It was winter, and Farmer Perryman and I were seated in straight-backed
arm-chairs on either side of his kitchen fire. The prosperity attendant
on the labours of Snarley Bob had already begun: the house was roomy and
well furnished; there was a parlour and a drawing-room; but Perryman,
when the day's work was done, preferred the kitchen. And so did I.
Though evening had fallen, the lamp was not yet lit; but the flames of a
wood fire gave light enough for conversational purposes, and imparted to
the flitches and hams suspended from the ceiling a lively reality which
neither daylight nor petroleum could ever produce. As the shadows danced
among them, the kitchen became peopled with friendly presences; a new
fragrance pervaded the place, bearing a hint of good things to come. No
wonder that Perryman loved the spot.
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."