THE WOOIN' O'T
Imagine a man wrapped from infancy in the cotton wool of civilisation
suddenly jerked out of the same into barbaric nakedness. Deprived of the
strong protection of the law, brought suddenly face to face with the
"might-is-right" theory, he would have to fight for his own land, even
to the extent of slaying anyone who thwarted his needs. Such a man,
amazed and horrified at first, would gradually become accustomed to his
Ishmael existence, since habit is second nature. Silas Pence felt sick
when he reflected on the offer made by Captain Huxham, and to him of all
people--a minister of the Gospel, a follower of the Prince of Peace. For
the first time in his guarded life, he became aware of the evil which
underlies the smiling surface of things, and it was as though an abyss
had opened suddenly at his feet. But although he did not know it at the
time, the seed had been sown in his heart at the right moment, and would
germinate almost without his knowledge. In a few days Silas could look
back at the horrifying suggestion with calmness, and could even consider
the advantages it offered.
But just now he felt sick, physically sick, and descending with
trembling limbs to the ground floor of the house, staggered towards the
hall and door. All he desired was to get away, and put the corn-fields
between himself and the evil atmosphere of Bleacres. But his legs failed
him as he laid hands on the latch, and he sank white-faced and shaking
into a chair. In this state he was discovered by Mrs. Coppersley, the
captain's sister and housekeeper. She was a buxom, amiable woman, with a
fixed smile meaning nothing. The expression of her rosy face changed to
one of alarm when she saw the heap in the chair. "Save us, Mr. Pence,
what's wrong?"
Pence was about to break forth into a denunciation of Huxham's
wickedness, but a timely recollection of the captain's last words--that
his story would not be believed--made him pause. After all, Huxham was
well known as a decent man and an open-handed friend to one and all, so
there was nothing to be gained by telling a truth which would certainly
be scoffed at. The preacher changed his mind in one swift instant, and
replied nervously to Mrs. Coppersley's inquiry. "I have been on the
quarter-deck, and it made me dizzy. I am not accustomed to----"
"Drat that brother of mine," interrupted Mrs. Coppersley angrily, "he
got me up there once, and I thought I'd never come down. Here, Mr.
Pence, you hold up while I get you a sup of rum."
"No, no! Strong drink leads us into desperate ways," protested the
preacher. But Mrs. Coppersley was gone, and had returned before he could
make up his mind to fly temptation. Silas was not used to alcohol, but
the shock he had sustained in learning so much of Huxham's true nature
prevented his exercising his usual self-control. With his highly strung
nerves he was half-hysterical, and so, when forced by kindly Mrs.
Coppersley, readily drank half a tumbler of rum slightly diluted with
water.
"Drink it all, there's a good soul," entreated the housekeeper, forcing
the glass to his lips.
"No!" He pushed it away. "I feel better already!" and he did, for the
strong spirit brought colour to his cheek and new strength to his limbs.
He stood up in a few minutes, quite himself, and indeed more than
himself, since the rum put into him more courage than came by nature.
"Wine maketh glad the heart of man," said Silas, in excuse for his
unusual indulgence.
"Rum isn't wine," said Mrs. Coppersley, with a jolly laugh, "it's
something much better, Mr. Pence. Now you go home and lie down."
"Oh, no! I feel as though I could charge an army," said Pence valiantly.
"Then wait in the study." She indicated the panelled room with a jerk of
her head. "Jabez will be down from his quarter-deck soon."
"No." Pence shivered, in spite of the rum, at the thought of again
having to face his tempter. "I must go now. My presence is required in
the village."
"Then you can take a message for me to Mr. Vand," said Mrs. Coppersley,
with a slight accession of colour to her already florid face. "Say that
I am coming to Marshely about seven o'clock, and will call at the shop."
This request changed Pence into the preacher and the leader of the godly
people who called his chapel their fold. Vand was the son of the woman
who kept the village grocery shop, and a cripple who played the violin
at various local concerts. He was at least ten years younger than Mrs.
Coppersley, who confessed to being thirty-five--though probably she was
older--and the way in which the widow ran after him was something of a
scandal. As both Mrs. Coppersley and Henry Vand were members of Little
Bethel, Silas felt that he was entitled to inquire into the matter. "You
ask me to take such a message, sister?" he demanded austerely.
The widow's face flamed, and her eyes sparkled. "There is no shame in it
that I am aware of, Mr. Pence," she declared violently; "if I choose to
marry again, that's no one's business but mine, I take it."
"Oh, so you desire to marry Henry Vand?" said Pence, amazed.
"It's not a question of desiring," said the buxom woman impatiently.
"Henry and I have arranged to be married this summer."
"He is a cripple."
"I know that," she snapped, "and therefore needs the care of a wife."
"His mother looks after him," protested Pence weakly.
"Does she?" inquired Mrs. Coppersley. "I thought she looked after no one
but herself. She's that selfish as never was, so don't you go to defend
her, Mr. Pence. Henry, poor boy, who is an angel, if ever there was one,
is quite neglected; so I am going to marry him and look after him. So
there!" and Mrs. Coppersley, placing her hands akimbo, defied her
pastor.
"Henry has no money," said Pence, finding another objection.
"As to that," remarked Mrs. Coppersley indifferently, "when my brother
dies I'll have money for us both, and this house into the bargain."
"You will have nothing of the sort," said Silas, surprised into saying
more than was wise. "Your brother's daughter will inherit this----"
"Oh, will she?" cried Mrs. Coppersley violently, "and much you know
about it, Mr. Pence. "When my late husband, who was a ship's steward, and
saving, died ten year ago, I lent my brother some money to add to his
own, so that he might buy Bleacres. He agreed that if I did so, I should
inherit the house and the land. I promised to look after Bella until she
got married, and----"
"Mrs. Coppersley," said Pence, with an effort at firmness, "your brother
told me only lately that if I married Bella, he would give her the farm
and the house when he died, so----"
"Ho, indeed," interrupted Mrs. Coppersley wrathfully, "pretty goings on,
I'm sure. You call yourself a pastor, Mr. Pence, and come plotting to
rob me of what is mine. I take everything, and Bella nothing, so you can
put that in your pipe and smoke it, though you ain't man enough to smoke
even a penny cigar. You marry Bella? Why, she's as good as engaged to
that young Lister, who has got more gumption about him than you have."
"I advise you," said Pence, and his voice sounded strangely in his own
ears, "not to tell your brother that his daughter is engaged to Mr.
Lister."
"I never said that she was. But----"
"There is no but. The mere mention of such an engagement would send
Captain Huxham crazy."
"In heaven's name, why?" gasped Mrs. Coppersley, looking the picture of
stout amazement and sitting down heavily.
"Because for some reason he hates Mr. Lister, and would kill him rather
than accept him as his son-in-law."
Mrs. Coppersley's florid face turned quite pale. Evidently she knew what
her brother was like when roused. "Why should Jabez hate Mr. Lister?"
she asked.
"You had better ask him," said Pence, opening the hall door; then to
soften his abruptness he added, "I'll tell Henry Vand that you will see
him." After which he departed, leaving Mrs. Coppersley still pale and
still gasping.
After all there was no reason why the ship steward's widow would not
marry the young man. Vand was handsome in a refined way, and very clever
as a musician. He was only slightly crippled, too, and could get about
with the aid of a stick. All the same, he needed someone to look after
him, and as his own mother did not do so--as was notorious--why should
he not become Mrs. Coppersley's husband? The disparity in age did not
matter, as Vand, in spite of his good looks, was club-footed and poor.
But Pence doubted if Mrs. Coppersley would inherit Bleacres after
Captain Huxham's death, in spite of the arrangement between them.
Unless--and here was the chance for the housekeeper--unless Bella
married Lister, notwithstanding her father's opposition. In that event,
Huxham would assuredly disinherit her. "I'll point this out to her,"
said the preacher, as he left the manor-house, "and urge my suit.
Common-sense will make her yield to my prayers. Moreover, I can plead,
and----" here he smiled complacently as he thought of his pulpit
eloquence. Besides, the unaccustomed spirit of the rum was still keeping
him brave.
Pence sauntered in the glowing sunshine down the narrow path which ran
between the standing corn. The path was not straight. It wound
deviously, as though Huxham wished to make the approach to his abode as
difficult as possible. Indeed, it was strange that he should sow corn at
all, since corn at the time was not remunerative. But every year since
he had entered into possession of Bleacres the owner had sown corn, and
every year there had only been the one meandering path through the same,
the very path which Pence was now taking. There was evidently some
purpose in this sowing, and in the fact that only one pathway was left
whereby to approach the mansion. But what that purpose might be, neither
Pence, nor indeed anyone else, could guess. Not that they gave it a
thought. Huxham was presumed to be very wealthy, and his farming was
looked upon more as a hobby than a necessity.
The preacher brushed between the breast-high corn, and walked over two
or three narrow planks laid across two or three narrow ditches. But
where the corn ended was a wide channel, at least ten feet broad, which
stretched the whole length of the estate and passed beyond it on its way
under the railway line to the distant river. The water-way ran
straightly for some distance, and then curved down into the marshes at
its own will, to spread into swamps. On one side sprang the thick green
corn, but on the other stretched waste-lands up to the outskirts of the
village, one mile distant. There was no fence round Bleacres at this
point. Apparently, Huxham deemed the wide channel a sufficient
protection to his corn, which it assuredly was, as no tramps ever
trespassed on the land. But then, Marshely was not a tramp village. The
inhabitants were poor, and had nothing to give in the way of charity.
The loafer of the roads avoided the locality for very obvious reasons.
Before crossing the planks, which were laid on mid-channel supporting
tressels over the water-way, Pence looked from right to left. The
evening was so very beautiful that he thought he would prolong his walk
until sundown, and it wanted some time to that hour. He was still
indignant with Captain Huxham for his base offer, and came to the
conclusion that the ex-mariner was mad when he made it. Pence, in his
simplicity, could not think that any man could ask another to kill a
third in cold blood. All the same, the offer had been made, and Silas
found himself asking why Huxham should desire the death of a stranger
with whom--so far as the preacher knew--he was not even acquainted.
Huxham had always refused to permit Bella to bring Lister to Bleacres,
and indeed had forbidden her even to speak to the young man. He
therefore could not be cognisant of the fact, stated by Mrs. Coppersley,
that Lister and the girl were on the eve of an engagement.
Thus thinking, Pence mechanically wandered along the left bank of the
boundary water-way, and found himself near a small hut, inhabited by the
sole labourer whom Huxham habitually employed. He engaged others, of
course, when his fields were ploughed, and sown, and reaped, but
Tunks--such was the euphonious name of the handy-man--was in demand all
the year round. He resided in this somewhat lonely hut, along with his
grandmother, a weird old gipsy reputed to be a witch, and it was this
reputation which set Mr. Pence thinking.
Remembering that Mrs. Tunks was of the Romany, he thought, and blushed
as he thought, that it would be worth while to expend a shilling in
order to learn if his suit with Bella would really prosper. The temple
of fate was before him, and the Sibyl was probably within, since the
smoke of cooking the evening meal curled from the chimney. It was only
necessary to lift the latch, lay down a shilling, and inquire. But even
as the temptation drew him, he was seized with a feeling of shame, that
he--a preacher of the Gospel, and the approved foe thereby of
witches--should think for one moment of encouraging such traffic with
the Evil One. Pence, blushing as red as the now setting sun, turned away
hastily, and found himself face to face with the very girl who was
causing him such torment.
"How are you, Mr. Pence?" said Bella Huxham, lightly. "A lovely evening,
isn't it?" and she tried to pass him on the narrow path. Probably she
was going to see the Witch of Endor.
The preacher placed himself directly before her.
"Wait for one moment."
The girl did not reply immediately, but looked at him earnestly, trying
to guess what the usually nervous preacher had to say. Bella looked more
lovely than ever in Pence's eyes, as she stood before him in her white
dress and bathed in the rosy glory of the sunset. She did not in the
least resemble her father or her aunt, both of whom were stout, uncomely
folk of true plebeian type. Bella was aristocratic in her looks, as tall
and slim and willowy as a young sapling. Her hair and eyes were dark,
her face was a perfect oval of ivory-white delicately flushed with red,
like a sweet-pea, and if her chin was a trifle resolute and hard, her
mouth was perfect. She carried herself in a haughty way, and had a habit
of bending her dark brows so imperiously, that she reminded Pence of
Judith, who killed Holofernes. Judith and Jael and Deborah must have
been just such women.
"Well?" asked Bella, bending her brows like an empress, "what is it?"
"I--I--love you, Miss Huxham."
She could not be angry at so naive a declaration, and one coming from a
man whom she knew to be as timid as a hare. "I am somewhat surprised,
Mr. Pence," she replied demurely, "are you not making a mistake?"
"No," he stuttered, flushing with eagerness, for amorous passion makes
the most timid bold. "I have loved you for months, for years. I want you
to be my wife--to share with me the glorious privilege of leading my
flock to the land of Beulah, and----"
"Stop, stop!" She flung up her hand. "I assure you, Mr. Pence, that it
is impossible. Forget that you ever said anything."
"I cannot forget. Why should I forget?"
"You must not ask a woman for her reasons, Mr. Pence," she answered
drily, "for a woman never gives the true ones."
"Bella!"
"Miss Huxham to you, Mr. Pence." She spoke in a chilly manner.
"No," he cried wildly; "to me you are Bella. I think of you by that
sweet name day and night. You come between me and my work. When I
console the afflicted I feel that I am talking to you. When I read my
Bible, your face comes between me and the sacred page. To me you are
Hephzibah--yes, and the Shulamite. The Angel of the Covenant; the joy of
my heart. Oh, Bella, I love the very ground that you tread on. Can you
refuse me? See!" He threw himself on the path, heedless of the fact that
Mrs. Tunks might be at her not far distant window. "I am at your feet,
Bella! Bella!"
The girl was distressed by this earnestness. "Rise, Mr. Pence, someone
will see you. You must not behave like this. I cannot be your wife."
"Why not? Oh, why not?"
"Because I am not fit to be a minister's wife."
The young man sprang to his feet, glowing with passion. "Let me teach
you."
Bella avoided his extended arms. "No, no, no!" she insisted, "you must
take my answer once and for all, Mr. Pence. I cannot marry you."
"But why?" he urged despairingly.
"I have a reason," she replied formally; "don't ask me for it."
"I have no need to. I know your reason."
Bella flushed, but overlooked the bitterness of his tone because she
guessed what he suffered. "In that case, I need not explain," she said
coldly, and again tried to pass. Again he prevented her.
"You love that man Lister," he said between his teeth.
"That is my business, Mr. Pence."
"Mine also," he cried, undaunted by her haughtiness. "Your father's
business, too. Mrs. Coppersley said that you were almost engaged to this
man Lister. But you shall not marry him; you will not even be engaged to
him."
"Who will prevent me?" asked Bella angrily.
"Your father. He hates this man Lister."
"How can my father hate a man he has never even seen?" she demanded;
"you are talking rubbish."
"Miss Huxham"--Pence detained her by laying his thin fingers on her
arm--"if you marry this man Lister"--he kept to this sentence as though
it were a charm--"you will be a pauper."
She flashed up into a royal rage and stamped. "How dare you say that?"
"I dare tell the truth."
"It is not the truth. How can you tell if----"
"Your father told me," insisted the preacher, hotly.
Bella withdrew a step or so, her eyes growing round with surprise.
"My--father--said--that?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" cried Silas feverishly. "I went to him this very
afternoon to ask permission to present myself to you as a suitor. He
consented, but only when he heard that you loved this man who----"
"You told him that?" demanded Bella, her breath coming quick and short.
"Yes," said Pence, trying to be courageous, "and it is true."
"Who says that it is?"
"Everyone in the village."
"The village has nothing to do with my business," she declared
imperiously, "and even if I do love--but let that pass. You told me that
my father said I should be a pauper."
"If you married the man Lister," he reminded her. "Yes, he did say so,
and declared also that he would give me the manor-house and the farm
when he died, if I made you my wife."
Bella shrugged her shoulders. "My father does not mean what he says,"
she remarked disbelievingly; "as I am his only child, the Solitary Farm,
as they call it, comes to me in any case. And I see no reason why I
should discuss my father's business with you. Stand aside and let me
pass."
"No." Silas was wonderfully brave for one of his timid soul. "You shall
not pass until you learn the truth. You think that I am a fool and weak.
I am not. I feel wise and strong; and I am strong--strong enough to
withstand temptation, even when you are offered as a bribe."
Bella grew somewhat alarmed. She did not like the glittering of his
shallow, grey eyes. "You are mad."
"I am sane; you know that I am sane, but you think to put me off by
saying that I am crazy. I have had enough to make me so. Your
father"--here his voice took on the sing-song pulpit style--"your father
took me up to an exceedingly high mountain, and showed me the kingdoms
of the world. All of them he offered me, together with you, if I
murdered Lister."
"What!" Bella's voice leaped an octave; "you--you--murder Cyril?"
"Yes, Cyril, the man you love. And if I dared----"
"Mr. Pence"--Bella saw the necessity of keeping herself well in hand
with this hysterical youth, for he was nothing else, and spoke in a
calm, kind voice--"my father has not seen Mr. Lister, and cannot hate
him."
"Go and ask him what he thinks," said Pence fiercely. "I tell you that
to-day I was offered everything if I would kill this man Lister."
"You are talking at random," she said soothingly; "go home, and lie
down."
"I am talking of what may come to pass. Your father wishes it, so why
not, when I love you so deeply? I offer you the heart of an honest man,
and yet you would throw that aside for this profligate."
"Cyril is not a profligate," interrupted Bella, and could have bitten
out her tongue for the hasty speech.
"He is. He comes from London, the City of Evil, that shall yet fall like
Babylon the Great. But your soul shall not be lost; you shall not marry
him."
"I shall!" cried Bella, indignantly, and becoming rash again in her
anger; "and what is more, I am engaged to him now. So there! Let me
pass."
She slipped deftly past him, and walked swiftly homeward. Silas Pence
stood where he was, staring after her, unable to speak or move or to
follow. Then the sun sank, leaving him in the twilight of sorrow.