Chapter XXII: How Willum Went Round with a Paper

It was not often that Mrs. Cobbledick had an idea, but when one did come she made the most of it. The idea of her life was butter, not that made by others--she had repeatedly refused to grease her boots with that--but her own. It would be impossible to lay too much emphasis upon the butter. The produce of her churn was in Mrs. Cobbledick’s eyes the final triumph of art. It was not butter as other people, fools mostly, understood by the word. On Saturdays she drove her pony to great-market or little-market, as the case might be, with a basket of her precious butter. Sometimes she brought it back untouched. She said the townsfolk were not worthy of her butter. They did not understand it. They had not been educated up to it. Therefore she had refused to sell any to them. She had chosen rather to give it away to the suffering poor. It was not always that the suffering poor would accept the gift. They said it was bad butter.

Enthusiasm hardly entered into Willum’s unemployed existence. Profound meditation with his back against a wall, the rise or fall in price of liquors containing alcohol, the breeding of spaniels, the courting of various young women, assorted ecclesiastical duties, an inquiry into the study of the Chinese language, the shooting of rabbits--such were the occupations which filled the scholar’s days. Yet even Willum felt pride in his mother’s butter, believing it was all that she claimed for it. The glory of that butter was reflected upon him as the son of its creator. When escorting visitors through the village he would dismiss Norman architecture and Saxon pounds with a few ill-chosen inaccuracies in order that he might indicate the linhay, which Mrs. Cobbledick used for her dairy, with the impressive statement, “Mother makes her butter there.”

Even single-minded persons have secondary ideas, which may appear uppermost when the main idea is quiescent. And if butter was the pride of Ann’s life--apart from her son, who, however near and dear to her, was necessarily a thing somewhat outside and a non-essential to the oleaginous destiny for which she had been selected--the secondary idea was undoubtedly her tombstone. When she found herself lodgerless the tombstone, which was hidden away at the back of Eastaway’s shed, became a reproach to her. It was her desire by day and her oppression by night. Gradually the idea entered into her--started by an evil dream, induced possibly by partaking too heartily of butter which could not otherwise be disposed of--that she would die one day. There was nothing very original in that, but it suggested a double grave ungraced by any memorial. Regarding Willum senior that mattered little, because he had no niche in the local temple of fame, although there was a rumour that he had once drunk eighteen pints of ale at a sitting and had sung a different song over each pint. Such a distinction, however, had been claimed by others. This dread lest the tombstone might not be erected preyed upon Ann. Even the graves of the mighty are liable to be forgotten in the absence of any suitable memorial. The connection between main and secondary ideas was spontaneous. The descent from butter to tombstone was sudden and inevitable. Without a record in stone future generations might search in vain for the resting-place of Ann Cobbledick, the last of the butter-makers.

Remote as it may appear from the main idea, the lingering disease with which fancy and fondness on her part, and inclination and laziness on his, had attached to Willum was the direct cause of Ann taking action towards the acquisition of the tombstone for which Eastaway quite properly demanded cash. Obviously Willum was failing rapidly. He leaned against the wall for longer intervals; his hands were in his pockets more frequently than ever; he went less upon the moor; and listlessness had become with him a distressing feature. Mrs. Cobbledick considered that if Willum preceded her no attention would be given to the already weedy corner of the churchyard which she hoped in due time to occupy. The tombstone would probably be broken up and used for building purposes; and the record, with which she proposed to dazzle the eyes of dairymaids and housewives yet unborn, would never be published.

Things came to a crisis when the resident doctor, who maintained a small sanatorium just outside the village, stopped Mrs. Cobbledick and informed her in a friendly way that Willum was a man of unusually robust constitution, and went on to suggest that he should be made to devote himself to something more profitable than loafing. Ann was furious at the suggestion. She knew perfectly well what had prompted it. Everybody was against her, owing to the fame of her butter, to say nothing of her cream and cheeses; and as for Willum, they hated him because he was “scholardly.” And now the doctor wanted to make her believe Willum was strong and well out of mere malice and hatred. It was a trick to deprive her of fame, to cheat her out of the tombstone. He wanted to delude her into the belief that Willum would outlive her and do justice to her memory, while the truth was, Willum was withering day by day, and could not last much longer, and when he was gone she would be left with no one to fight her battles; and the tombstone would slip out of her grasp at the last moment.

“Willum! Come here. I want ye,” she called from the linhay.

The scholar was leaning against the wall in an ungraceful attitude of self-abandonment. The most prominent and equally distasteful idea suggested by his mother’s shrill command was one which implied motion.

“Do ye be careful,” called Ann. “Poor Willum! He be that feeble,” she informed her churn. “Shall I come and give ye an arm, old dear?”

Willum was awake by this time. He informed his mother that he was still able to walk unaided, and proceeded to gratify and obey her by shuffling carefully across the road.

“Willum, you’ve been working. You be all nohow,” said Ann.

Her son denied the first statement with some warmth. The latter, he admitted, was substantially correct. Mrs. Cobbledick at once issued her revised version of the doctor’s indictment, and Willum listened with some dismay. He knew he was perfectly strong and well; and he lived in constant dread of Ann’s discovery of that fact. He interpolated a fit of coughing between his mother’s questions, and was immediately reassured that Ann at least would steadfastly refuse to countenance any undertaking which might have for its object his own initiation into the first principles of manual labour.

“Do ye sit down,” cried Ann, indicating the peat-stack. “And look ye, Willum, you mun bide in the village. I wun’t have ye trampesing Dartmoor and coming home carpsy-like. You mun bide quiet. Take a spuneful o’ cream, old dear. ’Twill ease the cough a bitty.”

Willum swallowed the cream, and declared himself so much relieved that Mrs. Cobbledick heaped the spoon again to repeat the process. Then the scholar settled himself comfortably upon the peat-stack, lighted his pipe, and gave every indication of passing into a state of somnolence until such time as a meal might be awaiting him; while Ann delivered herself of opinions regarding the cream and butter made by other people, which, as she averred many times each day, being a woman to whom one figure of speech was enough for a lifetime, she would not use to grease the axles of her pony-cart. Her remarks suggested naturally butter as a fine art, and her mind became uplifted to the primary idea, upon which she dilated until Willum’s breathing suggested unconsciousness. Therefore Ann’s mind became depressed to the secondary idea. The unfinished and unpaid-for tombstone loomed large, to the momentary exclusion of dairy produce. She roused Willum and enlightened him as to the state of her mind regarding Eastaway, and went on to inform him that desire for the tombstone spoilt and embittered her entire existence. A man of Willum’s learning might, she considered, suggest means by which the tombstone could be acquired without the degradation of paying for it.

Willum’s instincts were primitive. The only plan that suggested itself to him was to enter the shed, remove the memorial, and place it in the churchyard. Once in consecrated ground, it would be safe. He declared that a special Act of Parliament would be required before it could be removed; and as churchwarden he should oppose any such arbitrary proceeding. However, the objections to purloining the tombstone were many. It could not be done secretly; it would require a horse and cart, together with a gang of conspirators, armed with crowbars, and fortified with beer.

“It mun be paid for,” decided the scholar. “Eastaway be cruel hard on folk. Wanted me to work for ’en. Said if I worked for three weeks he’d give us the tombstone. Knew a day’s work would kill me.”

“The doctor put ’en up to it. ’Twas a plot to get ye out of the way,” said Ann bitterly. “They hates I for the butter. They reckons they could du what they likes wi’ you dead and gone, and me a lone woman. Willum, I be going to have the tombstone, and I be going to get the butter put on ’en, but I b’ain’t going to pay for ’en.”

“I mun go round wi’ a paper,” said Willum.

The scholar had said nothing wiser in his life. It was in fact an inspiration, and Ann was so enraptured that she bounded across the linhay, and seizing her son’s sandy head between her buttery hands, kneaded it in her joy. But the question was at once suggested: who would head the paper?

“Mr. Yeoland--he’ll head ’en wi’ two shillun. I’ll make ’en,” said Willum.

“Ain’t there no one wi’ a title?” Ann suggested.

“There’s a ‘sir’ up to Tor Down, wi’ two ugly maidens his darters. They don’t think much of ’en, ’cause he gets his money out o’ soap. If it had been beer, now, or pigs, us might have got ’en to head the paper.”

Mrs. Cobbledick agreed that the unpopularity of the saponaceous knight rendered him ineligible to head the subscription list. Other names were mentioned, only to be dismissed. No allusion was made to Burrough. Men who live in tiny cottages with tin roofs are obviously not to be honoured with the first place upon lists of any sort. His name would appear somewhere about the bottom. It was decided that Mr. Yeoland should be awarded the privilege of starting the paper.

That afternoon Willum went the round, having first stipulated with his mother that any surplus money collected by his endeavours should be retained by him and disposed of as he should think fit. He went first to the vicarage, entered without ceremony, and discovered old Y. seated in his dining-room, which was about the only apartment proof against wind and rain, chuckling over a cheap illustrated newspaper.

“Wait a moment,” the old fellow mumbled, when his lay-reader entered. “There’s no hurry. I’ll come in a minute. I’d forgotten it was Sunday.”

“It ain’t Sunday, sir. I’ve come to ask ye for a piece of paper,” said Willum, “and pen and ink. Shall I take ’em, sir?”

“Yes, take them,” muttered old Y., profoundly thankful that he was not to be disturbed, and blissfully ignorant that he was supplying implements for his own torment.

Willum helped himself to what was necessary, scribbled painfully for some minutes, then approached the arm-chair, and handed the vicar a sheet of paper upon the top of which he had inscribed in his sprawling caligraphy, “Substraction List for Widdow Cobbledick’s Toomstune.”

“Eh, what’s this?” muttered the old man.

Willum explained, and added, “Shall I put down five shillun, sir?”

“No!” cried the vicar. “I’ve no money. I’ll give nothing. Yes, I will. I’ll give threepence.”

“Three shillun you mean, sir. Mother mun have it. She frets for ’en fearful.”

“I’ve got no money,” old Y. repeated. “I’ll give sixpence. You’ve spelt the words wrong. Substraction--it ought to be substriction. No, no! I’m getting old and forgetful. Subscription--that’s it. And you’ve spelt ‘widow’ wrong. You’ve put two ‘d’’s.”

“I’ll put ’en right, sir,” said Willum, taking the paper and proceeding carefully to add a third “d.”

The vicar did not notice the alteration when he held the paper again to his eyes.

“What does she want a trombone for?” he mumbled.

“Tombstune,” shouted Willum.

“Eh, tombstone. That’s a silly thing to worry about.”

Finally the vicar parted with half-a-crown, and Willum departed in triumph across the road in search of Eastaway. He saw no reason why the stonebreaker-publican should not subscribe. However, that worthy thought otherwise. While they were arguing the matter, a sergeant of artillery entered and called for refreshment, and Eastaway submitted the question to him. The soldier suggested a portion of the purchase money might be remitted, and in the same breath asked Willum what he drank.

“I drinks beer, sir,” replied the scholar thirstily.

“Let him drink it,” said the sergeant.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll knock off ten shillun,” said Eastaway generously, as he drew the beer. “I’m tired of seeing the stone. It’s no use to me. Took a man half a week to crack ’en, and been lying in the shed ever since. Give me a pound and take it. I’ve got to lose, whether you take it or whether you leave it.”

“That’s a fair offer,” said the sergeant.

Willum drained his mug and turned it upside down either as a proof of its emptiness, or, what was more probable, as a hint for more. Then he produced the paper, and passed it to the stonebreaker with instructions to sign, “Under Mr. Yeoland, Robert Eastaway, ten shillun.”

“More trouble than the stone’s worth,” the publican grumbled, as he bent his fingers for the unwelcome task of writing.

“You’re starting well,” said the sergeant. “Have some more beer?”

“I’ll try, sir,” said Willum genially.

“Let him try,” said the soldier.

Willum succeeded with some facility. He took the paper, glanced at the spidery characters which the stonebreaker had inscribed, and chuckled.

“Ten and ten be twenty,” he said. “Twenty shillun make one pound. Ain’t that right, sir?”

“Used to be when I was at school.”

“What are ye talking about? I’ve put down ten shillun,” said Eastaway gruffly.

“Ten shillun knocked off, ten shillun put down--that be twenty.”

“You’m a liar,” cried Eastaway excitedly. “Ain’t he a liar, sir?”

“Well,” muttered the sergeant, “if you don’t cheat him, he’ll cheat you. You can call that business.”

“I’ll show him business,” shouted the publican, who frequently lost his temper over money matters. “I’ll have that paper, and tear ’en up, and get even wi’ ’en.”

But Willum was already outside, flushed with success and two pints of beer. He did not go far. After visiting the stone-crackers in the yard, and collecting nothing from them, he returned to the door of the inn, accosted the sergeant, and cajoled a shilling out of him for the good cause.

Then Willum devoted himself to a careful canvass of the district. He visited the lodging-houses. He tracked unsuspecting persons upon the moor, and pushed the paper, which issued from his pocket dirtier and more crumpled each time, into their hands. Nobody was safe from him. Money accumulated in his pocket. Willum decided privately he would go round again next week for his own benefit. He could declare he had lost his geese and didn’t know where to find them, or he could say one of his ponies had been stugged in a bog. He did not possess any ponies, but the visitors would not know that. This going round with a paper suggested endless possibilities. An honest man might make a living that way.

Willum had amassed a sum of nineteen shillings by sheer audacity, when he met little Georgie Eastaway, known familiarly as “Cap and Breeches” on account of the undue prominence of these sartorial necessities, which had been handed down from father to son. The scholar charged the child with a message for his father. “Tell ’en I only wants one shilling more, and I be going to get it from Mr. Burrough. I’ll pay ’en the lot when I comes back.” Cap and Breeches promised to obey, and trotted off; while Willum marched stolidly over the moor to the cottage beside the gorge.

Burrough opened the door to him. Had Willum been less occupied with his own affairs, he might have noticed that the young man looked ill. With his best smile the scholar extended the crumpled sheet, and said, with the simplicity which had so far proved effectual, “For Mother’s tombstone.”

Burrough glanced hurriedly over the sheet, and muttered something under his breath which was not complimentary to the house of Cobbledick. Willum saw his lips move and had enough sense to perceive that the ejaculation was dental. His mouth made an ugly smile under his sandy moustache. He had no affection for Burrough, whom he regarded as a social inferior; neither had he forgotten that little affair of the “Chinese Bible.” Ignorance prevented him from saying anything on the subject, but he had an idea that Burrough had played him a trick.

“This is nothing whatever to do with me,” Burrough said impatiently.

“Mother mun have the stune,” replied Willum. “She wun’t give me no peace, and I thought I’d best come round wi’ a paper. ’Tis under the patronage of Mr. Yeoland.”

“It may be his affair, but it’s not mine. I can’t give you anything. There’s no end to these things. A boy came yesterday for a subscription to the Wesleyan Mission, another for the chapel tea. And now this tombstone. I should have thought your mother would have preferred to pay for such a thing herself. I notice none of the villagers have subscribed.”

“Mother be poor,” said Willum defiantly.

“Then you ought to work and support her,” Burrough replied warmly. “Of course it’s no affair of mine whether you work or not; but when you come and ask me to subscribe to your family memorial, I can only tell you plainly that the money ought to come out of your own pocket.”

Willum’s little foxy eyes became very malicious, and he reddened angrily. He had not expected this kind of treatment.

“I’ve never worked, and I ain’t a-going to,” he cried huskily.

“That’s your own look-out,” replied Burrough; and without another word he shut the door in the scholar’s face.

Willum delivered himself of various ugly noises when he found himself alone. Then he raised the knocker and rapped gently. There was no response, so he opened the door and pushed his head in. Burrough was seated at his writing-table amid books and papers.

“I was going to tell ye there was a note left,” he said smoothly. “The young lady left ’en, but Mother’s lost ’en. Mother’ll look for ’en again, and if ’tis found I’ll bring ’en in the morning.”

“Oh, very well,” said Burrough carelessly, without turning.

“You wun’t put your name on the paper?” Willum suggested.

“No, thank you.”

“All right, sir. Good-evening.”

With that Willum tramped away a very angry man.

When the scholar drew near his home he saw his mother looking out, and she hurried towards him in a state of much excitement to announce that the tombstone had been delivered. There it was, leaning against the side of the cottage, its unfinished inscription informing passers-by that beneath it reposed all that was mortal of the very person who was then gloating over it with garrulous delight.

“There be plenty of room for the butter. Look ye, Willum, the butter’ll go nice along here,” cried Ann. “How much did ye pay Eastaway for ’en?” she went on.

“Ain’t paid ’en nothing,” said the astonished Willum. “Only promised ’en.”

“Paid ’en nothing!” screamed Ann. “What made ’en send it, then? What made ’en send it? Dear life! Let’s get ’en into the parlour afore he sends for ’en back.”

It was lucky it was the cool of the evening. Had the incident occurred during the heat of the day, Mrs. Cobbledick might have been seized with apoplexy. To have secured the tombstone for nothing, to have defeated the vile avarice of the stonebreaker, to have paid him only with promises--this was indeed a triumph! And the victory had been won by the inimitable wisdom of Willum, her son.

The scholar admitted as much, although he was mystified; and he took care not to mention the nineteen shillings in his pocket. While his mother went for assistance to roll the tombstone into the parlour, he trudged off to the stone-yard, and meeting Charlie Eastaway’s waggoner, gathered from him some information, which was supplemented by the remarks of little Cap and Breeches, who was industriously cracking a whip hard by. Charlie, it appeared, had misunderstood the stonebreaker’s orders, which were that he should have the tombstone placed in the waggon when he had unloaded the granite brought down from the moor, and should hold himself in readiness to deliver the stone at Mrs. Cobbledick’s so soon as Willum should appear with the money, instead of which Charlie had set off at once with the tombstone and a couple of men to unload the same. Eastaway had just discovered what had been done, and was--so Charlie averred--still talking about it.

“Go in and pay ’en now. He’s in the bar. Go on, and I’ll stand a pint,” the waggoner pleaded.

“Not me,” said Willum, with no idea of dissipating the nineteen shillings so foolishly.

“He’ll take ye into court if ye don’t pay.”

“He wun’t. Not Eastaway. The law be expensive, and us be poor folk. He can’t get nothing out of we. He’s made a bad bargain, and Mother have made a good one. And so have I,” Willum concluded, working his fingers among the shillings and florins which lined his pocket.