Chapter 9

To-night, however, there was another object in the room, of so alien a nature that any self-respecting ham or flitch, had it possessed a reasonable soul, would have been sorely tempted to "heave half a brick" at the intruder. This object stood gleaming on a table in the middle of the room. It was a bran-new and brilliantly polished tall hat.

"No," said Farmer Perryman, "it's not for Sundays. It's for a weddin'! You'll never see me wearing a box-hat on Sundays again. Will he, missis?" (Mrs. Perryman said, "I don't expect he will.") "No sir, not again! Not that I don't mean to go to church regular. I've done that all my life.

"Yes, you're quite right. Folks in the villages don't go to church as they used to do when I was a young man, and I'm sorry to see it. Folks nowadays seems to have forgotten as they've got to die. Besides, it's not good for farmin'. Show me any parish in the county where there's first-class farmin', and I'll bet you three to one there's a good congregation in the church.

"What's driven 'em away, did you say? Well, if you want my opinion, it's my belief as this 'ere Church Restoration has as much to do wi' it as anything else. There's been a lot o' new doctrine, it's true, and all this 'ere 'Igh Churchism, as I could never make head nor tail of; and that, no doubt, has offended some o' the old-fashioned folk like me. But it's when they starts restoring the old churches, and makin' 'em all spick and span, that the religious feelin' seems to die out on 'em, and folks begins to stop goin'. You might as well be in a concert hall--the place full o' chairs and smellin' o' varnish enough to make you sick, and a lot o' lads in the chancel dressed up in white gowns, and suckin' sweets, and chuckin' paper pellets at one another all through the sermon. That's not what _I_ call religion!

"I've often told our parson as it were the worst day's work he ever did when he had our church restored. And a lot o' money it cost, too; but not a penny would I give, and I told 'em I wouldn't--no, not if they'd gone down on their bended knees. From that day to this our church has never _smelt_ right--never smelt as a church _ought_ to smell. You know the smell of a' old church? Well, I don't know what makes it; but there it is, and when you've said your prayers to it for forty years you can't say 'em to no other.

"I can remember what a turn it gave me that Sunday when the Bishop came down to open the church after it had been restored. The old smell clean gone, and what was worse a new smell come! 'Mr. Abel,' I says, 'I can put up wi' a bit of new doctrine, and I don't mind a pinch or two o' ceremony; but I can't abide these 'ere new smells,' 'I'll never be able to keep on comin',' I says to Charley Shott. 'Nor me, neither,' he says. "I'll go to church in another parish,' I says to my missis, 'for danged if you'll ever see me goin' inside a chapel.'

"So I went next Sunday to Holliton, and--would you believe me?--it had a new smell, worse, if anything, than ours. There was a' old man in a black gown, and a long stick in his hand, walkin' up and down the aisle. So I says to him, 'What's up with this 'ere church? Has them candles on the altar been smokin'?' 'No,' he says, 'not as I know on.' 'Well,' I says, sniffin' like, 'there's a very queer smell in the place. It's not 'ealthy. Summat ought to be done to it at once.' 'Hush!' he says, 'what you smells is the incense.' And then the Holliton clergyman! Well--I couldn't stand him at no price--a great, big, fat feller wi' no more religion in him than a cow--and not more'n six people in the church. 'Not for me,' I says, 'not after Mr. Abel.'

"Well, I didn't know what to do, when one day I sees Charley Shott comin' out o' our churchyard. 'Sam,' he says, 'I've just been sniffin' round inside the church, and there she is, all alive and kickin'!' 'What's all alive and kickin'?' I says. 'The old smell,' says he; 'come inside, and I'll show you where she is.' So I follows Charley Shott into the church, and he takes me round to where the old tomb is, in the north transep'. 'Now,' he says, 'take a whiff o' that, Sam.' 'Charley,' I says, 'it's the right smell sure enough; and if only she won't wear off, I'll sit in this corner to the end o' my days.' 'She's not likely to wear off,' he says; 'she comes from the old tomb. It's a mixture o' damp and dust. Now, the damp's all right, because the heatin' pipes don't come round here; and, besides, the sun never gets into this corner. And as to the dust, you just take your pocket-handkerchief and give a flick or two round the bottom o' the tomb. That'll freshen her up any time.'

"Well, you may laugh; but I tell you it's as true as I'm sittin' here. I allus goes to church in good time, and if my corner don't smell true, I just dusts her up a bit, and then she's as right as a trivet."

"But," I said, "you were going to tell me about the tall hat."

"Ha, so I was," replied Ferryman; "but the hat made me think o' the church, and that put me off. Well, it's no doin' o' mine that you see that hat where it is to-night. If I had my way it 'ud be in the place where it came from, and fifteen shillin's that's in another place 'ud be in my pocket. I'm not used to 'em, and what's more I never shall be. But a weddin's a weddin', and your niece is your niece, and when your missis says you've got to wear one--why, what's the use o' sayin' you won't? However, that's not the first tall hat as I've worn."

"Tell me about the others," I said.

"There was only one other, and that other was one 'other' too many for me," replied the farmer. "It's seven years come next hay harvest since my wife come into a bit of money as had been left her by her aunt. 'Sam,' she says to me, 'we got a rise, and we must act up to it.' 'Right you are,' I says; 'but how are you goin' to start?' 'Well,' she says, 'the first thing you've got to do is to leave off wearing billy-cocks on Sundays and buy a box-hat,' 'Polished 'ats,' I says, 'is for polished 'eads, and mine was ordered plain,' 'If there's no polish on your 'ead,' says she, 'that's a reason for having some on your 'at.'

"Well, we had a bit more chaff, and the end of it was that I promised to buy one, though, between you and me, I never meant to. However, when market-day come round, she _would_ go with me, and never a bit of peace did she give me till she'd driven me into a shop and made me buy the hat. 'I've bought it, Sally,' I said; 'but you'll _never_ see me wear it.' 'Oh yes, I shall,' she says; 'you're not nearly such a fool as you try to make yourself out.' Well, I went home that day just as mad as mad. If there's one thing in this world as upsets me it's spending money on things I don't want. And there was twelve-and-sixpence gone on a box-hat! If Sally hadn't kept hold on it I'd ha' kicked the whole thing half a mile further than the middle of next week. 'I'll get that twelve-and-sixpence back somehow,' I said to myself; 'you see if I don't. It's the Church that made me spend it, and the Church shall pay me back. If I didn't go to church I shouldn't have bought that hat. All right, Mr. Church,' I said, as I drove by it, shakin' my fist at the steeple, 'I'll be even with you yet'; and I shouted it out loud."

"I should have thought your wife had more to do with it than the Church," I interposed.

"Of course she had--in a plain sense o' speakin'," said the farmer. "But then your wife's your wife, especially when she's a good 'un, and the Church is the Church. Some men might ha' rounded on Sally; but I told her before we were married that the first bad word I gave her would be the answer to one she gave me. That's eight-and-twenty year ago, and we haven't begun yet. But where was I? Oh, I was tellin' you what I said to the church. You can guess what a rage I was in from my gettin' such a' idea into my 'ead."

"No other reason?" I asked.

"Not a drop," replied Perryman; "for I suppose that's what you mean. No, sir, I give it up once and for all ever since that time when Mrs. Abel followed me to Crawley Races. Ay, and the best day's work she ever did--and that's sayin' a good deal, I can tell you. I can see her just as she was. She were drivin' a little blood-mare as she'd bought o' me--one as I'd bred myself--for I were more in 'osses than sheep in them days--and Mrs. Abel were allus a lady as knowed a good 'oss when she see it. And there was Snarley Bob, in his Sunday clothes, sittin' on the seat behind. She'd got a little blue bonnet on, as suited her to a T, and were lookin' like a----"

"Tell him about that some other time," said Mrs. Perryman; "if you go on at this rate you'll never get finished with the story about your hat."

"Hats isn't everything," said the farmer; "but if hats is what you want to hear about, hats is what I'll talk on."

Mrs. Perryman looked at me with a glance which seemed to say that, even though hats weren't everything, we had better stick to them on the present occasion. I interpreted the glance by saying to the farmer, "Go on about the hat. We can have the other next time." Mrs. Perryman seemed relieved, and her husband continued:

"Well, next mornin' bein' Sunday, the missis managed to get her way, and off we sails to church--she in a silk dress, and me in a box-hat. We was twenty minutes before time, for I didn't want people to see us; but, just as we were crossing the churchyard, who should we meet but the parson and his lady? Know our parson? You're right: he's not only good, but good all through, fat, lean, and streaky. That's what he is, and you can take my word for it. Know his lady? No?" (I was a new-comer in those days.) "Well, you _ought_ to: she'd make you laugh till you choked, and next minute she'd make you cry. Mischievous? Why, if I should tell you the tricks she's played on people you wouldn't believe 'em. Ever hear what she did when the Squire's son come of age? Or about her dressing up at the Queen's Jubilee? No? Well, I'll tell you that another time. Oh, she's a treat--a real treat!" (Here Farmer Perryman broke forth into mighty laughter and banged his fist on the table with such vigour that Tall Hat the Second leaped into the air.)

"Why doesn't Parson keep her under, did you say?" he continued. "Bless yer heart, he doesn't want to. She never harmed a living soul. Why, the good she's done to this parish couldn't be told. It'll take the whole of the Judgment Day to get through it, and then they won't ha' done--that's what folks says. Popular? I should think she _was_! There isn't a poor man or woman in the village as doesn't worship the soles of her boots. And there's not many, rich or poor, as she hasn't made fools of--yes, and more than once. They ought to write a book about her. It's a shame they don't. My eye, if she'd been Queen of England she'd ha' made things jump! As for finding things out, she's got a nose like that little terrier bitch o' mine. 'Pon my word, it wouldn't surprise me if she knows that you're sittin' in that chair at this minute. You mayn't believe me, but I tell you she's capable of more than that.

"Yes, yes, she's gettin' an old woman now. I remember the day as Parson brought her home--a quiet-looking little thing, with a face like a tame rabbit--you wouldn't ha' thought she could 'a bitten a hole in the cheek of a' apple. Some say she was a' actress before he married her; she's _clever_ enough for twenty actresses, and she's _better_ than twenty thousand."

"Those are impressive figures," I said, not a little puzzled by the sum in moral arithmetic which the farmer's enthusiasm had propounded. "Why, she must be a perfect saint."

The words were scarcely out of my mouth when Mr. Perryman rose from his chair like a man in wrath. Inadvertently I had used an expression which acted like a spark upon gunpowder. Intending to praise his idol, I had for some obscure reason wounded the passionate old man in the most sensitive nerve of his being. I sat amazed, not understanding what I had done, and even now I do not pretend to understand it wholly. But this is what happened. Standing over me with fierce gesticulations, Mr. Perryman poured out a fury of words, only fragments of which I can now recall.

"Perfect saint!" he shouted. "Do you know who it is you're talking about? No, you don't, or you'd never have said such a word! Look here, mister, let me tell yer this: you're on the wrong side of your 'osses this time! She's no more a saint than _I_ am; if she had been, do you think she could ha' done the best thing she ever did?"

"Great heavens!" I thought, "what can he mean?--I'm sorry you're hurt," I said aloud. "I meant no offence. Only you said just now she was as good as twenty thousand----"

"_Actresses_," broke in the farmer. "I said twenty thousand actresses--not twenty thousand _lambs_."

"Oh, well," I replied, "of course, there's a great difference between the two things, and I was stupid not to think of it before. Whatever she may be, it's plain you admire her, and that's enough." I was anxious to break the current of Mr. Perryman's thoughts, and recover the history of the Tall Hat, the thread of which had been so unexpectedly snapped.

"Admire her!" cried the old man, who was evidently not to be put off. "And why shouldn't I? Who was it that dug Sam Perryman out of the mud when he was buried in it up to his neck--yes, and got half smothered with mud herself in doing it? But do you think she _cared_? Not she! Snapped her fingers in the face of half the county, that she did, and what's more she gave some of 'em a taste of the whip as they won't forget! Now listen, and I'll tell you something that'll make your hair curl."

I swiftly resolved not to listen, for the farmer was beside himself with excitement and not responsible for what he was doing. I saw that I was about to discover what I was never intended to know. Dim recollections came to my mind of a grotesque but terrible story, known to not more than four living souls, the names and personalities in which had for good reasons been carefully concealed from me and from others. That Farmer Perryman was one actor in that tragedy, and that Mrs. Abel was another, had been already revealed past recalling. More than this it was unseemly that I should hear.

The figure of the old man, as he stood before me then, is one of those images that cannot be effaced. His voice was broken, his lips were parted and quivering, his form rigid but unsteady, and the furrows on his brow ran into and crossed one another like the lines on a tragic mask. He was about to proceed, and I to protest against his doing so, when an incident occurred which relieved the tension and gave a new turn to the course of events.

Mrs. Perryman, who had left the room when the farmer resumed the history of the Tall Hat, though not to go beyond the reach of hearing, now emerged from the shadows and said in a quiet voice, "Sam, stop talking a minute, and attend to business. Snarley Bob's at the back door, and wants to know if you're going to keep him waiting all night. He come for his wages at five o'clock, and it's struck six some time ago."

"Give him a mug o' ale, and tell him to go home," said Sam.

"I've given him two mugs already, and he says he must see you afore he goes."

"Wait where you are," said Mr. Perryman to me, "and I'll be back in half a shake."

The Perrymans withdrew together, leaving me alone. I listened to the voices in the next room and could distinguish those of the farmer and his wife, urgent but subdued. I could not hear the voice of Snarley Bob. Then I drew conclusions, and searched in the recesses of my memory for a forgotten clue. Gazing into the fire, I saw three separate strands of smoke roll themselves into a single column, and rush upwards into the darkness of the chimney. The thing acted as a stimulus to recollection, for it spoke of three human lives flowing onwards to the Unknown in a single stream of destiny: Mrs. Abel, Farmer Perryman, Snarley Bob--and further articulations would have followed had not the re-entry of the Perrymans disturbed the process and plunged it back beneath the threshold of consciousness. The farmer's wife sat down between us, in front of the fire.

"I want to hear him finish the story of the Tall Hat," she said. "With me by he's less likely to put the frilling on."

"Let's see--where was I?" said Perryman.

"You'd come to the place where you met the parson and his lady in the churchyard," I said.

"Ha, so I had," replied the farmer. "I can see her at this very minute just as she was. She looked----"

"Never mind what she _looked_ like: tell us what she _said_," interrupted Mrs. Perryman.

"She says, 'Good-morning, Mr. Perryman. How much?'--looking 'ard at my 'at all the time. I guessed she was up to some devilry, so I thought I would put her wrong a bit. 'A guinea, ma'am,' says I. She looks at my 'at again and says, 'Mr. Perryman, you've been took in. Twelve-and-six would have been more than enough for that 'at.' 'Oh,' says I to myself, 'you've been nosing round already, 'ave you?' I suppose I must have looked a bit foolish like--I'm sure I felt it,--but she didn't give me no time to speak. 'Wouldn't you like to have that guinea back in your pocket?' says she, putting a funny sound on the 'guinea.' 'Yes,' I says; 'and, what's more, I mean to get it back.' 'Oh indeed,' says she, and a look come into her face as though she was putting two and two together. After a bit she says, 'Mr. Perryman, was that your trap that drove by about half-past seven last night?' 'Yes,' I says; and I might have known from that minute she was going to do a down on me.

"However, I'd made up my mind how I was goin' to get that money back, and I wasn't goin' to change for nobody. You must understand there's a weekly offertory in our church. There was a lot of objection when Parson started it years ago. But, you see, he's always been a bit 'Igh." ("Much too High for me," here interposed Mrs. Perryman.) "Yes, I've warned him about it several times. 'Mr. Abel,' I says to him, 'you're 'Igh enough already. Now, you take my advice, and don't you get no 'Igher.' That was when he started the offertory.

"Well, I'm the sort of man that when I gives, I gives. Ever since the offertory was begun my missis puts a two-shillin' piece into the waistcoat-pocket of my Sunday suit--don't you, Sally?" (Sally nodded)--"regular every Monday morning when she brushes my clothes, so there's no doubt about its being there when Sunday comes. That's for collection.

"And now you can understand my plan. I'd made up to give one shillin' instead o' two, Sunday by Sunday, till I'd paid for my new box-hat. That's how I was goin' to get even with the Church.

"I kep' it up regular for twelve weeks, counting 'em off one by one. I didn't bother about the sixpence. Meanwhile two or three other farmers, not wanting to be put in the shade by me--or more likely it was their missises--had begun to wear box-hats o' Sunday. There was Tom Henderson, who's no more fit to wear a box-hat than his bull is; and there was old Charley Shott--know him?--a man with a wonderful appetite for pig-meat is old Charley Shott. It would ha' made you die o' laughin' to see old Charley come shufflin' up the church just like this" (here the farmer executed an imitative _pas seul_), "sit down in his seat, and say his prayers into his box-hat same as I'm doing now." (He took Tall Hat the Second from the table, and poured--or rather puffed--an imaginary petition into its interior.)

"Now, listen to what happened next. The very day after I'd put the last shillin' into the plate--that was three months, you must remember, after I'd bought the 'at--up comes a note from the cook at the Rectory, saying as the weekly order for butter was to be reduced from six pounds to five. 'I suppose it's because Master Norman's goin' to boarding school,' I says to the missis. 'Not it,' says she, 'one mouth more or less don't make no difference in a big household like that. Besides, they're not the people to cut it fine.' 'I wonder what it means,' I says. But I hadn't long to wait. About a fortnight later I met old Charley Shott and says to him, jokin' like, 'Well, Charley, how much did you pay for your Sunday box-hat?' 'Cost me nothing,' said Charley laughin'. 'I've run up a little bill against his Reverence for that 'at. And, what's more, I've made him pay it! By the way,' says he, 'what's become o' their appetites down at the Rectory? We've just received warnin' as no more poultry'll be wanted till further orders.' 'I don't know,' says I; but it was a lie, for it come over me in a flash what it all meant. Even then, however, I wasn't _quite_ sure.

"However, it was twenty-one weeks before I got the final clearing-up. Thirty-three weeks to the very day, reckoning from the Saturday which I bought the 'at, comes another message from the Rectory: 'Please send six pounds of butter as before.'

"Next day I went to church as usual. No sooner did Mr. Abel give out his text than I saw it all, plain as daylight. The text was something about 'robbery of God.' There was not a thing I've told you about the 'at that was not put into that sermon. Of course, it was roundabout--all about pearls and precious stones and such like; but it was my box-hat he was driving at all the time. It was Solomon mostly as he talked about; but I nearly jumped out of my seat when he made Solomon shake his fist at the 'Oly Temple on Mount Zion and say almost the very words as I said as I drove by the church that Saturday night. First he went for me, and then he went for Charley Shott, and I can tell you that he twisted the tails of both on us to a pretty tune! Says I to myself, 'Don't I know who's put you up to preaching that sermon?' And more than seven months gone since it happened! Think of that for a memory! And she sitting in her pew with a face as smooth as a dish o' cream.

"Well, I was churchwarden that year, and of course had to take the plate round. When I comes to the Rector's pew I see Mrs. Abel openin' a little purse. First she takes out a sovereign, and then a shilling, and says to me, quite clear, as she dropped 'em into the plate, 'All right, Mr. Church, I'll be even with you yet! And here's another two pounds fifteen. You can tell Charley Shott and Tom Henderson, and all the lot on 'em, as they've paid for their Sunday 'ats. And give 'em all my kind regards.' Then she counts the money out as deliberate as if she were payin' the cook's wages, and drops it into the plate wi' a clatter as could be heard all over the church. She must ha' kep' me waitin' full two minutes, all the congregation starin' and wonderin' what was up, and me lookin' like a silly calf.

"When I come out of church my wife says to me, 'Sam, what's that you and Mrs. Abel was whispering about?' 'You mind your own business,' I says, and for the first time since we were married we was very near coming to words."

A GRAVEDIGGER SCENE

It was Sunday evening, and the congregation had dispersed. I was making my way into the church to take a last look at a famous fourteenth-century tomb. Not a soul was visible; but the sound of a pick and the sight of fresh earth announced that the sexton was at work digging a grave. I walked to the spot. A bald head, the shining top of which was now level with the surface of the ground, raised the hope that he would prove to be a sexton of the old school. I was not disappointed.

"Good evening," I said.

"A good evening to you, sir," said the sexton, pausing in his work with the air of a man who welcomed an excuse to rest.

"And whose grave is that you're digging?" I asked.

"Old Sally Bloxham--mother to Tom Bloxham--him as keeps the 'Spotted Pig.' And a bad job for him as she's gone. If it hadn't been for old Sally he'd ha' drunk hisself to death long ago. And who may _you_ be?" he asked, as though realising that this sudden burst of confidential information was somewhat rash.