by T. F. Powys
Miss Pettifer gasped. What with that sheep’s-bell, the wicked story-book, a talked-to foot, and a disbelieving labourer who paid his debts, she feared that not the Church alone, but all that part of the country, needed a reformation. Miss Pettifer stood upright; she had tried to peep under the table, but, being unable to do so, she stood up stiffly.
Without taking the very least notice of what Mr. Tucker had said, she spoke out with her usual boldness of manner.
‘Will you be so kind,’ she said, ‘to tell your ill-mannered servant girl to take a card at once to her master when a caller offers her one.’
A slight cloud of trouble crossed Mr. Tucker’s brow, but it soon cleared.
‘Perhaps they were playing,’ he said lightly, rubbing his bald head as if he meant to rub his last spoken word, like a salve, well into it.
‘Order them not to play,’ said Miss Pettifer.
Mr. Tucker’s little cloud came again, but he merely said: ‘I never see them, so how can I tell them anything like that.’
‘What?’ shouted Miss Pettifer, forgetting for the moment the proper manners of a lady.
‘I see their mothers sometimes in the village,’ answered the gentleman calmly.
‘Who gives orders, then?’ inquired Miss Pettifer.
‘Orders for what?’ Mr. Tucker asked in his turn.
‘To work,’ called out the lady.
Mr. Tucker smiled, and his hand touched the inner pocket that held the book.
‘Oh, all that goes on, of course,’ he said. ‘I only have to put my hand through the door and ring the bell Shepherd Squibb gave me, and then if I wait a little, there’s always something to eat and drink in the dining-room; and once a month the baker’s book drops through the door, and I put a cheque into it. If you mean by orders the ringing of my bell, I suppose I do give them. But even without ringing my bell—and I often forget it—the girls drop a piece of paper through the door, with “tea” or “breakfast” written upon it, and with “Please do come quickly, sir, or the potatoes will be cold,” written below.
‘Oh yes, all things go on,’ said Mr. Tucker, who appeared to forget that Miss Pettifer was there, and looked out of the window as though for confirmation of the sentiment that he had uttered. ‘There are those trees again bursting into leaf; no one rang a bell to them to say that summer was near, and the buds of Solly’s pinks will soon be bursting again.’
Mr. Tucker sighed. He put his hand into his pocket and touched his book, as if he thought at that moment of what one of the wicked characters in his book had been saying. ‘You old grumbler, I know what you’ve been saying; yes, yes, I know. These new leaves that are now being born will soon die; they will fall when the autumn comes, and rot in the ground. But they will dance first, they will dance in the air as they fall, and that will be the leaves’ play-time.’
Mr. Thomas Tucker smiled joyfully. A group of children just released from school crowded into the garden and rushed to the swings. They were soon high in the air.
Mr. Tucker turned to Miss Pettifer and held up a threatening hand; the lady stepped back. ‘Take care that you do not interrupt their playing,’ he said. ‘For whoever adds one tittle to the work of the world, or prevents one child from playing, commits the sin that can never be pardoned.’
Miss Pettifer walked to her car in a very ill humour. She passed the swings. One little girl, with her hair and clothes blown up, swung exactly above Miss Pettifer as she went by. She looked back. The child was high in the air again. Miss Pettifer more than half hoped that Mr. Tucker, who no doubt, as soon as her back was turned, had taken out his book and read something nasty, would have run out with the nasty thing quick in his mind to watch the girls play. But Mr. Thomas Tucker’s blind was drawn down.
Miss Pettifer drove to Madder. Though Dodderdown is near to Madder, one has to take a rather wide circuit to reach there by road. Birds twittered in the hedges and hopped merrily from twig to twig, and were all happy together, because it was nesting time. All the larks in the fields sang to Miss Pettifer from the sky, and the first swallow flew by on its way to Farmer Barfoot’s barn.
Miss Pettifer heard the birds sing. She believed they were all either lazy or wanton, either singing or amusing themselves together. She blew her horn loudly every moment, hoping to become a Mr. Bugby to the birds, and frighten them to work or die. Near to Boston Villa, Miss Pettifer saw a sight that shocked her more than the mere singing of the birds. A boy, with curly hair and a round rosy face, was holding a girl against the villa gate and kissing her. And what appeared to Miss Pettifer to be the worst of it was that the boy counted his kisses. ‘It’s your birthday, Polly,’ Miss Pettifer heard Fred say.
She almost stopped the car going by.
‘But I’m not a hundred,’ said Polly; ‘and you should have stopped doing it at seventeen.’
Fred began again. ‘I won’t make a mistake this time,’ he said.
Miss Pettifer stopped her car in front of Mr. Billy’s shop. A girl came out with a packet of margarine in her hand. The girl was pretty and gentle; she also looked hard-working and quiet.
Miss Pettifer was a lady of action; she left her car and followed the girl.
Miss Pettifer had come to Madder hungry for a country servant. She couldn’t bite Mrs. Crocker so well in the mornings unless the bacon was nicely done; and a girl who carried margarine to her own home would, no doubt, fatten upon it in service.
Maud’s heart throbbed when she agreed with Miss Pettifer to enter her service.
Maud resolved to work her best, because in everything that she meant to do at the rectory, the grand promise of her life would be brought the nearer. She knew that there would have to be a man in it before her baby came; and to work well for Miss Pettifer would be a sure road to attracting some man or other, and then, of course, there would soon be the tiny one.
No one had come yet, no man to suit her; but that was because she rarely went out of the cottage dressed up to say she wanted one. Maud rarely went out, because she did not like to pass Mr. Bugby, who was always waiting for her. But it would be so easy to say now to every bachelor concerned that she was quite ready when she lived at the rectory. That would happen, of course, but now there was all the routine of hard housework before her. There would be the early-morning rising when Farmer Barfoot’s cocks crew, as they always did—so the farmer used to say—louder than any others to wake up Betty, who preferred bed to movement. There would be Miss Pettifer’s breakfast, and a fine to-do first in cleaning the kitchen grate, and all the other acts of fetching and arranging. So little every one of them, and yet so important; and all meaning to Maud the necessary experience that she wanted before the coming of her little lord and saviour. She would dress in black in the afternoons, and with her work so well forward, as a good girl would have it, she might obtain permission to run home for an hour or two, to see what a mess her mother would be in.
On Sundays she would show herself to the world, walking perhaps with Polly when Fred was with Farmer Barfoot’s sheep, or else going with her mother across the downs to hear Mr. Tucker preach in his own village. In this way Maud saw her future.
Miss Pettifer left the Chick cottage in fine favour, as she supposed, with God, who had no doubt, with the advice of His Son, recommended Maud on earth to do the work that He hoped to do Himself in Heaven for the mistress of His choice, Miss Pettifer. All was now arranged as the lady hoped it would be, both here and hereafter. Maud Chick was to have but half the wages that another such a one as Lily Parsons would have wanted. Miss Pettifer, whose love of nature never went beyond the word ‘beautiful’—a word that she applied to boot-blacking as well as to daisies—hardly gave a glance at the Madder field that she walked through to reach her car again.
Near to her car a man was standing. The man was looking at the car in a serious manner, as one would look who had a deep doubt in his mind.
‘They running cars bain’t easy to know about,’ remarked Mr. Pim, touching his hat to the lady.
Miss Pettifer, having caught a servant in the fields of Madder, didn’t mind speaking to this labourer. She did not know him as ‘Pim.’
‘Oh, they are very intricate,’ she said. ‘But I expect you understand a mowing machine?’
Mr. Pim shook his head.
‘A steam tractor, then?’
‘No,’ said Pim.
‘Thik intricate——’ Mr. Pim had liked the word. He moved his face closer to that of Miss Pettifer, who was now starting the car. ‘Were en thik intricate, that, wi’ poor Annie a-helping, did get a boy who be named Fred?’
Mr. Pim looked about him; there was no car there, and his question was still unanswered.
Chapter xiii
‘GO TO BOSTON’
UPON this same day that Miss Pettifer came to Madder, Mr. Solly consulted, as was his wont, the Americans before he went out. He had a high opinion of their sagacity and wisdom, and their proneness to prophecy. Though the history of America didn’t actually say so, Solly firmly believed that they, the whole race of Americans, knew all about God’s Madder and his aunt’s vision, and had, in a kind sort of way, taken the place of his good aunt when she died, and were always ready to give him wise advice as she used to do.
Since Mr. Bugby’s arrival no sign or wonder had been vouchsafed to Madder; although Solly had looked up at the hill every morning, and had often climbed to the top of it.
The Americans, too, had expressed no excitement or expectation of sad future happenings. They had merely spoken of cultivation—and Solly was always digging in his garden—and of the advantages of soil and climate. Seeing how peaceful and quiet all things were become, Mr. Solly had grown accustomed to watch the little children in Madder grow into big children, and the big children into young men and women.
But now, upon the day we are speaking of, America had let loose upon Solly a dire warning, for Solly’s text for the day happened to be, ‘The men lay in rifle pits or shallow ditches, watching opportunity to kill.’
Mr. Solly walked in Madder deeply considering what he had read. He looked up at the hill, hoping to see a sign. Suddenly he found himself lying upon his back in a ditch. A car had darted past, and Solly, in order to save himself from being run over, had fallen into the ditch. Some one must have watched for this opportunity to kill him.
Mr. Solly climbed out of the ditch, shaken though unhurt. He wondered whether the Americans had really intended to warn him of this accident to himself. On the whole, he thought that they hadn’t; though they might have wished to show him by this misadventure that their warnings must be taken very seriously.
In order to calm his nerves a little, Mr. Solly returned to Gift Cottage, and stood inside his own gate looking at Madder hill. He hadn’t remained there for more than a few moments before he heard his Aunt Crocker speak to him. Her voice appeared to come from the deserted corner of the garden where nothing was planted. She told Solly to go to the Americans, who would show him to whom God’s gift would be given.
Solly was by nature obedient; no voice ever came from the kind dead but he obeyed it.
He went indoors at once and opened the book. The first words he read were, ‘Go to Boston.’ Mr. Solly knew at once where the Americans meant him to go; for he had heard sometimes whispers and other little sounds coming from the front room of the unfinished residence called Boston Villa, when he went that way.
He now set out at once to go to Boston. He crossed the stepping-stones, entered the gate, and stood beside the house wall. The Americans always spoke the truth—some one was there. Solly’s thoughts and feelings were grown quiet and very still.
‘I shall know now,’ he whispered to himself, ‘who is to receive the gift that God promised Aunt Crocker to give to Madder.’
Solly listened. He recognised Polly Wimple’s voice.
‘If you throw up your cap so high again, Fred, in those wide fields, you will lose it,’ Solly heard the girl say.
‘I threw it up into the sky to show the sheep how much I love ’ee, Poll.’
‘One of these days an angel will catch an’ keep en.’
Solly heard a scuffle and a kiss, and then other little sounds.
‘You’ve only six different sorts of clothes on, Polly.’
‘Though thee did tickle I wi’ ’ee’s counting, thik sum bain’t all right. Thee best go to school again, Fred.’
‘I best begin again; so do ’ee bide quiet and not riggle, Polly.’
‘Do ’ee leave I alone; I be got so hot an’ funny.’
‘Seven,’ said Fred.
Mr. Solly peeped through the window. Fred Pim was holding Polly Wimple in his arms. They were alone. Solly went into the lanes again, and looked up at Madder hill. Although he had seen to whom the gift was to be given, he felt sad; because, perhaps, he did not yet know what the gift was to be. He wished to go to a lonely place, where God had once been, and think about Him. If he climbed Madder hill, he might even find the bush burning again and God Himself there.
As Mr. Solly climbed Madder hill he wondered why he felt sad.
‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘when he saw those two so happy at Boston, he was reminded of pretty Nancy.’
He couldn’t help wishing that he had taken her to Boston instead of the heath.
‘No, Solly,’ he said sternly, looking hard at a large white stone. ‘No more of that, Solly. Of course every one knows that we all want to be loved and to be happy. They are happy now, and I hope the gift will not disappoint them. But it must be good, because it’s His gift, and I ought to thank the Americans for telling me His secret.’
As Solly climbed higher a dank mist surrounded him, and he felt more than ever sorrowful.
He reached the top of the hill and found himself near to the bush that had once burned. The bush was not on fire. All was as usual, except that a black rabbit ran out of the bush, stood upon its hind legs, and looked at Solly.
Solly regarded mournfully the green summit of the hill. It was that day as it had been yesterday, and as it would be to-morrow. Solly listened. Distant sounds have a peculiar value for the ear of a solitary man upon a lonely hill. The trotting of a horse even can be ominous. Solly now heard a sound as distant and as fateful as that had been; he heard the waves of the sea. Mrs. Crocker had never loved the sea; she used to say it was unkind and cruel, and once when two tiny boys were drowned at Weyminster, she said sadly, ‘Oh, what a wicked monster the sea is!’
Mr. Solly heard the sea now. He felt extremely lonely; he felt as though Madder hill had grown higher since he had gone to Boston. He felt it almost impossible that Gift Cottage could be so near in the valley, with the history of America resting upon the table, and all so tidy in the room just as he had left it.
Mr. Solly turned suddenly, and the hair of his head stood nearly upright. He stared at the thorn-bush, and was very much startled by hearing a voice behind it. ‘Could God be still waiting about,’ thought Solly, ‘even though His cloud was gone?’ The black rabbit had certainly run out of the bush as though something had frightened it. Was that something God? Mr. Solly knew that no being of clay could see God and live. He very much wished to see his pinks flower again; he had separated the old plants and set a whole new border with them. So long as God had stayed in the vision of his aunt, Solly had felt safe enough; for without God being somewhere no life could live, not even the sun that Bugby had once said He had frightened into shining.
Solly hadn’t been round the bush to see who was there. He had remained only upon the one side all the time that he had been upon the hill. Mr. Solly began moving slowly away, but backwards. He felt it proper to show respect to such a king who might be there, and as he walked he prayed that God would be kind to him, and remain hidden because of the pinks.
Solly stopped. Whoever it was behind the bush now spoke loudly as though grieved and astonished.
Mr. Solly was comforted; he knew he would see the pinks again. There was no mistaking that voice, nor the subject about which it was speaking, that
was, Solly knew, one of the wicked stories in Mr. Thomas Tucker’s story-book.
Solly went behind the bush and found Mr. Tucker.
‘I hope you haven’t been frightened by anything?’ inquired Solly.
Mr. Tucker hastily shut his book and hid it away.
‘I lost my way,’ replied Mr. Tucker, ‘in the thick mist.’
‘Reading?’ said Solly.
Mr. Tucker touched his pocket guiltily.
‘You didn’t see the black rabbit?’ asked Solly.
‘No,’ said Mr. Tucker, shaking his head and looking very seriously at his hat, that he had set upon his knee as though to crown that part of him a priest. ‘No, I have come straight from Dodderdown, and I have only seen Susy. It is her birthday, and I carried a present of a brush and pan to her, for I don’t believe she has ever tried to clean the church for fifteen years and more.’
‘Susy often opens the door and goes in,’ said Solly.
‘But she never sweeps or dusts anything there.’
Though Mr. Tucker made this last remark in a very sad tone of voice, the next moment he was happy again.
‘All these years I have hoped,’ he said, ‘that as Susy never sweeps or dusts in there, she must go in to play some game or other; the altar rails are often finger-marked, so perhaps she vaults them.’ Mr. Tucker rubbed his hands happily. His hat fell from his knee and began to roll down the hill. Solly caught it and returned it to its owner.
‘I don’t like to bother Susy with questions,’ said Mr, Tucker, putting on his hat and rising from the ground, ‘so I sweep the church myself sometimes, just to keep Eva Billy from fault-finding.’
Mr. Tucker and Solly went down the hill together. At the bottom, near to the little brook, they parted company. Mr. Tucker walked towards Dodderdown, and Solly stood for a moment or two as though uncertain which way to take.
After all his excitement, and his wonderful fears of that afternoon, Solly wished at this moment for a little simple conversation about country affairs. He looked towards the meadow gate, hoping to see the same company that still sometimes came together there before the inn opened. He was not disappointed in his hopes; a group of men stood by the gate.
