Unclay

by T. F. Powys

  Some one came by from Dodder, a slight figure, a nymph of the night—a child.

  Earlier in the evening the sound that John had made when he whetted his scythe awakened Winnie Huddy. The sound made Winnie restless; she tried to go to sleep, but she could not. She took up the rag doll who always slept with her, and pinched its nose.

  “I be going out,” she said, “and thee must mind house time I be gone. I be going to see how wold Solly’s nuts do grow.”

  Winnie slipped on her clothes and her shoes, and ran out. As she went downstairs she heard Daisy sigh and old Huddy snore. Besides seeing how the nuts were forming, Winnie had something else in her mind that she meant to do.

  She had been told by Susie Dawe that Mr. Solly had grown the nut-bushes to keep out Love. Winnie did not know who Love was, but she thought it would be amusing to pretend to be Love, to creep into the grove and frighten Mr. Solly. Besides she regarded her doll as a baby, who ought to have a father. And a fine father, she knew, Mr. Solly would be, with all his nuts to give away. There was nothing Winnie liked to do better than to frighten a man.

  On Madder Hill she had a little fright herself, that she did not expect. As she went by a lonely thorn-bush, she thought that some one stood in its shadow—for the summer moon, though low down, threw a shadow. Winnie thought that a man stood there—Mr. Jar, the tinker.

  The sight of him made Winnie run the faster; she skipped down the hill like a rabbit, and soon came to Solly’s house. She waited a little, resting on one foot and then upon the other, wondering what to do. She was astonished at the size and thickness of Mr. Solly’s nut-bushes. They were as well grown as her father’s beard. Behind all those trees Mr. Solly was probably fast asleep. She wondered what Mr. Solly had eaten for his supper. If he was going to be the father of her doll, she supposed that he must also become her own husband. Perhaps he had supped on bread and milk. Such a diet, Winnie believed, was proper for husbands. She would have one basin and Mr. Solly another.

  Winnie stood on one leg and took off a shoe. She took out a little stone from the shoe. She shivered and looked at the wall, then she turned to Mr. Solly’s grove and prowled around the place, seeking for an entrance. She crept silently like a young panther. Coming to the gate, she tried to open it; the gate was fast locked. She shook it sturdily, but it would not open. She could neither get through the gate nor yet climb over it.

  She walked round the grove again, peeping everywhere, and stepping cautiously upon the grass, that was soaked in dew. Going round the third time, she saw a little hole between two nut-trees, through which she thought she might creep. Her wish was to crawl in there, find a way through a window into Mr. Solly’s house, run up to his bedroom, and shout “Camel” into his ear. That was what Winnie wished to do to Mr. Solly, because she had always known his politeness to Miss Bridle.

  Winnie looked again at the small hole in the nut hedge. She had heard it said that where your head can go your body can follow; she thought she could easily creep through the hole.

  She was about to make the attempt when Death leaped over the wall, dislodging a stone, that fell with a clatter. No sooner was he safe over than he rushed upon Winnie.

  He was very angry because his pride was hurt. He had thought that the wall of nuts had been grown to keep him out, and, behold, it was only Love that Mr. Solly feared. Death had never been so slighted. He knew himself to be the one who ought to be feared, but now he saw that it was some one else who was dreaded. John felt the insult most keenly. Unfortunately it was not possible for him to revenge himself at once upon Mr. Solly. There was only one way for Death to do that—to Unclay this man—but no order had come.

  To be merely slighted was not the worst of it. Death had a private fear of his own. He always felt ashamed when any one spoke kindly of him, or said they liked him. If Solly feared Love so much, he might feel that Death was his friend. And when any man felt like that, Death was ashamed.

  To calm his anger, John wanted Winnie. He would be the cat and she the mouse. He would pounce upon her and amuse himself for a little. He would soon cure her of her wanton fancies. But the fall of the stone had alarmed Winnie, and when Death grabbed at her, she jumped aside. Then she ran away. Winnie was a light child and could run like a fawn. John Death was hampered by his shoes; they had always pinched him a little.

  A dead man’s shoes do not always fit. The feet that hung from the tree in Merly Wood, from whence the Sunday shoes had been taken, were smaller than John’s. And, run as fast as he could, he did not overtake Winnie as soon as he expected. She was even able to get a little ahead of him, and began to climb Madder Hill, her strong little legs shining in the moonlight.

  Had Winnie shown any fear at all, or relaxed her pace for a moment, John would have caught her. But Winnie only thought of the whole matter as a fine game. She had recognized John when he leaped over the wall, and thought that he had come to Madder to court Nancy Trim, and was only running after her for fun because the other young lady had gone to bed.

  But Death meant business; just then he was in no mood to be played with. Had Winnie knelt to him and begged him to let her alone, he might have done so, but to run off so fast provoked his wrath. He would catch her for his sport, and ill-use her on the cold Madder Hill. After that he would cut her throat with a sharp flint.

  There is always a mischief ready for an idle hand. The loss of his proper employment had made John restless and ill at ease. He had never been tormented by any one as he had been by Miss Winnie. She never tired of making game of him. When he walked down the Dodder lane, she mimicked his manners. And when he looked for his lost parchment, she told him it was hid under Mrs. Moggs’s skirts, and ran away laughing.

  As they went over Madder Hill, Death gained upon Winnie; the steep climb took her breath away. She panted and could hardly run, and even forgot to go a little out of her way to avoid Tinker Jar. Jar was still there, standing in the shadow of the bush. And, as Winnie passed by, she thought that Jar touched her.

  She ran now as well as ever; she even leaped and skipped, and in a few moments reached her home.

  Upon the summit of Madder Hill, near to the thorn-bush, Death’s steps were stayed.

  XXIV

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  Mr. Hayhoe Receives a Command

  A queen of England once said, when she signed an important document, that then she learned for the first time that the laws of men were very different from the laws of God.…

  The spring had become summer, and Mr. Hayhoe had not lived in Dodder for many weeks before he learned that the will of Lord Bullman towards his dependants and the will of God Almighty to his human family were not very closely connected. Nor was the conduct of these two noble ones—though Mr. Titball considered the one as good as the other—always similar in purpose.

  Upon some points, however, their united outlook may be observed to be the same, for it is said of the Almighty that to Him all the nations of the earth, except that which is His chosen, are as nothing, and Lord Bullman regarded himself as being just as superior to all others of the Children of Adam.

  God enjoys goodness, Lord Bullman liked his own way, and Mr. Hayhoe was always fond of dripping.

  Ever since Mr. Hayhoe had been a little boy he had liked dripping, preferring it, with pepper and salt, to the best butter. But he never troubled himself to learn what dripping was or where it came from. Had any one asked him this question, he would have replied innocently that he believed dripping was a kind of soft paste made of boiled beans.

  Had he been laughed at for saying so, Mr. Hayhoe would not have been in the least surprised. He had always regarded himself as a very stupid man. To him the greatest wonder of his life had been that he had managed to pass his final examination at a Theological College; and, indeed, it was only a huge love of the Gospels that could ever have made him get a little Greek—enough to satisfy the exami
ners that he could pray with a sinner. But, though no one could have been more astonished than Mr. Hayhoe was when he got through, yet had he but known how the Bishop of Sarum revered him when he read his papers, and indeed no truly pious examiner could have done otherwise, he would have been more astonished than ever.

  Mr. Hayhoe had ridden an Ass, then a Mule, then an Ass again. He had been a curate, then a vicar, then a curate again. When he was the vicar of Maids Madder, he bought golden ware for the Holy Altar. This purchase ruined him. He had given all to God, and his creditors—having such a good example to follow—took all from him. Becoming a bankrupt, he was forced to leave his living, for he was troubled at what people said about him, and became a curate again, doing casual duty—and so came to be employed at Dodder.

  He lodged at Shelton, where his son died. One day, looking out of his window, he saw Farmer Lord’s great bull—tied by ropes—being led by to market. The huge beast, that every one said was extremely fierce and terrible, looked as docile as a lamb.

  This sight gave Mr. Hayhoe courage; he decided to go the next day and ask Lord Bullman for the living of Dodder. He went bravely and, finding my lord busy about a gate, he opened it for him, and was promised the living as a reward.

  Though hardly a moment passed without Mr. Hayhoe thinking happily that Dodder was his own, yet Lord Bullman—as soon as he had given him the living—forgot all about his promise. He had his wife and the gout, and they were enough for him to think of.

  These two often troubled him, and there were other things that troubled him too. His first disappointment came when he married. Before that day, he had always been given the rightful honour that he knew he deserved. But his wife, alas, gave him no honour at all; she thought him a great fool. She had promised to obey him and she never did so. She taught her children to laugh at him when he told fine tales at breakfast.

  He had to submit to such treatment, but he did not enjoy it. Whenever he went to bed, he told himself that the laws of the country were sadly out of order. He was deprived of his rights; he could not even run into his own kitchen and cry “privilege!”

  But for all that, Lord Bullman had much to boast of, while Mr. Hayhoe had not anything. Christ, perhaps—but what coat of arms had ever Jesus to wear? When was He seen, oddly dressed, upon a first of September, striding, with a couple of spaniels at his heels, after the partridges? Did He ever lord it finely over His brother magistrates at the Quarter Sessions, or cough and guffaw as He stept out of a great car at the hustings?

  Mr. Hayhoe was peculiar. Besides honouring Jesus and eating dripping for breakfast, he loved his wife. And Priscilla loved him too.

  At breakfast a good man is generally hungry; when he sees the table laid, he is glad. When there is toast, he knows that his wife is a kind woman. If the tea tastes pleasantly, he knows that God loves him. The last supper upon the earth is always a sad meal; the first breakfast in Heaven will be happier.

  At breakfast a good man is pleased, but a son of Belial is plagued and tormented. Because he does not know where true joy is to be found, he has no proper appetite. He cannot eat even little trout patiently. He is afraid of the bones; he is troubled by God. He moves his legs uneasily, and exclaims that the coffee is burnt. He smells the bread and finds it musty. He looks for a cigarette, but God has hidden the packet. He sits down again, catches his coat in the chair, and bursts a button. His mind is troubled by his sins: there is a dead bee in the honeycomb.

  Within Mr. Hayhoe all was well; it was only from without that he was sometimes a little tormented. The Manor Farm was near the church, and the church was near the Vicarage. Sometimes at breakfast Mr. Hayhoe would hear the ugly growl of Mr. Mere’s fierce dog, coming from the farmer’s yard. That sound proved only too surely that there was evil in the world—cruelty. The dog had a nasty bark. One day, Mr. Hayhoe thought, it would do some one a mischief.

  If the farmer saw a trespasser in his fields, he would send the dog after him. Once Mr. Hayhoe heard the farmer shout at his dog and send him after John Death, who had walked into Grange Mead, looking for his parchment.

  Mr. Hayhoe, who feared for his friend, hastily put on his boots, without tying the laces, and hurried off to the field to prevent John being bitten. He never thought for one moment that the dog might bite him instead of John. He climbed the gate into the field—and stopped suddenly. The dog was near to Death, but did not touch him; it only raised its nose in the air and howled dismally. Then the beast cowered down, turned, and ran off.…

  Priscilla Hayhoe liked strong tea, but she knew that she ought never to make the tea strong, because of the extravagance. If she ever put an extra spoonful into the pot, something unlucky always happened. After such an act a sure retribution would follow.

  But, even with this knowledge, Mrs. Hayhoe would sometimes pop in an extra spoonful. When she did so, she blushed and tried to hide from her sin. In order that the black look of her tea might not accuse her, she put more milk into her cup. Or else she tried to pretend that by long standing the tea had become a very dark colour. She would wonder if Mr. Hayhoe had seen. She believed that he knew all her funny ways, and yet in reality he knew none of them.

  One morning Mr. Hayhoe was eating his bread and dripping with a good appetite, and Priscilla had put in one more spoonful of tea than usual, when the postman came.

  Priscilla went to open the door to him. He was an old postman; his name was Mr. Potter, and he was a loyal churchman. He looked at Priscilla with concern, as though he knew the contents of the letter that he handed to her. Priscilla gave the letter to her husband, who read it at once,

  Though the letter only came from the agent’s office, there was printed upon the envelope the Bullman arms. The letter was from Mr. Pix, who demanded that old Huddy, together with his two daughters, should be turned into the road. The cottage belonged to the glebe, and Mr. Huddy, who had once been gardener, rented it off the incumbent. Mr. Hayhoe had never received any rent, and he had never asked for any.

  Certain persons in Dodder had hinted that there might be a reason for this leniency. But the truth of the matter was that Mr. Hayhoe had often paid rent himself, and knew how unpleasant it was to part with his money to a landlord. There was another reason, too, that prevented him from accepting what was due to him; he feared that some of the money might be the wages of sin.

  According to law, the Huddys need not go, but a law, made in London, does not always reach country places. A new-made law is a bad traveller; it stays a while to drink with the Mayor of Maidenbridge, and forgets the villages. In country places the powers that rule have older manners.

  Lord Bullman expected his orders to be obeyed. And this time he gave a reason. “Daisy Huddy,” wrote Mr. Pix, “is known to be a whore”—Mr. Pix underlined the word in red ink—“and she even hangs a scarlet thread out of her window as a sign of her trade.”

  Mr. Hayhoe sighed deeply and finished his bread and dripping. Priscilla sighed too, and, looked at the teapot. She wished that God wasn’t quite so quick to notice little faults. She knew she had done wrong; she ought never to have smelt the tea in the caddy, for it was the scent of the tea that had tempted her to put in more. She knew it was all her fault that the letter had come.

  “Alas!” cried Mr. Hayhoe, rising and looking out through the open window into the garden, “what good do these sweet summer airs do to unforgiving men? The hearts of men are exactly the same in these kind, warm days as they are in the coldest winter ones. To see before him a field of buttercups cannot melt the heart of a Lord Bullman.”

  “But it may soften him,” suggested Priscilla.

  “Alas!” exclaimed Mr. Hayhoe, “what has Daisy done, what has Winnie done, to be turned into the road? In order to earn a little money Daisy has sinned deeply, though every one says that it is only a very little money that Mr. Mere gives her. Daisy once served at Lord Bullman’s mansion. What did she learn there? But all this trouble has
come because I read to her the book of Joshua. So it is I that am to blame.”

  “Mrs. Moggs did hint to me yesterday that you had something to do with it,” observed Priscilla innocently.

  “Ought I to obey Lord Bullman?” cried Mr. Hayhoe. “Wouldn’t it do better service for God, to allow Daisy to stay where she is, to forget the Bible, and to learn a new and more chaste manner of earning her living?

  “My dear,” said Mr. Hayhoe, who was very much troubled, “surely I cannot obey my lord in this matter. I am aware that, as the lay rector here, he is in authority over me.”

  “Ask God what you had better do,” said Priscilla.

  Mr. Hayhoe knelt, with his head near to the unlucky teapot, and closed his eyes. He remained thus for ten minutes. Then he arose and looked for a sign.

  Beside the dripping-pot, there lay a dainty, white flower. What God had placed near to him, it was not for Lord Bullman to send away.

  “Though Mr. Titball may not think so,” cried Mr. Hayhoe, “there is One above Who is greater than a baron.”

  “There is, indeed,” said Mrs. Hayhoe, softly putting the tea-caddy away, “and I am sure you are right in keeping the Huddys near to you. As Daisy is a sinner, she is in the greater need of our care and assistance. Were she sent out of her home, she might find a worse; and there is no village in the world as good as Dodder for hemming a nightgown.”

  “And none better,” cried Mr. Hayhoe, “for reading Pride and Prejudice aloud. I will begin this evening.”

  “And I,” said Priscilla, gladly, “will find a sheet for Daisy to darn.”

  XXV

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  This Time Mr. Hayhoe Looks