by Hugh Walpole
“You are against me. Every man’s hand now is against me. Nevertheless what-I say is right and true. What am I? What are you, any of you here in this room, beside God’s truth? I have seen God, I have walked with God, I shall walk with Him again. He will lead me out of these sore distresses and take me into green pastures — —”
He flushed. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I am taking your time. I must say something for Mr. Forsyth. He is young; he knows this place and loves it; he cares for and will preserve its most ancient traditions....
“He cares for the things for which we should care. I do commend him to your attention — —”
There was a long silence. The rain that had begun a thick drizzle dripped on the panes. The room was so dark that the Dean asked Bond to light the gas. They all waited while this was being done. At last the Dean spoke:
“We are all very grateful to you, Archdeacon, for helping us as you have done. I think, gentlemen, that unless there is some other name definitely to be proposed we had better now vote on these two names.
“Is there any further name suggested?”
No one spoke.
“Very well, then. I think this morning, contrary to our usual custom, we will record our votes on paper. I have Archdeacon Witheram’s letter here advising me of his wishes in this matter.”
Paper and pens were before every one. The votes were recorded and sent up to the Dean. He opened the little pieces of paper slowly.
At last he said:
“One vote has been recorded in favour of Mr. Forsyth, the rest for Mr. Wistons. Mr. Wistons is therefore appointed to the living of Pybus St. Anthony.”
Brandon was on his feet. His body trembled like a tree tottering. He flung out his hands.
“No.... No.... Stop one moment. You must. You — all of you ——
“Mr. Dean — all of you.... Oh, God, help me now!...You have been influenced by your feelings about myself. Forget me, turn me away, send me from the town, anything, anything.... I beseech you to think only of the good of the Cathedral in this affair. If you admit this man it is the beginning of the end. Slowly it will all be undermined. Belief in Christ, belief in God Himself.... Think of the future and your responsibility to the unborn children when they come to you and say: ‘Where is our faith? Why did you take it from us? Give it back to us!’ Oh, stop for a moment! Postpone this for only a little while. Don’t do this thing!...Gentlemen!”
They could see that he was ill. His body swayed as though it were beyond his control. His hands were waving, turning, beseeching....
Suddenly tears were running down his cheeks.
“Not this shame!” he cried. “Not this shame! — kill me — but save the Cathedral!”
They were on their feet. Foster and Ryle had come round to him. “Archdeacon, sit down.” “You’re ill.” “Rest a moment” With a great heave of his shoulders he flung them off, a chair falling to the ground with the movement.
He saw Ronder.
“You!...my enemy. Are you satisfied now?” he whispered. He held out his quivering hand. “Take my hand. You’ve done your worst.”
He turned round as though he would go from the room. Stumbling, he caught Foster by the shoulder as though he would save himself. He bent forward, staring into Foster’s face.
“God is love, though,” he said. “You betray Him again and again, but He comes back.”
He gripped Foster’s shoulder more tightly. “Don’t do this thing, man,” he said. “Don’t do it. Because Ronder’s beaten me is no reason for you to betray your God.... Give me a chair. I’m ill.”
He fell upon his knees.
“This...Death,” he whispered. Then, looking up again at Foster, “My heart. That fails me too.”
And, bowing his head, he died.
THE END
The Shorter Fiction
Walpole attended The King’s School, Canterbury, in 1896 and 1897.
THE GOLDEN SCARECROW
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
EPILOGUE
The first edition’s title page
THE GOLDEN SCARECROW
PROLOGUE
Hugh Seymour
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 very 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 ‘91 a resident in the family of the Rev. 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 very minutely made, with bones so brittle that it seemed that, at any moment, he might crack and splinter into sharp little pieces; and I am afraid that no one would have minded very greatly had this occurred. 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 schoolfellows. He was not, however, so ugly as this appearance 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 shortsighted, 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 has cramp in his legs. He had, however, during these years at Mr. Lasher’s, this great over mastering ambition.
In his sleep, at any rate, he was a hero; in the wide-awake world he was, in the opinion of almost every one, a fool. He was exactly the type of boy whom the Rev. 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 tip
s of his fingers. He has 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 Tennyson, one of our greatest. Where are such men to-day!”
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 every one 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 the 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 in 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 certainly 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 to-night. 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 around 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 week 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 any one 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 shone 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 is 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 mid-day 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 any one (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.