Chapter XI

HOW THE SCHOLAR FAILED IN ORIENTAL LANGUAGES.

It was high noon, and the day was the first of the week. Willum Cobbledick walked out of the church and into the “Plume of Feathers.” He was wearing an old cassock, short in front and dragging behind, like a maid-of-all-work’s frock; and upon his bristling hair rested at a military angle a distinctly clerical hat. Willum always exchanged church for alehouse at the earliest opportunity, not so much because sawdust and beer-barrels were preferable to harmonium and lectern as because in the “Plume of Feathers” he could feel himself an instructor of the villagers who were wont to foregather there as often as the law allowed. Willum was a churchwarden. He was also organist, bell-ringer in moderation, and sexton. He collected the offertory and read the lessons. He intoned the psalms and sang the hymns. He was in effect the spiritual pastor and master of the village, as the vicar was too infirm and witless to perform his duty, and had almost lost the faculty of intelligent speech. Everybody who came to Lew went to hear Willum read the lessons. He rendered them in broad dialect, disregarding stops, gasping for breath in the middle of a word, sometimes turning over two pages and reading on unconscious of his error; while Mrs. Cobbledick listened with tearful pride and would have applauded had she dared. Service over, Willum would hurry to the “Plume of Feathers” for his well-earned beer. His fellow-villagers patronised the local Zion, which offered no attraction in the morning, nor indeed at any time when the house of good cheer was open. They recognised Willum as a superior. He was the local representative of learning. When an election was impending it was Willum who controlled the votes. When the rural dean made his visitation it was Willum who appeared armed with registers and misstatements. “Willum be the sinecure of all eyes,” Mrs. Cobbledick frequently explained to newly-arrived visitors.

Griffey, the preacher, sat on a bench, clutching a blue and white mug. Upon the table by his side sat his favourite disciple, Wollacott of the game leg, who was too miserly to buy refreshments for himself, and so far had not been offered any. Other worthies lounged in picturesque attitudes about the room. They were listening to Griffey, who had been discoursing upon the uncertainty of life, and the necessity of doing good to one’s neighbours. As the preacher confined his attentions to his neighbours by removing the boundary stone of one and diverting the water supply of another, his remarks were not received with that attention which the subject deserved.

“Us be like sparrows,” Griffey shouted as Willum entered.

“Like what?” asked old Wannell, who had never been in a bath, and was, on that account perhaps, somewhat hard of hearing.

“Like sparrows,” Griffey repeated.

“Us be,” agreed old Wannell, looking round to see if anyone was prepared to deny it, “like sparrows that sitteth alone on the house-top, and withereth afore they be plucked up.”

“That ain’t it at all,” broke in the amateur divine. “’Tis grass what withers. Sparrows fall to the ground.”

“And the Lord careth for ’en,” said the preacher, as he lowered his head reverently over his mug.

“Beautiful the beer smells,” said Wollacott of the game leg.

“It’s a wonder to me where you gets the learning from,” said Kellaway the wall-eyed.

“Ah!” said Willum profoundly, as he produced two books and a pipe from the pocket of his cassock.

“You don’t get it from your father,” observed old Ruddle, who had never been in a train.

“I never got it from he,” Willum agreed.

“You can’t account for learning,” said Dufty, who couldn’t look straight.

“It grows,” said Eastaway, the publican. “It’s just like warts; some have ’em, some don’t.”

“It don’t grow unless you helps it a lot,” said Willum modestly.

“I says reading’s a waste o’ time; that’s what I says,” commented Muzzlewhite, who had failed to master the accomplishment.

“So be writing,” added Kentisbeer, whose talent in that direction was equally undeveloped.

“Them be half-dafty notions,” said Willum.

Griffey, the preacher, opened his mouth to agree; but remembering suddenly that it was against his principles to agree with anyone, closed it again.

At this point Veale, the village toper, who had for some time felt sleep approaching, composed himself for a quiet nap beneath the trestle-table.

“What be they books, Willum? Full o’ learning, I reckon?” said the publican.

This was the moment for which the scholar had been waiting. He had held the books ostentatiously, confident that such a question would be asked before long. As a matter of fact, it was the publican that he desired particularly to impress. Eastaway was the financial magnate of Lew. He was the village banker. He was also keeper of the Cobbledick tombstone. Eastaway was practically the only employer of labour in the neighbourhood apart from the mines, where work was precarious, and received poor pay. By a stroke of genius worthy of a higher intellect, he had combined the business of granite merchant with that of beer-seller. He held the only licence in the village. His stoneyard was not a dozen yards away from the door which had painted upon it the laconic announcement “Bar.” While the men worked in the hot sun they could see the seductive interior, and smell the aroma of malt and hops, which, as old Veale had pathetically observed, made the place “so homelike.” Eastaway paid his men each Saturday at noon. During the week the greater part of his money came back to him through that process, which might have been described as an effect of machinery upon wages.

Willum opened the Greek Testament tenderly, and after gazing at the pages with a rapt expression, passed the book upside down into the rough and beery hands of the publican. The scholar’s face shone with idiocy, which the spectators mistook for wisdom, as he laconically and lyingly remarked, “Fifteen pounds!”

“Be a lot of money for a book; such a little ’un, too,” remarked the gentleman of the game leg.

“Mun have cost a lot to print ’en,” said Eastaway. “Do all they little things mean English words, Willum?” he went on incredulously.

“You turns ’em into English words--us do as knows how,” the scholar answered.

“What be ’en?” the preacher demanded.

“Chinese,” said Willum. “Chinese Bible.”

“Show us the bit about the sparrows,” said the preacher.

Catching a familiar word, the village toper beneath the table began to murmur a little ditty concerning a bird of that species, which sat upon a spout while a thunderstorm was impending.

“There be nought about sparrows here. They don’t have none in China,” Willum explained.

Old Veale proceeded to show how the storm broke, and forcibly expelled the sparrow from its coign of vantage.

“Then it bain’t a Bible,” said Griffey triumphantly.

“You gurt fool,” cried Willum, in anger at such stupidity. “Didn’t I tell ye ’twas Chinese?”

“What they chaps read as be slaves in Africa, where my cousin Bill Conybeare died o’ fever fighting wi’ the Boers,” explained Kellaway, the wall-eyed.

“They bain’t slaves,” shouted Willum, hotly. “It be a wicked lie. They works for their living same as us.”

“Order, please,” shouted Eastaway. “No politics here. What be t’other book, Willum?”

The scholar resumed his bland smile, as he handed over the torn and shabby Sanskrit dictionary, upon which he commented thus: “Only two others like it. One of ’em in the British Museum to Oxford, Mr. Burrough told me, and t’other be lost somewhere.”

“Be it Chinese too?” asked the gentleman who couldn’t read.

Willum replied in the affirmative, while Veale beneath the table murmured his joyous conviction that Chinamen never would be slaves. Probably he meant Britons, but the conversation had confused him.

“One of these books tells ye about t’other,” the scholar announced.

“Which tells ye about what?” asked Eastaway, blankly.

This question muddled Willum. After some hesitation he explained that when in doubt as to a word in the dictionary it was necessary to turn to the Testament for enlightenment. The publican, who was a practical man, requested Willum to translate a passage into fluent English. It was then the scholar discovered he had floundered; but a little sleight of hand, which resulted in a sort of reshuffling of the books, glossed over his error. Then relying upon memory and impudence, he pointed to a passage, and quoted a sentence which had occurred in the first lesson that morning.

“Ain’t nothing like that in our Bible,” said Eastaway decidedly.

“Well, I dunno,” said Griffey the preacher. “Seems somehow familiar.”

Willum considered that his scholarly reputation would be enhanced by remaining silent.

“Where did ye get they books from?” asked the publican.

Willum became at once mysterious. Under pressure he told a rambling tale of an old house in Cornwall, which had been long deserted and was gradually falling into decay. At length it was decided to pull it down, and the books were discovered in a box bricked up in a chimney. The gentleman into whose hands they came had sent them to him, Willum, for his opinion.

“How did ye know they was Chinese?” interrupted wall-eyed Kellaway, who mistrusted Willum.

“What’s the use of being a scholar if ye can’t find out things?” retorted Willum.

“That bain’t no answer,” replied the wall-eyed gentleman. “What be the signs and tokens?”

“What be the signs and tokens that the sun be shining?” shouted Willum.

“I can see ’en,” replied Kellaway.

“I can see them books be Chinese,” came the answer, which everybody present considered decidedly crushing.

“’Tis easy to see you be no scholar, Joe,” said Muzzlewhite, who was himself no better.

“What I wants to know is how he got they books,” went on Kellaway. “If they were worth a lot of money how did the gentleman come to part wi’ ’em?”

“I bought ’em,” said Willum. “The gentleman didn’t know how valuable they was, and I wasn’t fool enough to tell ’en. I offered ’en a fair price, and he took it, and I kept the books.”

“Same way as I sold they sick ponies,” muttered the preacher thoughtfully.

Wall-eyed Kellaway gave way grumbling. To ask how Willum came by the money was too delicate a question. It was common knowledge that his efforts to obtain control over the offertory had failed. The vicar might be a dotard, but he had sense enough to retain the bag. Willum was fond of referring to sums which he lavished upon various articles; and somehow or other the villagers had fallen into the habit of believing him.

“Seems to me you might pay for that tombstone next time you has a few shilluns handy,” Eastaway remarked blandly.

“That be mother’s business, not mine,” Willum retorted. He had the feeling that he was being baited, and he did not like it. “Mother ordered ’en, and mother must pay for ’en. ’Tis to go above she and father, and it can bide till she be dead.”

“Be ye going to drink that beer?” said Wollacott suggestively.

“I be,” replied the scholar, hastily guarding his mug with two huge hands.

“It bain’t right to let your father lie wi’out a stoane at his head,” said old Ruddle, whose travelling had been confined to horse-drawn vehicles. “He was a good man. Hit I on the face one ’lection time. Us was proud o’ he.”

“He warn’t a scholar same as Willum,” said Eastaway, who was hoping to get an offer for the tombstone.

“Could use his hands,” said Ruddle.

“Willum uses his brains,” said the publican.

“Us don’t want brains. Us can live wi’out ’em,” said wall-eyed Kellaway, returning to the attack. “You can’t cut peat and crack stones wi’ brains. ’Tis only men what don’t work as wants brains to tell ’em how to pass the time. Us knows what to du for a living, and us don’t want to be bothered wi’ brains.”

This was a distinct challenge to Willum. He could not disregard it without a distinct loss of reputation. He drained his mug, wiped his sandy moustache, and with a look of malevolence in his foxy eyes advanced to the centre of the room, faced his opponent, and was just about to commence a denunciation when an interruption occurred. The door opened noisily, and a couple of artillery officers entered.

The villagers became as silent as mice. Military visitations from the artillery camp on the moor were frequent: but it was not often that officers deigned to enter the little alehouse. As they walked to the counter, after a curt “good-morning” to the men, a few well-aimed kicks in the ribs fully aroused old Veale, who becoming conscious of uniforms shambled from beneath the table and, bespattered with sawdust, lurched for the door. Tumbling down the steps, he cuffed the urchins who were holding the officers’ horses, and drove them off blubbering with disappointment. Horse-holding for officers was a salaried position held for life by the toper. It was a monopoly enjoyed by him. The salary came from tips. No gentleman in uniform ever gave less than sixpence. Old Veale managed to pass the curb-reins round his arm, then supporting himself between the horses resumed the blameless slumbers which had been so rudely interrupted.

While the publican was producing the bottled ale, which he assured his aristocratic visitors was stocked especially for their benefit, the officers could not fail to perceive the books, left incautiously by Willum, lying open upon the counter. The younger of the two exclaimed at once--

“I say! Here’s a thing to pitch upon in a Dartmoor pub! Look here! this will remind you of your time in India.”

“A Sanskrit dictionary, by Jove!” said the other. “And what’s this? A Greek Testament. Landlord! is this the sort of reading you indulge in?”

“Well, Captain, us don’t read ’em,” replied Eastaway. “But Willum does. He be a scholar. There be Willum.” He nodded blandly towards the object in the clerical hat and disreputable cassock, while the officers exchanged smiles.

“So, my man, you read Greek and Sanskrit?” said the senior officer.

“Beg pardon, Captain,” broke in Kellaway, with an exultant grin. “Willum says they be Chinese Bibles.”

At that moment Willum, who still occupied the centre of the floor, looked as though he were experiencing that sensation in the palate and throat which is a premonitory symptom of nausea.

“I dare say it’s Chinese to him,” said the officer, with a good-humoured smile. “This book is the New Testament in Greek. And this is a Sanskrit dictionary. Sanskrit, as Willum may have told you, is the early language of India.”

“Willum never told us that,” said Kellaway.

“What would they books be worth, sir?” added the wall-eyed one, as Eastaway with a most deferential manner and obsequious smile set two foam-topped glasses before his patrons.

Willum made a remark about mother waiting dinner for him.

“What do you mean?” asked the officer as he lifted his glass.

“The chap has been fooling them,” the other muttered with a soft laugh.

“What would they be worth to buy? A lot of money, I s’pose, sir?”

“Lord no! They are old second-hand affairs. I suppose you picked them up at some bookstall for a few coppers?” said the officer, turning to the scholar.

“I bought them of a gentleman, Captain,” said Willum brazenly.

“And he had you!”

The two officers burst out laughing, and the one who had last spoken picked up the books and handed them to Willum, who was already preparing an indictment upon the ignorance of army-officers in general, and these two in particular, to be delivered as soon as they had departed.

Kellaway had still another question; and he lost no time in putting it.

“Would one o’ they books, sir, help ye to read the other?”

“Of course not,” came the answer. “They are two different languages.”

“Willum,” said the younger officer solemnly, “go home, my lad, and stick to halfpenny newspapers in the future.”

They laughed again, then paid their reckoning, and clattered outside to find fresh amusement in the somnolent horse-holder; but so soon as they had ridden away Willum lifted up his voice in denunciation and exclaimed, “They be nice men to be officers in the British Army. They don’t know Chinese when they sees it.”

The villagers laughed somewhat in scorn, and wall-eyed Kellaway laughed louder than the others. The majority were unwilling to believe that Willum was a fraud and a delusion. Willum was in his way an institution; someone they could be proud of, whom they could point out to visitors. But their faith in his wisdom had been seriously disturbed by the words of the officers.

“They be gurt fools and gurt liars,” thundered Willum.

“Why didn’t ye tell ’em so?” sneered Kellaway.