The hare

CHAPTER 1 IT ’S Batwood — Puffer Batwood ! ’ 7

“By Jove, it’s Redding! Hanged if it isn’t good old Teddie Redding ! I thought you were in Spain. ’ ’ “No. I ’m in Bulford.”

“It ’s ages since I last saw you, Teddie.”

‘ ‘ Ages. Let me see. How many years ? What ’s to-day ? ’ ’ “It ’s Tuesday, the seventeenth of May, eighteen-sixty-four. 9 9

‘ 4 Thanks. I knew it was Tuesday, and I even had some faint suspicion of the May and the ’sixty-four. But thanks for the seventeen. I always forget the day of the month, May the seventeenth, ’sixty-four. Puffer, it ’s twelve years, almost to the day, since my father left Bulford ; and it ’s nearly thirteen years since you and I last met.”

“I remember, Ted. You all went away to Italy for the winter, didn’t you? Now, tell me something about yourself.”

“Look here, Puffer, I ’ve just had a happy thought. I ’m at ‘The Bulcaster Arms.’ If you ’ve nothing better to do, come and dine with me. It would be a great charity. I ’m all alone.”

“It ’s tempting. But I don’t live in Bulford now. I live at Sharley, and the last train goes just before eight. ’ ’

“We can get over that,” answered Edward Redding, after glancing at his watch. “Instead of waiting for dinner, we could have a bit of cold salmon straight away, and a dish of cutlets to follow. And a bottle of hock. My father has often told me how good the Rhine wines are at ‘The Bulcaster Arms/ To speak the simple truth, you ’ll be doing me a service. I ’ve eaten nothing to speak of since breakfast, and I shall jump at any excuse for wolfing some food this very minute. ’ ’

The old inn stood barely a hundred paces away; so the walk thither allowed time for nothing more than an interchange of chaff on the corpulence of Bat wood and the scragginess of Redding. As they entered the hall of “The Bulcaster Arms,” Oakes, the new landlord hurried forward. When, an hour before, young Mr. Redding had booked a room, the name of Redding meant nothing to Oakes, who was not a Bulford man; but he greeted Mr. Redding’s guest obsequiously, saying:

“Good evening, Sir George. It is a long time since you did us the honor.”

When they were seated at the table, Redding asked:

“What did the landlord mean by calling you ‘Sir George’?”

“It wasn’t my doing,” his friend replied. “Probably you never knew that my uncle was Sir Rigby Batwood, the impecunious squire of Shari ey. I didn’t use to talk about it. Why should I? It was no good to me. Besides, there were three lives between me and the baronetcy. Blame the Sharley doctor, not me. He killed off three baronets in eleven years.”

“Instead of a bottle of hock, I must make it a bottle of champagne, Sir George.”

“Don’t ‘Sir George’ me, Mr. Redding, or P’m off.”

“I ’ll call you Sir Puffer, and we will stick to hock; but it shall be the best bottle in the house. Now, tell me. How have you been puffing these long years and years? And, first of all, is there a Lady Batwood?”

“There is a Lady Batwood. We were married only last month. You know her. Four weeks ago she was Sylvia Witherington.”

“Miss Sylvia Witherington? You luckiest of lucky dogs. I remember her as if we ’d met yesterday. Miss Sylvia was the youngest of the delicious maidens we called the Nine Muses. Eh ? ”

“Quite so. The youngest. Strangely enough, Sylvia and I were both born on the same day — the tenth of June, eighteen thirty-seven.”

“How extraordinary.”

“Stranger still, we were married on the same day too — the thirtieth of April, eighteen sixty-four. ’ ’

“How remarka — ” Redding began. But he saw the boobytrap in time, and made up for the unuttered syllable by lunging playfully at the baronet’s head.

Charles, the waiter, approached. Teddie Redding recognized this veteran, who had survived two changes of proprietorship at the old hostelry, and no time was lost in agreeing on the Rhenish. A bottle of Johannisberger soon came up from the famous cellars cut deep in the living sandstone. It was delectably cold on so warm an evening. When the glasses were filled, the host said heartily:

“Here ’s to Lady Batwood.”

They drank. Then Sir George demanded:

“Can we drink to Mrs. Edward Redding?”

“We cannot,” was the answer, spoken in tones of mock despair. ‘ ‘ There will never be a Mrs. Redding. At the early age of ten, I saw and adored the lovely and only Sylvia. Since then I have thought of no other woman. And to-day I revisit the scenes of my youth, only to find that I am too late.”

“Then the only thing for it is to drink to Sylvia again.”

“Let us drink,” assented Teddie in a still more doleful voice. “By the way, this wine is capital. For one reckless moment it almost reconciles me to my blank and hopeless existence. 9 9

The fish, a generous shoulder-cut of true Deme salmon, appeared on the table, and the hungry young men quickly removed it from sight. While the cutlets were grilling, Sir George enquired about his friend’s parents. Having expressed unaffected regret at learning that Edward’s mother had been irrevocably sentenced to life-long exile from the English climate, and that her husband’s health left almost as much to be desired, he asked, a little awkwardly :

“Is your father still a Roman Catholic?”

“Most decidedly.”

“And — and yourself?”

“No, still Church of England. Not one of the Church’s brightest ornaments and trustiest pillars, I ’m afraid, but not a Papist. You see, the venerable parent has never put the slightest pressure on my mother and me, nor tried to influence us in any way. He keeps a good deal to himself. When we get tired of one mild spot, we fold our tents and look for another mild spot; but he always chooses a town where my mother can attend an English church service. Yet he invariably hits on a place within easy reach of some big monastery with a library, and then he causes no more anxiety to us. You know, his hobby is liturgiology. ”

“Heavens! What the deuce is that?”

“I suppose it ’s got to do with church music and services and all that sort of thing. The pater grubs away at old books and manuscripts, and makes notes by the rod, pole, or perch.”

“Hasn’t it put him off a bit, seeing the Roman Catholic religion at home, on its native heath ? ’ ’

“Bless you, no. What you hear and read in that strain is exaggerated. I grant there is dirt and superstition in some places, and that you often meet a slovenly, coarse-grained priest. But are n’t there heaps of things to put pious people off in the Church of England? Our clergy are better bred, better off, better behaved; but, as my father often used to say, thousands of them regard the cure of souls first and foremost as 4 a living. ’ In Romish countries the priests are often social outsiders. In Portugal, for instance, I wish they shaved as often as they spat. Yet I can’t help noticing how they stick to their job, getting up in winter before daybreak for their services, saying Mass on empty stomachs, turning out in the middle of the night to visit the dying, and so on. I expect to die a Protestant. Yet it sometimes comes over me that the Church of England is mainly successful as a social institution, and that the Church of Rome, from the standpoint of poor devils who want guidance and comfort and help, is unquestionably a religion. But don’t let ’s talk theology. You started it, Puffer. Hooray, here are the cutlets.”

There were four cutlets; and these, together with a small head of cauliflower, went the way of the salmon. A wedge of ripe Skilbury cheese concluded the meal, and before the knives ceased clinking it had been minished and brought low.

‘ ‘Pardon my asking,” said Sir George. “It is not idle curiosity. Are you and your parents free from anxiety? I had heard that your father gave away all his savings before he left Bulford. I ’m a poor man myself, and I know what money worries are; but I have a good deal of influence, and I do beg you to let me use it if I can be of any service.”

“You were always a brick, Puffer,” Redding answered warmly. “Thank heaven, we are all right. Twelve years ago things looked black. My mother’s fortune was lost — I ought to say stolen. But soon afterwards my father came unexpectedly into a very useful sum; more than what my mother lost. Besides, I have a sort of profession. I am called an artist. Don’t laugh. I do illustrations for novels — for the monthly magazines, you know. They send me the printer’s proofs, and I draw Lucy standing beside the old millstream, hallowed by a hundred dear memories, with Edgar’s letter in her little hand.”

4 'The devil you do,” snorted Sir George. "Now I understand where you learned that high-flown language about my poor Sylvia just now. I hope they pay you properly.”

"Improperly. That is to say, they pay me more than I deserve, and more than I spend. This evening I ’m determined to get rid of some of my hoard. We ’ll have a bottle of port, Puffer. My father, when he heard I was coming here, told me to Jook out for the ’47. They had a big bin of it — twelve pipes, I think. Charles! Here, Charles, what about your ’47 port ? It ought to be drinkable by now. ’ ’

"It ’s beautiful, sir,” replied Charles, with conviction. "We ’ve been drinking it these five years. For that matter, there was gents as thought it beautiful more ’n twelve years ago, when it wasn’t hardly used to the bottles. No offense, sir, but you ’ve heard tell of the torchlight procession in Bulford, same year as the Great Exhibition, the night young Coggin was chaired round the town ? Well, there was gents as drank our ’47 that same night. A sin I called it: begging pardon.”

Edward Redding’s heart leapt. The conversation had suddenly moved within an inch of the very business which had drawn him to Bulford. He dissembled his relief, and waited patiently until the wine had been decanted and served. When Charles had left the room, Redding remarked, in an off-hand way:

"People were always talking about that precious torchlight procession. I was away from Bulford, and I didn’t see it.”

"Didn’t see it? By Jove, I’m glad I saw it. It was something to see. Wait a bit, though. Surely you weren’t clean out of that Coggin affair, Teddie. Don’t I remember you being in Coggin’s rag-and-bone yard the afternoon when we played Red Indians? You were at the school that year ? ’ ’

“Of course I remember the Red Indians. As if I could ever forget it! But I didn’t see the end. What happened after the mammas arrived? Did you all trot home like good little boys ? ’ 9

Sir George tossed off his port. If it had been raw stuff costing two shillings the bottle he could not have gulped it down more inattentively. Warming up, he bubbled over with reminiscences. As the moving spirit of the Red Indian revels, he had often been asked to tell the story of that riotous afternoon, and without conscious untruthfulness, he had gradually intensified and adorned the narrative until it attained to epic largeness. Edward Redding heard, for the first time, that two horses had been pressed into service; that “High” Hall and Chibuall Primus, after arming themselves cap-a-pie, had tilted at each other on horseback, with lance*, nade of withered laths, which snapped and splintered gloriously against the oilcloth breastplates; that Chalky Parkyns and Duck Lorimer had fought a gladiatorial combat on foot, Chalky playing the part of retiarius with a toasting fork and a remnant of tarred netting, while Duck stood up to him as mirmillo with a blunt old carving knife; and that Jawbones Feber, the ugliest boy in Bulford School, had beamed down on the rivals from a rocking throne of packing-cases, where he sat crowned with a soiled wreath of cotton roses as Queen of Beauty. It transpired further that, growing tired of the marine-store yard, the boys finally poured out along the canal bank ; that they had swarmed into some empty barges ; and that they had fought a small Battle of Actium, which did not end before three or four heroes had tumbled into the dirty water.

When this lively recitation had been delivered, Redding sought news of several old school-fellows. He learned that

Charlie Dolling had been drowned, as a midshipman, off the coast of Japan; that Fred Venn-Venning had run through two fortunes, and was already a bankrupt at the early age of twenty-five; that Lippy Vaughan was about to be thrown out of his curacy at Napperton for ritualistic excesses; that Bully Tranter was growing a long beard, and doing nothing else; that the Honorable Ralph Cotterton had married a tallow-chandler’s daughter with pots of money; and that Walter Garnett was standing for Parliament. Mentioning other names, Edward Redding found that most of the old boys had settled down quietly in Bulford, as might have been expected. At last he decided that the right moment had come, and he asked:

4 ‘ What about Slogger Coggin?”

“Coggin? Oh, he ’s still in town,” answered Sir George. “He gave up the rags and bones when his father and mother died. Deals in old furniture now.”

“Is he doing well?”

“I ’m afraid not. They say his heart isn’t in his business. He is a victim of music-mania. You will laugh when I tell you about him. Some years ago the Methodists began to get above themselves. Some of their members had made money. So they decided to build a new chapel, almost like a church, near to Victoria Park. They put the old chapel up to auction. There wasn’t one single bid. Next day Slogger Coggin went round and got it on a seven years’ lease. What attracted him was the organ — not a bad little organ — in a gallery behind the pulpit, over the preacher’s head. Funny arrangement. He uses the body of the chapel as a store-room, show-room, sales-room for old furniture. I saw it once, and, ’pon my word, it doesn’t look bad. There are grandfather’s clocks between the windows, and pictures covering every inch of the walls — some of ’em skied higher than at the Royal Academy. The floor is covered with decent carpets and thick rugs, and there are so many settees and easy chairs, and sofas and ottomans, that you feel as if you ’re in a drawing-room. Coggin only shews clean, sound stuff, and his windows are always open. I suppose he has to buy frowsy things as well, hut I did n ’t see ’em in the chapel. ’ ’

“You said the organ attracted him?”

“Yes. That ’s where the fun comes in. He ’s gradually made the organ four times bigger than it was to start with, and he spends half his time playing it. There are big mirrors fastened in front of the gilt pipes. When a customer walks into the chapel, Coggin sees him at once. They say he always plays a few more notes, because he can ’t bear to break off anyhow. Then you lose sight of him for two or three seconds. He ’s rigged up a comical arrangement like a cylinder, where the pulpit used to be. It ’s covered with old crimson cloth and edged with gold braid, and looks quite solid. But there ’s a rope-ladder hanging down the middle of it. Coggin slips down the rungs — he ’s as thin as ever — just like a monkey, and he steps out to meet the customer as if there ’s no such thing as an organ in the world.”

“That doesn’t look like neglecting business.”

“Yes, it does. Ne sntor ultra crepidam. Only bit of Latin I remember. People don’t like it. How would you relish it yourself if you had a Bach ’s fugue banging at you every time you went to buy a kitchen fender?”

“I don’t agree with you, Puffer. If this has been going on a long time I should have thought it ought to be doing Coggin a power of good, and that collectors of antiques must be coming from far and near to buy from such a unique shop-keeper.”

‘ ‘ They did, until lately. But, you see, Coggin ’s got rather a bad name. Strangers hear nothing very good about him when they enquire the way to his chapel now-a-days. They either give him a wide berth, or just drift in and hear him play and waste his time, and sail out without buying a shilling’s-worth. ”

Edward Redding flushed angrily. “What do you mean by saying Coggin ’s got a bad name ? ” he demanded.

“I think it was something about some pictures. He sold some oil paintings as originals, and they turned out to be copies. There was going to be a law suit; but he paid and hushed it up.”

“Who told you this?”

“ ’Pon my word, I forget. Two or three fellows. Let me see, Rambury told me — and Tranter — and — I forget exactly, but others told me as well.”

“Good heavens, Puffer, I ’m astounded at you. Were you on the tow-path that afternoon when Coggin chucked Sniveller Currington into the canal?”

* ‘ Rather. ’ ’

“That was the first time we called Harry Coggin ‘Slogger’ Coggin. And why? Because he began by knocking down Rambury and Bully Tranter like nine-pins, though they were nearly twice his size. Are you believing evil of Coggin on such testimony as theirs?”

‘ ‘ I don ’t see why not. They are glad to see him in disgrace, no doubt, but that ’s only natural. And I ’m sure they ’re not the sort to dare to slander anybody unless there ’s something in it. They ’d be afraid of having to pay damages, or of getting a damned good thrashing. Hang it all, Teddie. Excuse my bluntness, but both you and your father went a bit silly over that boy Coggin. You can’t deny it. Indeed, we all lost our heads a little when he stood up to Bully Tranter, and when he pitched that dirty little worm Currington into six feet of water. But you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Slogger was the son of a canting old-clo’ man, and I ’m afraid it ’s in his blood to cheat. Leaving Rambury and Tranter out of it, I know for a fact that Coggin put down hard cash to hush up the affair. His own solicitor told me so.”

“His own solicitor — told you so?”

“Yes. Woodley, of Woodley, Baker & Woodley.”

“Hold on. Puffer. Think. How does it strike you on second thoughts?”

“Strike me? Oh! I see what you mean. But come, Ted. After all, this fellow Coggin — ”

As he did not finish the sentence, Edward Redding took it over and said, in low tones :

“If I make a wrong guess at your meaning you will put me right. I think you were going to say this fellow Coggin, after all, is only Coggin. If Woodley had been acting for you or me he would have felt bound either to hold his tongue about our affairs, or to put them in the best light. But Coggin is only Coggin — a joke, a butt, an outcast. I don’t doubt that Woodley welcomed him as a client, and charged the full ordinary fees or more. ’ ’

“Go it, Teddie. In future, I shall always call Slogger’s old chapel ‘St. Coggin ’s.’ According to you, he ’s both saint and martyr. Canonize him, if you must, in your own mind, but I can be the devil’s advocate, if I want to.”

Redding laid his hand on the baronet’s arm and said, sadly and earnestly: “No. You can’t. There are enough mean curs in Bulford to take the devil’s part against Coggin, without you joining in. Look here. Puffer, I ’ll confess. When I asked, a few minutes ago, in such a casual way, about Slogger Coggin, perhaps I wasn’t quite candid. But now I ’m going to put all my cards on the table. The truth is that I ’ve come to Bulford to-day expressly on account of Coggin. My father hears from him every three months, as regular as clockwork, but we ’re not satisfied. The poor devil always writes cheerfully; yet we sniff something between the lines. He ’s wretched in Bulford, and he ’s missing his destiny. My plan was to make him sell up and clear out. I ’ve brought some tin with me in case his liabilities exceed his assets. My father has just had this extra bit of money left him, and he wants Coggin to borrow it and to start fresh in another town, where he can make music his sole profession.”

“He ’ll jump at an offer like that.”

“We shall see. But surely you understand. I can’t make the offer till we ’ve settled this affair you have mentioned — this allegation of fraud.”

“I tell you it ’s settled already. Dead and done with.”

Redding drew his hand away. “Pardon me,” he asked coldly. “Is Sir George Batwood the individual I went to school with, or is he somebody else?”

“I ’m not here to be preached at,” growled Sir George, reddening. ‘ ‘ If you want me to stay, kindly come down from your high horse.”

“No. I sha’n’t come down. You must come up. You want me to believe you sordid, and I won ’t. If you had been accused of dishonor, and if you had been cheated into what looks like a confession, would you let the matter rest there? Coggin cannot leave Bulford till his detractors have eaten their words. ’ ’

“Confound it, Redding, how do you know that Coggin did n’t try to swindle somebody with those pictures? You ’re not a judge and jury.”

“I ’ll tell you how I know. If somebody met me and said that Puffer Batwood had turned out a sneak and a coward, I should tell him straight that he was a liar ; because I know you could never be either. It ’s the same with Coggin. You are a baronet, and he is an old-clo’ man’s boy; but it makes no difference. Let me tell you just a single fact. Before my father left Bulford, he raised a sum of money for Coggin ’s education. The cash came from Lord Bulcaster and others, and it was paid quarterly through solicitors, not as a loan, but as an out-and-out gift. Listen. Harry Coggin has repaid every penny of that money, with compound interest, and it is being used to educate other poor boys. Is that the act of a man of honor, or is it the act of a cheat ? ’ ’

“By George!”

“Puffer, I swear not to leave Bulford until justice has been done. I have the funds and the leisure. Whether I have the ability, events will shew. Now, I ’m going to ask you one thing. If it is proved to your satisfaction that Coggin has been falsely accused, will you stand by him and by me?”

Sir George whistled uneasily. He poured out another glass of wine and drank it. At last he replied : ‘ ‘ Ted, I ’m not a hero. I tell you candidly that I wish you had run against somebody else this evening, instead of me. Now, why did you think Sylvia remained unmarried till she was twenty-six? Her age is no secret.”

‘ ‘ I don ’t doubt Miss Sylvia was waiting for you. ’ ’

“Thank you. But let us be serious. Sylvia had many offers, but her mother’s ideas were high. Two suitors were cold-shouldered because their families were connected with trade. Sylvia’s mama declares that she has simply thrown herself away on me, a poor baronet. And here ’s Teddie Redding, like a bolt from the blue, suddenly demanding that I shall associate myself with a marine-store dealer’s son, in a public row.”

“You sha’n’t be dragged into anything public. Promise me, Puffer, old fellow.”

After swallowing more wine, Sir George said gloomily: “I promise you my help, behind the scenes. But if you can find some other Don Quixote instead of me, for heaven’s sake let me off. Great Jupiter, a quarter to eight ! Twelve minutes to catch my train.”

Chapter II

EDWARD REDDING rose so early on his first morning at Bulford that he found the entrance-hall of “The Bulcaster Arms” empty, and the big front door still shut. Having drawn the bolts and turned the great key very gently, he stepped out into bright sunshine. Not even a milkman was in sight.

His walk through one deserted street after another saddened the young man. Many fine old gabled houses had been pulled down to make room for emporia, establishments, and commodious premises, with large sheets of plate glass below, and silly gothic or feeble renaissance facades above. Most of the delightful little tuck-shops and book-shops had changed hands, and their windows were filled with up-to-date stocks, conventionally displayed.

He remembered every alley, every turning ; and therefore he found himself within ten minutes, standing under a gateway almost opposite the building he was seeking. The words “Wesleyan Chapel” could still be seen, incised in a stone tablet over the door. Below them had been fixed a neatly-framed and boldly-painted board, bearing the inscription :

HENRY COGGIN

DEALER IN FURNITURE AND MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS

Redding shrank back into the shadow. On the further side of the hot belt of sunlight, a tall, thin young man in a coarse shirt, corduroy trousers, and hob-nailed boots was crouching over a gay rug. He held one corner of the rug in his hand, and it soon became apparent that he was mending it with an upholsterer’s needle. He must have been engaged on the job for some time, for within two or three minutes of Redding’s arrival, he shook the rug with an air of satisfaction and carried it back into the chapel. A few minutes later he came out again, carrying an arm-chair, and began to repair one of the castors. Both the rug-darning and the chair-mending were accompanied by music. At first the young man whistled; then he sang a little; and finally he hummed. Whistling, singing, and humming were all so soft and reticent that Edward Redding, on the other side of the lane, would have failed to hear them if the morning had not been breathless and the neighboring streets clear of traffic. The fragments of the melody which reached him were unfamiliar, and he would not have called them tunes.

During his work with the needle, the tall, thin young man ’s back was turned towards Redding, and when he emerged from the chapel with the arm-chair, his face was hidden by the bulky load ; but there could not be a moment ’s doubt that this was Harry Coggin. The coarse garments could not hide their wearer’s litheness ; and his every movement was full of the old quick, sure, attentive mastery which had been so remarkable in him as a lad. Yet there was some immense change. That Harry Coggin should have ceased to be a boy was only natural ; but somehow he seemed to have outgrown his young manhood. Although the strong shoulders were unbent, Edward Redding felt that the strange and lonely soul was bowed down under an almost intolerable load of disappointment and humiliation. Those softly hummed and faintly sung melodies were not the blithe and bird-like outbursts of a workman happy in his work. They were like croonings over hopes long dead.

As Harry stepped briskly back into the chapel for some screw or tool, Edward Redding slipped out of his hiding-place and took the first turning, so as to escape unobserved. He could not have controlled his feelings sufficiently to speak with Coggin at that moment. Besides, he knew that it would be more considerate to postpone the meeting until the corduroy trousers and the hob-nailed boots had given place to less rude attire.

The pavements began to echo under the noisy tread of journeymen going to their work. In the High Street, a cart laden with sacks of flour went grinding and creaking past. Redding did not wish to be recognized, so he chose a narrow street which led to the rectory and to St. Michael’s Church. Round his old home the trees and shrubs had been encouraged to grow so thickly that nothing could be seen of the rectory, save the gable-end and a twisted chimney. He entered the church and saw, with deep pleasure, that his father’s successor had been carrying on the work of restoration with zeal and with admirable discretion. A wooden singing-gallery no longer blocked up the glorious wheel-window in the north transept, and the cruciform ground-plan of the church was once more revealed. Redding made his way to the Denniker chantry. Time had mellowed the new stone and the heraldic colors; and there were his father’s initials, still plain to see, on the tiny disc of brass.