Unclay

by T. F. Powys

  Mr. Hayhoe, having nothing else to do—for his presence appeared to be entirely ignored in the great house—began to admire the pictures that were hung in the little room.

  In each picture the painter had portrayed the gay doings of the huntsmen and the hounds. In one, the hounds were shown in the final scene of pouncing upon the fox; while, in the next, the grand master of the ceremonies was holding up to the view of all who wished to see the brush of the defeated victim, having just cast the carcass to the dogs. The fine gentleman held a large whip in one hand and the tail in another. A dog looked up at him with holy veneration. In the third picture there was shown a finely attired huntsman, well mounted, whose steed was in the very act and climax of leaping over a five-barred gate.

  Mr. Hayhoe shook his head at that picture. All art, he believed, should be inspired by the love of truth, and although he was well aware that the poets lie, he had hoped that painters followed the truth more nearly.

  “That fine gentleman in the red coat,” murmured Mr. Hayhoe, as he studied the picture, “should have been portrayed, not flying over a gate, but humbly—though perhaps unsuccessfully—trying to open one. For, alas, the monstrous sin of pride is fed by all untrue representation.”

  After looking at the pictures, Mr. Hayhoe took the liberty—an extreme one, it seemed, in that house—of taking a chair, and sitting himself down, he brought out from his pocket a book that he opened at these words: “‘This must be a most inconvenient sitting-room for the evening in summer: the windows are full west.”

  Mr. Hayhoe looked at the windows, and shook his head. He thought the room rather pleasant. He read on, and forgot where he was.

  XLVI

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  * * *

  Lord Bullman Walks to the Window

  Lord Bullman had missed his vocation. He would have made, had he been born in another sphere of life, a very good rural policeman.

  He knew a thief by his nose. And if there happened to be any mystery in a case of robbery, he knew himself as the man to unravel it, and to detect the miscreant. Ever since the Sunday suit of clothes had been stolen from the dead man in Merly Wood, Lord Bullman had never grown tired of telling his friends that, though it might not be easy to obtain sufficient evidence to convict, yet he felt sure that the thief resided in Dodder, and that his Christian name was John.

  “His nose proclaims his guilt,” Lord Bullman observed sternly to his lady after lunch, upon the day when the gardens were open to the public. “Yes, his nose is his ruin,” said my lord in a louder tone; “if a man steals one thing he will steal another; this John has discovered old money. I have found out all about it. Card of Tadnol has come before the bench exactly nine times, charged with lying dead drunk in the streets of Maidenbridge. Card is John’s landlord, and receives old Roman gold as his rent. John’s nose has stolen it.”

  Lady Bullman sneezed.

  Lord Bullman jumped from his chair. He was always unlucky, even in those great rooms. If his wife caught a cold, he always—though he kept as far off her as he could—managed to catch it too. He thought he felt his throat itch—that was how his colds always began. Lord Bullman walked angrily to the window. Looking out of it, he beheld his lordly grounds filled with strange people. He had thought only a few would come, but the place was overrun by them. Some moved upon the lawns, some in the paths; the public was everywhere.

  “What fool was it,” shouted Lord Bullman, in anger, “who advised the opening of other people’s gardens to the vulgar?”

  “I believe it was the King,” murmured Lady Bullman.

  “Poor misguided innocent,” answered her husband, “he knows no better. I think I shall emigrate,” said Lord Bullman, very dejectedly, looking sadly into his gardens. “I think I shall become a pilgrim father and emigrate if this ever happens again.”

  “But where will you go to?” inquired Lady Bullman, with a smile and a little cough.

  “To the cannibal islands,” replied he, “for there, surely, it would be easy to empty a nobleman’s gardens of the rude populace.”

  Lady Bullman yawned.

  There was a knock at the door, and the servant who opened it observed in a careless tone that Mr. Hayhoe, the curate of Dodder, awaited his Lordship’s pleasure in the tenants’ parlour.

  “How long has he been there?” inquired the master.

  “About an hour, my lord,” replied the man.

  Lord Bullman proceeded at once to the little room.

  “I have sent for you, Mr. Hayhoe,” he said, after coldly greeting his guest, who rose with a happy sigh from his chair, and thrust a book into his pocket, “to tell you that I have heard stories about you. No, do not reply”—for Mr. Hayhoe was about to say something—“I am unfortunately aware that you know Daisy Huddy too intimately, and surely it is not proper that I should present the living of Dodder to a carnal sinner? I myself have seen you with her, and I am told that Daisy is a wicked young woman.”

  “My lord,” answered Mr. Hayhoe calmly, “your informant has been mistaken. This young woman, through the grace of Jane, is no longer a sinner. She has taken the scarlet thread from the window, and would have made me a waistcoat of it, only Winnie asked for it first. I merely visit the cottage to read books aloud.”

  “I trust that one of those books is the Bible?” exclaimed Lord Bullman.

  “Alas! no,” replied Mr. Hayhoe, with a blush, “for after I was unlucky enough to read Joshua to Daisy, I have not ventured upon anything else in those holy pages. I then received a sad lesson that I have taken very deeply to heart, and although the Roman church is very much in the wrong for not allowing their priests to marry—for no man can ever get to heaven without the help of a Priscilla—yet in the matter of Bible reading, the older Church does show more wisdom than we. Daisy knows all about Rosings.”

  “Then you have certainly corrupted her,” cried Lord Bullman.

  “I have done my best to make her happy,” said Mr. Hayhoe.

  “In a country way,” answered Lord Bullman, with a short cough.

  Lord Bullman moved a chair; he opened the door to see that there was no one behind it, and blew his nose. He scratched his ear, and buttoned his coat. He stood first on one leg and then on another, as if he wished to show his fine trousers. Then he stepped near to his guest.

  “You may still keep my favour,” he observed, in a low tone, “and be as secure and safe in your benefice as any fox upon Madder Hill when hunting ends. I presume that you believe all laws to be right and just that have been made in Christian times?”

  “When they are kind ones and are useful to mankind,” replied Mr. Hayhoe.

  Lord Bullman struck his knee with his hand.

  “There is no kinder or more useful law,” he cried, “than the one that gives the right to the lord of the manor to know carnally, within his barony, every maid that is about to be married. But, alas, like so many of our best things”—Lord Bullman took out his gold watch—“this law is said to have been made first in Germany, though I can assure you that we in England were soon converted to it.”

  Mr. Hayhoe smiled.

  “I am aware,” continued Lord Bullman, “that at first a little secrecy ought to be used in re-establishing this ancient right, for the opinions of our bench of Bishops, who are lords too, are inclined to be a little uncertain, as well as somewhat contradictory, in matters of sound legislation. Those who are undecided what to write in the Church prayer-book are not likely to understand the proper and rightful desires of the first estate. Alas! these bishops—some of whom are, I suppose, gentlemen—may be unaware that this law, Jus Primæ Noctis, was blessed and sanctified for many ages by the Holy Church.”

  “Not by mine,” said Mr. Hayhoe, stoutly.

  “But surely, sir, you will not deny,” observed Lord Bullman, “that here in England there is one law for the poor and another for the rich
?”

  “I know it, to my own sorrow,” replied Mr. Hayhoe.

  Lord Bullman held himself very proudly.

  “A great baron,” he exclaimed, “has the right to do with his whole body what a mere plebeian may only accomplish with his smallest finger. You must surely be aware, Mr. Hayhoe—as you have been, I believe, a student of history—that in this country, at least, the ways of the rich and of the great have always been the same. They slay, they ravish, they take large manors with the sword, they build churches and brew beer, they make kings and then despoil their kingdoms, and when all that is done, they begin at the beginning again, as we all have to do, and learn to plant cabbages. They rob when they can, they caper when the Guards’ band plays, they see their pictures in the papers attending the races in Dublin, they suffer from the gout, and would willingly sell all their woods for one friendly girl.

  “And what, Mr. Hayhoe, is the good of a landowner residing upon his own lands, if he is never permitted to eat of the first and best fruits that grow upon them? I am neither a wine-bibber nor a glutton, but I like to have what is my due.—You are a philosopher, Mr. Hayhoe?”

  “Alas! no,” replied Mr. Hayhoe, “I am only a Christian.”

  “All the great teachers of philosophy, as well as the creators of religion,” cried Lord Bullman, “tell us that we ought to make happiness, both here and hereafter, the chief aim of our existence, so that each one of us might have restored to him—or to her—the original and innocent joy of life that was lost in the fall of man. I believe I can tell a thief as well as another when I see one. The Devil is the worst of them; ’twas he who put into the mind of the saintly Paul the thought that a man must not enjoy himself in the right and lawful manner with a woman, and so stole our pleasures.”

  “Marriage is commended by Saint Paul and instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency,” replied Mr. Hayhoe.

  “’Twas certainly my innocence that caused me to wed Lady Bullman,” said my lord. “Surely you must be aware, Mr. Hayhoe, that, as lay Rector of Dodder, and therefore your superior in office, all obedience—as Saint Peter wisely said—must be rendered to me? Your duty, therefore, if you wish to have the living of Dodder, is as clear as the day—but I will now tell you what that duty is.

  “A young girl, whose name is Susie Dawe, and who lives upon my estate, is going to be married tomorrow. I have heard a very good account of her from Mr. Pix. She is obedient to her parent, and attends church every Sunday, and, as far as my information goes, she has never run the streets with the boys. I am told, too, that she is very beautiful, and if she answers one question to my satisfaction, we shall be happy. Surely it is not possible that so much loveliness and good behaviour should all go to Farmer Mere, who fastens his gates with barbed wire, and once, upon my sure knowledge, aimed his gun at a fox that was carrying off a prize turkey.

  “Mere shall not have all of Susie. It is my duty to restore a proper custom, that has given much pleasure in the past, to its former position. I command and desire that pretty Susie be brought to my bed tonight at a quarter past eleven, for that is the hour, when I stay in the country, that I retire to rest. I assure you that I am able and willing to fulfil this law.”

  “I do not doubt your word, my lord,” answered Mr. Hayhoe, “though I am sorry that you have reminded me of this unlucky wedding, for I do not like to think of it. God pardon me for saying so, but I believe that Mr. Mere is a wicked and a cruel man. My wife and I have both prayed to God to frustrate this wedding.”

  “Oh, Mr. Hayhoe,” cried Lord Bullman, “what has a poor clergyman to do with praying to God in such a manner? and if you pray at all, ’tis for your fee you should ask. You will be sure to find me a better paymaster than Farmer Mere. Do but send Susie to me as the guest of my housekeeper, and the living of Dodder is your own.”

  Mr. Hayhoe was about to reply to my lord’s request when a knock came at the door, and a servant entered holding a coin in his hand.

  “Mrs. Mitton,” said the man hurriedly, “who keeps the gate open for the populace between the hours of one and six, and is obliged to let any one in who pays a shilling, has received this piece of money from a man who also brought with him a little girl, wearing a pink frock, with bare legs, who shakes her curls naughtily.”

  “And the man?” inquired Lord Bullman eagerly, “did Mrs. Mitton notice his features?”

  “He pulled his hat over his face,” replied the servant, “but the girl had the sauciest look that ever Mrs. Mitton had seen.”

  “Do you know this child?” inquired my lord, turning to Mr. Hayhoe.

  “Oh yes,” answered Mr. Hayhoe, gladly. “She is Winnie Huddy, and she came with John Death in Mr. Balliboy’s car.”

  Mr. Hayhoe would have added more, only at that moment another person pushed himself into the company. This was none other than Mr. Mitton himself—a short man, but very stout—who brought with him the grandest air of importance.

  “The proletariat are behaving themselves, I trust?” asked Lord Bullman, anxiously, “and are keeping to the paths, and have read the notices, about banana skins and sandwich paper?”

  Mr. Mitton was unable to reply at once. He was a Baptist and believed in the Devil, and would often talk with Mr. Pix about the sins of the world and of the monstrous immorality of a coloured caterpillar who ate the currant bushes. He had walked faster than was his wont and panted with anger.

  Lord Bullman noticed his condition with great concern. He had never seen Mitton more put out, and although he was aware that this high summer tide of the rabble was likely to trouble him, yet the head-gardener’s demeanour showed clearly that something more than usually outrageous must have happened.

  “A girl has come in,” Mr. Mitton exclaimed, as soon as he was able to speak, “who is walking the grounds with a man who is not her husband. I heard him call her Winnie, and she has just been saying that the noble loggia your lordship has built is no better than Farmer Mere’s cowhouse. She called the man Johnnie.”

  Mr. Mitton clenched his fist.

  “It’s my belief,” he shouted, “that this man is Satan, and that he has climbed into these gardens over the wall. He has come to steal your lordship’s plums to give to the young angels.”

  “‘Young devils,’ you ought to say,” observed Mr. Hayhoe.

  Mr. Mitton did not heed the interruption.

  “And how do you account for this girl’s boldness?” inquired Lord Bullman of his gardener.

  “My wife says,” replied Mr. Mitton, with a loud groan, “that Winnie never paid for her pink frock.”

  “Of course she didn’t,” cried Mr. Hayhoe. “It was Mr. Solly who gave it to her.”

  Mr. Hayhoe approached the head-gardener.

  “Mrs. Mitton,” he said happily, “has taken quite a wrong view of the matter. Little Winnie is the saviour of her sex. She is as pretty as the first celandine, and has taken a sad reproach from womankind. She has converted an old infidel in such matters—Mr. Solly—to the true religion. Before he knew Winnie, Mr. Solly saw all women as turnips, but now that Winnie has shown him his error by her loving and modest conduct, he has promised to marry her.”

  “Tell me when?” cried Lord Bullman eagerly.

  “In about nine years’ time,” replied Mr. Hayhoe.

  Lord Bullman sighed.

  “I will send for the police,” he exclaimed. “We will shut the gardens to all strange people. Whether this John is really the Devil, as Mitton says, I do not know, but I am certain that he is a thief, and before we are aware of what he is up to, he may rob us of our very lives.”

  “We will catch him in the act,” cried Mr. Mitton. “We will go, my lord, and arrest him at once.”

  “Only let me fetch my hat first,” exclaimed Lord Bullman excitedly.

  XLVII

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  * * *

  A Bed of Bego
nias

  On their way to the part of the grounds where John Death had been seen with Winnie Huddy, Lord Bullman and his company, guided by Mr. Mitton, arrived at a tall box-hedge, upon the other side of which was a smooth green lawn, the beauty of which an unseen person was extolling.

  Lord Bullman stopped to listen.

  In all the wide world there is no flattery like the flattery of an old servant. An old and faithful servant only praises what he loves, and that for no gain or interest for himself. His love is reverence, and his reverence is love. He retains nothing in his heart to the detriment of his master; he remembers only the happy hours that he spent when in office, the joyful days when he poured wine into my lord’s cup.

  “It is here,” cried the voice, that Mr. Hayhoe recognized as Mr. Titball’s, “that my lady, of a summer evening, makes music with her guitar, and my lord composes sonnets to sleep and happiness. How well I remember when both these noble personages returned from the grand tour! The rude peasants were at harvest, and my lord asked me how I did, and what wine there was in the cellar. My lady called for tea.”

  Then there came a deep sigh from behind the hedge.

  “Upon this fair lawn,” continued Mr. Titball, as though his feelings almost mastered his tongue, “acts and frolics are done that would surprise the common people to witness. Under the shadow of yonder great plane tree Mary and Rupert dance and toy. Here, as in heaven itself, is the holy place of beauty, where the best manners in the country are bred and born. For twenty generations noble feet have trod these gravel paths and green pastures. Even the small singing birds have learned to bow to the young ladies, and the finest peacock is not more fine than my lord.”