Chapter II: Experimental (3)

The name preferred by Snarley was, as I have said, "the Shepherd," and the term was no metaphor. He was familiar with every passage in the New Testament where mention is made of sheep; he knew, for example, the opening verses of the tenth chapter of St. John by heart; and all these metaphorical passages were translated by him into literal meaning. That is to say, the Person to whom they refer, or by whom they were spoken, was one whom Snarley found it especially fitting to consult, and whose sympathy he was most vividly aware of, in doing his own duty as a guardian of sheep.

For instance, it was his practice to guide the flock by walking _before_ them; and this he explained as "a way 'the Shepherd' had." He said that when walking behind he was invariably alone; but when going in front "the Shepherd" was frequently by his side. And there were greater "revelations" than this. During the lambing season, when Snarley would often spend the night in his box, high up among the wolds, "the Shepherd" would announce his presence towards midnight by giving a signal, which Snarley would immediately answer, and pass long hours with him communing on the mysteries of their craft.

From this source Snarley professed to have derived some of the secrets on which his system of breeding was founded. "'The Shepherd' had put him up to them." He said that it was "the Shepherd" who had turned his thoughts to Spain as the country which would provide him with a short-eared ram. "The Shepherd" had assisted in the creation of "Thunderbolt," had indicated the meadows where the "Spanish cross" would find the best pasturage, and never failed to warn him when he was going to make a serious mistake. In his brilliant successes, which were many, at agricultural shows and such like, Snarley disclaimed every tittle of merit for himself, assuring Mrs. Abel that it was all due to the guidance of "the Shepherd." Of the prize-money which came to him in this way--for Farmer Perryman let him have it all--Snarley would never spend a sixpence; it was all "the Shepherd's money," and was promptly banked "that the missis might have a bit when he were gone"--the "bit" amounting, if I remember rightly, to four hundred and eighty pounds.

Throughout these communings there was scarcely a trace of moral reference in the usual senses of the term. One rule of life, and one only, Snarley professed to have derived from his invisible monitor--that "the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep." This rule, also, he accepted in a strictly literal sense, and considered himself under orders accordingly. Thus interpreted, it was for him the one rule which summed up the essential content of the whole moral law.

I am not able to recall any notable act of heroism or self-sacrifice performed by Snarley on behalf of his flock; but perhaps we shall not err in regarding his whole life as such an act. When, in his old age, physical suffering overtook him--the result of a lifetime of toil and exposure to the elements--he bore it as a good soldier should bear his wounds, sustained by the consciousness that pain such as his was the lot of every shepherd "as did his duty by the sheep."

Nor am I aware that he displayed any emotional tenderness towards his charges; and certainly, I may add, his personal appearance would not have recommended him to a painter in search of a model for the Good Shepherd of traditional art. In eliminating undesirable specimens from the flock, Snarley was as ruthless as Nature; and when the butcher's man drove them off to the shambles he would watch their departure without a qualm. It was certainly said that he would never slaughter a sheep with his own hands, not even when death was merciful; on the other hand, he would sternly execute, by shooting, any dog that showed a tendency to bite or worry the flock. There was one doubtful case of this kind which Snarley told Mrs. Abel he had settled by reference to his monitor--the verdict being adverse to the dog. The monitor was, indeed, his actual Master--the captain of the ship whose orders were inviolable,--Farmer Perryman being only the purser from whom he received his pay: a view of the relationship which probably worked to Perryman's great advantage.

In short, whatever may have been Snarley's sins or virtues in other directions, "the Shepherd" had little or nothing to do with them. The burden which Snarley laid at his feet was the burden which had bent his back, and crippled his limbs, and gnarled his hands, and furrowed his broad brows during seventy years of hardship and toil. Moral lapses--in the matter of drink and, at one time, of fighting--occasionally took place; but they were never known to be followed by any reference to the disapproval of "the Shepherd." In some respects, indeed, Robert Dellanow showed himself singularly deficient in moral graces. To the very end of his life he was given to outbreaks of violent behaviour--as we have seen; and not only would he show no signs of after-contrition for his bad conduct, but would hint, at times, that his invisible companion had been a partner, or at least an unreproving spectator, in what he had done. But if he made a mistake in feeding the ewes or in doctoring the lambs, Snarley would say, "I don't know what 'the Shepherd' will think o' me. I'll hardly have the face to meet him next time." Once, on the other hand, when there had been a heavy snowfall towards the end of April, and desperate work in digging the flock out of a drift, he described the success of the operations to Mrs. Abel by saying, "It were a job as 'the Shepherd' himself might be proud on."

In the last period of his life, however, gleams of his earlier Methodism occasionally shot through, and showed plainly enough of whom he was thinking. As with most men of his craft, his old age was made grievous by rheumatism; there were times, indeed, when every joint of his body was in agony. All this Snarley bore with heroic fortitude, sticking to his duties on days when he described himself as "a'most blind wi' pain." We have seen what sustained him, and it was strengthened, of course, as he told some of us, by the belief that "the Shepherd" had borne far worse. When at last the rheumatism invaded the valves of his heart, and every walk up the hill was an invitation to Death, the old man still held on, unmoved by the doctor's warnings and the urgency of his friends. The Perrymans implored him to desist, and promised a pension; his wife threatened and wept; Mrs. Abel added her entreaties. To the latter he replied, "Not till I drops! As long as 'the Shepherd' 's there to meet me I know as I'm wanted. The lambs ha' got to be fed. Besides 'the Shepherd' and me has an understandin'. I'll never give in while I can stand on my legs and hold my crook in my hand."

There is reason to believe that every phase of Snarley's connection with Toller was laid before "the Shepherd." Each new development was subject to his guidance. Shortly after Toller's disappearance, Snarley said to Mrs. Abel, "Me and 'the Shepherd' has been talkin' it over. He sez to me, 'Snarley, when you lose a sheep, you goes after it into the wilderness, and you looks and looks till you finds. But this time it's a shepherd that's lost. Now you stay quiet where you are, and keep your eyes and ears open day and night. I know where he is; he's all right; and I'm lookin' after him. By and by I'm going to hand him over to you. Him and you has got to drink together, but it'll be a drink o' gall for both on you. When the time comes, I'll give you the sign.'"

"The sign come," he added, later on, "the sign come that night in the Nag's Head, when the groom told us about the kettle. I'd just had a drop o' something short, and when I looks up there were 'the Shepherd' sittin' in the chair next but one to Shoemaker Hankin. Just then the groom come in, and 'the Shepherd' gets up and comes over to a little table where I'd got my glass. The groom sits down where 'the Shepherd' had been, and 'the Shepherd' sits down opposite to me. The groom says, 'Boys, I've got summat to tell you as'll make your hair stand on end.' 'Fire away,' says Tom Barter; and 'the Shepherd,' he holds up his finger and looks at me. When the groom had done, and they were all shoutin' and laughin', 'the Shepherd' leans across the table and whispers, close in my ear, 'Snarley, the hour's come! Drink up what's left in your glass. It's time to be goin'.'"

* * * * *

During the trying time of his concealment and tending of Toller, "the Shepherd's" presence became more frequent, and Snarley's characterisation more precise. The belief that "the Shepherd" was "backing him up" gave Snarley a will of iron. When Mrs. Abel, on the night of his confession, essayed to reprove him for not obtaining medical assistance for Toller, he drew himself as erect as his crippled limbs allowed, and said quietly, in a manner that closed discussion, "It were 'the Master's' orders, my lady. He'd handed him over to _me_." He also said, or hinted, that "the Master" had taught him the method--whatever it may have been for sending Toller to sleep, "that were better than all the doctor's bottles." From the same source, doubtless, came his secret for "setting Toller's mind at rest." That secret is undivulged; but it was connected in some way with what Snarley called "the Shepherd's Plan," of which all we could learn was that "there were three men on three crosses, him in the middle being 'the Shepherd,' and them at the sides being Toller and me."

"There were allus three on us in the hut," said Snarley, "and all three were men as knowed what pain were. Both Toller and me was drinking out o' 'the Shepherd's' cup, and he'd promised to stay by us till the last drop was gone. 'It's full o' fury and wrath,' sez he; 'but it's got to be drunk by them as wants to drive their flock among the stars. I've gone before, and you're comin' after. When you've done this there'll be no more like it. The next cup will be full o' wine, and we'll all three drink it together.'"

In this wise did Snarley and Toller receive the Sacrament in their dark and lonely den.

The night on which Snarley came home "like a man walking in his sleep"--the last night of Toller's life--was wild, wet, and very dark. With a lantern in one hand, a can of milk in the other, and a bag of sticks on his back, the old man stumbled through the night until he reached the last slope leading to Toller's hut. Here the lantern was blown out, and Snarley, after depositing his burdens, sat down, dizzy and faint, on a stone. In his pocket was an eight-ounce bottle, containing a meagre sixpenn'orth of brandy for Shepherd Toller. Snarley fingered the bottle, and then, with quick resolution, withdrew his hand. "For the life o' me," he said, "I couldn't remember where I was. I felt as though the hillside were whirlin' round, carryin' me with it. And then I felt as though I were sinkin' into the ground. 'I'll never get there this night,' I sez to myself. Just then I hears something movin', and blessed if it wasn't Toller's old dog as had come to look for me. He come jumpin' up and begins lickin' my face. Well, it put a bit o' heart into me to feel the old dog. So I picks up the can and the bundle, and off I goes again; and, though I wouldn't ha' believed it, it weren't more than eighty yards, or a hundred at most, to the hut.

"When I come to the edge of the pit I sees a lantern burnin' near the door, wonderful bright; and there were 'the Shepherd' sittin' on a stone, same as I'd been doin' myself a minute before. As soon as he sees me comin', he waves his lantern and calls out, 'Have a care, Snarley, it's a steep and narrow road.' Well, the path down into the pit were as slippery as ice, and I tell you I'd never ha' got down--at least, not without breakin' some o' my bones--if 'the Shepherd' hadn't kep' showin' me a light.

"So I comes up to where he were; and then I noticed as he were wet through, just as I were, and looking regular wore out. 'Snarley,' he sez to me, 'you carry your cross like a man.' 'I learnt that from you, Master,' I sez; 'but you look as though yours had been a bit too heavy for you this time.' 'We've had terrible work to-day,' he sez; 'we've been dividin' the sheep from the goats. And there's no keepin' 'em apart. We no sooner gets 'em sorted than they mixes themselves up again, till you don't know where you are.' 'Why didn't you let me come and help you?' I sez. 'I'd ha' brought Boxer, and he'd ha' settled 'em pretty quick.' 'No, no,' he sez; 'your hour's not come. When I wants you, I'll give you a sign as you can't mistake. Besides, you're not knowledgable in goats. Feed my sheep.' 'Well,' I sez, 'when you wants me, you knows where to find me.' 'Right,' he sez; 'but it's Toller we'll be wantin' first. And I've been thinkin' as p'raps he'd oblige us by lettin' us have the loan of his dog for a bit.' 'I'll go in and ask him,' I sez; 'I don't suppose he'll have any objection.' Then 'the Shepherd' blew his lantern out, and I see him no more that night.

"Me and the dog goes into the hut, and I could hear as Toller were fast asleep in his bed. I begins blowin' up the embers in the fire, and when the blaze come the old dog lay down as though he meant goin' to sleep. But I could see as there was somethin' on his mind, for he kept cockin' his nose up, and sniffin' and lookin' round. Then he gets up and begins scratchin' at the door, as he allus did when he wanted to go out. So I opens the door, and out he rushes into the dark, like a mad thing, barkin' as though he smelt a fox.

"When I'd done what I'd come to do, I puts the brandy and the buttermilk where they'd be handy for Shepherd Toller to get 'em, and then I goes to the door and begins whistlin' for the dog. But no sign of him could I hear or see, though I kep' on whistlin' for full a quarter of a' hour. It were strange as it didn't wake Shepherd Toller, but he kep' on sleepin' like a child in a thunderstorm. At last I give it up and shut the door and went home. How I got back, I don't know. I can't remember nothing till my missis catched hold on me and pulled me in through the door."

* * * * *

"I'd never ha' been able to shoot the old dog," said Snarley, "if 'the Shepherd' hadn't made me do it. I turned fair sick when I put the charge in the gun, and when I pointed it at him I was in such a tremble that I couldn't aim straight. I tried three or four times to get steady, the dog standin' as still as still all the while, except that he kep' waggin' his tail.

"All of a sudden I sees 'the Shepherd,' plain as plain. He were standin' just behind the old dog, strokin' his head. 'Shoot, Snarley,' he sez; 'shoot, and we'll look after him.' 'Stand back, then, Master,' I sez; 'for I'm goin' to fire.' 'Fire,' he sez; 'but aim lower. The shot won't hurt _me_,' and he went on strokin' the dog's head. So I pulls the trigger, and when the smoke cleared 'the Shepherd' were gone, and the dog were lyin' dead as any stone."

THE DEATH OF SNARLEY BOB

"He'd a rough tongue, sir; but he'd a good 'eart," said the widow of Snarley Bob. "Oh, sir, but he were a wonderful man, were my master. I never knowed one like him--no, nor never 'eard o' one. I didn't think on it while he were living; but now' he's gone I know what I've lost. That clever! Why, he often used to say to me. 'Polly, there ain't a bit of blessed owt as I couldn't do, if I tried.' And it were true, sir. And him nothing but a shepherd all his life, and never earned more'n eighteen shillin' a week takin' it all the year round. And us wi' a family of thirteen children, without buryin' one on 'em, and all married and doin' well. And only one fault, sir, and that not so bad as it is in some. He _would_ have his drop of drink--that is, whenever he could get it. Not that he spent his wages on it, except now and then after the children was growed up. But you see, sir, he was that amusin' in his talk, and folks used to treat him.

"Well, sir, it was last Saturday fortnight, as I was tellin' you, he come home for the last time. I can see 'im now, just as he come staggerin' in at that door. I thought when I saw him that he'd had a drop o'drink, though he'd not been 'avin' any for a long time. So I sez to myself, 'I'd better make 'im a cup o' tea,' and I begins puttin' the kettle on the fire. 'What are you doin'?' he sez. 'I'm goin' to give you a cup o' tea,' I sez; 'It'll do yer good.' 'No, it won't,' he sez, 'I've done wi' cups o' tea in this world.' 'Why,' I sez, 'what rubbish! 'Ere, sit yer down, and let me pull yer boots off.' 'You can pull 'em off,' he sez 'but ye'll never see me put 'em on again.'

"I could see by this that it wasn't drink besides I couldn't smell any. So I gets 'im into his chair and begins pullin' his boots off. 'What makes you talk like that?' I sez. 'You knows as you was ever so much better last night. When you've had yer medicine you'll be all right.' He said nowt for a time, but just sat, tremblin' and shiverin' in his chair. So I sez, 'Hadn't you better 'ave the doctor?' 'It's no good,' he sez; 'I'm come 'ome for the last time. It'll be good-bye this time, missis.' 'Not it,' I sez; 'you've got many years to live yet. Why, wot's to make yer die?' 'It's my 'eart,' he sez; 'it's all flip-floppin' about inside me, and gurglin' like a stuck pig. It's wore out, and I keep gettin' that faint.' 'Oh,' I sez, 'cheer up; when you've 'ad a cup o' tea you'll feel better'; but I'd hardly got the words out o' my mouth before he were gone in a dead faint.

"We got 'im to bed between the three on us, and, my word, it were a job gettin' 'im up them narrer stairs! As soon as we'd made 'im comfortable, he sez to me, 'Wot I told yer's comin' to-night, Polly. They've been a-callin' on me all day. I see 'em and 'ear 'em, too. Loud as loud. Plain as plain.' 'Who's been callin' yer?' I sez. 'The messengers o' death,' he sez; 'and they're in this room, four on 'em, now. I can 'ear 'em movin' and talkin' to one another.' 'Oh,' I sez, 'it's all fancy. What you 'ear is me and Mrs. Rowe. You lie quiet and go to sleep, and you'll be better in the mornin'.' He only shook his 'ead and said, 'I can 'ear 'em.'

"Well, I suppose it was about 'alf a' hour after this when Mrs. Rowe sez to me, 'He looks like goin' to sleep now, Mrs. Dellanow, so I think I'll go 'ome and get my master 'is supper'; and she was just goin' down the stairs when all of a sudden he starts up in bed and sez, 'Do you 'ear that whistle blowin'?' 'No,' I sez, 'you've been dreamin'. There isn't nobody whistlin' at this time o' night.' 'Yes,' he sez, 'there is, and it blowed three times. There's thousands and thousands of sheep, and a tall shepherd whistlin' to his dog. But he's got no dog, and it's me he's whistlin' for.'

"Now, sir, you must understand that my 'usband when he was with the sheep used to work his dog wi' whistlin' instead of shoutin' to it as most shepherds do. You can see his whistle hangin' on that nail--that's where he hung it 'isself for twenty-five years. You see, he was kind o' superstitious and used to say it was bad luck to keep yer whistle in yer pocket when you went to bed. So he always hung it on that nail, the last thing at night.

"'Why,' I sez, tryin' to humour 'im, 'it's his dog he's whistlin' for, not you. His dog's somewhere where you can't see it. He doesn't want you. You lie back again, and go to sleep.' 'No, no,' sez he; 'there's no dog, and the sheep's runnin' everywhere, thousands on 'em. It's me he's whistlin' for, and we must whistle back to say I'm comin'. Fetch it down from the nail, Polly. There he is again! He's the tallest shepherd I ever saw. He's one of them four that was in the room just now. Whistle back, Polly, and then it'll be all right.' And so he kep' on, again and again.

"Mrs. Rowe, who'd come into the room, said to me, 'If I was you, Mrs. Dellanow, I'd fetch the whistle and blow it. It'll quiet 'im, and then p'raps he'll go to sleep.'

"You can understand, sir, that I was that upset I didn't know what I was doing. But when he kep' on callin' and beseechin' I thought I'd better do as Mrs. Rowe recommended. So I went down and took the whistle from that nail--the same where you see it hangin' now. When I got back I couldn't somehow bring myself to do it, so I gives it to 'im to blow 'isself. But, oh dear, to see the poor thing trying to put it to his mouth ... it a'most broke my heart. So I took it from 'im, and blowed it myself three times as he wanted me. To think o' me standin' by my own 'usband's dyin'-bed and blowin' a whistle!

"When I'd done, he says, 'That's all right; he knows I'm comin' now. But it'll take a long time to gather all them sheep.'

"For a bit he was quite still, and both me and Mrs. Rowe sat watchin', when, all of a sudden, he starts up again and sez, 'Listen, he's goin' to blow again,' Well, sir, I dare say you won't believe what I'm going to tell yer, but it's as true as I'm standin' 'ere. He'd hardly got the words out of his mouth when I hears a whistle blown three times--leastways I thought I did--as it might be coming from the top of that 'ill you see over there. There weren't no other sounds, for it was as still a night as could be. But there was someone whistling, and Mrs. Rowe 'eard it too. If you don't believe me, you can ask her. I nearly dropped on the floor, and I knew from that minute that my 'usband was going to die.

"You see, sir, my 'usband was never what you might call a religious man. He were more of a readin' man, my 'usband was--papers and books and all sorts o' things--more'n was good for 'im, I often used to say. You can see a lot on 'em on that little shelf. If it hadn't been that they kep' 'im out o' the Nag's Head I'd ha' burned some on 'em, that I would, and I often told 'im so. He knowed a wonderful lot about the stars, my 'usband did. Why, he'd often sit in his chair outside that door, smokin' his pipe and watchin' 'em for hours together.

"One day there was a great man came down to give a lecture on the stars in C----, and a gentleman as knowed my 'usband's tastes paid his fare and gave 'im a ticket for the lecture. When he came 'ome he was that excited I thought he'd go out o' his mind. He seemed as though he could think of nothing else for weeks, and it wasn't till he began to ha' bad luck wi' the ewes as he was able to shake it off. He was allus lookin' in the paper to see if the gentleman as give the lecture was comin' again. His name was Sir Robert Ball. I dare say you've heard on 'im.

"He used to spend all his Sundays readin' about stars. No, sir, he 'adn't been inside the church for years. 'Church is for folks as knows nowt about the stars,' he used to say. 'Sir Robert Ball's my parson.' One night when he was sittin' outside the door. I sez, 'Why don't you come in and get yer supper? It's getting cold.' 'Let it get cold,' he sez; 'I'm not comin' in till the moon's riz. It's as good as a drop o' drink to see it.'

"P'raps he told yer all about that time when he was took up wi' spiritualism. He'd met a man in the public-'ouse who'd 'eard his talk and put 'im up to it. They got 'im to go to a meetin' i' the next village, and made 'im believe as he was a medium. Well, there never was such goin's-on as we 'ad wi' 'im for months. He'd sit up 'alf the night, bumpin' the table and tan-rannin' wi' an old bucket till I was a'most scared out o' my life. But that winter he was nearly carried off wi' the New Mony, and when he got better he said he wasn't goin' to touch the spirits no more. 'There's summat in it,' he sez; 'but there's more in the stars.' And from that day I never 'eard 'im so much as talk about spirits, and you may be sure I didn't remind 'im on 'em.

"You must ha' often 'eard 'im talk about the stars, sir. Well, I suppose them things makes no difference to a' eddicated gentleman like you. But poor folks, _I_ sez, has no business to meddle wi' em. All about worlds and worlds floatin' on nothin' till you got fair lost. Folks as find them things out ought to keep 'em quiet, that's wot _I_ sez. Why, I've 'eard 'im talk till I was that mazed that I couldn't 'a said my prayers; no, not if I'd tried ever so.

"Yes, sir, it were a strange thing that when my 'usband come to die his mind seemed to hang on his whistle more'n a'most anything else. He kep' talkin' about it all night, and sayin' the tall shepherd was answerin' back, though I never 'eard nothin' myself, save that one time I told yer of.

"'It's queer he don't talk about the stars,' sez Mrs. Rowe to me. 'He will do before he's done, you see if he doesn't,' I sez.

"Well, about three o'clock I see a change in his face and knowed as the end wasn't far off. So I puts my arm round his old neck, and I sez, 'Bob, my dear, are you prepared to meet your Maker?' 'Oh! I'm all right,' he sez quite sensible; 'don't you bother your head about that,' 'Don't you think you'd better let me send for the parson?' I sez. 'No,' he sez; 'but you could send for Sir Robert Ball--if you only knew where to find him.' 'But,' I sez, 'wouldn't you like somebody to pray with yer? Sir Robert Ball's no good for that,' 'He's as good as anybody else,' he sez. 'Besides what's the use of prayin' now? It's all over,' 'It might do yer good,' I sez. 'It's too late," he sez, 'and I don't want it. It isn't no Maker I'm goin' to--I'm goin' to the stars,' 'Oh,' I sez, 'you're dreamin' again,' 'No, I'm not' he sez. 'Didn't I tell yer they'd been a-callin' on me all day? I don't mean the stars, but them as lives in 'em.'

"No, sir, he wasn't wanderin' then. 'I wish the children was 'ere,' he sez; 'but you couldn't get 'em all in this little room. My eye, what a lot we've 'ad! And all livin'. And there's Tom got seven of 'is own,' And a lot more like that; but I was so upset and cryin' that I can't remember half on it.

"About four o'clock he seemed to rally a bit and asked me to put my arm round him and lift him up. So I raises him, like, on the pillow and gives him a sup o' water. 'What day o' the week is it?' he sez. 'Sunday mornin',' I sez. 'That's my day for the stars,' he sez, and a smile come over his face, as were beautiful to see.... No, sir, he weren't a smilin' man, as a rule--he allus got too much on his mind--and a lot o' pain to bear too, sir. Oh, dear me!... Well, as I was a-sayin', he were as glad as glad when he heard it were Sunday. 'What's o'clock?' he sez. 'Just struck four by the church clock,' I sez. 'Then the dawn must be breakin',' he sez; 'look out o' the winder, there's a good lass, and tell me if the sky's clear, and if you can see the mornin' star in the south-east.' So I goes to the winder and tells him as how the sky were clear and the mornin' star shinin' wonderful. 'Ah, she's a beauty,' he sez, 'and as bright as she were milions o' years ago!'

"After a bit he sez, 'Take yer arm off, Polly, and lay me on my right side.' When me and Mrs. Rowe 'ad turned 'im round he sez, 'You can fetch the old Bible and read a bit if you like,' 'What shall I read?' I sez, when Mrs. Rowe had fetched it, for I wouldn't leave 'im for a minute. 'Read about the Woman in Adultery,' he sez. 'Oh,' I sez, 'that'll do you no good. You don't want to 'ear about them things now.' 'Yes,' he sez, 'I do. It's the best bit in the book. But if you can't find it, the Box o' Hointment'll do as well.' 'What can he mean?' I sez. 'He means about them two women as come to our Lord,' sez Mrs. Rowe. ''Ere, I'll find 'em.' So I give the Bible to Mrs. Rowe and lets her read both of the bits he wanted.

"While Mrs. Rowe was readin' he lay as still as still, but his eyes were that bright it a'most scared me to see 'em. When she'd done, he said never a word, but lay on 'is side, wi' 'is 'ead turned a bit round, starin' at the window. 'I'm sure he sees summat,' sez Mrs. Rowe to me. 'I wonder wot it is,' I sez. 'P'raps it's our Lord come to fetch 'im,' she sez. 'I've 'eard o' such things.'

"He must ha' lay like that for ten minutes, breathin' big breaths as though he were goin' to sleep. Then I sees 'is lips movin', and I 'ad to bend my 'ead down to 'ear what he were sayin'. 'He's a-blowin' again. It's the tall shepherd--'im as wrote on the ground--and he's got no dog, and 'is sheep's scatterin'. It's me he wants. Fetch the old whistle, Polly, and blow back. I want 'im to know I'm comin'.'

"He kep' repeatin' it, till 'is breath went. I got Mrs. Rowe to blow the whistle, but he didn't 'ear it, and it made no difference. And so, poor thing, he just gave one big sigh and he were gone."

FARMER PERRYMAN'S TALL HAT

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.