It was common knowledge that Smugg was engaged to be married.
Familiarity had robbed the fact of some of its surprisingness, but
there remained a substratum of wonder, not removed even by the sight of
his betrothed's photograph and the information that she was a distant
relative who had been brought up with him from infancy. The features
and the explanation between them rescued Smugg from the incongruity of
a romance, but we united in the opinion that the lady was ill-advised
in preferring Smugg to solitude. Still, for all that he was a
ridiculous creature, she did, and hence it happened that Smugg,
desiring to form a furnishing fund, organized a reading party, which
Gayford, Tritton, Bird, and I at once joined.
Every morning at nine Smugg, his breakfast finished, cleared his corner
of the table, opened his books, and assumed an expectant air; so Mary
the maid told us; we were never there ourselves; we breakfasted at 9.30
or 10 o'clock, and only about 11 did we clear our corners, light our
pipes, open our books, and discuss the prospects of the day.
As we discussed them, Smugg construed in a gentle bleat; what he
construed or why he construed it (seeing that nobody heeded him) was a
mystery; the whole performance was simply a tribute to Smugg's
conscience, and, as such, was received with good-natured, scornful
toleration.
Suddenly a change came.
One morning there was no Smugg! Yet he had breakfasted--Mary and an
eggshell testified to that effect. He reappeared at 11.30, confused
and very warm (he had exceptional powers in the way of being warm). We
said nothing, and he began to bleat Horace. In a minute of silence I
happened to hear what it was: it referred to a lady of the name of
Pyrrha; the learned may identify the passage for themselves. The next
day the same thing happened except that it was close on twelve before
Smugg appeared. Gayford and Tritton took no notice of the aberration;
Bird congratulated Smugg on the increased docility of his conscience.
I watched him closely as he wiped his brow--he was very warm, indeed.
A third time the scene was enacted; my curiosity was aroused; I made
Mary call me very early, and from the window I espied Smugg leaving the
house at 9.15, and going with rapid, furtive steps along the little
path that led to old Dill's tiny farm. I slipped downstairs, bolted a
cup of tea, seized a piece of toast, and followed Smugg. He was out of
sight, but presently I met Joe Shanks, the butcher's son, who brought
us our chops. Joe was a stout young man, about twenty-one, red-faced,
burly, and greasy. We used to have many jokes with Joe; even Smugg had
before now broken a mild shaft of classical wit on him; in fact, we
made a butt of Joe, and his good-humored, muttony smile told us that he
thought it a compliment.
"Seen Mr. Smugg as you came along, Joe?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. Gone toward Dill's farm, sir."
"Ah, Dill's farm!"
"Yes, sir."
The chop-laden Joe passed on. I mended my pace, and soon found myself
on the outskirts of Dill's premises. I had been there before; we had
all been there before. Dill had a daughter. I saw her now in a
sunbonnet and laced boots. I may say at once that Betsy Dill was very
pretty, in a fine, robust style, and all four of us were decidedly
enamored of her charms. Usually we courted her in a body, and
scrupulous fairness was observed in the matter of seeking private
interviews.
Smugg had never spoken to her--so we should all have sworn. But now my
wondering eyes saw, opposite Pyrrha (we began from this day to call her
Pyrrha) the figure of Smugg. Pyrrha was leaning against a barn, one
foot crossed over the other, her arms akimbo, a string of her bonnet in
her mouth, and her blue eyes laughing from under long lashes. Smugg
stood limply opposite her, his trousers bagging over his half-bent
knees, his hat in one hand, and in the other a handkerchief, with
which, from time to time, he mopped his forehead. I could not hear (of
course I did not wish to) what they were saying; indeed, I have my
doubts if they said anything; but presently Smugg moved a hesitating
step nearer, when Pyrrha, with a merry laugh, darted by him and ran
away, turning a mocking face over her shoulder. Smugg stood still for
a minute, then put on his hat, looked at his watch, and walked slowly
away.
I did not keep Smugg's secret; I felt under no obligation to keep it.
He deserved no mercy, and I exposed him at breakfast that very morning.
But I could not help being a little sorry for him when he came in. He
bent his head under the shower of reproach, chaff, and gibing; he did
not try to excuse himself; he simply opened his book at the old place,
and we all shouted the old ode, substituting "Betsa" for "Pyrrha"
wherever we could. Still, in spite of our jocularity, we all felt an
under-current of real anger.
We considered that Smugg was treating Pyrrha very badly--Smugg, an
engaged man, aged thirty, presumably past the heat and carelessness of
youth. We glowed with a sense of her wrongs, and that afternoon we
each went for a solitary walk--at least, we started for a solitary
walk--but half an hour later we all met at the gate leading to Dill's
meadows, and, in an explosion of laughter, acknowledged our secret
design of meeting Pyrrha, and opening her eyes to Smugg's iniquity.
The great surprise was still to come. At eleven the next morning, when
we had just sat down to work, and Smugg had slid into the room with the
stealthy, ashamed air he wore after his morning excursions, Mary
appeared, and told us that Joe Shanks, the butcher's son, had come with
the chops, and wanted to speak to us. We hailed the diversion, and had
Joe shown in. Gayford pushed the beer jug and a glass toward him,
saying:
"Help yourself, Joe."
Joe drank a draught, wiped his mouth on his blue sleeve, and remarked:
"No offense, gentlemen."
"None," said Gayford, who seemed to have assumed the chairmanship of
the meeting.
Joe, seeming slightly embarrassed, cleared his throat, and looked round
again.
"No offense, gentlemen," he repeated; "but she's bin walking with me
two years come Michaelmas."
A pause followed. Then the chairman expressed the views of the meeting.
"The deuce she has!" said he.
"Off AND on," added Joe candidly.
I looked at Smugg. He had shrunk down low in his seat, and rested his
head on his hand. His face was half hidden; but he was very warm, and
the drops trickled from his forehead down his nose.
"It seems to be a good deal off," said the chairman judicially.
"No offense," said Joe; "but I don't take it kind of you, gentlemen.
I've served you faithful."
"The chops are excellent," conceded the chairman.
"And I don't take it kind."
"Develop your complaint," said the chairman. "I mean, what's the row,
Joe?"
"Since you gentlemen came she's been saucy," said Joe.
"I do not see," observed the chairman, "that anything can be done. If
Pyrrha prefers us, Joe [he treated the case collectively, which was
certainly wise], what then?"
"Beg pardon, sir?"
"Oh, I mean if the lady prefers us, Joe?"
Joe brought his fat fist down on the table with a thump.
"It aint as if you meant it," said he doggedly; "you just unsettles of
'er. I s'pose I can't help ye talking, and laughing, and walking along
of 'er, but you aint no call to kiss 'er."
Another pause ensued. The chairman held a consultation with Tritton,
who sat on his right hand.
"The meeting," said Gayford, "will proceed to declare, one by one,
whether it has ever--and if so, how often--kissed the lady. I will
begin. Never! Mr. Tritton?"
"Never!" said Tritton.
"Mr. Bird?"
"Never!" said Bird.
"Mr. Robertson?"
"Never!" said I.
"Mr. Smugg?"
"I seed 'im this very morning!" cried Joe, like an accusing angel.
Smugg took his hand away from his face, after giving his wet brow one
last dab. He looked at Gayford and at Joe, but said nothing.
"Mr. Smugg?" repeated the chairman.
"Mr. Smugg," interposed Tritton suavely, "probably feels himself in a
difficulty. The secret is not, perhaps, entirely his own."
We all nodded.
"We enter a plea of not guilty for Mr. Smugg," observed the chairman
gravely.
"I seed 'im do it," said Joe.
No one spoke. Joe finished his beer, pulled his forelock, and turned
on his heel. Suddenly Smugg burst into speech. He could hardly form
his words, and they jostled one another in the breathless confusion of
his utterance.
"I--I--you've no right. I say nothing. If I choose, I shall--no one
has a right to stop me. If I love her--if she doesn't mind--I say
nothing--nothing at all. I won't hear a word. I shall do as I like."
Joe had paused to hear him, and now stood looking at him in wonder.
Then he stepped quickly up to the table, and, leaning across, asked in
a harsh voice:
"You mean honest, do you, by her? You'd make her your wife, would you?"
Smugg, looking straight in front of him, answered:
"Yes."
Joe drew back, touched his forelock again, and said:
"Then it's fair fighting, sir, begging your pardon; and no offense.
But the girl was mine first, sir."
Then Gayford interposed.
"Mr. Smugg," said he, "you tell Joe, here, that you'd marry this lady.
May I ask how you can--when----"
But for once Smugg was able to silence one of his pupils. He arose
from his seat, and brought his hand heavily down on Gayford's shoulder.
"Hold your tongue!" he cried. "I must answer to God, but I needn't
answer to you."
Joe looked at him with round eyes, and, with a last salute, slowly went
out. None of us spoke, and presently Smugg opened his Thucydides.
For my part, I took very considerable interest in Pyrrha's side of the
question. I amused myself by constructing a fancy-born love of
Pyrrha's for her social superior, and if he had been one of ourselves,
I should have seen no absurdity. But Smugg refused altogether to fit
into my frame. There was no glamour about Smugg; and, to tell the
truth, I should have thought that any girl, be her station what it
might, faced with the alternative of Smugg and Joe, would have chosen
Joe. In my opinion, Pyrrha was merely amusing herself with Smugg, and
I was rather comforted by this reversal of the ordinary roles. Still,
I could not rest in conjecture, and my curiosity led me up to Dill's
little farm on the afternoon of the day of Joe's sudden appearance.
The others let me go alone. Directly after dinner Smugg went to his
bedroom, and the other three had gone off to play lawn tennis at the
vicar's. I lit my pipe, and strolled along till I reached the gate
that led to Dill's meadow. Here I waited till Pyrrha should appear.
As I sat and smoked, a voice struck suddenly on my ear--the voice of
Mrs. Dill, raised to shrillness by anger.
"Be off with you," she said, "and mind your ways, or worse 'll happen
to you. 'Ere's your switch."
After a moment Pyrrha turned the corner, and came toward me. She was
wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, and carried in her hand a
light hazel switch, which she used to guide errant cows. She was
almost at the gate before she saw me. She started, and blushed very
red.
"Lor! is it you, Mr. Robertson?" she said.