stories about an innumerable variety of people.
After a time it began to come slowly into Edward’s mind that whatever had happened to him, he did not stand alone. He was one of a company, even here in this small corner of England, who through the centuries had struggled, suffered, failed, sinned and repented, or sinned and sinned again—some leaving the world better for the struggle, and some leaving it worse. As the days went by, things in him which had been dead began to quicken—not all at once and not all the time, but now and again. For an hour—or two—for the part of a day or a night, there was a warming and a waking—a time when the currents of thought ran normally—hours of the night when he slept and did not dream.
On the day after Clarice had been up to London he sat in what Mr. Barr called the front parlour of the agent’s house. It had a bow window looking on to a neat garden, and a double set of curtains, lace ones next to the glass, and very old plush ones drawn across the bay. It was seven o’clock in the evening and they were drawn now, making the room a good deal smaller than it was by day. It was full of tobacco-smoke and rather hot. Impervious to the weather out of doors, when he was at home Mr. Barr preferred shut windows and a nice bright fire. He was a short man, broad in the shoulder and broad in the beam. His strong white hair curled all over his head, and it was his boast that he could still keep his books without a pair of spectacles to help him. If the parish register had not been there to give away his age, no one could have guessed him to be eighty-five. He might be going to retire, but Edward was under no illusions as to its being a very genuine retirement. As long as old Barr had a finger to poke into a Burlingham pie, that finger would not only be poked but it would be in it right up to the hilt and stirring vigorously.
The books had been closed. Old Barr was filling himself another pipe.
“And you needn’t think I’ll be interfering with you once I’ve handed over, because that’s the last thing I’ll do.”
Edward was on his feet and ready to go. He laughed and said,
“I certainly expect you’ll be doing it right up to the last, if that’s what you mean. And I’m not expecting anything else, so don’t worry about it.”
Old Barr chuckled.
“I’m not worrying. Never made a habit of it, and what you don’t make a habit of don’t have a chance of getting hold of you. Men don’t worry a lot, I find—not nearly so much as the women. Real bad worriers women are, and wives are the worst of the lot. One of the things that put me off marrying was hearing the way they go on. If it isn’t their husbands it’s their children, and if it isn’t their children it’s their clothes, or their hens, or their cats, or their dogs, or what their neighbors think. No woman’s going to put her worrying on me—that’s what I made up my mind to more than sixty years ago, and none of them has ever got me from it!” He chuckled and drew at his pipe. “I won’t say some of ’em didn’t have a pretty good try, but I held my own with ’em—I held my own. A respectable person to come in for the cooking and cleaning—that’s all I want, and that’s all I’ll have, and Mrs. Stokes, she does what I want. You can’t expect a woman not to talk, but she keeps it within bounds, and that’s as much as anyone can look for.” He dived into a baggy pocket and came out with a screw of paper. “Here’s that chap’s name—the one I was telling you about, Christopher Hale. Came to me in the night, and I got up and wrote it down and put it in my pocket. Must be getting old, or I wouldn’t have to wait for a name to come back to me. But here it is for you—Christopher Hale—drowned in the splash eighteen-thirty-nine. I was round by the churchyard this morning and I went and had a look. The stone was put up by Kezia, his wife, with a lot of fancy verses. And my grandfather always
After a time it began to come slowly into Edward’s mind that whatever had happened to him, he did not stand alone. He was one of a company, even here in this small corner of England, who through the centuries had struggled, suffered, failed, sinned and repented, or sinned and sinned again—some leaving the world better for the struggle, and some leaving it worse. As the days went by, things in him which had been dead began to quicken—not all at once and not all the time, but now and again. For an hour—or two—for the part of a day or a night, there was a warming and a waking—a time when the currents of thought ran normally—hours of the night when he slept and did not dream.
On the day after Clarice had been up to London he sat in what Mr. Barr called the front parlour of the agent’s house. It had a bow window looking on to a neat garden, and a double set of curtains, lace ones next to the glass, and very old plush ones drawn across the bay. It was seven o’clock in the evening and they were drawn now, making the room a good deal smaller than it was by day. It was full of tobacco-smoke and rather hot. Impervious to the weather out of doors, when he was at home Mr. Barr preferred shut windows and a nice bright fire. He was a short man, broad in the shoulder and broad in the beam. His strong white hair curled all over his head, and it was his boast that he could still keep his books without a pair of spectacles to help him. If the parish register had not been there to give away his age, no one could have guessed him to be eighty-five. He might be going to retire, but Edward was under no illusions as to its being a very genuine retirement. As long as old Barr had a finger to poke into a Burlingham pie, that finger would not only be poked but it would be in it right up to the hilt and stirring vigorously.
The books had been closed. Old Barr was filling himself another pipe.
“And you needn’t think I’ll be interfering with you once I’ve handed over, because that’s the last thing I’ll do.”
Edward was on his feet and ready to go. He laughed and said,
“I certainly expect you’ll be doing it right up to the last, if that’s what you mean. And I’m not expecting anything else, so don’t worry about it.”
Old Barr chuckled.
“I’m not worrying. Never made a habit of it, and what you don’t make a habit of don’t have a chance of getting hold of you. Men don’t worry a lot, I find—not nearly so much as the women. Real bad worriers women are, and wives are the worst of the lot. One of the things that put me off marrying was hearing the way they go on. If it isn’t their husbands it’s their children, and if it isn’t their children it’s their clothes, or their hens, or their cats, or their dogs, or what their neighbors think. No woman’s going to put her worrying on me—that’s what I made up my mind to more than sixty years ago, and none of them has ever got me from it!” He chuckled and drew at his pipe. “I won’t say some of ’em didn’t have a pretty good try, but I held my own with ’em—I held my own. A respectable person to come in for the cooking and cleaning—that’s all I want, and that’s all I’ll have, and Mrs. Stokes, she does what I want. You can’t expect a woman not to talk, but she keeps it within bounds, and that’s as much as anyone can look for.” He dived into a baggy pocket and came out with a screw of paper. “Here’s that chap’s name—the one I was telling you about, Christopher Hale. Came to me in the night, and I got up and wrote it down and put it in my pocket. Must be getting old, or I wouldn’t have to wait for a name to come back to me. But here it is for you—Christopher Hale—drowned in the splash eighteen-thirty-nine. I was round by the churchyard this morning and I went and had a look. The stone was put up by Kezia, his wife, with a lot of fancy verses. And my grandfather always
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