by Hugh Ealpole
After a while he paid his bill and went out. He was now in one of those streets that seem in the evening to be the very borderland of madness. Overhead the trains rattled, on the right the street was ‘up’ showing black cabins of darkness and then a blaze of burning light. The trains came clattering up, issuing from forests of armed girders and tangled masonry, people hurried by as though they knew that this was a dangerous place and that they must not pause there for a moment.
Homer took a deep breath, stepped forward into the middle of the street, stared past the bright lights of a drug store, and then, with a whirl of concentrated knowledge as though everything in his past life had suddenly leaped to meet him, in one swift instant knew that the time had come. Facing him, as he stood there at the very issue of the dark side street opposite him, crouched the Tiger. Although the street was so dark, Homer could see every detail of his body. He was very like a huge cat streaked with his beautiful colours. His eyes burning just as Homer knew that they would do. His head moving very slightly from side to side. With that vision, terror leaped upon Homer. He turned, screaming there in the middle of the street, and even as he turned, the Tiger jumped. The huge body was upon him. He felt the agonising blow and then sank deep into pits of darkness.
A crowd collected. His body was dragged out from under the taxicab. The driver began an eloquent explanation. It had not been his fault. The man had seemed bewildered by the lights, had run straight into the cab. There was no time for the driver to do anything. The policeman took notes, an ambulance was summoned.
The Moodys heard of the accident that night. It appeared that it was nobody’s fault. Homer had been crossing the street, and becoming bewildered, turned back, and was struck by the taxi.
About three the next morning, Moody woke up quietly trembling, and at last roused his wife. He talked to her about the poor little Englishman. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘staying here in the heat was too much for him. Odd thing that, his imagining that some animal was after him.’ He lay there, greatly discomforted. ‘New York’s getting a queer place,’ he said. ‘You can imagine anything if you let yourself. All this traffic, for instance. They look like animals at night sometimes.’ He turned and took his wife’s hand in his. ‘A bit close in here,’ he said. ‘You don’t smell anything, do you? Sort of animal smell.’ ‘Why, no, dear, of course not,’ said Mrs Moody. ‘Imagination, I suppose,’ said Moody. ‘Funny thing if this town went wild one day.’
But Mrs Moody was a sensible woman, not given to silly fancies. She patted her husband’s shoulder and so fell asleep. But Mr Moody lay there looking into the darkness.
Hugh Seymour
(A Prologue)
I
WHEN HUGH SEYMOUR was nine years of age he was sent from Ceylon, where his parents lived, to be educated in England. His relations having, for the most part, settled in foreign countries, he spent his holidays as a minute and pale-faced ‘paying guest’ in various houses where other children were of more importance than he, or where children as a race were of no importance at all. It was in this way that he became during certain months of 1889 and 1890 and 1891 a resident in the family of the Reverend William Lasher, Vicar of Clinton St Mary, that large rambling village on the edge of Roche St Mary Moor in South Glebeshire.
He spent there the two Christmases of 1890 and 1891 (when he was ten and eleven years of age), and it is with the second of these that the following incident, and indeed the whole of this book, has to do. Hugh Seymour could not, at the period of which I write, be called an attractive child; he was not even ‘interesting’ or ‘unusual’. He was small, with bones so brittle that it seemed that, at any moment, he might crack and splinter into sharp little pieces; but although he was so thin his face had a white and overhanging appearance, his cheeks being pale and puffy and his under-lip jutted forward in front of projecting teeth—he was known as ‘the White Rabbit’ by his school-fellows. He was not, however, so ugly as this description would apparently convey, for his large, grey eyes, soft, and even at times agreeably humorous, were pleasant and cheerful.
During these years when he knew Mr Lasher he was undoubtedly unfortunate. He was short-sighted, but no one had, as yet, discovered this, and he was, therefore, blamed for much clumsiness that he could not prevent and for a good deal of sensitiveness that came quite simply from his eagerness to do what he was told and his inability to see his way to do it. He was not, at this time, easy with strangers and seemed to them both conceited and awkward. Conceit was far from him—he was, in fact, amazed at so feeble a creature as himself!—But awkward he was, and very often greedy, selfish, impetuous, untruthful and even cruel: he was nearly always dirty, and attributed this to the evil wishes of some malign fairy who flung mud upon him, dropped him into puddles and covered him with ink simply for the fun of the thing!
He did not, at this time, care very greatly for reading; he told himself stories—long stories with enormous families in them, trains of elephants, ropes and ropes of pearls, towers of ivory, peacocks, and strange meals of saffron buns, roast chicken, and gingerbread. His active, everyday concern, however, was to become a sportsman; he wished to be the best cricketer, the best footballer, the fastest runner of his school, and he had not—even then faintly he knew it—the remotest chance of doing any of these things even moderately well. He was bullied at school until his appointment as his dormitory’s story-teller gave him a certain status, but his efforts at cricket and football were mocked with jeers and insults. He could not throw a cricket ball, he could not see to catch one after it was thrown to him, did he try to kick a football he missed it, and when he had run for five minutes he saw purple skies and silver stars and had cramp in his legs. He had, however, during these years at Mr Lasher’s, this great overmastering ambition.
In his sleep, at any rate, he was a hero; in the wide-awake world he was, in the opinion of almost everyone, a fool. He was exactly the type of boy whom the Reverend William Lasher could least easily understand. Mr Lasher was tall and thin (his knees often cracked with a terrifying noise), blue-black about the cheeks, hooked as to the nose, bald and shining as to the head, genial as to the manner, and practical to the shining tips of his fingers. He had not, at Cambridge, obtained a rowing blue, but ‘had it not been for a most unfortunate attack of scarlet fever—’ He was President of the Clinton St Mary Cricket Club, 1890 (matches played, six; lost, five; drawn, one), knew how to slash the ball across the net at a tennis garden party, always read the prayers in church as though he were imploring God to keep a straighter bat and improve His cut to leg, and had a passion for knocking nails into walls, screwing locks into doors, and making chicken-runs. He was, he often thanked his stars, a practical Realist, and his wife, who was fat, stupid, and in a state of perpetual wonder, used to say of him, ‘If Will hadn’t been a clergyman he would have made such an engineer. If God had blessed us with a boy, I’m sure he would have been something scientific. Will’s no dreamer.’ Mr Lasher was kindly of heart so long as you allowed him to maintain that the world was made for one type of humanity only. He was as breezy as a west wind, loved to bathe in the garden pond on Christmas Day (‘had to break the ice that morning’), and at penny readings at the village schoolroom would read extracts from ‘Pickwick,’ and would laugh so heartily himself that he would have to stop and wipe his eyes. ‘If you must read novels,’ he would say, ‘read Dickens. Nothing to offend the youngest among us—fine breezy stuff with an optimism that does you good and people you get to know and be fond of. By Jove, I can still cry over Little Nell and am not ashamed of it.’
He had the heartiest contempt for ‘wasters’ and ‘failures,’ and he was afraid there were a great many in the world. ‘Give me a man who is a man,’ he would say, ‘a man who can hit a ball for six, run ten miles before breakfast and take his knocks with the best of them. Wasn’t it Browning who said,
‘God’s in His heaven,
All’s right with the world’?
Browning was a great teacher—after Ten
nyson, one of our greatest. Where are such men today?’
He was, therefore, in spite of his love for outdoor pursuits, a cultured man.
It was natural, perhaps, that he should find Hugh Seymour ‘a pity’. Nearly everything that he said about Hugh Seymour began with the words—
‘It’s a pity that—’
‘It’s a pity that you can’t get some red into your cheeks, my boy.’
‘It’s a pity you don’t care about porridge. You must learn to like it.’
‘It’s a pity you can’t even make a little progress with your mathematics.’
‘It’s a pity you told me a lie because—’
‘It’s a pity you were rude to Mrs Lasher. No gentleman—’
‘It’s a pity you weren’t attending when—’
Mr Lasher was very earnestly determined to do his best for the boy, and, as he said, ‘You see, Hugh, if we do our best for you, you must do your best for us. Now I can’t, I’m afraid, call this your best.’
Hugh would have liked to say that it was the best that he could do in that particular direction (very probably Euclid), but if only he might be allowed to try his hand in quite another direction he might do something very fine indeed. He never, of course, had a chance of saying this, nor would such a declaration have greatly benefited him, because, for Mr Lasher, there was only one way for everyone and the sooner (if you were a small boy) you followed it the better.
‘Don’t dream, Hugh,’ said Mr Lasher, ‘remember that no man ever did good work by dreaming. The goal is to be strong. Remember that.’
Hugh did remember it and would have liked very much to be as strong as possible, but whenever he tried feats of strength he failed and looked foolish.
‘My dear boy, that’s not the way to do it,’ said Mr Lasher, ‘it’s a pity that you don’t listen to what I tell you.’
II
A very remarkable fact about Mr Lasher was this—that he paid no attention whatever to the county in which he lived. Now there are certain counties in England where it is possible to say ‘I am in England,’ and to leave it at that; their quality is simply English with no more individual personality. But Glebeshire has such an individuality, whether for good or evil, that it forces comment from the most sluggish and inattentive of human beings. Mr Lasher was perhaps the only soul, living or dead, who succeeded in living in it during forty years (he is still there, he is a Canon now in Polchester) and never saying anything about it. When on his visits to London people inquired his opinion of Glebeshire, he would say: ‘Ah well! . . . I’m afraid Methodism and intemperance are very strong . . . . all the same, we’re fighting ’em, fighting ’em!’
This was the more remarkable in that Mr Lasher lived upon the very edge of Roche St Mary Moor, a stretch of moor and sand. Roche St Mary Moor, that runs to the sea, contains the ruins of St Arthe Church (‘buried until lately in the sand, but recently excavated through the kind generosity of Sir John Porthcullis, of Borhaze, and shown to visitors, 6d a head, Wednesday and Saturday afternoons free’), and is one of the most romantic, mist-laden, moon-silvered, tempest-driven spots in the whole of Great Britain.
The road that ran from Clinton St Mary to Borhaze across the moor was certainly a wild, rambling, beautiful affair, and when the sea-mists swept across it and the wind carried the cry of the Bell of Trezent Rock in and out above and below, you had a strange and moving experience. Mr Lasher was compelled to ride on his bicycle from Clinton St Mary to Borhaze and back again, and never thought it either strange or moving. ‘Only ten at the Bible meeting tonight. Borhaze wants waking up. We’ll see what open-air services can do.’ What the moor thought about Mr Lasher it is impossible to know!
Hugh Seymour thought about the moor continually, but he was afraid to mention his ideas of it in public. There was a legend in the village that several hundred years ago some pirates, driven by storm into Borhaze, found their way on to the moor and, caught by the mist, perished there; they are to be seen, says the village, in powdered wigs, red coats, gold lace, and swords, haunting the sand-dunes. God help the poor soul who may fall into their hands! This was a very pleasant story, and Hugh Seymour’s thoughts often crept round and about it. He would like to find a pirate, to bring him to the vicarage, and present him to Mr Lasher. He knew that Mrs Lasher would say, ‘Fancy, a pirate! Well! now, fancy! Well, here’s a pirate!’ And that Mr Lasher would say, ‘It’s a pity, Hugh, that you don’t choose your company more carefully. Look at the man’s nose!’
Hugh, although he was only eleven, knew this. Hugh did on one occasion mention the pirates. ‘Dreaming again, Hugh! Pity they fill your head with such nonsense! If they read their Bibles more!’
Nevertheless, Hugh continued his dreaming. He dreamt of the moor, of the pirates, of the cobbled street in Borhaze, of the cry of the Trezent Bell, of the deep lanes and the smell of the flowers in them, of making five hundred not out at cricket, of doing a problem in Euclid to Mr Lasher’s satisfaction, of having a collar at the end of the day as clean as it had been at the beginning, of discovering the way to make a straight parting in the hair, of not wriggling in bed when Mrs Lasher kissed him at night, of many, many other things.
He was at this time a very lonely boy. Until Mr Pidgen paid his visit he was most remarkably lonely. After that visit he was never lonely again.
III
Mr Pidgen came on a visit to the vicarage three days before Christmas. Hugh Seymour saw him first from the garden. Mr Pidgen was standing at the window of Mr Lasher’s study; he was staring in front of him at the sheets of light that flashed and darkened and flashed again across the lawn, at the green cluster of holly-berries by the drive gate, at the few flakes of snow that fell, lazily, carelessly, as though they were trying to decide whether they would make a grand affair of it or not, and perhaps at the small, grubby boy who was looking at him with one eye and trying to learn the Collect for the day (it was Sunday) with the other. Hugh had never before seen anyone in the least like Mr Pidgen. He was short and round, and his head was covered with tight little curls. His cheeks were chubby and red and his nose small, his mouth also very small. He had no chin. He was wearing a bright blue velvet waistcoat with brass buttons, and over his black shoes there shone white spats.
Hugh had never seen white spats before. Mr Pidgen glowed with cleanliness, and he had supremely the air of having been exactly as he was, all in one piece, years ago. He was like one of the china ornaments in Mrs Lasher’s drawing-room that the housemaid was told to be so careful about, and concerning whose destruction Hugh heard her on at least one occasion declaring, in a voice half tears, half defiance, ‘Please, ma’am, it wasn’t me. It just slipped of itself!’ Mr Pidgen would break very completely were he dropped.
The first thing about him that struck Hugh was his amazing difference from Mr Lasher. It seemed strange that any two people so different could be in the same house. Mr Lasher never gleamed or shone, he would not break with however violent an action you dropped him, he would certainly never wear white spats.
Hugh liked Mr Pidgen at once. They spoke for the first time at the midday meal, when Mr Lasher said, ‘More Yorkshire pudding, Pidgen?’ and Mr Pidgen said, ‘I adore it.’
Now Yorkshire pudding happened to be one of Hugh’s special passions just then, particularly when it was very brown and crinkly, so he said quite spontaneously and without taking thought, as he was always told to do:
‘So do I!’
‘My dear Hugh!’ said Mrs Lasher; ‘How very greedy! Fancy! After all you’ve been told! Well, well! Manners, manners!’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Pidgen (his mouth was full), ‘I said it first, and I’m older than he is. I should know better . . . I like boys to be greedy, it’s a good sign—a good sign. Besides, Sunday —after a sermon—one naturally feels a bit peckish. Good enough sermon, Lasher, but a bit long.’
Mr Lasher of course did not like this, and, indeed, it was evident to anyone (even to a small boy) that the two gentlemen would have
different opinions upon every possible subject. However, Hugh loved Mr Pidgen there and then, and decided that he would put him into the story then running (appearing in nightly numbers from the moment of his departure to bed to the instant of slumber—say ten minutes); he would also, in the imaginary cricket matches that he worked out on paper, give Mr Pidgen an innings of two hundred not out and make him captain of Kent. He now observed the vision very carefully and discovered several strange items in his general behaviour. Mr Pidgen was fond of whistling and humming to himself; he was restless and would walk up and down a room with his head in the air and his hands behind his broad back, humming (out of tune) ‘Sally in our Alley’, or ‘Drink to me only’. Of course this amazed Mr Lasher.
He would quite suddenly stop, stand like a top spinning, balanced on his toes, and cry, ‘Ah! Now I’ve got it! No, I haven’t! Yes, I have. By God, it’s gone again!’
To this also Mr Lasher strongly objected, and Hugh heard him say, ‘Really, Pidgen, think of the boy! Think of the boy!’ and Mr Pidgen exclaimed, ‘By God, so I should! . . . Beg pardon, Lasher! Won’t do it again! Lord save me, I’m a careless old drunkard!’ He had any number of strange phrases that were new and brilliant and exciting to the boy, who listened to him. He would say ‘By the martyrs of Ephesus!’ or ‘Sunshine and thunder!’ or ‘God stir your slumbers!’ when he thought anyone very stupid. He said this last one day to Mrs Lasher, and of course she was very much astonished. She did not from the first like him at all. Mr Pidgen and Mr Lasher had been friends at Cambridge and had not met one another since, and everyone knows that that is a dangerous basis for the renewal of friendship. They had a little dispute on the very afternoon of Mr Pidgen’s arrival, when Mr Lasher asked his guest whether he played golf.
