by T. F. Powys
The ways of life go a little crookedly at Madder sometimes, as they do elsewhere in the world. Perhaps the season of the year was responsible, and certainly one might as well blame the autumn as blame Mr. Bugby for what happened.
For so long a time had Mr. Bugby remained modest and thoughtful with the brandy bottle, where the black glove had been: as modest nearly as Susy with her broom, though the brandy bottle was certainly the more used. Mr. Bugby’s mystery, like Susy’s sweeping out the church, had lapsed a little. For whether it was Mr. Pim’s song, or Farmer Barfoot’s conversations with his Betty, or whether, out of kindness, he merely waited for ‘The Silent Woman’ to deal with Mrs. Bugby as it had dealt with those others, or whatever else it might have been, Mr. Bugby had so far lived very harmlessly in Madder. But it is nice for us to remember here that a good hangman never forgets his trade. Though years may pass by without his call coming, he will be sure to be as ready with the noose as we—according to John Baxter—deserve, and are ready to be hanged. It was a dull and misty day. So misty was it, that Mr. Solly couldn’t even see Madder hill from the window of Gift Cottage.
Mr. Bugby sat, as his wont was these days, by the side of the bar table, and near to the brandy bottle. He was looking meditatively at his wife, who was washing out the mugs.
Mr. Bugby stroked his chin, and regarded Mrs. Bugby with the same kind of troubled frown that a scientific gentleman might give way to, when making an important experiment that wasn’t acting as it ought. Mr. Bugby saw his wife in the same way, as if she were a large beetle upon the wall of a room that was filled with sulphur fumes, only to see how long the beetle liked them, and how soon it would fall upon its back and die. That ‘The Silent Woman,’ with its history of wife-killing, hadn’t completed its duties by killing her, whom Mr. Bugby had brought to Madder for that very reason, just as the man of science had carried the poor beetle to be suffocated, and saw it still creep, was indeed a sufficient reason to give our poor landlord a troubled expression of countenance when he looked at his victim.
But though not dead yet, Mrs. Bugby looked withered; the house had done that much for her, or else the years. She appeared a little frightened too, as was natural, with Mr. Bugby as her husband.
Whenever Mrs. Bugby did anything inside or outside ‘The Silent Woman,’ she was always conscious that some one or other was looking at her. If it wasn’t Mr. Bugby indoors, it was Mrs. Chick out of doors, who would always jump as though startled when she saw Mrs. Bugby by the well or fetching sticks for the fire, as if she thought it was Mrs. Bugby’s ghost that she saw.
‘I do bide here and grow religious,’ remarked Mr. Bugby, whose sober reflections now gave way to utterance as directed to the row of wiped mugs.
‘But you do go to Weyminster sometimes,’ said Mrs. Bugby, as though to cast a hopeful doubt upon this sorrowful state of her husband’s mind.
‘I be religious,’ said Mr. Bugby, taking no notice of her kindness, ‘an’ good for nothing.’
‘You’ve been to Lily and they tothers at Weyminster, and done what you’ve been minded.’
‘In a holy way,’ said Mr. Bugby, ‘I did a-do it.’
‘But you be always watching of Maud Chick when she do run home across meadow ground.’
‘Religiously,’ said Mr. Bugby, ‘until this very day.’
Mr. Bugby raised his glass to his lips. He put the glass down empty and smiled. He was evidently trying to overcome—being more noble-minded than holy Willie, who was a villain as well as a hypocrite—this sad tendency that he had found in himself towards religion. He drank a little more brandy, and then said to his wife, as if he felt how far off she was from doing the right thing, ‘But thee bain’t stiffened out nor rotted under dirt.’
Mrs. Bugby retired from the bar crying. Something that moved in the air of that dull autumn day must at that moment have addressed itself to Mr. Bugby, for he left his place by the table and, moving heavily to the window, looked out.
While Mr. Bugby regarded the prospect that was around the inn, a large bird flew by.
Mr. Bugby watched the bird. Although he wasn’t in the least interested in either the habits or manners of birds, this one appeared to be bringing a message to him, that wasn’t religious. The bird circled the inn, and every time it went by the window it twisted its long black neck a little, and peeped in at Mr. Bugby.
‘’Tisn’t likely,’ said Mr. Bugby to himself, when the bird was flown seawards, ‘that there be much religion in they innocent birds.’
Mr. Bugby took up his cap that hung upon a nail behind the bar parlour door.
‘If thee bain’t a-drowning, best to mind inn,’ he called out to Mrs. Bugby, who was leaning with her elbows upon one of the barrels of beer and still crying, ‘for I be going to Dodderdown.’
Chapter xvi
MAUD CHICK BEHAVES
QUEERLY
MISS PETTIFER had never had a better servant than Maud Chick. Not even poor frightened Annie had done the housework more carefully. Miss Pettifer blessed the good fortune that led her to revenge herself against Madder by going to live there.
A proper order of social manners was always observed at the rectory. Maud Chick fed upon margarine, while Miss Pettifer ate of those good things that her station in life provided for her, of which good things Maud was sometimes allowed a picking when Miss Pettifer had done her part with them.
Upon the same dreary afternoon when the elm trees were weeping and their tears were falling into the mud, and when Mr. Bugby had seen the strange bird and walked out for a little, Miss Pettifer decided to send her quarter’s rent to Mr. Thomas Tucker. She sent Maud with it. Miss Pettifer always liked to take her tea at half-past four, as most ladies do.
Miss Pettifer had allowed ample time, and had generously given to Maud a quarter of an hour more as a birthday present, for this day was Maud’s birthday, to make use of as she chose during her walk to Dodderdown and back again to Madder rectory.
As soon as Maud had started, Miss Pettifer, being in a mood for it, walked out a little too, and passed Mr. Bugby, who evidently had business in the Dodderdown direction as well as Maud Chick. Mr. Bugby lifted his hat as he went by the lady, and this politeness drew from Miss Pettifer a nod and a smile.
When Miss Pettifer reached the rectory again—she had walked a little farther than she had intended to do when she set out—she looked at the marble clock, that was ornamented with cornflowers, that is to say painted ones, and saw that the time, that went always in that household according to plan, had reached half-past four. With even her birthday present, Maud ought to have been home and bringing in the tea-cloth by four-fifteen. Miss Pettifer poked the fire and rang the bell sharply. She frowned at the round table whereon the white afternoon tea-cloth, with its pretty worked flowers, should have been resting. A pair of half-open scissors and a reel of cotton were upon the table instead of her tea.
Miss Pettifer disliked these scissors ever afterwards. She now took them up and moved the cotton, but still the round table looked as barren as ever.
Miss Pettifer rang the bell again. She waited impatiently, and her anger against Maud made the minutes fly as though they wanted to hurt Maud too.
Nearly an hour went by before Miss Pettifer, whose hearing was more than usually awake this afternoon, heard the back door of the rectory open and shut. Maud Chick must have come in. Miss Pettifer was ready enough to see that something was wrong with Maud, who came after a few moments to prepare the table.
Maud had usually come in so straightforwardly, as a girl would whose one idea in life was to earn a baby by her own industry.
‘But why,’ thought Miss Pettifer, ‘should Chick run into the room in little darts and dashes, like a scared mouse when a cat’s after it?’
Maud nearly let the teapot fall upon the table instead of putting it down with her usual care. And why had she brought the teapot only; did Maud expect Miss Pettifer to drink from the spout?
Miss Pettifer pulled the bell, very gently th
is time but very meaningly.
‘When a girl comes in like that,’ thought Miss Pettifer, ‘she must have been doing wicked things.’
It wasn’t Miss Pettifer’s habit to work herself up into a rage, as a more ordinary mistress would do, but instead, she would sit in an icy manner and pretend to give no heed to what the culprit was doing, almost inviting her to drop another spoon, or all the spoons, if it pleased her to do so.
But what was Maud doing now? Miss Pettifer was looking intently at the clock, and even smiled as though she were asking the minutes, not how they run, but why they had allowed themselves to pass her tea-time without fetching Maud in earlier. The minutes, or rather the mirror behind the clock—for Miss Pettifer had one eye upon that too—told her that Maud was bringing the tea things in one by one, like a rook carrying twigs to its nest. And when she put the bread-knife down, she started back as if she thought the bread-knife wished to jump after her.
When Maud tried to light the spirit-lamp the spill went out. She tried again, but with no better success, for her hands trembled so that the spill wouldn’t keep alight.
Miss Pettifer moved, with one motion, to the fire, her strong, well-nurtured, and proved body, showing off its sharp vicious points in the movement. She lit the lamp, and with one glance she saw what Maud had forgotten, and ordered her, in the tired voice of an injured lady, ‘to bring in the butter.’ Instead of bringing in the butter, Maud carried into the drawing-room of the Madder rectory the kitchen margarine! Miss Pettifer said nothing.
She ate her tea, when Maud was gone out of the room, in short quick bites, crunching some little stones that happened to be in the cake as though she enjoyed them. Now and again, after taking a sip from her cup, she would stamp her foot, in a way that showed how she meditated business of a sharp, quick nature.
After Miss Pettifer had taken her usual afternoon nourishment, though with no butter this time—she more than once looked at the margarine—the lady went to the sofa and took up her knitting-needles. She began to knit quickly, clashing vindictively the steel needles against each other as though they were sharp swords. Her father, then, had led his careful life, and all for this! that his daughter, who had always seen to it that he had all the food he wanted, should be now served with common margarine for her tea.
Here was a Madder indeed turned against her in a vile manner; and after she had helped the people so much by taking a girl who, she was sure now, was always out with the men, into her service. She must now get rid of her, of course, and then hunt in the Madder lanes after another. She feared God didn’t make life very easy for His chosen.
The needles clicked sharply, and Miss Pettifer gazed at the lilac blossom that bloomed prettily on the chair covers. The chair covers were certainly saying as she was—that Maud must go.
Miss Pettifer laid down her knitting. She remembered Polly Wimple.
Miss Pettifer was a lady who, though she kept herself very much apart from the people, liked to hear the village news. She had heard about Mr. Solly, and she didn’t like the idea of him. She had heard, too, about Fred Pim from Mrs. Billy, who had said, rather harmlessly for a lady with two nieces whom she wished to get married—‘that if Fred went on wi’ more of his counting of a maid’s things, ’twere best ’e had she to church.’ Miss Pettifer had not answered Mrs. Billy’s remark, and Mrs. Billy feared she had offended the lady by mentioning Fred’s sums. And so, in the hope of turning the lady’s wrath away, Mrs. Billy pointed out to Miss Pettifer an account in the local weekly paper of a ‘wanton assault,’ as it was called, by a lay Baptist preacher.
Mr. Hall was the man in trouble, the lodger in Lily Parsons’ Weyminster home. Miss Pettifer looked down the case eagerly, anticipating what she hoped would have happened to Lily. For from what Lily had told her during her time of service—and Miss Pettifer always remembered anything of this nature—the lodger, when put to it, might act as Mr. Bugby.
The preacher had excused himself by saying, with conviction, that he thought Lily was asleep.
‘I thought she was asleep, and that no one cared about her,’ said Mr. Hall, bowing to Mr. Pollen, the magistrate. ‘And I only did what I thought she would like me to do.’
‘Why didn’t you struggle or bite him?’ asked Mr. Pollen, who had once been bitten himself by an animal of the same species whom he had tried to kiss.
‘I was too tired,’ sobbed Lily.
Mr. Pollen coughed.
The lodger was committed for trial. Miss Pettifer borrowed the paper. She wanted to read, she said, ‘about the Prince of Wales’ visit to Stonebridge Castle.’
It was Lily Parsons—and so Miss Pettifer had a certain right to be angry with her—who had called out to Miss Pettifer in the street ‘that she hoped she would plaster her false hair’—and Miss Pettifer’s wasn’t false—‘with stinking margarine.’
The fear of this happening—for Miss Pettifer wisely doubted her own ability to cook—made her the more anxious, now that she was resolved that Maud must go, to secure Polly Wimple.
And so Miss Pettifer went to bed thoughtfully, considering, as she looked into the glass smiling to herself, how she could get Fred Pim away from Madder, and so prevent a wedding that would, if it did nothing worse, spoil a good country servant.
The sun looked kindly in at Miss Pettifer when the new morning came, and when Maud let go the pink bedroom blinds that run up of themselves.
Maud wasn’t Maud. Miss Pettifer saw this easily enough as soon as the light came in. Maud hadn’t even dressed herself properly as a servant should who carries a cup of tea into a lady’s bedroom. She hadn’t even done up her hair or fastened her print frock.
Maud was now putting the cup near to Miss Pettifer’s elbow, that stuck out sharply above the bedclothes. Miss Pettifer looked at Maud. She could hardly believe how the girl could have come in so nakedly; she didn’t seem to have anything on at all under that thin frock of hers.
Miss Pettifer stared at Maud.
‘You’re mad, Chick,’ gasped Miss Pettifer. ‘And you had better pack your box and go home. Only, dress yourself first, please,’ she added. For Miss Pettifer still remembered the pleasure that Lily used to tell her she had got from being seen by the men a little untidied. She didn’t wish, now that Maud was leaving her, that she should get even one grain of happiness.
Maud looked at Miss Pettifer with wide-open, staring eyes, and then went to the window—drawn there by the happy sunshine, no doubt—and gazed out of it.
After a moment or two of watching, Maud gave a sharp scream of terror, and ran back to Miss Pettifer, crouching down in an agony of fear beside the bed.
Chapter xvii
THE AMERICANS SEE A CROSS
OF DOOM IN THE SKY
MR. SOLLY came down from Madder hill in a more hopeful mood than when he climbed up.
He had gone up Madder hill to look at the sky, because one of his Americans had seen a huge cross in the heavens, which told him of coming and inevitable doom. After reading about the cross, Mr. Solly had at once climbed the hill in order to see if the cross was still there.
‘He had seen enough already,’ he thought, ‘without that cross coming.’
When Solly reached the summit he looked anxiously upwards, but he only saw the blue heavens, that were clearer than usual. He sighed, and permitted his eyes to view the country around instead of the sky. He saw all the clean cool lands shining in the clear light of day. Everywhere there was colour and shadow—deep colour and deep shade. There were large wide spaces of green, and the further downs and heath were rich dark purple. A little cloud, like a skipping goat, covered the sun for a moment, and Solly watched the clear black body of its shadow running over the earth.
Clean beauty in form and line affected Solly in a different way than his pinks and columbines. They were but little women, and naughty ones at that, at least the pinks were; but these other wonders of the earth and heaven moved nearer to the living God. Mr. Solly was not ashamed to pray to Him from whom all
life comes. He knelt down upon the grass of that place and prayed that God might show him one day what the gift was that He intended to give to Polly Wimple and to Fred Pim.
Solly wasn’t more inquisitive than any other simple gentleman resident in the west of England, but he knew that his Aunt Crocker would like him to see what the gift was, as well as to know to whom it was to be given. When Mr. Solly had finished his prayer, and was come down from the hill, he crossed the little brook, noticing that there were still forget-me-nots in flower, and went along the lane near to the church gates.
Susy was walking up the church path with a new broom, that had been presented to her only a little while before by Mr. Thomas Tucker. Susy was walking in her usual flat-footed and bulky manner, dragging the broom behind her as if she were a product of the older world and possessed a long lizard’s tail.
Solly watched Susy to see what happened to her, for Eva Billy still complained to everybody that her Sunday frock got more soiled by the pews, than by any green grassy bank that she chanced to lie down upon when she walked out with Sam Peach of Dodderdown. When Susy was quite near the church door she let go the broom and went into God’s house, leaving her tail—more lizard’s than lamb’s—behind her.
‘Perhaps Susy only means to set a mouse-trap to-day,’ Solly thought.
A little way on down the lane, and below the rectory, Solly stopped suddenly, and, without knowing exactly why, he looked up at Madder hill. There wasn’t a cloud upon the hill, but only a large dismal bird that flew around the lonely thorn-bush in circles. As the bird wheeled, it paused in the air; and with its wide wings and its neck stretched out, it might easily have been the very sign in the sky that the American had taken to be a cross.
Mr. Solly hoped that this winged cross of doom would fly away from Madder and never come back again.
