MR. BARTER TAKES A WALK
The event at the Rectory was expected every moment. The Rector, who
practically never suffered, disliked the thought and sight of others'
suffering. Up to this day, indeed, there had been none to dislike, for
in answer to inquiries his wife had always said “No, dear, no; I'm all
right--really, it's nothing.” And she had always said it smiling, even
when her smiling lips were white. But this morning in trying to say
it she had failed to smile. Her eyes had lost their hopelessly hopeful
shining, and sharply between her teeth she said: “Send for Dr. Wilson,
Hussell.”
The Rector kissed her, shutting his eyes, for he was afraid of her face
with its lips drawn back, and its discoloured cheeks. In five minutes
the groom was hastening to Cornmarket on the roan cob, and the Rector
stood in his study, looking from one to another of his household gods,
as though calling them to his assistance. At last he took down a bat and
began oiling it. Sixteen years ago, when Husell was born, he had been
overtaken by sounds that he had never to this day forgotten; they had
clung to the nerves of his memory, and for no reward would he hear them
again. They had never been uttered since, for like most wives, his wife
was a heroine; but, used as he was to this event, the Rector had ever
since suffered from panic. It was as though Providence, storing all the
anxiety which he might have felt throughout, let him have it with a
rush at the last moment. He put the bat back into its case, corked the
oil-bottle, and again stood looking at his household gods. None came to
his aid. And his thoughts were as they had nine times been before. 'I
ought not to go out. I ought to wait for Wilson. Suppose anything
were to happen. Still, nurse is with her, and I can do nothing. Poor
Rose--poor darling! It's my duty to---- What's that? I'm better out of
the way.'
Softly, without knowing that it was softly, he opened the door; softly,
without knowing it was softly, he stepped to the hat-rack and took his
black straw hat; softly, without knowing it was softly, he went out,
and, unfaltering, hurried down the drive.
Three minutes later he appeared again, approaching the house faster than
he had set forth.
He passed the hall door, ran up the stairs, and entered his wife's room.
“Rose dear, Rose, can I do anything?”
Mrs. Barter put out her hand, a gleam of malice shot into her eyes.
Through her set lips came a vague murmur, and the words:
“No, dear, nothing. Better go for your walk.”
Mr. Barter pressed his lips to her quivering hand, and backed from the
room. Outside the door he struck at the air with his fist, and, running
downstairs, was once more lost to sight. Faster and faster he walked,
leaving the village behind, and among the country sights and sounds and
scents--his nerves began to recover. He was able to think again of other
things: of Cecil's school report--far from satisfactory; of old Hermon
in the village, whom he suspected of overdoing his bronchitis with an
eye to port; of the return match with Coldingham, and his belief that
their left-hand bowler only wanted “hitting”; of the new edition
of hymn-books, and the slackness of the upper village in attending
church--five households less honest and ductile than the rest, a foreign
look about them, dark people, un-English. In thinking of these things
he forgot what he wanted to forget; but hearing the sound of wheels,
he entered a field as though to examine the crops until the vehicle had
passed.
It was not Wilson, but it might have been, and at the next turning he
unconsciously branched off the Cornmarket road.
It was noon when he came within sight of Coldingham, six miles from
Worsted Skeynes. He would have enjoyed a glass of beer, but, unable to
enter the public-house, he went into the churchyard instead. He sat down
on a bench beneath a sycamore opposite the Winlow graves, for Coldingham
was Lord Montrossor's seat, and it was here that all the Winlows lay.
Bees were busy above them in the branches, and Mr. Barter thought:
'.eautiful site. We've nothing like this at Worsted Skeynes....'
But suddenly he found that he could not sit there and think. Suppose
his wife were to die! It happened sometimes; the wife of John Tharp of
Bletchingham had died in giving birth to her tenth child! His forehead
was wet, and he wiped it. Casting an angry glance at the Winlow graves,
he left the seat.
He went down by the further path, and came out on the green. A
cricket-match was going on, and in spite of himself the Rector stopped.
The Coldingham team were in the field. Mr. Barter watched. As he had
thought, that left-hand bowler bowled a good pace, and “came in” from
the off, but his length was poor, very poor! A determined batsman would
soon knock him off! He moved into line with the wickets to see how much
the fellow “came in,” and he grew so absorbed that he did not at first
notice the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow in pads and a blue and green blazer,
smoking a cigarette astride of a camp-stool.
“Ah, Winlow, it's your team against the village. Afraid I can't stop
to see you bat. I was just passing--matter I had to attend to--must get
back!”
The real solemnity of his face excited Winlow's curiosity.
“Can't you stop and have lunch with us?”
“No, no; my wife--Must get back!”
Winlow murmured:
“Ah yes, of course.” His leisurely blue eyes, always in command of the
situation, rested on the Rector's heated face. “By the way,” he said,
“I'm afraid George Pendyce is rather hard hit. Been obliged to sell his
horse. I saw him at Epsom the week before last.”
The Rector brightened.
“I made certain he'd come to grief over that betting,” he said. “I'm
very sorry--very sorry indeed.”
“They say,” went on Winlow, “that he dropped four thousand over the
Thursday race.
“He was pretty well dipped before, I know. Poor old George! such an
awfully good chap!”
“Ah,” repeated Mr. Barter, “I'm very sorry--very sorry indeed. Things
were bad enough as it was.”
A ray of interest illumined the leisureliness of the Hon. Geoffrey's
eyes.
“You mean about Mrs. ---- H'm, yes?” he said. “People are talking; you
can't stop that. I'm so sorry for the poor Squire, and Mrs. Pendyce. I
hope something'll be done.”
The Rector frowned.
“I've done my best,” he said. “Well hit, sir! I've always said that
anyone with a little pluck can knock off that lefthand man you think so
much of. He 'comes in' a bit, but he bowls a shocking bad length. Here I
am dawdling. I must get back!”
And once more that real solemnity came over Mr. Barter's face.
“I suppose you'll be playing for Coldingham against us on Thursday?
Good-bye!”
Nodding in response to Winlow's salute, he walked away.
He avoided the churchyard, and took a path across the fields. He was
hungry and thirsty. In one of his sermons there occurred this passage:
“We should habituate ourselves to hold our appetites in check. By
constantly accustoming our selves to abstinence little abstinences in
our daily life--we alone can attain to that true spirituality without
which we cannot hope to know God.” And it was well known throughout
his household and the village that the Rector's temper was almost
dangerously spiritual if anything detained him from his meals. For he
was a man physiologically sane and healthy to the core, whose digestion
and functions, strong, regular, and straightforward as the day,
made calls upon him which would not be denied. After preaching that
particular sermon, he frequently for a week or more denied himself a
second glass of ale at lunch, or his after-dinner cigar, smoking a pipe
instead. And he was perfectly honest in his belief that he attained a
greater spirituality thereby, and perhaps indeed he did. But even if he
did not, there was no one to notice this, for the majority of his flock
accepted his spirituality as matter of course, and of the insignificant
minority there were few who did not make allowance for the fact that he
was their pastor by virtue of necessity, by virtue of a system which had
placed him there almost mechanically, whether he would or no. Indeed,
they respected him the more that he was their Rector, and could not
be removed, and were glad that theirs was no common Vicar like that of
Coldingham, dependent on the caprices of others. For, with the exception
of two bad characters and one atheist, the whole village, Conservatives
or Liberals (there were Liberals now that they were beginning to believe
that the ballot was really secret), were believers in the hereditary
system.
Insensibly the Rector directed himself towards Bletchingham, where there
was a temperance house. At heart he loathed lemonade and gingerbeer in
the middle of the day, both of which made his economy cold and uneasy,
but he felt he could go nowhere else. And his spirits rose at the sight
of Bletchingham spire.
'.read and cheese,' he thought. 'What's better than bread and cheese?
And they shall make me a cup of coffee.'
In that cup of coffee there was something symbolic and fitting to
his mental state. It was agitated and thick, and impregnated with the
peculiar flavour of country coffee. He swallowed but little, and resumed
his march. At the first turning he passed the village school, whence
issued a rhythmic but discordant hum, suggestive of some dull machine
that had served its time. The Rector paused to listen. Leaning on the
wall of the little play-yard, he tried to make out the words that, like
a religious chant, were being intoned within. It sounded like, “Twice
two's four, twice four's six, twice six's eight,” and he passed on,
thinking, 'A fine thing; but if we don't take care we shall go too far;
we shall unfit them for their stations,' and he frowned. Crossing a
stile, he took a footpath. The air was full of the singing of larks, and
the bees were pulling down the clover-stalks. At the bottom of the field
was a little pond overhung with willows. On a bare strip of pasture,
within thirty yards, in the full sun, an old horse was tethered to a
peg. It stood with its face towards the pond, baring its yellow teeth,
and stretching out its head, all bone and hollows, to the water which
it could not reach. The Rector stopped. He did not know the horse
personally, for it was three fields short of his parish, but he saw that
the poor beast wanted water. He went up, and finding that the knot of
the halter hurt his fingers, stooped down and wrenched at the peg. While
he was thus straining and tugging, crimson in the face, the old horse
stood still, gazing at him out of his bleary eyes. Mr. Barter sprang
upright with a jerk, the peg in his hand, and the old horse started
back.
“So ho, boy!” said the Rector, and angrily he muttered: “A shame to tie
the poor beast up here in the sun. I should like to give his owner a bit
of my mind!”
He led the animal towards the water. The old horse followed tranquilly
enough, but as he had done nothing to deserve his misfortune, neither
did he feel any gratitude towards his deliverer. He drank his fill, and
fell to grazing. The Rector experienced a sense of disillusionment,
and drove the peg again into the softer earth under the willows; then
raising himself, he looked hard at the old horse.
The animal continued to graze. The Rector took out his handkerchief,
wiped the perspiration from his brow, and frowned. He hated ingratitude
in man or beast.
Suddenly he realised that he was very tired.
“It must be over by now,” he said to himself, and hastened on in the
heat across the fields.
The Rectory door was open. Passing into the study, he sat down a moment
to collect his thoughts. People were moving above; he heard a long
moaning sound that filled his heart with terror.
He got up and rushed to the bell, but did not ring it, and ran upstairs
instead. Outside his wife's room he met his children's old nurse. She
was standing on the mat, with her hands to her ears, and the tears were
rolling down her face.
“Oh, sir!” she said--“oh, sir!”
The Rector glared.
“Woman!” he cried--“woman!”
He covered his ears and rushed downstairs again. There was a lady in the
hall. It was Mrs. Pendyce, and he ran to her, as a hurt child runs to
its mother.
“My wife,” he said--“my poor wife! God knows what they're doing to her
up there, Mrs. Pendyce!” and he hid his face in his hands.
She, who had been a Totteridge, stood motionless; then, very gently
putting her gloved hand on his thick arm, where the muscles stood out
from the clenching of his hands, she said:
“Dear Mr. Barter, Dr. Wilson is so clever! Come into the drawing-room!”
The Rector, stumbling like a blind man, suffered himself to be led. He
sat down on the sofa, and Mrs. Pendyce sat down beside him, her hand
still on his arm; over her face passed little quivers, as though she
were holding herself in. She repeated in her gentle voice:
“It will be all right--it will be all right. Come, come!”
In her concern and sympathy there was apparent, not aloofness, but a
faint surprise that she should be sitting there stroking the Rector's
arm.
Mr. Barter took his hands from before his face.
“If she dies,” he said in a voice unlike his own, “I'll not bear it.”
In answer to those words, forced from him by that which is deeper than
habit, Mrs. Pendyce's hand slipped from his arm and rested on the shiny
chintz covering of the sofa, patterned with green and crimson. Her soul
shrank from the violence in his voice.
“Wait here,” she said. “I will go up and see.”
To command was foreign to her nature, but Mr. Barter, with a look such
as a little rueful boy might give, obeyed.
When she was gone he stood listening at the door for some sound--for
any sound, even the sound of her dress--but there was none, for her
petticoat was of lawn, and the Rector was alone with a silence that he
could not bear. He began to pace the room in his thick boots, his hands
clenched behind him, his forehead butting the air, his lips folded; thus
a bull, penned for the first time, turns and turns, showing the whites
of its full eyes.
His thoughts drove here and there, fearful, angered, without guidance;
he did not pray. The words he had spoken so many times left him as
though of malice. “We are all in the hands of God!--we are all in the
hands of God!” Instead of them he could think of nothing but the old
saying Mr. Paramor had used in the Squire's dining-room, “There is
moderation in all things,” and this with cruel irony kept humming in his
ears. “Moderation in all things--moderation in all things!” and his wife
lying there--his doing, and....
There was a sound. The Rector's face, so brown and red, could not grow
pale, but his great fists relaxed. Mrs. Pendyce was standing in the
doorway with a peculiar half-pitiful, half-excited smile.
“It's all right--a boy. The poor dear has had a dreadful time!”
The Rector looked at her, but did not speak; then abruptly he brushed
past her in the doorway, hurried into his study and locked the door.
Then, and then only, he kneeled down, and remained there many minutes,
thinking of nothing.