood.’</p> - -<p>“‘No,’ says Carter, ‘you maun do that.’</p> - -<p>“‘I ’ull do that,’ Impey says, ‘he’ve got some -smartish lambs I can tell ’ee, fat as snails.’</p> - -<p>“‘No,’ says Carter, ‘I waun’t have no truck wi’ -that, tain’t right.’</p> - -<p>“‘You will,’ says Impey, ‘and I ’ull get the sheep. -Here’s my smock. I’ll meet ’ee here again in ten -minutes. I’ll have that lamb if I ’as to cut his -blasted head off.’ And he rooshed away before Levi -could stop him. So Carter putts on the smock and -finishes the job. He got the money and putt the -earth back on poor Henry and tidied it up, and then -he went and sat in the church poorch waiting for this -Impey to come back. Just as he did that an oldish -man passed by the gate. He was coming to this -very place for a drop o’ drink and he sees old Levi’s -white figure sitting in the church poorch and it -frittened him so that he took to his heels and tore -along to this very room we be sittin’ in now—only -'twas thirty years ago.</p> - -<p>“‘What in the name of God’s the matter wi’ -you?‘ they says to him, for he’d a face like chalk -and his lips was blue as a whetstone. ’Have you -seen a goost?’</p> - -<p>“‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I have seen a goost, just now -then.’</p> - -<p>“‘A goost?’ they says, ‘a goost? You an’t -seen no goost.’</p> - -<p>“‘I seen a goost.’</p> - -<p>“‘Where a’ you seen a goost?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">233</span></p> - -<p>“So he telled ’em he seen a goost sitting up in the -church poorch.</p> - -<p>“‘I shan’t have that,’ says old Mark Turley, for -he was a setting here.</p> - -<p>“‘I tell you ’twas then,’ says the man.</p> - -<p>“‘Can’t be nothing worse’n I be myself,’ Mark -says.</p> - -<p>“‘I say as ’tis,’ the man said, and he was vexed too. -‘Goo and see for yourself.’</p> - -<p>“‘I would goo too and all,’ said old Mark, ‘if -only I could walk it, but my rheumatucks be that -scrematious I can’t walk it. Goosts! There’s ne’er a -mortal man as ever see’d a goost. I’d go, my lad, if my -legs ’ud stand it.’ And there was a lot of talk like -that until a young sailor spoke up—Irish he was, his -name was Pat Crowe, he was on furlough. I dunno -what he was a-doing in this part of the world, but -there he was and he says to Mark: ‘If you be game -enough, I be, and I’ll carry you up to the churchyard -on my back.’ A great stropping feller he was. ‘You -will?’ says Mark. ‘That I will,’ he says. ‘Well I -be game for ’ee,’ says Mark, and so they ups him on -to the sailor’s shoulders like a sack o’ corn and away -they goos, but not another one there was man enough -to goo with them.</p> - -<p>“They went slogging up to the churchyard gate -all right, but when they got to staggering along ’tween -the gravestones Mark thought he could see a something -white sitting in the poorch, but the sailor -couldn’t see anything at all with that lump on his -shoulders.</p> - -<p>“‘What’s that there?’ Mark whispers in Pa<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">234</span>t’s -ear. And Pat Crowe whispers back, just for joking: -‘Old Nick in his nightshirt.’</p> - -<p>“‘Steady now,’ Mark whispers, ‘go steady Pat, -it’s getting up and coming.’ Pat only gives a bit of a -chuckle and says: ‘Ah, that’s him, that’s just like -him.’</p> - -<p>“Then Levi calls out from the poorch soft like: -‘You got him then! Is he a fat ’un?’</p> - -<p>“‘Holy God,’ cried the sailor, ‘it <i>is</i> the devil!’ -and he chucks poor Mark over his back at Levi’s -feet and runs for his mortal life. He was the most -frittened of the lot ’cos he hadn’t believed in anything -at all—but there it was. And just as he gets to the -gate he sees someone else coming along in the dark -carrying a something on its shoulder—it was Impey -wi’ the sheep. ‘Powers above,’ cried Pat Crowe, -‘it’s the Day of Judgment come for sartin!’ And he -went roaring the news up street like a madman, and -Impey went off somewheres too—but I dunno where -Impey went.</p> - -<p>“Well, poor old Mark laid on the ground, he -were a game old cock, but he could hardly speak, he -was strook dazzled. And Levi was frittened out of -his life in the darkness and couldn’t make anythink -out of nothink. He just creeps along to Mark and -whispers: ‘Who be that? Who be that?’ And -old Mark looks up very timid, for he thought his -last hour was on him, and he says: ‘Be that you, -Satan?’ Drackly Levi heard that all in a onexpected -voice he jumped quicker en my neighbour’s flea. -He gave a yell bigger nor Pat Crowe and he bolted -too. But as he went he dropped the little tin canister<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">235</span> -and old Mark picked it up. And he shook the -canister, and he heerd money in it, and then something -began to dawn on him, for he knowed how his -brother’s fortune had been buried.</p> - -<p>“‘I rede it, I rede it,’ he says, ‘that was Levi -Carter, the dirty thief! I rede it, I rede it,’ he says. -And he putt the tin can in his pocket and hopped off -home as if he never knowed what rheumatucks was -at all. And when he opened that canister there was -the sixty golden sovereigns in that canister. Sixty -golden sovereigns! ‘Bad things ’ull be worse afore -they’re better,’ says Mark, ‘but they never won’t -be any better than this.’ And so he stuck to the -money in the canister, and that’s how he bought his -cottage arter all. ’Twarn’t much of a house, just -wattle and daub, wi’ a thetch o’ straa', but ’twas what -he fancied, and there he ended his days like an old -Christian man. (Good health!)”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">236</span></p> - -<h2 id="Huxley_Rustem"><i>Huxley Rustem</i></h2> - - -<p>Huxley Rustem settled himself -patiently upon the hairdresser’s waiting -bench to probe the speculation that jumped -grasshopper-like into the field of his inquisitorial -mind: ’Why does a man become a barber? Well, -what <i>is</i> it that persuades a man, not by the mere -compulsion of destiny, but by the sweet reasonableness -of inclination, to dedicate his activities to the -excision of other people’s pimples and the discomfiture -of their hairy growths? He had glanced -through the two papers, <i>Punch</i> and <i>John Bull</i>, -handed him by the boy in buttons, and now, awaiting -his turn, posed himself with this inquiry. There -was a girl at it, too, at the end of the saloon. She -seemed to have picked him out from the crowd of -men there; he caught her staring, an attractive girl. -It seemed insoluble; misfortunate people may, indeed -must, by the pressure of circumstances, become -sewermen, butchers, scavengers, and even clergymen, -but the impulse to barbery was, he felt, quite -indelicately ironic. How that girl stared at him—if -she was not very careful she would be clipping -the fellow’s ear—did she think she knew him? -He rather hoped she would have to attend to him; -would he be lucky enough? Huxley tried to estimate -the chances by observing the half-dozen toilets in -progress, but his calculations did not encourage the -hope at all. It was very charming for an agreeable -woman, a stranger, too, to do that kind of service -for you. He remembered that, after his marriage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">237</span> -five years ago, he had tried to persuade his wife to -lather and shave him, “just for a lark, you know,” -but she was adamant, didn’t see the joke at all! Well, -well, he decided that the word barber derived in some -ironic way from the words barbarism or barbarity, -expressing, unconsciously perhaps, contempt on the -part of the barber for a world that could only offer -him this imposture for a man’s sacred will to order -and activity. Yet it didn’t seem so bad for women—that -splendid young creature there at the end of the -saloon! The boy in buttons approached, and Huxley -Rustem was ushered to that vacant chair at the end; -the splendid young thing had placed a wrapper about -him—she had almost “cuddled” it round his neck—and -stood demurely preparing to do execution upon -his poll, turning her eyes mischievously upon his -bright-hued socks, which, by a notable coincidence, -were the same colour as her own handsome hose. -Huxley had a feeling that she had cunningly arranged -the succession of turns in order to secure him to her -chair—which shows that he was still young and very -impressionable. Such a feeling is one of the customary -assumptions of vanity, the natural and prized, but -much-denied, possession of all agreeable people. -Huxley, as the girl had already noted, and now saw -more vividly in the mirror fronting them, <i>was</i> agreeable, -was attractive. (My dear reader, both you and -Huxley Rustem are right, the dainty barbaress <i>had</i> -laid her nets for this particular victim.)</p> - -<p>“How would you like it cut, sir?” she asked, -placing a hand upon each of his shoulders, and peering -round at him with enamouring eyes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">238</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, with a pair of scissors, don’t you think?” -he replied at a venture, for he was not often waggish. -But it was a very successful sally, the girl chuckled -with rapture, loose fringes of her hair tickled his -cheek, and he caught puffs of her sweet-scented -breath. She was gold-haired, not very tall, and had -pleasant turns about her neck and face and wrists that -almost fascinated him. When they had agreed upon -the range and extent of his shearing, the girl proceeded -to the accomplishment of the task in complete -silence, almost with gravity. Huxley began wondering -how many hundreds and thousands of crops were -squeezed annually by the delicious fingers, how many -polls denuded by those competent shears. Very sad. -Once a year, he supposed, she would go holidaying -for a week or ten days; she would go to Bournemouth -for the bathing or for whatever purpose it is -people go to Bournemouth, Barmouth, or Blackpool. -He determined to come in again the day after to-morrow -and be shaved by her.</p> - -<p>At the conclusion of the rite she brushed his coat -collar very meticulously, tiptoeing a little, and -remarked in a bright manner upon the weather, which -was also bright. Then she went back to shave what -Huxley described to himself as a “red-faced old -cockalorum,” whom he at once disliked very thoroughly. -She had given him a check with a fee -marked upon it; he took this down the stairs and paid -his dues to “a bald-headed old god-like monster”—Huxley -felt sure he was—who sat in the shop below, -surrounded by fringe-nets, stuffings, moustache -wax, creams, toothbrushes, and sponges.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">239</span></p> - -<p>Two days later Huxley Rustem repeated his visit, -but not all the intrigue of the girl nor his own manœuvring -could effect the happy arrangement again, -although he sat for a long time feeling sure that there -was no other establishment of its kind in which the -elements of celerity were so unreservedly abandoned, -and the flunkeyism so peculiarly viscous. The -many mirrors, of course, multiplied the objects of his -factitious contempt; those male barbers were small -vain beings of disagreeable outline to whom the doom -of shaving tens of thousands of chins for ever and ever -afforded a white-faced languid happiness. Huxley -was exasperated—his personality always ran so easily -to exasperation—by the care with which the wrinkled -face of a sportive old gent of sixty was being massaged -with steaming cloths. He wore pretty brown button -boots and large check trousers; there was still a -vain wisp or two of white hair left upon his tight -round skull and his indescribably silly old face. In -the outcome our hero had perforce to be shaved by a -youth of the last revolting assiduity, who caressed his -chin with strong, excoriating palms.</p> - -<p>In the ensuing weeks Huxley Rustem became a -regular visitor to the saloon, but he suffered repeated -disappointments. He was disconsolate; it was most -baffling; not once did he secure the bliss of her -attentions. He felt himself a fool; some men could -do these things as easily as they grew whiskers, but -Rustem was not one of them, for the traditions of -virtue and sweet conduct were very firmly rooted in -him; he was like a mouse living in a large white -empty bath which, if it was unscaleable, was clean,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">240</span> -and if it was rather blank was never terrifying. It is -easy, so very easy, to be virtuous when you can’t be -anything else. But still he very much desired to take -the fair barber out to dinner, say, just for an hour or -two in a quiet place where one eats and chats and -listens to the pleasant shrilling of restaurant violins. -He would be able to amuse her with tales and recitals -of his experiences and she would constantly exclaim -“Really!” as if entranced—as she probably would -be. In his imagined hour her conversational exchanges -never developed beyond that, yet it was -enough to thrill him with a mild happiness. An -egoist is a mystic without a god, but seldom ever -without a goddess. It was bliss to adore her, but -very heaven for her to be adoring him. To be just -to Huxley Rustem that was all he meant, but try as he -would he could never make up the happy occasion. -It was a most discomfiting experience. It is true that -he saw her in the street on three or four occasions, -but each time he was accompanied by his wife, and -each time he was guilty of a vain pretence, his -behaviour to his companion being extremely casual—as -if she were just an acquaintance instead of being -an important alliance. But no one could possibly -have mistaken the lady for anything but Huxley’s -very own wife, and the little barber was provocatively -demure at these encounters. Once, however, he was -alone, and she passed, ogling him in a very frank way. -But she did not understand egoists like Rustem. He -was impervious to any such direct challenge; he -thought it a little silly, coarse even. Had she been -shy and diffident, allowing him to be masterful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">241</span> -instead of confusing him, he would have fluttered -easily into her flame.</p> - -<p>So the affair remained, and would have remained -for ever but that, by the grace of fortune, he found -himself one day at last actually sitting again in front -of the charming girl, who was not less aware of the -attraction than he himself. She was nervous and -actually with her shears clipped a part of his ear. -Huxley was rather glad of that, it eased the situation, -but on his departure he committed the rash act for -which he never afterwards forgave himself. Her -fingers were touching his as she gave him the pay -check, when he took suddenly from his pocket a -silver coin and pressed it into her hand, smiling. It -was as if he had struck her a blow. He was shocked -at the surprised resentment in the fierce glance she -flung him. She tossed the coin into a tray for catching -tobacco ash and cigarette ends. He realized at -once the enormity of the affront; his vulgar act had -smashed the delicate little coil between them. Vague -and almost frivolous as it was, she had prized it. -Poor as it was, it could yet deeply humiliate him. -But it was a blunder that could never be retrieved, -and he turned quickly and sadly out of the saloon, -feeling the awful sting of his own contempt. Crass -fool that he was, didn’t he realize that even barbers -had their altitudes? Did he think he could buy a -jewel like that, as he bought a packet of tobacco, with -a miserable shilling? Perhaps Huxley Rustem was -unduly sensitive about it, but he could never again -bring himself to enter the saloon and meet that -wounded gaze. He only recovered his balance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">242</span> -when, a fortnight later, he encountered her in the -street wearing the weeds of a widow! Then he -felt almost as indignant as if she had indeed deceived -him!</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">243</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="Big_Game"><i>Big Game</i></h2> - - -<p>Old Squance was the undertaker, -but in the balmy, healthy, equable air of -Tamborough undertaking was not a thriving -trade; its opportunities were but an ornamental -adjunct to his more vital occupation of builder. Even -so those old splendid stone-built cottages never -needed repairs, or if they did Squance didn’t do -them. Storms wouldn’t visit Tamborough, fires -didn’t occur, the hand of decay was, if anything, more -deliberate than the hand of time itself, and no newcomer, -loving the old houses so much, ever wanted -to build a new one: so Mrs. Squance had to sell -hard-looking bullseyes and stiff-looking fruit in a -hard, stiff-looking shop. Also knitting needles and, -in their time of the year, garden seeds. Squance was -a meek person whom you would never have credited -with heroic tendencies; nevertheless, with no more -romantic background than a coffin or two, a score -of scaffold poles, and sundry hods and shovels, he -had acquired in a queer, but still not unusual, way -the repute of a lion-slayer. Mrs. Squance was not -so meek, she was not meek at all, she was ambitious—but -vainly so. Her ambitions secured their fulfilment -only in her nocturnal dreams, but in that -sphere they were indeed triumphant and she was -satisfied. The most frequent setting of her unconscious -imagination happened to be a tiny modern -flat in which she and old Ben seemed to be living in -harmony and luxury. It was a delightful flat, very -high up—that was the proper situation for a flat,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">244</span> -mind you, just under the roof—with stairs curling -down, and down, and down till it made you giddy to -think of them. The kitchen, well, really Mrs. -Squance could expatiate endlessly on that and the -tiny corner place with two wash-basins in it and room -enough to install a bath if you went in for that kind -of thing. Best of all was the sitting-room in front, -looking into a street so very far below that Mrs. -Squance declared she felt as if she had been sitting -in a balloon. Here Mrs. Squance, so she dreamed, -would sit and browse. She didn’t have to look at -ordinary things like trees and mud and other people’s -windows. That was what made it so nice, Mrs. -Squance declared. She had instead a vista of roofs -and chimneys, beautiful telephone standards, and -clouds. The people, too, who walked far down -beneath were always unrecognizable; a multitude of -hat crowns seemed to collect her gaze, linked with -queer movements, right, left, right, left, of knees and -boots, though sometimes she would be lucky enough -to observe a very fat man, just a glimpse perhaps of -his watch-guard lying like a chain of oceanic islands -across a scholastic globe. In the way of dreams she -knew the street by the name of Lather Lane. It was -cobbled with granite setts. There was a barber’s -shop at one corner and a depot for foreign potatoes -and bananas at another. That flat was so constantly -the subject of her dream visitations that she came to -invest it with a romantic reality, to regard it as an -ultimate real possession lying fortuitously somewhere, -at no very great remove, in some quarter she might -actually, any day now, luckily stumble across.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">245</span></p> - -<p>And it was in that very flat she beheld Mr. -Squance’s heroism. It seemed to be morning in her -dream, early; it must have been early. She and -Squance were at breakfast when what should walk -deliberately and astoundingly into the room but a -lion. Mrs. Squance, never having seen a lion before, -took it to be a sheepdog, and she shouted, “Go out, -you dirty thing!” waving a threatening hand towards -it. But the animal did not go out; it pranced up to -Mrs. Squance in a genial way, seized her admonishing -hand and playfully tried to bite it off. Really! Mr. -Squance had risen to his startled feet shouting “Lion! -lion!” and then Mrs. Squance realized that she had -to contend with a monster that kept swelling bigger -and bigger before her very eyes, until it seemed that -it would never be able to go out of that door again. -It had a tremendous head and mane, with whiskers -on its snout as stiff as knitting needles, and claws like -tenpenny nails; but its tail was the awfullest thing, -long and very flexible, with a bush of hair at the end -just like a mop, which it wagged about, smashing all -sorts of things.</p> - -<p>“Ben,” said Mrs. Squance, “'ave you a pistol?”</p> - -<p>“No, I ’ave not,” said Ben.</p> - -<p>“Then we’re done,” she had declared. “Oh, no, -we ain’t, though! You ’old ’im, Ben, and I’ll go and -get a pistol; ’old ’im!”</p> - -<p>Ben valiantly seized the lion by its mane and tail, -but it did not care for such treatment; it began to -snarl and swish about the room, dragging poor Ben -as if he had been just a piece of rabbit pie.</p> - -<p>“'Old ’im! ’old ’im!” exhorted Mrs. Squance, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">246</span> -she popped on her bonnet and shawl. “You ’old -'im!”</p> - -<p>“All right,” breathed Ben, as she ran off and began -the descent of the long narrow staircase. Almost at -the bottom she met a piano coming upwards. It -was not a very large piano, but it was large enough to -prevent her from descending any further. It was -resting upon the backs of two men, one in front, -whose entirely bald, perspiring, projecting head -reminded her of the head of a tortoise, and one who -followed him unseen. They crawled on all fours, -while the piano was balanced by a man who pulled -it in front and another who pushed it from behind.</p> - -<p>“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Squance. “I ’ope -you won’t be long.”</p> - -<p>They made no reply; the piano continued to -advance, the bald man swaying his head still more -like a tortoise. She began to retire before them, and -continued retiring step by step until she became -irritated and demanded to know the owner of that -piano. The men seemed to be dumb, so she skipped -up to the second floor to make enquiries, knocking at -the first door with her left hand—the right one still -hurting her very much. It was exasperating. Someone -had just painted and varnished the doors, and -she was compelled to tap very lightly instead of -giving the big bang the occasion required. Consequently -no one heard her, while her hand became -covered with a glutinous evil liquid. She ran up to -the third floor. Here the doors were all right, but -although she set up a vigorous cannonade again no -one heard her, at least, no one replied except some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">247</span> -gruff voice that kept repeating “Gone, no address! -Gone, no address!” She opened the doors, but there -seemed to be no one about, although each room had -every appearance of recent occupation: fires alight, -breakfast things recently used, and in the bedrooms -the disordered beds. She was now extremely -annoyed. She opened all the doors quickly until she -came to the last room, which was occupied by the -old clergyman who kept ducks there and fed them on -macaroni cheese. It was just as she feared; the -ducks were waiting, they flocked quacking upon the -passage and stairs before she could prevent them.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure,” screamed Mrs. Squance, in her -dreadful rage, “it’s that lion responsible for all this!”</p> - -<p>She wasted no more time upon the matter. She -rapidly descended the stairs again, treading upon -innumerable indignant ducks, until she came to the -piano. Here she said not a word, but, brushing the -leading man aside, placed her foot roughly upon the -slippery head of the first crawling man and scrambled -over the top of the instrument, jumping thence upon -the back part of the hindmost man, who turned his -feet comically inwards, and wore round his loins a -belt as large as the belly-band of a waggon horse.</p> - -<p>She proceeded breathlessly until she came to the -last flight, where, behold! the stairs had all been -smashed in by those awkward pianists, and she stood -on the dreadful verge of a drop into a cellar full of -darkness and disgusting smells. But she was able -to leap upon the banister-rail which was intact, and -slide splendidly to the ground floor. An unusual -sight awaited her. Mrs. Squance did not remember<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">248</span> -ever to have seen such a thing before, but there in the -hall a marvellous eustacia tree was growing out of the -floor. She was not surprised at the presence of a -tree in that unwonted situation. She had not -noticed it before, but it did not seem out of place. -Why shouldn’t trees grow where they liked? They -always did. Mrs. Squance invariably took life as she -found it, even in dreams. While she was surveying -the beautiful proportions of the eustacia tree, the -richness of its leaves, and its fine aroma a small bird, -without warning or apology, alighted upon her right -hand—which she carried against her chest as if it -were in a sling, though it wasn’t—and laid an egg on -it. It <i>was</i> so annoying, she did not know what to do -with it; she was afraid of smashing it. She rushed -from the building, and entered the butcher’s shop a -few doors away. The shop was crowded with -customers, and the butcher perspired and joked with -geniality, as is the immemorial custom with butchers. -His boy, a mere tot of five or six years of age, observed -to Mrs. Squance that it was “a lovely day, ma’am,” -and she replied that it was splendid. So it was. -People were buying the most extraordinarily fleshly -fare, the smelt of an ox, a rib of suet, a fillet of liver, -and one little girl purchased nineteen lambs’ tongues, -which she took away secretly in a portmanteau.</p> - -<p>“Now Mrs. Squance, what can I do for you?” -enquired the butcher. Without comment she handed -him the egg of the bird. He cast it into the till as if it -were a crown piece. “And the next thing, ma’am?”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">249</span></p> -<p>“'Ave you got such a thing as a pistol, Mr. -Verryspice?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Verryspice had, he had got two, and drawing -them from the belt wherefrom dangled his sharpener, -he laid two remarkable pieces of ordnance before -her. In her renewed agitation she would have -snatched up one of the pistols, but Mr. Verryspice -prevented her.</p> - -<p>“No, no, ma’am, I shall have to get permission -for you to use it first.”</p> - -<p>“But I really must ’ave it immediate....”</p> - -<p>“Yes?” said the butcher.</p> - -<p>“ ... for my husband.”</p> - -<p>“I see,” he replied sympathetically. “Well, -come along then and I’ll get an interim permission -at once.” Seizing a tall silk hat from its hook and -placing it firmly upon his head he led her from his -establishment.</p> - -<p>“Singular that the trams are all so full this morning,” -commented Mrs. Squance as they awaited a -conveyance.</p> - -<p>“Most unusual, ma’am,” replied Mr. Verryspice. -But at last they persuaded a bathchair man to give -them a lift to their destination, where they arrived a -little indecorously perhaps, for the top-hatted butcher -was sitting as unconcernedly and as upright as a wax -figure upon Mrs. Squance’s knees. The office they -sought lay somewhere in a vast cavernous building -full of stairs and corridors, long, exhausting, hollow -corridors like the Underground railway, and on -every floor and turning were signposts of the turnpike -variety with directions:</p> - -<p>“To the Bedel of St. Thomas’s Basket, 3 miles.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">250</span></p> -<p>“Registrar of Numismatics and Obligations, 2-1/4.”</p> - -<p>Along one of these passages they plunged, and -after some aggravating hindrances, including a -demand from a humpty-backed clerk for a packet of -No. 19 egg-eyed sharps, and five pennyworth of -cachous which she found in her bosom, the permission -was secured, and the butcher thereupon -handed the weapon to Mrs. Squance.</p> - -<p>“What did you say you wanted it for?” he asked.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Squance’s gratitude was great, but her -indignation was deep and disdained reply. She -seized the pistol and began to run home. Rather a -stout lady, too, and the exercise embarrassed her. -Her hair fetched loose, her stockings slipped down, -and her strange, hurrying figure, brandishing a -pistol, soon attracted the notice of policemen and a -certain young greengrocer with a tray of onions, who -trotted in her wake until she threatened them all with -the firearm.</p> - -<p>Breathlessly at last she mounted the tremendous -staircase. Happily in the interval the damage had -been repaired, the tree chopped down, piano delivered, -and ducks recaptured. She reached her rooms only -in time to hear a great crash of glass from within. -Old Ben was strutting about with a triumphant air.</p> - -<p>“I done ’im—I done ’im,” he called. “You can -come in now; I’ve just chucked ’im through the -window!” And sure enough he had. The sash -looked as if it had been blown out by a cannon-ball. -Mrs. Squance peered out, and there, far down at the -front door, curled up as if asleep, lay the lion. At -that moment the milkman arrived, with that dissonant -clatter peculiar to milkmen. He dashed down his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">251</span> -cans close by the nose of the lion, which apparently he -had not seen. The scared animal leaped up in its -terror, and darting down an alley was seen no more.</p> - -<p>So far this narrative, devoid as it is of moral grandeur -and literary grace, has subjected the reader’s -comprehension to no scientific rigours; but he who -reads on will discern its cunning import—a psychological -outcome with the profoundest implications. -Listen. Mrs. Squance awoke that morning in her -own hard-looking little house of one floor, with the -hard-looking shop, startled to find the window of their -room actually smashed, and inexplicable pains in her -right hand. She related these circumstances in after -years with so many symptoms of truth and propriety -that she herself at last vividly believed in the figure -of old Ben as a lion-slayer. “Saved my life when I -was ’tacked by a lion!” she would say to her awed -grandchildren, and she would proceed to regale them -with a narration which, I regret to say, had only the -remotest likeness to the foregoing story.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">252</span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="The_Poor_Man"><i>The Poor Man</i></h2> - - -<p>One of the commonest sights in -the vale was a certain man on a bicycle carrying -a bag full of newspapers. He was as much -a sound as a sight, for what distinguished him from -all other men to be encountered there on bicycles was -not his appearance, though that was noticeable; it -was his sweet tenor voice, heard as he rode along -singing each morning from Cobbs Mill, through -Kezzal Predy Peter, Thasper, and Buzzlebury, and -so on to Trinkel and Nuncton. All sorts of things he -sang, ballads, chanties, bits of glees, airs from operas, -hymns, and sacred anthems—he was leader of Thasper -church choir—but he seemed to observe some -sort of rotation in their rendering. In the forepart of -the week it was hymns and anthems; on Wednesday -he usually turned to modestly secular tunes; he was -rolling on Thursday and Friday through a gamut of -love songs and ballads undoubtedly secular and not -necessarily modest, while on Saturday—particularly -at eve, spent in the tap of “The White Hart”—his -programme was entirely ribald and often a little -improper. But always on Sunday he was the most -decorous of men, no questionable liquor passed his -lips, and his comportment was a credit to the church, -a model even for soberer men.</p> - -<p>Dan Pavey was about thirty-five years old, of -medium height and of medium appearance except -as to his hat (a hard black bowler which seemed never -to belong to him, though he had worn it for years) -and as to his nose. It was an ugly nose, big as a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">253</span> -baby’s elbow; he had been born thus, it had not -been broken or maltreated, though it might have -engaged in some pre-natal conflict when it was -malleable, since when nature had healed, but had not -restored it. But there was ever a soft smile that -covered his ugliness, which made it genial and said, -or seemed to say: Don’t make a fool of me, I am a -friendly man, this is really my hat, and as for my -nose—God made it so.</p> - -<p>The six hamlets which he supplied with newspapers -lie along the Icknield Vale close under the -ridge of woody hills, and the inhabitants adjacent to -the woods fell the beech timber and, in their own -homes, turn it into rungs or stretchers for chair -manufacturers who, somewhere out of sight beyond -the hills, endlessly make chair, and nothing but chair. -Sometimes in a wood itself there may be seen a shanty -built of faggots in which sits a man turning pieces of -chair on a treadle lathe. Tall, hollow, and greenly -dim are the woods, very solemn places, and they -survey the six little towns as a man might look at six -tiny pebbles lying on a green rug at his feet.</p> - -<p>One August morning the newspaper man was -riding back to Thasper. The day was sparkling like -a diamond, but he was not singing, he was thinking -of Scroope, the new rector of Thasper parish, and -the thought of Scroope annoyed him. It was not -only the tone of the sermon he had preached on -Sunday, “The poor we have always with us,” though -that was in bad taste from a man reputed rich and -with a heart—people said—as hard as a door-knocker; -it was something more vital, a congenital difference<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">254</span> -between them as profound as it was disagreeable. -The Rev. Faudel Scroope was wealthy, he seemed to -have complete confidence in his ability to remain so, -and he was the kind of man with whom Dan Pavey -would never be able to agree. As for Mrs. Scroope, -gloom pattered upon him in a strong sighing shower -at the least thought of her.</p> - -<p>At Larkspur Lane he came suddenly upon the -rector talking to an oldish man, Eli Bond, who was -hacking away at a hedge. Scroope never wore a hat, -he had a curly bush of dull hair. Though his face -was shaven clean it remained a regular plantation of -ridges and wrinkles; there was a stoop in his shoulders, -a lurch in his gait, and he had a voice that howled.</p> - -<p>“Just a moment, Pavey,” he bellowed, and Dan -dismounted.</p> - -<p>“All those years,” the parson went on talking to -the hedger; “all those years, dear me!”</p> - -<p>“I were born in Thasper sixty-six year ago, come -the twenty-third of October, sir, the same day—but -two years before—as Lady Hesseltine eloped with -Rudolf Moxley. I was reared here and I worked -here sin’ I were six year old. Twalve children I have -had (though five on ’em come to naught and two be -in the army) and I never knowed what was to be -out of work for one single day in all that sixty year. -Never. I can’t thank my blessed master enough -for it.”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that splendidly feudal,” murmured the -priest, “who is your good master?”</p> - -<p>The old man solemnly touched his hat and said:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">255</span> -“God.”</p> - -<p>“O, I see, yes, yes,” cried the Rev. Scroope. -“Well, good health and constant, and good work -and plenty of it, are glorious things. The man who -has never done a day’s work is a dog, and the man -who deceives his master is a dog too.”</p> - -<p>“I never donn that, sir.”</p> - -<p>“And you’ve had happy days in Thasper, I’m -sure?”</p> - -<p>“Right-a-many, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Splendid. Well ... um ... what a heavy rain we -had in the night.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that <i>was</i> heavy! At five o’clock this morning -I daren’t let my ducks out—they’d a bin drownded, -sir.”</p> - -<p>“Ha, now, now, now!” warbled the rector as he -turned away with Dan.</p> - -<p>“Capital old fellow, happy and contented. I wish -there were more of the same breed. I wish....” -The parson sighed pleasantly as he and Dan walked -on together until they came to the village street -where swallows were darting and flashing very low. -A small boy stood about, trying to catch them in his -hands as they swooped close to him. Dan’s own dog -pranced up to his master for a greeting. It was black, -somewhat like a greyhound, but stouter. Its tail -curled right over its back and it was cocky as a -bird, for it was young; it could fight like a tiger -and run like the wind—many a hare had had proof -of that.</p> - -<p>Said Mr. Scroope, eyeing the dog: “Is there -much poaching goes on here?”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">256</span></p> -<p>“Poaching, sir?”</p> - -<p>“I am told there is. I hope it isn’t true for I have -rented most of the shooting myself.”</p> - -<p>“I never heard tell of it, sir. Years ago, maybe. -The Buzzlebury chaps one time were rare hands at -taking a few birds, so I’ve heard, but I shouldn’t -think there’s an onlicensed gun for miles around.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not thinking so much of guns. Farmer -Prescott had his warren netted by someone last week -and lost fifty or sixty rabbits. There’s scarcely a hare -to be seen, and I find wires wherever I go. It’s a -crime like anything else, you know,” Scroope’s voice -was loud and strident, “and I shall deal very severely -with poaching of any kind. O yes, you have to, you -know, Pavey. O yes. There was a man in my last -parish was a poacher, cunning scoundrel of the worst -type, never did a stroke of work, and <i>he</i> had a dog, -it wasn’t unlike your dog—this <i>is</i> your dog, isn’t it? -You haven’t got your name on its collar, you should -have your name on a dog’s collar—well, he had a -perfect brute of a dog, carried off my pheasants by -the dozen; as for hares, he exterminated them. Man -never did anything else, but we laid him by the heels -and in the end I shot the dog myself.”</p> - -<p>“Shot it?” said Dan. “No, I couldn’t tell a -poacher if I was to see one. I know no more about -'em than a bone in the earth.”</p> - -<p>“We shall be,” continued Scroope, “very severe -with them. Let me see—are you singing the Purcell -on Sunday evening?“</p> - -<p>”<i>He Shall Feed His Flock</i>—sir—<i>like a Shepherd</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Splendid! <i>Good</i>-day, Pavey.”</p> - -<p>Dan, followed by his bounding, barking dog,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">257</span> -pedalled home to a little cottage that seemed to sag -under the burden of its own thatch; it had eaves a -yard wide, and birds’ nests in the roof at least ten -years old. Here Dan lived with his mother, Meg -Pavey, for he had never married. She kept an absurd -little shop for the sale of sweets, vinegar, boot buttons -and such things, and was a very excellent old dame, -but as naïve as she was vague. If you went in to her -counter for a newspaper and banged down a halfcrown -she would as likely as not give you change for -sixpence—until you mentioned the discrepancy, -when she would smilingly give you back your halfcrown -again.</p> - -<p>Dan passed into the back room where Meg was -preparing dinner, threw off his bag, and sat down -without speaking. His mother was making a heavy -succession of journeys between the table and a -larder.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Scroope’s been here,” said Meg, bringing -a loaf to the table.</p> - -<p>“What did <i>she</i> want?”</p> - -<p>“She wanted to reprimand me.”</p> - -<p>“And what have <i>you</i> been doing?”</p> - -<p>Meg was in the larder again. “’Tis not me, ’tis -you.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, mother?”</p> - -<p>“She’s been a-hinting,” here Meg pushed a dish -of potatoes to the right of the bread, and a salt-cellar -to the left of the yawning remains of a rabbit pie,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">258</span> -“about your not being a teetotal. She says the -boozing do give the choir a bad name and I was to -persuade you to give it up.”</p> - -<p>“I should like to persuade her it was time she is -dead. I don’t go for to take any pattern from that -rich trash. Are we the grass under their feet? And -can you tell me why parsons’ wives are always so -much more awful than the parsons themselves? -I never shall understand that if I lives a thousand -years. Name o’ God, what next?”</p> - -<p>“Well, ’tis as she says. Drink is no good to any -man, and she can’t say as I ain’t reprimanded -you.”</p> - -<p>“Name o’ God,” he replied, “do you think I -booze just for the sake o’ the booze, because I like -booze? No man does that. He drinks so that he -shan’t be thought a fool, or rank himself better than -his mates—though he knows in his heart he might -be if he weren’t so poor or so timid. Not that one -would mind to be poor if it warn’t preached to him -that he must be contented. How can the poor be -contented as long as there’s the rich to serve? The -rich we have always with <i>us</i>, that’s <i>our</i> responsibility, -we are the grass under their feet. Why should we -be proud of that? When a man’s poor the only -thing left him is hope—for something better: and -that’s called envy. If you don’t like your riches you -can always give it up, but poverty you can’t desert, -nor it won’t desert you.”</p> - -<p>“It’s no good flying in the face of everything like -that, Dan, it’s folly.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">259</span></p> -<p>“If I had my way I’d be an independent man and -live by myself a hundred miles from anywheres or -anybody. But that’s madness, that’s madness, the -world don’t expect you to go on like that, so I do as -other folks do, not because I want to, but because I -a’nt the pluck to be different. You taught me a good -deal, mother, but you never taught me courage and -I wasn’t born with any, so I drinks with a lot of fools -who drink with me for much the same reason, I -expect. It’s the same with other things besides -drink.”</p> - -<p>His indignation lasted throughout the afternoon -as he sat in the shed in his yard turning out his usual -quantity of chair. He sang not one note, he but -muttered and mumbled over all his anger. Towards -evening he recovered his amiability and began to -sing with a gusto that astonished even his mother. -He went out into the dusk humming like a bee, -taking his dog with him. In the morning the Rev. -Scroope found a dead hare tied by the neck to his -own door-knocker, and at night (it being Saturday) -Dan Pavey was merrier than ever in “The White -Hart.” If he was not drunk he was what Thasper -calls “tightish,” and had never before sung so many -of those ribald songs (mostly of his own composition) -for which he was noted.</p> - -<p>A few evenings later Dan attended a meeting of the -Church Men’s Guild. A group of very mute countrymen -sat in the village hall and were goaded into -speech by the rector.</p> - -<p>“Thasper,” declared Mr. Scroope, “has a great -name for its singing. All over the six hamlets there -is surprising musical genius. There’s the Buzzlebury -band—it is a capital band.”</p> - -<p>“It is that,” interrupted a maroon-faced butcher -from Buzzlebury,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">260</span> “it can play as well at nine o’clock -in the morning as it can at nine o’clock at night, and -that’s a good band as can do it.”</p> - -<p>“Now I want our choir to compete at the county -musical festival next year. Thasper is going to show -those highly trained choristers what a native choir -is capable of. Yes, and I’m sure our friend Pavey -can win the tenor solo competition. Let us all put -our backs into it and work agreeably and consistently. -Those are the two main springs of good human conduct—consistency -and agreeability. The consistent -man will always attain his legitimate ends, always. -I remember a man in my last parish, Tom Turkem, -known and loved throughout the county; he was not -only the best cricketer in our village, he was the best -for miles around. He revelled in cricket, and cricket -only; he played cricket and lived for cricket. The -years went on and he got old, but he never dreamed -of giving up cricket. His bowling average got larger -every year and his batting average got smaller, but he -still went on, consistent as ever. His order of going -in dropped down to No. 6 and he seldom bowled; -then he got down to No. 8 and never bowled. For a -season or two the once famous Tom Turkem was -really the last man in! After that he became umpire, -then scorer, and then he died. He had got a little -money, very little, just enough to live comfortably on. -No, he never married. He was a very happy, hearty, -hale old man. So you see? Now there is a cricket -club at Buzzlebury, and one at Trinkel. Why not a -cricket club at Thasper? Shall we do that?... -Good!”</p> - -<p>The parson went on outlining his projects, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">261</span> -although it was plain to Dan that the Rev. Scroope -had very little, if any, compassion for the weaknesses -natural to mortal flesh, and attached an extravagant -value to the virtues of decency, sobriety, consistency, -and, above all, loyalty to all sorts of incomprehensible -notions, yet his intentions were undeniably agreeable -and the Guild was consistently grateful.</p> - -<p>“One thing, Pavey,” said Scroope when the meeting -had dispersed, “one thing I will not tolerate in -this parish, and that is gambling.”</p> - -<p>“Gambling? I have never gambled in my life, -sir. I couldn’t tell you hardly the difference between -spades and clubs.”</p> - -<p>“I am speaking of horse-racing, Pavey.”</p> - -<p>“Now that’s a thing I never see in my life, Mr. -Scroope.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you need not go to the races to bet on horses; -the slips of paper and money can be collected by men -who are agents for racing bookmakers. And that is -going on all round the six hamlets, and the man who -does the collecting, even if he does not bet himself, is -a social and moral danger, he is a criminal, he is -against the law. Whoever he is,” said the vicar, -moderating his voice, but confidently beaming and -patting Dan’s shoulder, “I shall stamp him out -mercilessly. <i>Good</i>-night, Pavey.”</p> - -<p>Dan went away with murder in his heart. Timid -strangers here and there had fancied that a man with -such a misshapen face would be capable of committing -a crime, not a mere peccadillo—you wouldn’t -take notice of that, of course—but a solid substantial -misdemeanour like murder. And it was true, he <i>was</i><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">262</span> -capable of murder—just as everybody else is, or -ought to be. But he was also capable of curbing that -distressing tendency in the usual way, and in point -of fact he never did commit a murder.</p> - -<p>These rectorial denunciations troubled the air but -momentarily, and he still sang gaily and beautifully -on his daily ride from Cobbs Mill along the little -roads to Trinkel and Nuncton. The hanging richness -of the long woods yellowing on the fringe of -autumn, the long solemn hills themselves, cold sunlight, -coloured berries in briary loops, the brown -small leaves of hawthorn that had begun to drop from -the hedge and flutter in the road like dying moths, -teams of horses sturdily ploughing, sheepfolds -already thatched into little nooks where the ewes -could lie—Dan said—as warm as a pudding: these -things filled him with tiny ecstasies too incoherent -for him to transcribe—he could only sing.</p> - -<p>On Bonfire Night the lads of the village lit a great -fire on the space opposite “The White Hart.” Snow -was falling; it was not freezing weather, but the snow -lay in a soft thin mat upon the road. Dan was returning -on his bicycle from a long journey and the light -from the bonfire was cheering. It lit up the courtyard -of the inn genially and curiously, for the -recumbent hart upon the balcony had a pad of snow -upon its wooden nose, which somehow made it look -like a camel, in spite of the huddled snow on its -back which gave it the resemblance of a sheep. A -few boys stood with bemused wrinkled faces before -the roaring warmth. Dan dismounted very carefully -opposite the blaze, for a tiny boy rode on the back<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">263</span> -of the bicycle, wrapped up and tied to the frame by a -long scarf; very small, very silent, about five years -old. A red wool wrap was bound round his head and -ears and chin, and a green scarf encircled his neck -and waist, almost hiding his jacket; gaiters of grey -wool were drawn up over his knickerbockers. Dan -lifted him down and stood him in the road, but he was -so cumbered with clothing that he could scarcely -walk. He was shy; he may have thought it ridiculous; -he moved a few paces and turned to stare at his -footmarks in the snow.</p> - -<p>“Cold?” asked Dan.</p> - -<p>The child shook its head solemnly at him and then -put one hand in Dan’s and gazed at the fire that was -bringing a brightness into the longlashed dark eyes -and tenderly flushing the pale face.</p> - -<p>“Hungry?”</p> - -<p>The child did not reply. It only silently smiled -when the boys brought him a lighted stick from the -faggots. Dan caught him up into his arms and -pushed the cycle across the way into his own home.</p> - -<p>Plump Meg had just shredded up two or three red -cabbages and rammed them into a crock with a -shower of peppercorns and some terrible knots of -ginger. There was a bright fire and a sharp odour of -vinegar—always some strange pleasant smell in Meg -Pavey’s home—she had covered the top of the crock -with a shield of brown paper, pinioned that with -string, licked a label: “Cabege Novenbr 5t,” and -smoothed it on the crock, when the latch lifted and -Dan carried in his little tiny boy.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">264</span></p> -<p>“Here he is, mother.”</p> - -<p>Where Dan stood him, there the child remained; -he did not seem to see Mother Pavey, his glance had -happened to fall on the big crock with the white -label—and he kept it there.</p> - -<p>“Whoever’s that?” asked the astonished Meg -with her arms akimbo as Dan began to unwrap the -child.</p> - -<p>“That’s mine,” said her son, brushing a few -flakes of snow from the curls on its forehead.</p> - -<p>“Yours! How long have it been yours?”</p> - -<p>“Since ’twas born. No, let him alone, I’ll undo -him, he’s full up wi’ pins and hooks. I’ll undo him.”</p> - -<p>Meg stood apart while Dan unravelled his offspring.</p> - -<p>“But it is not your child, surely, Dan?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, I’ve brought him home for keeps, mother. -He can sleep wi’ me.”</p> - -<p>“Who’s its mother?”</p> - -<p>“’Tis no matter about that. Dan Cupid did it.”</p> - -<p>“You’re making a mock of me. Who is his -mother? Where is she? You’re fooling, Dan, -you’re fooling!”</p> - -<p>“I’m making no mock of anyone. There, there’s -a bonny grandson for you!”</p> - -<p>Meg gathered the child into her arms, peering into -its face, perhaps to find some answer to the riddle, -perhaps to divine a familiar likeness. But there was -nothing in its soft smooth features that at all resembled -her rugged Dan’s.</p> - -<p>“Who are you? What’s your little name?”</p> - -<p>The child whispered: “Martin.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">265</span></p> -<p>“It’s a pretty, pretty thing, Dan.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said her son, “that’s his mother. We -were rare fond of each other—once. Now she’s -wedd’n another chap and I’ve took the boy, for it’s -best that way. He’s five year old. Don’t ask me -about her, it’s <i>our</i> secret and always has been. It was -a good secret and a grand secret, and it was well kept. -That’s her ring.”</p> - -<p>The child’s thumb had a ring upon it, a golden -ring with a small green stone. The thumb was -crooked, and he clasped the ring safely.</p> - -<p>For a while Meg asked no more questions about -the child. She pressed it tenderly to her bosom.</p> - -<p>But the long-kept secret, as Dan soon discovered, -began to bristle with complications. The boy was -his, of course it was his—he seemed to rejoice in his -paternity of the quiet, pretty, illegitimate creature. -As if that brazen turpitude was not enough to confound -him he was taken a week later in the act of -receiving betting commissions and heavily fined in the -police court, although it was quite true that he himself -did not bet, and was merely a collecting agent for a -bookmaker who remained discreetly in the background -and who promptly paid his fine.</p> - -<p>There was naturally a great racket in the vestry -about these things—there is no more rhadamanthine -formation than that which can mount the ornamental -forehead of a deacon—and Dan was bidden to an -interview at the “Scroopery.” After some hesitation -he visited it.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Pavey,” said the rector, not at all minatory -but very subdued and unhappy. “So the blow has -fallen, in spite of my warning. I am more sorry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">266</span> -than I can express, for it means an end to a very long -connection. It is very difficult and very disagreeable -for me to deal with the situation, but there is no help -for it now, you must understand that. I offer no -judgment upon these unfortunate events, no judgment -at all, but I can find no way of avoiding my -clear duty. Your course of life is incompatible with -your position in the choir, and I sadly fear it reveals -not only a social misdemeanour but a religious one—it -is a mockery, a mockery of God.”</p> - -<p>The rector sat at a table with his head pressed on -his hands. Pavey sat opposite him, and in his hands -he dangled his bowler hat.</p> - -<p>“You may be right enough in your way, sir, but -I’ve never mocked God. For the betting, I grant you. -It may be a dirty job, but I never ate the dirt myself, -I never betted in my life. It’s a way of life, a poor -man has but little chance of earning more than a bare -living, and there’s many a dirty job there’s no prosecution -for, leastways not in this world.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">267</span></p> -<p>“Let me say, Pavey, that the betting counts less -heavily with me than the question of this unfortunate -little boy. I offer no judgment upon the matter, -your acknowledgment of him is only right and proper. -But the fact of his existence at all cannot be disregarded; -that at least is flagrant, and as far as concerns -your position in my church, it is a mockery of -God.”</p> - -<p>“You may be right, sir, as far as your judgment -goes, or you may not be. I beg your pardon for that, -but we can only measure other people by our own -scales, and as we can never understand one another -entirely, so we can’t ever judge them rightly, for they -all differ from us and from each other in some special -ways. But as for being a mocker of God, why it -looks to me as if you was trying to teach the Almighty -how to judge me.”</p> - -<p>“Pavey,” said the rector with solemnity, “I pity -you from the bottom of my heart. We won’t continue -this painful discussion, we should both regret -it. There was a man in the parish where I came from -who was an atheist and mocked God. He subsequently -became deaf. Was he convinced? No, he -was not—because the punishment came a long time -after his offence. He mocked God again, and -became blind. Not at once: God has eternity to -work in. Still he was not convinced. That,” said -the rector ponderously, “is what the Church has to -contend with; a failure to read the most obvious -signs, and an indisposition even to remedy that failure. -Klopstock was that poor man’s name. His sister—you -know her well, Jane Klopstock—is now my cook.”</p> - -<p>The rector then stood up and held out his hand. -“God bless you, Pavey.”</p> - -<p>“I thank you, sir,” said Dan. “I quite understand.”</p> - -<p>He went home moodily reflecting. Nobody else -in the village minded his misdeeds, they did not care -a button, and none condemned him. On the contrary, -indeed. But the blow had fallen, there was -nothing that he could now do, the shock of it had -been anticipated, but it was severe. And the pang -would last, for he was deprived of his chief opportunity -for singing, that art in which he excelled, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">268</span> -that perfect quiet setting he so loved. Rancour grew -upon him, and on Saturday he had a roaring audacious -evening at “The White Hart” where, to the tune of -“The British Grenadiers,” he sung a doggerel:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Our parson loves his motor car</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His garden and his mansion,</div> - <div class="verse">And he loves his beef for I’ve remarked</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His belly’s brave expansion;</div> - <div class="verse">He loves all mortal mundane things</div> - <div class="verse indent2">As he loved his beer at college,</div> - <div class="verse">And so he loves his housemaid (not</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With Mrs. parson’s knowledge.)</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Our parson lies both hot and strong,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">It does not suit his station,</div> - <div class="verse">But still his reverend soul delights</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In much dissimulation;</div> - <div class="verse">Both in and out and roundabout</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He practises distortion,</div> - <div class="verse">And he lies with a public sinner when</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Grass widowhood’s his portion.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>All of which was a savage libel on a very worthy man, -composed in anger and regretted as soon as sung.</p> - -<p>From that time forward Dan gave up his boozing -and devoted himself to the boy, little Martin, who, a -Thasper joker suggested, might have some kinship -with the notorious Betty of that name. But Dan’s -voice was now seldom heard singing upon the roads -he travelled. They were icy wintry roads, but that -was not the cause of his muteness. It was severance -from the choir; not from its connoted spirit of -religion—there was little enough of that in Dan -Pavey—but from the solemn beauty of the chorale, -which it was his unique gift to adorn, and in which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">269</span> -he had shared with eagerness and pride since his -boyhood. To be cast out from that was to be cast -from something he held most dear, the opportunity -of expression in an art which he had made triumphantly -his own.</p> - -<p>With the coming of spring he repaired one evening -to a town some miles away and interviewed a choirmaster. -Thereafter Dan Pavey journeyed to and fro -twice every Sunday to sing in a church that lay seven -or eight miles off, and he kept it all a profound secret -from Thasper until his appearance at the county -musical festival, where he won the treasured prize for -tenor soloists. Then Dan was himself again. To his -crude apprehension he had been vindicated, and he -was heard once more carolling in the lanes of the -Vale as he had been heard any time for these twenty -years.</p> - -<p>The child began its schooling, but though he was -free to go about the village little Martin did not -wander far. The tidy cluster of hair about his poll -was of deep chestnut colour. His skin—Meg said—was -like “ollobarster”: it was soft and unfreckled, -always pale. His eyes were two wet damsons—so -Meg declared: they were dark and ever questioning. -As for his nose, his lips, his cheeks, his chin, Meg -could do no other than call it the face of a blessed -saint; and indeed, he had some of the bearing of a -saint, so quiet, so gentle, so shy. The golden ring -he no longer wore; it hung from a tintack on the -bedroom wall.</p> - -<p>Old John, who lived next door, became a friend -of his. He was very aged—in the Vale you got to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">270</span> -be a hundred before you knew where you were—and -he was very bent; he resembled a sickle standing -upon its handle. Very bald, too, and so very sharp.</p> - -<p>Martin was staring up at the roof of John’s cottage.</p> - -<p>“What you looking at, my boy?”</p> - -<p>“Chimbley,” whispered the child.</p> - -<p>“O ah! that’s crooked, a’nt it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, crooked.”</p> - -<p>“I know ’tis, but I can’t help it; my chimney’s -crooked, and I can’t putt it straight, neither, I can’t -putt it right. My chimney’s crooked, a’nt it, ah, -and I’m crooked, too.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Martin.</p> - -<p>“I know, but I can’t help it. It <i>is</i> crooked, a’nt -it?” said the old man, also staring up at a red pot -tilted at an angle suggestive of conviviality.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“That chimney’s crooked. But you come along -and look at my beautiful bird.”</p> - -<p>A cock thrush inhabited a cage in the old gaffer’s -kitchen. Martin stood before it.</p> - -<p>“There’s a beautiful bird. Hoicks!” cried old -John, tapping the bars of the cage with his terrible -finger-nail. “But he won’t sing.”</p> - -<p>“Won’t he sing?”</p> - -<p>“He donn make hisself at home. He donn make -hisself at home at all, do ’ee, my beautiful bird? -No, he donn’t. So I’m a-going to chop his head off,” -said the laughing old man, “and then I shall bile -him.”</p> - -<p>Afterwards Martin went every day to see if the -thrush was still there. And it was.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">271</span></p> - -<p>Martin grew. Almost before Dan was aware of it -the child had grown into a boy. At school he excelled -nobody in anything except, perhaps, behaviour, -but he had a strange little gift for unobtrusively not -doing the things he did not care for, and these were -rather many unless his father was concerned in them. -Even so, the affection between them was seldom -tangibly expressed, their alliance was something far -deeper than its expression. Dan talked with him as -if he were a grown man, and perhaps he often regarded -him as one; he was the only being to whom he ever -opened his mind. As they sat together in the evening -while Dan put in a spell at turning chair—at which -he was astoundingly adept—the father would talk -to his son, or rather he would heap upon him all the -unuttered thoughts that had accumulated in his -mind during his adult years. The dog would loll -with its head on Martin’s knees; the boy would sit -nodding gravely, though seldom speaking: he was -an untiring listener. “Like sire, like son,” thought -Dan, “he will always coop his thoughts up within -himself.” It was the one characteristic of the boy -that caused him anxiety.</p> - -<p>“Never take pattern by me,” he would adjure him, -“not by me. I’m a fool, a failure, just grass, and I’m -trying to instruct you, but you’ve no call to follow in -my fashion; I’m a weak man. There’s been thoughts -in my mind that I daren’t let out. I wanted to do -things that other men don’t seem to do and don’t -want to do. They were not evil things—and what -they were I’ve nigh forgotten now. I never had -much ambition, I wasn’t clever, I wanted to live a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">272</span> -simple life, in a simple way, the way I had a mind to—I -can’t remember that either. But I did not do any -of those things because I had a fear of what other -people might think of me. I walked in the ruck with -the rest of my mates and did the things I didn’t ever -want to do—and now I can only wonder why I did -them. I sung them the silly songs they liked, and -not the ones I cherished. I agreed with most everybody, -and all agreed with me. I’m a friendly man, -too friendly, and I went back on my life, I made -nought of my life, you see, I just sat over the job like -a snob codgering an old boot.”</p> - -<p>The boy would sit regarding him as if he already -understood. Perhaps that curious little mind did -glean some flavour of his father’s tragedy.</p> - -<p>“You’ve no call to follow me, you’ll be a scholar. -Of course I know some of those long words at school -take a bit of licking together—like elephant and -saucepan. You get about half-way through ’em and -then you’re done, you’re mastered. I was just the -same (like sire, like son), and I’m no better now. -If you and me was to go to yon school together, and -set on the same stool together, I warrant you would -win the prize and I should wear the dunce’s cap—all -except sums, and there I should beat ye. You’d have -all the candy and I’d have all the cane, you’d be king -and I’d be the dirty rascal, so you’ve no call to follow -me. What you want is courage, and to do the things -you’ve a mind to. I never had any and I didn’t.”</p> - -<p>Dan seldom kissed his son, neither of them sought -that tender expression, though Meg was for ever -ruffling the boy for these pledges of affection, and he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">273</span> -was always gracious to the old woman. There was a -small mole in the centre of her chin, and in the centre -of the mole grew one short stiff hair. It was a -surprise to Martin when he first kissed her.</p> - -<p>Twice a week father and son bathed in the shed -devoted to chair. The tub was the half of a wooden -barrel. Dan would roll up two or three buckets of -water from the well, they would both strip to the -skin, the boy would kneel in the tub and dash the -water about his body for a few moments. While -Martin towelled himself Dan stepped into the tub, -and after laving his face and hands and legs he would -sit down in it. “Ready?” Martin would ask, and -scooping up the water in an iron basin he would -pour it over his father’s head.</p> - -<p>“Name O’ God, that’s sharpish this morning,” -Dan would say, “it would strip the bark off a crocodile. -Broo-o-o-oh! But there: winter and summer -I go up and down the land and there’s not—Broo-o-o-oh!—a -mighty difference between ’em, it’s mostly -fancy. Come day, go day, frost or fair doings, all -alike I go about the land, and there’s little in winter -I havn’t the heart to rejoice in. (On with your -breeches or I’ll be at the porridge pot afore you’re -clad.) All their talk about winter and their dread of -it shows poor spirit. Nothing’s prettier than a fall -of snow, nothing more grand than the storms -upending the woods. There’s no more rain in winter -than in summer, you can be shod for it, and there’s -a heart back of your ribs that’s proof against any -blast. (Is this my shirt or yours? Dashed if they -buttons a’nt the plague of my life.) Country is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">274</span> -grand year’s end to year’s end, whether or no. I -once lived in London—only a few weeks—and for -noise, and for terror, and for filth—name O’ God, -there was bugs in the butter there, once there was!”</p> - -<p>But the boy’s chosen season was that time of year -when the plums ripened. Pavey’s garden was then -a tiny paradise.</p> - -<p>“You put a spell on these trees,” Dan would -declare to his son every year when they gathered the -fruit. “I planted them nearly twenty years ago, two -'gages and one magny bonum, but they never growed -enough to make a pudden. They always bloomed -well and looked well. I propped ’em and I dunged -'em, but they wouldn’t beer at all, and I’m a-going to -cut ’em down—when, along comes you!”</p> - -<p>Well, hadn’t those trees borne remarkable ever -since he’d come there?</p> - -<p>“Of course, good luck’s deceiving, and it’s never -bothered our family overmuch. Still, bad luck is one -thing and bad life’s another. And yet—I dunno—they -come to much the same in the end, there’s very -little difference. There’s so much misunderstanding, -half the folks don’t know their own good intentions, -nor all the love that’s sunk deep in their own -minds.”</p> - -<p>But nothing in the world gave (or could give) Dan -such flattering joy as his son’s sweet treble voice. -Martin could sing! In the dark months no evening -passed without some instruction by the proud father. -The living room at the back of the shop was the -tiniest of rooms, and its smallness was not lessened, -nor its tidiness increased, by the stacks of merchandise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">275</span> -that had strayed from Meg’s emporium into every -corner, and overflowed every shelf in packages, -piles, and bundles. The metalliferous categories—iron -nails, lead pencils, tintacks, zinc ointment, and -brass hinges—were there. Platoons of bottles were -there, bottles of blue-black writing fluid, bottles of -scarlet—and presumably plebeian—ink, bottles of -lollipops and of oil (both hair and castor). Balls of -string, of blue, of peppermint, and balls to bounce -were adjacent to an assortment of prim-looking -books—account memorandum, exercise, and note. -But the room was cosy, and if its inhabitants fitted it -almost as closely as birds fit their nests they were as -happy as birds, few of whom (save the swallows) sing -in their nests. With pitchpipe to hand and a bundle -of music before them Dan and Martin would begin. -The dog would snooze on the rug before the fire; -Meg would snooze amply in her armchair until -roused by the sudden terrific tinkling of her shop-bell. -She would waddle off to her dim little shop—every -step she took rattling the paraffin lamp on the -table, the coal in the scuttle, and sometimes the very -panes in the window—and the dog would clamber -into her chair. Having supplied an aged gaffer with -an ounce of carraway seed, or some gay lad with a -packet of cigarettes, Meg would waddle back and -sink down upon the dog, whereupon its awful -indignation would sound to the very heavens, -drowning the voices even of Dan and his son.</p> - -<p>“What shall we wind up with?” Dan would ask -at the close of the lesson, and as often as not Martin -would say:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">276</span> “You must sing ‘Timmie.’”</p> - -<p>This was “Timmie,” and it had a tune something -like the chorus to “Father O’Flynn.”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent10">O Timmie my brother,</div> - <div class="verse indent10">Best son of our mother,</div> - <div class="verse">Our labour it prospers, the mowing is done;</div> - <div class="verse indent10">A holiday take you,</div> - <div class="verse indent10">The loss it won’t break you,</div> - <div class="verse">A day’s never lost if a holiday’s won.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent10">We’ll go with clean faces</div> - <div class="verse indent10">To see the horse races,</div> - <div class="verse">And if the luck chances we’ll gather some gear;</div> - <div class="verse indent10">But never a jockey</div> - <div class="verse indent10">Will win it, my cocky,</div> - <div class="verse">Who catches one glance from a girl I know there.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent10">There’s lords and there’s ladies</div> - <div class="verse indent10">Wi’ pretty sunshadies,</div> - <div class="verse">And farmers and jossers and fat men and small;</div> - <div class="verse indent10">But the pride of these trips is</div> - <div class="verse indent10">The scallywag gipsies</div> - <div class="verse">Wi’ not a whole rag to the backs of ’em all.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent10">There ’s cokernut shying,</div> - <div class="verse indent10">And devil defying,</div> - <div class="verse">And a racket and babel to hear and to see,</div> - <div class="verse indent10">Wi’ boxing and shooting,</div> - <div class="verse indent10">And fine high faluting</div> - <div class="verse">From chaps wi’ a table and thimble and pea.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent10">My Nancy will be there,</div> - <div class="verse indent10">The best thing to see there,</div> - <div class="verse">She’ll win all the praises wi’ ne’er a rebuke;</div> - <div class="verse indent10">And she has a sister—</div> - <div class="verse indent10">I wonder you’ve missed her—</div> - <div class="verse">As sweet as the daisies and fit for a duke. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">277</span></div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent10">Come along, brother Timmie,</div> - <div class="verse indent10">Don’t linger, but gimme</div> - <div class="verse">My hat and my purse and your company there;</div> - <div class="verse indent10">For sporting and courting,</div> - <div class="verse indent10">The cream of resorting,</div> - <div class="verse">And nothing much worse, Timmie—Come to the fair.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>On the third anniversary of Martin’s homecoming -Dan rose up very early in the dark morn, and leaving -his son sleeping he crept out of the house followed -by his dog. They went away from Thasper, though -the darkness was profound and the grass filled with -dew, out upon the hills towards Chapel Cheary. The -night was starless, but Dan knew every trick and turn -of the paths, and after an hour’s walk he met a man -waiting by a signpost. They conversed for a few -minutes and then went off together, the dog at their -heels, until they came to a field gate. Upon this -they fastened a net and then sent the dog into the -darkness upon his errand, while they waited for the -hare which the dog would drive into the net. They -waited so long that it was clear the dog had not -drawn its quarry. Dan whistled softly, but the dog -did not return. Dan opened the gate and went down -the fields himself, scouring the hedges for a long time, -but he could not find the dog. The murk of the -night had begun to lift, but the valley was filled with -mist. He went back to the gate: the net had been -taken down, his friend had departed—perhaps he -had been disturbed? The dog had now been missing -for an hour. Dan still hung about, but neither friend -nor dog came back. It grew grey and more grey, -though little could be distinguished, the raw mist<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">278</span> -obscuring everything that the dawn uncovered. He -shivered with gloom and dampness, his boots were -now as pliable as gloves, his eyebrows had grey -drops upon them, so had his moustache and the -backs of his hands. His dark coat looked as if it -was made of grey wool; it was tightly buttoned around -his throat and he stood with his chin crumpled, unconsciously -holding his breath until it burst forth in -a gasp. But he could not abandon his dog, and he -roamed once more down into the misty valley -towards woods that he knew well, whistling softly -and with great caution a repetition of two notes.</p> - -<p>And he found his dog. It was lying on a heap of -dead sodden leaves. It just whimpered. It could not -rise, it could not move, it seemed paralysed. Dawn -was now really upon them. Dan wanted to get the -dog away, quickly, it was a dangerous quarter, but -when he lifted it to his feet the dog collapsed like a -scarecrow. In a flash Dan knew he was poisoned, -he had probably picked up some piece of dainty flesh -that a farmer had baited for the foxes. He seized a -knob of chalk that lay thereby, grated some of it into -his hands, and forced it down the dog’s throat. Then -he tied the lead to its neck. He was going to drag -the dog to its feet and force it to walk. But the dog -was past all energy, it was limp and mute. Dan -dragged him by the neck for some yards as a man -draws behind him a heavy sack. It must have -weighed three stone, but Dan lifted him on to his -own shoulders and staggered back up the hill. He -carried it thus for half a mile, but then he was still -four miles from home, and it was daylight, at any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">279</span> -moment he might meet somebody he would not care -to meet. He entered a ride opening into some coverts, -and, bending down, slipped the dog over his head to -rest upon the ground. He was exhausted and felt -giddy, his brains were swirling round—trying to slop -out of his skull—and—yes—the dog was dead, his -old dog dead. When he looked up, he saw a keeper -with a gun standing a few yards off.</p> - -<p>“Good morning,” said Dan. All his weariness -was suddenly gone from him.</p> - -<p>“I’ll have your name and address,” replied the -keeper, a giant of a man, with a sort of contemptuous -affability.</p> - -<p>“What for?”</p> - -<p>“You’ll hear about what for,” the giant grinned. -“I’ll be sure to let ye know, in doo coorse.” He laid -his gun upon the ground and began searching in his -pockets, while Dan stood up with rage in his heart -and confusion in his mind. So the Old Imp was at -him again!</p> - -<p>“Humph!” said the keeper. “I’ve alost my -notebook somewheres. Have you got a bit of paper -on ye?”</p> - -<p>The culprit searched his pockets and produced a -folded fragment.</p> - -<p>“Thanks.” The giant did not cease to grin. -“What is it?”</p> - -<p>“What?” queried Dan.</p> - -<p>“Your name and address.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but what do you want it for. What do you -think I’m doing?” protested Dan.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">280</span></p> -<p>“I’ve a net in my pocket which I took from a gate -about an hour ago. I saw summat was afoot, and -me and a friend o’ mine have been looking for ’ee. -Now let’s have your name and no nonsense.”</p> - -<p>“My name,” said Dan, “my name? Well, it is -... Piper.”</p> - -<p>“Piper is it, ah! Was you baptized ever?”</p> - -<p>“Peter,” said Dan savagely.</p> - -<p>“Peter Piper! Well, you’ve picked a tidy pepper-carn -this time.”</p> - -<p>Again he was searching his pockets. There was -a frown on his face. “You’d better lend me a bit o’ -pencil too.”</p> - -<p>Dan produced a stump of lead pencil and the -gamekeeper, smoothing the paper on his lifted knee, -wrote down the name of Peter Piper.</p> - -<p>“And where might you come from?” He peered -up at the miserable man, who replied: “From -Leasington”—naming a village several miles to the -west of his real home.</p> - -<p>“Leasington!” commented the other. “You -must know John Eustace, then?” John Eustace -was a sporting farmer famed for his stock and his -riches.</p> - -<p>“Know him!” exclaimed Dan. “He’s my uncle!”</p> - -<p>“O ah!” The other carefully folded the paper -and put it into his breast pocket. “Well, you can -trot along home now, my lad.”</p> - -<p>Dan knelt down and unbuckled the collar from his -dead dog’s neck. He was fond of his dog, it looked -piteous now. And kneeling there it suddenly came -upon Dan that he had been a coward again, he had -told nothing but lies, foolish lies, and he had let a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">281</span> -great hulking flunkey walk roughshod over him. -In one astonishing moment the reproving face of his -little son seemed to loom up beside the dog, the blood -flamed in his brain.</p> - -<p>“I’ll take charge of that,” said the keeper, snatching -the collar from his hand.</p> - -<p>“Blast you!” Dan sprang to his feet, and suddenly -screaming like a madman: “I’m Dan Pavey -of Thasper,” he leapt at the keeper with a fury that -shook even that calm stalwart.</p> - -<p>“You would, would ye?” he yapped, darting for -his gun. Dan also seized it, and in their struggle the -gun was fired off harmlessly between them. Dan -let go.</p> - -<p>“My God!” roared the keeper, “you’d murder -me, would ye? Wi’ my own gun, would ye?” He -struck Dan a swinging blow with the butt of it, -yelling: “Would ye? Would ye? Would ye?” -And he did not cease striking until Dan tumbled -senseless and bloody across the body of the dog.</p> - -<p>Soon another keeper came hurrying through the -trees.</p> - -<p>“Tried to murder me—wi’ me own gun, he did,” -declared the big man, “wi’ me own gun!”</p> - -<p>They revived the stricken Pavey after a while and -then conveyed him to a policeman, who conveyed him -to a gaol.</p> - -<p>The magistrates took a grave view of the case and -sent it for trial at the assizes. They were soon held, -he had not long to wait, and before the end of November -he was condemned. The assize court was a -place of intolerable gloom, intolerable formality,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">282</span> -intolerable pain, but the public seemed to enjoy it. -The keeper swore Dan had tried to shoot him, and -the prisoner contested this. He did not deny that -he was the aggressor. The jury found him guilty. -What had he to say? He had nothing to say, but he -was deeply moved by the spectacle of the Rev. -Scroope standing up and testifying to his sobriety, -his honesty, his general good repute, and pleading for -a lenient sentence because he was a man of considerable -force of character, misguided no doubt, a little -unfortunate, and prone to recklessness.</p> - -<p>Said the judge, examining the papers of the indictment: -“I see there is a previous conviction—for -betting offences.”</p> - -<p>“That was three years ago, my lord. There has -been nothing of the kind since, my lord, of that I am -sure, quite sure.”</p> - -<p>Scroope showed none of his old time confident -aspect, he was perspiring and trembling. The clerk -of the assize leaned up and held a whispered colloquy -with the judge, who then addressed the rector.</p> - -<p>“Apparently he is still a betting agent. He gave a -false name and address, which was taken down by the -keeper on a piece of paper furnished by the prisoner. -Here it is, on one side the name of Peter Pope (Piper, -sir!) Piper: and on the other side this is written:</p> - -<p> -<i>3 o/c race. Pretty Dear, 5/- to win. J. Klopstock.</i><br /> -</p> - -<p>Are there any Klopstocks in your parish?”</p> - -<p>“Klopstock!” murmured the parson, “it is the -name of my cook.”</p> - -<p>What had the prisoner to say about that? The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">283</span> -prisoner had nothing to say, and he was sentenced to -twelve months’ imprisonment with hard labour.</p> - -<p>So Dan was taken away. He was a tough man, an -amenable man, and the mere rigours of the prison did -not unduly afflict him. His behaviour was good, and -he looked forward to gaining the maximum remission -of his sentence. Meg, his mother, went to see him -once, alone, but she did not repeat the visit. The prison -chaplain paid him special attention. He, too, was a -Scroope, a huge fellow, not long from Oxford, and -Pavey learned that he was related to the Thasper -rector. The new year came, February came, March -came, and Dan was afforded some privileges. His -singing in chapel was much admired, and occasionally -he was allowed to sing to the prisoners. April -came, May came, and then his son Martin was -drowned in a boating accident, on a lake, in a park. -The Thasper children had been taken there for a -holiday. On hearing it, Pavey sank limply to the -floor of his cell. The warders sat him up, but they -could make nothing of him, he was dazed, and he -could not speak. He was taken to the hospital wing. -“This man has had a stroke, he is gone dumb,” said -the doctor. On the following day he appeared to be -well enough, but still he could not speak. He went -about the ward doing hospital duty, dumb as a -ladder; he could not even mourn, but a jig kept -flickering through his voiceless mind:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">In a park there was a lake,</div> - <div class="verse">On the lake there was a boat,</div> - <div class="verse">In the boat there was a boy.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Hour after hour the stupid jingle flowed through<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">284</span> -his consciousness. Perhaps it kept him from going -mad, but it did not bring him back his speech, he was -dumb, dumb. And he remembered a man who had -been stricken deaf, and then blind—Scroope knew -him too, it was some man who had mocked God.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">In a park there was a lake,</div> - <div class="verse">On the lake there was a boat,</div> - <div class="verse">In the boat there was a boy.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>On the day of the funeral Pavey imagined that he -had been let out of prison; he dreamed that someone -had been kind and set him free for an hour or two -to bury his dead boy. He seemed to arrive at Thasper -when the ceremony was already begun, the -coffin was already in the church. Pavey knelt down -beside his mother. The rector intoned the office, the -child was taken to its grave. Dumb dreaming -Pavey turned his eyes from it. The day was too -bright for death, it was a stainless day. The wind -seemed to flow in soft streams, rolling the lilac -blooms. A small white feather, blown from a pigeon -on the church gable, whirled about like a butterfly. -“We give thee hearty thanks,” the priest was saying, -“for that it hath pleased thee to deliver this our -brother out of the miseries of this sinful world.” At -the end of it all Pavey kissed his mother, and saw -himself turn back to his prison. He went by the field -paths away to the railway junction. The country had -begun to look a little parched, for rain was wanted—vividly -he could see all this—but things were growing, -corn was thriving greenly, the beanfields smelled -sweet. A frill of yellow kilk and wild white carrot -spray lined every hedge. Cattle dreamed in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">285</span> -grass, the colt stretched itself unregarded in front of -its mother. Larks, wrens, yellow-hammers. There -were the great beech trees and the great hills, calm -and confident, overlooking Cobbs and Peter, Thasper -and Trinkel, Buzzlebury and Nuncton. He sees -the summer is coming on, he is going back to prison. -“Courage is vain,” he thinks, “we are like the grass -underfoot, a blade that excels is quickly shorn. In -this sort of a world the poor have no call to be proud, -they had only need be penitent.”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">In the park there was a lake,</div> - <div class="verse">On the lake ... boat,</div> - <div class="verse">In the boat....</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">286</span></p> - - - -<h2 id="Luxury"><i>Luxury</i></h2> - - -<p>Eight o’clock of a fine spring -morning in the hamlet of Kezzal Predy Peter, -great horses with chains clinking down the -road, and Alexander Finkle rising from his bed singing: -“O lah soh doh, soh lah me doh,” timing his -notes to the ching of his neighbour’s anvil. He boils -a cupful of water on an oil stove, his shaving brush -stands (where it always stands) upon the window-ledge -(“Soh lah soh do-o-o-oh, soh doh soh -la-a-a-ah!”) but as he addresses himself to his toilet -the clamour of the anvil ceases and then Finkle too -becomes silent, for the unresting cares of his life -begin again to afflict him.</p> - -<p>“This cottage is no good,” he mumbles, “and -I’m no good. Literature is no good when you live -too much on porridge. Your writing’s no good, sir, -you can’t get any glow out of oatmeal. Why did you -ever come here? It’s a hopeless job and you know -it!” Stropping his razor petulantly as if the soul of -that frustrating oatmeal lay there between the leather -and the blade, he continues: “But it isn’t the cottage, -it isn’t me, it isn’t the writing—it’s the privation. -I must give it up and get a job as a railway porter.”</p> - -<p>And indeed he was very impoverished, the living -he derived from his writings was meagre; the cottage -had many imperfections, both its rooms were gloomy, -and to obviate the inconvenience arising from its -defective roof he always slept downstairs.</p> - -<p>Two years ago he had been working for a wall-paper -manufacturer in Bethnal Green. He was not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">287</span> -poor then, not so very poor, he had the clothes he -stood up in (they were good clothes) and fifty pounds -in the bank besides. But although he had served the -wall-paper man for fifteen years that fifty pounds had -not been derived from clerking, he had earned it by -means of his hobby, a little knack of writing things -for provincial newspapers. On his thirty-first birthday -Finkle argued—for he had a habit of conducting -long and not unsatisfactory discussions between -himself and a self that apparently wasn’t him—that -what he could do reasonably well in his scanty leisure -could be multiplied exceedingly if he had time and -opportunity, lived in the country, somewhere where -he could go into a garden to smell the roses or whatever -was blooming and draw deep draughts of happiness, -think his profound thoughts and realize the -goodness of God, and then sit and read right through -some long and difficult book about Napoleon or -Mahomet. Bursting with literary ambition Finkle -had hesitated no longer: he could live on nothing -in the country—for a time. He had the fifty pounds, -he had saved it, it had taken him seven years, but he -had made it and saved it. He handed in his notice. -That was very astonishing to his master, who esteemed -him, but more astonishing to Finkle was the parting -gift of ten pounds which the master had given him. -The workmen, too, had collected more money for him, -and bought for him a clock, a monster, it weighed -twelve pounds and had a brass figure of Lohengrin -on the top, while the serene old messenger man who -cleaned the windows and bought surreptitious beer -for the clerks gave him a prescription for the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">288</span> -instantaneous relief of a painful stomach ailment. “It -might come in handy,” he had said. That was two -years ago, and now just think! He had bought -himself an inkpot of crystalline glass—a large one, -it held nearly half a pint—and two pens, one for red -ink and one for black, besides a quill for signing his -name with. Here he was at “Pretty Peter” and the -devil himself was in it! Nothing had ever been right, -the hamlet itself was poor. Like all places near the -chalk hills its roads were of flint, the church was of -flint, the farms and cots of flint with brick corners. -There was an old milestone outside his cot, he was -pleased with that, it gave the miles to London and the -miles to Winchester, it was nice to have a milestone -there like that—your very own.</p> - -<p>He finished shaving and threw open the cottage -door; the scent of wallflowers and lilac came to him -as sweet almost as a wedge of newly cut cake. The -may bloom on his hedge drooped over the branches -like crudded cream, and the dew in the gritty road -smelled of harsh dust in a way that was pleasant. -Well, if the cottage wasn’t much good, the bit of a -garden was all right.</p> - -<p>There was a rosebush too, a little vagrant in its -growth. He leaned over his garden gate; there was -no one in sight. He took out the fire shovel and -scooped up a clot of manure that lay in the road -adjacent to his cottage and trotted back to place it in a -little heap at the root of those scatter-brained roses, -pink and bulging, that never seemed to do very well -and yet were so satisfactory.</p> - -<p>“Nicish day,” remarked Finkle, lolling against his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">289</span> -doorpost, “but it’s always nice if you are doing a -good day’s work. The garden is all right, and literature -is all right, and life’s all right—only I live too -much on porridge. It isn’t the privation itself, it’s -the things privation makes a man do. It makes a -man do things he ought not want to do, it makes him -mean, it makes him feel mean, I tell you, and if he -feels mean and thinks mean he writes meanly, that’s -how it is.”</p> - -<p>He had written topical notes and articles, stories of -gay life (of which he knew nothing), of sport (of -which he knew less), a poem about “hope,” and -some cheerful pieces for a girls’ weekly paper. And -yet his outgoings still exceeded his income, painfully -and perversely after two years. It was terrifying. -He wanted success, he had come to conquer—not to -find what he <i>had</i> found. But he would be content -with encouragement now even if he did not win -success; it was absolutely necessary, he had not sold -a thing for six months, his public would forget him, -his connection would be gone.</p> - -<p>“There’s no use though,” mused Finkle, as he -scrutinized his worn boots, “in looking at things in -detail, that’s mean; a large view is the thing. Whatever -is isolated is bound to look alarming.”</p> - -<p>But he continued to lean against the doorpost in the -full blaze of the stark, almost gritty sunlight, thinking -mournfully until he heard the porridge in the saucepan -begin to bubble. Turning into the room he felt -giddy, and scarlet spots and other phantasmagoria -waved in the air before him.</p> - -<p>Without an appetite he swallowed the porridge and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">290</span> -ate some bread and cheese and watercress. Watercress, -at least, was plentiful there, for the little runnels -that came down from the big hills expanded in the -Predy Peter fields and in their shallow bottoms the -cress flourished.</p> - -<p>He finished his breakfast, cleared the things away, -and sat down to see if he could write, but it was in -vain—he could not write. He could think, but his -mind would embrace no subject, it just teetered about -with the objects within sight, the empty, disconsolate -grate, the pattern of the rug, and the black butterfly -that had hung dead upon the wall for so many months. -Then he thought of the books he intended to read -but could never procure, the books he had procured -but did not like, the books he had liked but was -already, so soon, forgetting. Smoking would have -helped and he wanted to smoke, but he could not -afford it now. If ever he had a real good windfall he -intended to buy a tub, a little tub it would have to be -of course, and he would fill it to the bung with -cigarettes, full to the bung, if it cost him pounds. -And he would help himself to one whenever he had -a mind to do so.</p> - -<p>“Bah, you fool!” he murmured, “you think you -have the whole world against you, that you are -fighting it, keeping up your end with heroism! Idiot! -What does it all amount to? You’ve withdrawn -yourself from the world, run away from it, and here -you sit making futile dabs at it, like a child sticking -pins into a pudding and wondering why nothing -happens. What <i>could</i> happen? What? The world -doesn’t know about you, or care, you are useless.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">291</span> -It isn’t aware of you any more than a chain of mountains -is aware of a gnat. And whose fault is that—is it -the mountains’ fault? Idiot! But I can’t starve and -I must go and get a job as a railway porter, it’s all -I’m fit for.”</p> - -<p>Two farmers paused outside Finkle’s garden and -began a solid conversation upon a topic that made him -feel hungry indeed. He listened, fascinated, though -he was scarcely aware of it.</p> - -<p>“Six-stone lambs,” said one, “are fetching three -pounds apiece.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!”</p> - -<p>“I shall fat some.”</p> - -<p>“Myself I don’t care for lamb, never did care.”</p> - -<p>“It’s good eating.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but I don’t care for it. Now we had a bit -of spare rib last night off an old pig. ’Twas cold, -you know, but beautiful. I said to my dame: ‘What -can mortal man want better than spare rib off an old -pig? Tender and white, ate like lard.’”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it’s good eating.”</p> - -<p>“Nor veal, I don’t like—nothing that’s young.”</p> - -<p>“Veal’s good eating.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t care for it, never did, it eats short to my -mind.”</p> - -<p>Then the school bell began to ring so loudly that -Finkle could hear no more, but his mind continued -to hover over the choice of lamb or veal or old pork -until he was angry. Why had he done this foolish -thing, thrown away his comfortable job, reasonable -food, ease of mind, friendship, pocket money, -tobacco? Even his girl had forgotten him. Why<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">292</span> -had he done this impudent thing, it was insanity -surely? But he knew that man has instinctive -reasons that transcend logic, what a parson would call -the superior reason of the heart.</p> - -<p>“I wanted a change, and I got it. Now I want -another change, but what shall I get? Chance and -change, they are the sweet features of existence. -Chance and change, and not too much prosperity. If I -were an idealist I could live from my hair upwards.”</p> - -<p>The two farmers separated. Finkle staring haplessly -from his window saw them go. Some schoolboys -were playing a game of marbles in the road -there. Another boy sat on the green bank quietly -singing, while one in spectacles knelt slyly behind -him trying to burn a hole in the singer’s breeches with -a magnifying glass. Finkle’s thoughts still hovered -over the flavours and satisfactions of veal and lamb -and pig until, like mother Hubbard, he turned and -opened his larder.</p> - -<p>There, to his surprise, he saw four bananas lying -on a saucer. Bought from a travelling hawker a -couple of days ago they had cost him threepence -halfpenny. And he had forgotten them! He could -not afford another luxury like that for a week at least, -and he stood looking at them, full of doubt. He -debated whether he should take one now, he would -still have one left for Wednesday, one for Thursday, -and one for Friday. But he thought he would not, -he had had his breakfast and he had not remembered -them. He grew suddenly and absurdly angry again. -That was the worst of poverty, not what it made you -endure, but what it made you <i>want</i> to endure. Why<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">293</span> -shouldn’t he eat a banana—why shouldn’t he eat all -of them? And yet bananas always seemed to him -such luxuriant, expensive things, so much peel, and -then two, or not more than three, delicious bites. -But if he fancied a banana—there it was. No, he did -not want to destroy the blasted thing! No reason at -all why he should not, but that was what continuous -hardship did for you, nothing could stop this miserable -feeling for economy now. If he had a thousand -pounds at this moment he knew he would be careful -about bananas and about butter and about sugar and -things like that; but he would never have a thousand -pounds, nobody had ever had it, it was impossible to -believe that anyone had ever had wholly and entirely -to themselves a thousand pounds. It could not be -believed. He was like a man dreaming that he had -the hangman’s noose around his neck; yet the drop -did not take place, it did not take place, and it would -not take place. But the noose was still there. He -picked up the bananas one by one, the four bananas, -the whole four. No other man in the world, surely, -had ever had four such fine bananas as that and not -wanted to eat them? O, why had such stupid, mean -scruples seized him again? It was disgusting and -ungenerous to himself, it made him feel mean, it <i>was</i> -mean! Rushing to his cottage door he cried: “Here -y’are!” to the playing schoolboys and flung two of -the bananas into the midst of them. Then he flung -another. He hesitated at the fourth, and tearing the -peel from it he crammed the fruit into his own mouth, -wolfing it down and gasping:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">294</span> “So perish all such -traitors.”</p> - -<p>When he had completely absorbed its savour, he -stared like a fool at the empty saucer. It was empty, -the bananas were gone, all four irrecoverably gone.</p> - -<p>“Damned pig!” cried Finkle.</p> - -<p>But then he sat down and wrote all this, just as it -appears.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">295</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" > -<img src="images/i_logo.jpg" alt="Publishers device" /> -</div> - - -<p class="center small"> -LONDON: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND GRIGGS (PRINTERS), LTD.<br /> -CHISWICK PRESS, TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class="transnote"> -<h3>Transcriber’s Note</h3> - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.</p> - -<p>Variations in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and -punctuation remains unchanged.</p> - -<p>The cover was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public -domain.</p> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK DOG***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 61016-h.htm or 61016-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/1/0/1/61016">http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/0/1/61016</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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