Innocent Birds (13 page)

O
NE
afternoon Mrs. Bugby came out to her garden well in order to draw some water. She lifted the well cover, and before she let go the bucket she looked down.

At the bottom of the well, at a depth that seemed very far from the upper world, there appeared a dim small circle of black water. This inky circle had been for a long while now Mrs. Bugby's companion in life—her friend.

Whenever Mrs. Bugby thought of her friend she stopped crying. Often she saw her friend at midnight, when brandy-sodden Mr. Bugby would be both lamenting the fact that he was born to frighten the maidens, and explaining how he did it. Mrs. Bugby's friend had one
disadvantage
attached to the excellence of his serene
disposition
. He lived so deep that in order to reach his kind blackness, and embrace him, as she longed to do, for ever, there would have to be that long narrow fall first.

Mrs. Bugby had often tried to fancy herself sliding down there: and yet it wouldn't be a slide, but a dreadful drop, though at the bottom there was always Mrs. Bugby's friend, if only she dared.

In the bar parlour of ‘The Silent Woman,' whenever Mrs. Bugby served Chick, Pim, or Wimple with their drink (Mr. Billy had been carried off as a joke one Christmas day to join hands—for they were buried next to each other—with Mr. Soper, and on a Lady day the bell had tolled for Corbin too), Mrs. Bugby would
remember
that silent friend of hers in the garden, and would think how cool and still that presence was, and so different from Mr. Bugby.

Mr. Bugby was kind in one way; he certainly tried his best to overcome his wife's dislike to that narrow deep fall. He would strike her—merely, as he kindly informed her, ‘to keep himself in training for the next'—and suggest ‘that they well worms be good company to a dead 'oman.'

Mrs. Bugby now let down the bucket, though it seemed to her to be a little hard upon the water to draw it out from its deep silence into the light of noisy day.

With the bucket upon the grass again, Mrs. Bugby looked down once more. She was still looking, when Mrs. Chick's voice came from over the stile—a pleasing opening in the summer hedge—and brought to the scene the
pleasantness
of a cheerful person's interest in the misery of another.

‘Don't 'ee look so long down there,' said Mrs, Chick, ‘or something mid happen to 'ee.'

‘No, no,' said Mrs. Bugby, as though she
spoke to some one that Mrs. Chick couldn't see; ‘I can't do it yet, I can't do it. I would be broken on those hard bricks. I dare not try to fall, I dare not try to fall….'

‘You be all shaking,' remarked Mrs. Chick, when Mrs. Bugby carried the pail of water near to the stile and rested. Both the women now looked into the meadow and watched Maud Chick, who hurried to and fro there with that uneasy gait that betokens a troubled mind.

‘Bain't Maud no better?' asked Mrs. Bugby.

‘'Twas a pity,' said Mrs. Chick, watching her daughter's restless motions, as though Maud were a natural curiosity brought there on purpose to amuse every one—‘'Twas a pity that Maud did know so little, though she did use to wash an' dress Fred when 'e were a biggish boy.'

Mrs. Bugby still looked at Maud, who had now stopped her rambling walk and was eagerly watching the postman, Mr. Moody, who was conversing with May Billy upon the Madder green, before starting to deliver his afternoon letters.

‘Maud were a maid,' said Mrs. Chick, ‘that were always thinking about they babies. She never thought on nor know'd, no, not even when she were like a woman be, what 'tis they married men to do. Chick do say that Mr. Bugby—'tain't nothing that I do mean to say against 'im—do tell at “Silent Woman” as 'ow 'e did
frighten she thik day. 'Twas in meadow
footpath
'—Mrs. Chick nodded towards
Dodderdown
—‘that landlord did meet she. An' 'e did tell she of a little maid 'e 'd heard a-screaming in they chalk pits across meadow grounds. 'Twas a funny tale, for when Maud an' 'e did go as far as pits there weren't nor child at all.'

Mrs. Chick looked as though she were astonished too, that there ‘weren't nor child.'

‘A wanting man that do mean to 'ave 'is way wi' a maid be funny to look at.' Mrs. Chick looked at the inn door and nodded amiably at Mr. Bugby, who was sitting in the porch. ‘And she wanting a baby so bad too; and that were a manner of asking for a peep at nature, and when so much be done, 'tis usual that nothing don't happen.'

Mrs. Bugby raised her pail and moved slowly away, with the weary gait of a woman who has looked too long into a deep place, and at her only friend a little too lovingly.

Mrs. Chick pitied her happily, and turned away because she had seen Mr. Moody, the
postman
, enter the lower end of the field, in order, so Mrs. Chick hoped, to bring her a letter.

Mr. Moody, the Madder postman, had long ago discovered the fact, a very trying one indeed for most simple-minded gentlemen, that young ladies were everywhere in the world.

‘When I do try,' he informed Mrs, Moody, ‘to think that they bain't about in all times and in
all places, they do come around I like Christmas cards that bain't proper addressed.'

Mrs. Moody placed the large Bible, that she always carried to chapel and carried home again, upon the front-room table, and rested near it for a moment so that any passing neighbour might see that she gave the Bible a little of her company sometimes.

‘'Tain't nor use,' said Mr. Moody, sitting down too, according to custom, ‘me keeping Susy in me eye, nor yet Mrs. Corbin, an' I do try to look at they round white pillars in chapel.'

‘You should have looked at the preacher; 'e were telling of bodies that do rot in grave same whiles as souls do burn in hell.'

‘I don't fancy they remarks,' said Mr. Moody.

‘Then you should look at me.'

‘You be me wife,' replied Mrs. Moody's husband mildly.

But this morning Mr. Moody had come to Madder with a virtuous resolve, though not a new one. He wished to try whether or no a long look at Mrs. Billy, who was grown extremely ill-favoured, could prevent for a while at least his eyes from wandering to younger and more pretty women.

It was unfortunate for Mr. Moody that as soon as ever he had taken this new cure, a good long stare at Mrs. Billy till her cross look was safe lodged in his mind, he should go out directly with his letters, from Mrs. Billy and the
post-office, to encounter May Billy upon the village green.

Mr. Moody stopped at once when he met May, and looked at her. He knew how May liked being a girl, and he knew, for her frock and herself told him this plainly enough, that she was a pretty one.

Mr. Moody let the idea of Mrs. Billy fall out of his mind, and took in May instead, who was ready enough to be admired.

May watched Mr. Moody, and toyed with his wishes as a kitten would do with a piece of straw: handling those wishes with her eyes, exciting them, following them, and drawing them to her. But alas! when the postman felt himself to be gone as far with May as any public and open-air conversation can decorously go, she laughed loudly.

When once Mr. Moody let his helps to virtue go—which they always did very readily indeed—life became very serious to him, and every
movement
or expression of the girl he looked at, or talked to, portended such and such a willingness, and all intended for him.

He had just reached a very simple
interpretation
of May's words and movements when she burst out laughing at him.

That she should laugh at all, at so serious a state of a man's feelings, appeared to Mr. Moody to be a betrayal of all his most interesting secrets. If she had meant to laugh so—and only because
he had invited her to go a little way down the lane, why hadn't she left him at the first, alone, and good, with Mrs. Billy to look at?

Mr. Moody looked at his letters. ‘Those letters,' he thought, ‘may be as important to some people as May's frock and gestures had been a moment ago to him.'

‘Besides,' thought Mr. Moody, whose ideas, when once led on to wantonness, were hard to lay, ‘it's the custom in Madder for young women to walk sometimes in the fields, and when I do go across thik, wi' Pim's letter, I may meet one.'

Mr. Moody did meet one. He met Maud. Although Maud's hair was white, she still possessed the rounded firm figure and the
graceful
movements of a girl: the very attributes that Mr. Moody, with May's body in his eye instead of Mrs. Billy's, hoped to find waiting for him. ‘Why, then,' and the Madder sparrows chirped excitedly as they asked the question from the nearest hedgerow, ‘did Mr. Moody, when Maud met him and spoke to him, as though she asked a favour, turn from her and hurry away with his hands to his ears, as if he were acting the part of Christian at Vanity Fair?'

Later in the evening, when Mr. Moody sat at his tea-table and looked at the food upon his plate, Mrs. Moody, putting her head a little to one side, said gravely, ‘Yes, 'tis bread an' butter on thee's plate; 'tain't worms nor spiders.'

Mr. Moody placed one elbow upon the table, and his cheek into his hand, and stared still at his plate.

‘Bread and butter bain't wrong side up?' said Mrs. Moody.

‘World be,' said Mr. Moody, finding his voice at last. ‘World be sadly twisted.' Mr. Moody sighed deeply.

‘All my life long,' said Mr. Moody, looking up at his wife, ‘leastways all my letter-carrying time, I've wanted to meet a maiden in they Madder fields who would say kindly, “There be they dark trees for we to go to, Mr. Moody.”'

‘Wouldn't the kindly maid 'ave called 'ee William?' Mrs. Moody inquired.

‘'Twere always “Mr. Moody” in me fancy,' her husband replied. ‘'Twere “Mr. Moody” even on thik happy grass.'

‘We bain't got no money to pay for they grassy doings,' said Mrs. Moody a little sulkily.

The postman stared at his plate again.
Suddenly
he beat his fist upon the table.

‘I won't hanker for none of they maids no more,' he cried out. ‘I'll mind me letters and postcards.'

‘Thee bain't been in no cold wind, 'ave 'ee?' asked Mrs. Moody feelingly, ‘for thee's eyes be blinking.'

‘Yes,' said Mr. Moody, wiping his eyes. ‘Yes, they cold winds did drive into I cruel on they Madder hills.'

W
HEN
Mr. Pim carried the letter that had come to him all the way from Derby to ‘The Silent Woman,’ he was fortunate enough to find Farmer Barfoot in the parlour.

The farmer, with his mug near to him, was inquiring of Betty whether the corn in ‘fox holes field’ was ready to carry.

‘’Tis they knots in straw that do hold
dampness
, Betty be telling I,’ remarked the farmer, ‘so corn be best left on ground a day longer.’

Pim handed his letter to Mr. Barfoot.

‘Now Betty ’ave a-spoken,’ he said, ‘maybe thee’d read thik to I.’

The inn door darkened, for Chick and Wimple, each wishing to enter at the same moment, were finding some difficulty in doing so. Mr. Chick, however, soon gave place to Wimple, and didn’t venture for a moment to enter at all, for that gentleman said brightly, ‘’Tis funny how
churchyard
clay do stick to woon’s clothes.’

When Chick did at last creep in, and took a place as far as possible from the sexton, Farmer Barfoot, with a friendly look at Betty, and moving her a little to an easier position, read the letter.

‘Dear Father, and all at home.’ Mr. Pim started, but looking at Betty, who seemed to reprove him, remained silent.

Mr. Pim put the letter into his pocket. He  turned to Chick.

‘What ’tis ’ee do want,’ he asked, ‘for a present when Fred do come in loaded?’

Before replying to this kind question, Mr. Chick regarded his legs. Below the knees and over his well-worn trousers he had wound pieces of sacking. He regarded these now with a
hopeful look, as if by means of Pim they would one day be changed into something better.

‘Strap leggings be a good warm wear,’ sai Mr. Chick.

‘You shall have they,’ called out Pim, ‘when Fred do come in from Spain.’ …

After Fred’s letter was come, Mr. Pim began to look at the ordinary and natural things of life with marked contempt. He scarcely ever gave a thought now to what the weather was doing. Fred’s first coming had been wonderful; as coming from the body of dead Annie in a
mysterious
way, that all Minna’s earlier explanations of nature could never wholly account for. But now soon there would be happening a far more stirring event, an event that would give Chick his strap leggings—the second coming of Fred.

Mr. Pim would stand uncertainly sometimes and watch the Madder rooks and starlings and even the swallows, as if to contrast his own fame with theirs, and would say, so that any one might tell where the true glory was to be found, ‘They be only poor birds that do lay eggs and hatch ’em.’

Besides the poor birds, Mr. Pim would regard in the new light of Fred’s coming almost any other human being that he passed, on the way to or from his work, with a vast contempt. For if May and Eva Billy happened to be walking up the lane, in the happy hopes that some one might whistle after them, and met Pim, he would
mutter as he went by, ‘They be only Madder maidens; they bain’t Queen Maries,’ as though to show to whose society he really belonged.

All Madder had heard of Fred’s letter, and of another that Polly Wimple had received that was even more hopeful; because it told how he had bought a new cap, and therefore was no doubt beginning to walk quickly upon the high road to riches. No one, therefore, was very much
surprised
to hear, a week or two after these letters had arrived, that Mr. Pim had bethought him of the well-known fact, and acted upon it, that no gentleman with a rich son soon coming home would do any more work in the vulgar fields.

This change in Mr. Pim’s behaviour toward this workaday world came in this way. He raised his hoe one morning in the turnip field and looked at it in a critical manner, as if it were the very oddest implement in the world for he, Mr. Pim, to be holding. Mr. Pim placed the hoe very gently down upon the ground.

Though it was September the day was very warm. All Madder appeared to sleep under a silky haze that spread everywhere. Mr. Pim lay down and slept too….

Though Madder slept, Betty was wakeful. She informed Farmer Barfoot, with the help of his own eyes, as he stood by his barton gate, that a figure that should be bent like a rather short gallows, to which Bewick would no doubt have hanged a cat or a little dog, didn’t show in
the field at all. It wasn’t dinner-time yet, and Betty shrewdly observed ‘that no one in such a large field would leave his beer near a hedge four hundred yards away from his work, not even for the sake of taking his cool thin drink under a fresh tree’s shade.’

When an hour later Farmer Barfoot woke Pim up, Mr. Barfoot remarked truthfully and harmlessly enough ‘that it wasn’t Sunday.’ And Pim, for the moment at least forgetting who he was, and who was soon to come home, lifted up the discarded hoe and made a motion as though he intended to begin to work at the weeds again. As soon as ever the hoe touched the ground Pim let it fall again. Farmer Barfoot looked from Pim to Betty, and then from Betty to Pim.

Mr. Pim was fully awake now and knew himself. He looked at the Madder valley. The great elms were crowned with gold, the red and white cows lay peacefully where the soft haze warmed the meadows, and Madder hill waited, with the grace of a lonely and lovely virgin, for God’s gift to come.

‘’Tain’t much that I do want,’ said Mr. Pim, regarding all the beauties of Madder with the eye of a land agent. ‘But me boy Fred, who did come funny—though thik bain’t no matter to I, now ’e be rich—could buy all that be over there an’ around—all they small trees and grounds—wi’ woon of they bank papers from ’s pocket that be all stuffed wi’ ’em.’

‘’Tis more than likely,’ said Farmer Barfoot after a look at Betty, ‘that Fred ’ave done well for ’imself up Derby way.’

‘Better than well,’ Mr. Pim replied; ‘for if Fred were to touch they turnips they would be gold woons.’ …

Madder tries in many little ways, with its rain-clouds and lightnings, with its fan-shaped trees—bare shapes in winter—with its first
primrose
, that should be wept over rather than plucked, and the January scent of white violet leaves amongst the thorns, together with the little black spots of the plantain shadows upon the
sun-warmed
grass, to give all the happiness that is in it to those that have eyes to see and noses to smell. It succeeds, indeed, in giving a kind of joy—but alas! all creatures are so fanciful—to the weasels. And sometimes a stray hedgehog comes along, who finds a worm and is glad of it. And now it attempted, after so many trials with ungrateful man, to give Pim a chance.

‘All they be only plain fields,’ said Pim. ‘And thik bain’t nothing, only a small turnip.’

In order to show how little and poor a thing, as beheld from his new and exalted position, a field root was, Mr. Pim kicked this one up and turned to look at Madder hill.

‘Hill bain’t woon of they paper notes,’ he said scornfully.

Mr. Barfoot looked at the hill too. Certainly Pim had said rightly what the hill wasn’t.

From the hill Mr. Pim turned to his master.

‘You be Farmer Barfoot, bain’t ’ee, who do ’ave Betty to bed wi’ ’ee?’

Farmer Barfoot looked proudly down at Betty; he was glad that so grand a man, with so rich a son, should mention his lame foot.