The Tarrier-Man: I

‘No, I ‘m not a member of the Society for Psychical Research. I neither affirm nor do I deny; I keep an open mind. But I have found this — that in sparsely populated parts of the country, far from railways, you do come across people with queer uncanny powers, which, so far as I know, have not yet been explained away by any of the usual common-sense arguments that unimaginative people seem to find so convincing.’

We were sitting, one on either side of Anthony Winston’s hearth, in his comfortable book-lined chambers. The October night was chilly, and a small fire glowed and whispered on the tiled hearth.

‘Well, you ‘ve just come back from a fairly remote part of the Cotswolds — seven miles from the nearest station, did n’t you say? and that a junction miles from anywhere else. I suppose you ‘ve just come across something queer — out with it!’

‘Well I did, and I ‘ll tell you about it. But don’t ask me to explain anything, for I can’t. I can only tell you what I heard and saw, and exceedingly queer it was.’

I settled myself comfortably in my deep chair. Anthony Winston is not given to yarning. He ‘s a hard-headed barrister of five-and-forty. I know, however, that he has a soft place in his heart for that part of the Cotswolds where he was born, and where his eldest brother is ‘Squarson’ in the gray-gabled, stone-roofed manor-house set among great beech woods and hilly pastures, where the small stony fields are ringed round with rough stone walls.

‘What makes my part of the country so curiously remote in these days of motors,’ he said, ‘is Lord Leadon’s park — five miles by three between the village and the nearest road to a railway. And Lord Leadon — God bless him! — has always refused to let either motors or bicycles inside the park, though it is open to anything on two legs or four. There are bits of it where you might almost fancy yourself in some mediæval forest. Every sort of woodland creature — and of course it’s a splendid covert to draw, for foxes abound. My brother’s place marches with the far end of it; and in a tumble-down stone cottage, a little way inside one of the gates, lives old Sam Whillock, who used to be the “tarrier-man” for Lord Leadon’s hounds. He’s too old now to run with them but he still wears his stained and faded “scarlet” cord breeches and very tight gaiters.

‘He’s a wizened, quick-moving little old man, with a nut-brown, nutcracker face and queer light-blue eyes.

‘For years he was a sort of chartered libertine of the hunt. He does n’t “belong” to those parts, but they say came from Tewkesbury way æons of ages ago. He always seems to have been looked upon as a bit of a rascal (as I ‘ve no doubt he is), suspected, yet tolerated; liked, yet feared. Hail-fellow-well-met with everyone he came across yet really intimate with none. Always living quite alone in the tworoomed cottage in among the trees. I expect he was allowed to stay there because all the keepers were married and needed more room. Christmas and Easter he comes to church still in his faded scarlet coat and a once-black velvet cap, now a grayish white, the color of lichen. On these occasions, — and he never comes near the church at any other time, — he carries an enormous prayer-book wrapped in a blue handkerchief.

‘ “Queer ‘e is,” a woman in the village said to me. “ ‘T is said as ‘e do understand what the animals says to one another like as if ‘e was one of theirselves. Queer doin’s goes on in that there Park. ‘T is said,” she lowered her voice nervously, “as ‘e can raise them Romans as was there: when they bin ploughin’, they ‘ve often come across coins and bits of colored stone as they did use to their floors. There ‘s summat not quite natr’al about Whillock, though he never don’t do no ‘arm as I can see; but ‘is eyes be funny, an’ for all ‘is age — an ‘e ‘s well over seventy if ‘e ‘s a day — he can see farther than most. Farther than most,” she repeated meaningly; “they do say as ‘e can see what us can’t. I don’t ‘old with it myself. No good never come of none of it.”

‘Next day I went myself to find Whillock. His cottage is a good two miles from the vicarage. It was a lovely late September day and I got lost in the Park. It’s quite easy to do this, if you don’t know it well; and I ‘ve been down there so seldom in late years. Instead of arriving, as I intended, at his cottage, I found myself near Lady Leadon’s colony of goats, and thought that as I was there I ‘d have a look at them.

‘A nanny and some kids were out in the field some distance from the steading, and under an oak tree near them I caught sight of a flash of scarlet. There, seated on the ground and leaning against the bole, was the “tarrierman,” and in his hand was a little wooden pipe like a flute. I paused behind him rather to one side.

‘Without turning his head he called out: “Don’t you move, sir; you stop just where you be, an’ I ‘ll show you a pretty sight.”

‘He put the pipe to his lips and began to play. A ghostly, thin little tune like the call of some small, shrill bird. The kids, their dappled coats lovely in the afternoon sunshine, instantly stood on their hind legs, pawing the air, and then they trod a measure, a solemn slow little dance. It was n’t gay. It was n’t somehow even spontaneous. It was careful, almost respectful. The mother-goat, some yards away, ceased cropping the grass and lifted her head to watch them, but made no attempt either to join them or interfere in any way.

‘The strange piping ceased. The kids dropped on all fours and scampered away to join their mother as if released from some lesson.

‘The splash of faded scarlet rose from the ground and moved stiffly across the grass toward me.

‘“Pretty — ain’t ‘em?” he said, watching me closely with his unwinking queer blue eyes that were so old and yet so keen. “Fond of animals, ain’t you, sir?”

‘ “How do you do it?” I asked; “they ‘re only babies. How have you taught them?”

‘He shook his head, smiling his crooked crafty smile. “You learns a lot,” he said slowly, “if you lives along o’ the likes o’ they. There ‘s queer doin’s if you looks for ‘em; but them as don’t look don’t find nothin’. There’s plenty as goes about from one year’s end to another and never sees a hinch beyond their own noses and them but shart ‘uns. No, nor they can’t smell neither, nor their yers can’t ‘ear.”

‘I wondered if he set me down among these incapable ones, and rather uncomfortably changed the subject.

‘ “I was trying to find your cottage, but missed my way. They tell me you know a lot about these woods, and I ‘m interested in Roman remains. Do you ever come across traces of them here? Coins and so on — I wondered if you had any you could show me?”

‘He never took his eyes off my face and I was acutely conscious that he was reading my thoughts.

‘ “When I finds owt, I leaves ‘a’ be. ‘You let me alone and I ‘ll let you alone’ — that ‘s what I says to ‘em; and up to now they ‘ve allus acted square. I ‘ave n’t never sold nothin’ belongin’ to ‘em and I never shall. You come along, sir, and set a bit in my hitching an’ I ‘ll take it very kind — but I ain’t got nothin’ belongin’ to them Romans. ‘T would n’t be ‘ealthy for the likes o’ me. ‘Live and let live,’ I says and so they does.”

‘ “But I thought they were all dead hundreds of years ago,” I objected; “so I don’t see how that comes in.”

‘“Dead,” he repeated, “dead! what ‘s dead? Nothin’ ain’t dead not reely, not if they don’t want to be. Not if they ain’t tired. You can’t kill nothin that be eager an’ young — you can’t do it. Them as wants to be peaceful lies peaceful, but whoever ‘card of youngsters as wants to lie peaceful?”

‘I followed him in silence, digesting this, to me, quite new view of Immortality.

‘Under trees and through thick undergrowth by mysterious paths did we go, — paths that looked more like the track of some animal than trodden by the foot of man, — and very quickly we came out into the little clearing where the cottage stands. Loud barking greeted our approaching footsteps; and as he opened the door, a little white terrier rushed out leaping round us in noisy welcome.

‘Tumble-down and derelict as the cottage looked outside, inside it was tidy and almost comfortable. A plain deal table scrubbed very clean, an armchair with cushions covered with rabbit-skins neatly joined, a deer-skin before the little fireplace, and wooden racks on the walls to hold his small store of crockery — two saucepans and a frying-pan. It seemed dark in the cottage, although the sun was shining so brightly outside. The window was small and overgrown by ivy. I sat facing it in the armchair, while he sat on a black oak coffer that was set on the other side of the fire. I had laid my hat on the table, and his ancient velvet cap was hung behind the door. The little terrier laid down with his nose between his paws, and went to sleep in front of the smouldering fire.

‘It was very still.

‘I produced my tin of Players’ Navy Cut, which I’d brought as an offering to Whillock, and handed it to him.

‘ “I ‘m afraid as you be disappointed as I ain’t got no curiosities,” he said; and I felt his bright eyes fixed on my face, though he was so much in the shadow that I could hardly see them. “ I could ‘a’ made a lot if I’d ‘a’ chose, scropin’ about for things as they did leave, but I never done it. I ‘ad n’t the ‘eart. They got so few places now where they can stop, an’ ‘is lardship ‘ave n’t never chivvied ‘em. ‘Eathen they was and ‘eathen they stops, but they don’t do no ‘arm to no one an’ they keeps the place private-like. The animals don’t mind ‘em, so let ‘em ‘ave their bits o’ things, I says; let ‘em keep ‘em in peace.”

‘A shadow flickered across the window, and I saw the small flat head and bright eyes of a weasel watching us and its smooth fawn skin seemed to shine in the brighter light outside. I suppose I started slightly for Whillock, who was busy filling his pipe, turned his head with his thumb still pressed into the bowl, and the weasel vanished.

‘ “They ‘aves their uses,” he said quietly; “keeper can’t abear them, but it ain’t no business of mine. Live an’ let live. That there weasel ‘e likes a bit o’ company, times, same as you an’ me.”

‘The little white terrier snored gently. I handed my matches to Whillock. He lit his pipe and blew out a cloud of smoke; again it was extraordinarily still.

‘Again the weasel looked in at the window. It flickered to and fro all the time I was there, for all the world like a jack-in-the-box. It gave me the creeps, for I ‘m like “Keeper” — I don’t like weasels. Present ly old Whillock began to talk.

‘ “Now, sir, if you ‘ll give me your word as you won’t say nothin’ to the Reverend, I ‘ll show you summut as you would n’t see once in ‘undreds of blue moons. Summut as I don’t believe you ‘d see anywhere else in England save on’y in ‘is lardship’s park as ‘ave been kept so sweet and secret, away from all them stinkin’ engines. You come along o’ me to-morrow marnin’ about four o’clock, an’ I ‘ll show you summut as is well worth seein’. I ‘ve a notion as you could see ‘un. But there’s plenty as can’t — plenty as can’t.”

‘ “Cub-hunting’s begun, I suppose,” I said.

‘ “Yes, sir, it ‘ave started: but, bless you, it ain’t what it used to be before the war. Why, they never meets now till ever so late — nine, half-past, sometimes ten o’clock. The gen’lemen used to think nothin’ of gettin’ up in the dark and ridin’ out in the dark to the meets. ‘Ad any ‘untin’ since you come down, sir?”

‘ “No, not this time. I have n’t even been to a meet since January, 1919, over a year and a half ago.”

‘ “Anything sart o’ strike you, sir, when you did go?”

‘ “Well, I suppose what must strike all of us — that the men were comparatively few, and were either middleaged or quite young boys!”

‘ “Ah,” Whillock said, dwelling long on the open vowel, with a world of mysterious meaning in the sound.

‘His light eyes held me and I wondered of what he was thinking. I seemed steeped in the extraordinary stillness. The weasel was staring in at us quite impudently, but I was getting used to the weasel and stared back.

‘Presently Whillock took his pipe out of his mouth: “Us ‘ll go cub-huntin’ to-morrow,” he said; “there may be a touch o’ frast, but not enough to spoil the scent, and the moon be full.”

‘The terrier woke up and moved, caught sight of the weasel, and broke into a torrent of barks. I got up to go, and Whillock opened the door. The terrier darted out into the wood, his barks dying away in the distance.

‘ “Half-past, four o’clock sharp, sir,” he said. “Cloatley Carner I ‘ll meet you; ‘t ain’t near so far as my little place. Good afternoon, sir. Seasonable weather for the time of year.”

‘He stood in the crazy door watching me out of sight.

‘I did n’t say anything to my brother of my proposed expedition w ith Whillock. He does n’t approve of Whillock; but, like that worthy, believes in the “live and let live” theory.

‘What did the old tarrier-man mean, I wondered, by getting me up at such an unearthly hour? First, he said cubhunting was shockingly late now-adays, and then he bids me meet him at half-past four.

‘It was getting dark before I got back to the Vicarage and somehow I felt rather glad to see the firelit windows of my brother’s study.

II

‘I awoke, it seemed to me, in the middle of the night, though the room was quite light in the cold rays of the full moon. I had pulled up the blinds before I got into bed. I looked at my watch, and it was just four o’clock. With a groan, I remembered my appointment with Whillock at cloatley Corner.

‘It was extremely cold, and as I crept downstairs I felt I was nine sorts of a born fool to have got up at all.

‘I let myself out by the side door and took the key with me. The vicarage was wrapped in sleep; nobody stirred.

‘When I reached the appointed “carner,” I thought for a moment that old Whillock had played me false, and I felt crosser than ever; but as my footsteps sounded on the hard road (there had been quite a frost), he came out from a patch of black shadow, looking even smaller and more shrunken than in the afternoon.

‘His little white terrier was not with him.

"You have n’t brought Fetchem,” I said.

‘ “No, sir, ‘e won’t be wanted. ‘E ‘s better where ‘e is.”

‘ “Are we going in the Park, Whillock ?”

‘ “No, sir, not exactly. We skirts it. ‘T is to the edge of the common we be goin’, where all them garse bushes be.”

‘Cubs were barking in the wood, but on we padded in dead silence.

‘A delicate mist like a silver veil lay just above the ground, but it was brilliantly clear overhead, and a great moon flamed blue in the heavens. We were walking now along a rough carttrack, with the Park fence on one side and the open common on the other.

‘ “Is it Roman remains you ‘re going to show me?” I asked at last; for I was gett ing tired of walking mumchance in a northeast wind.

‘He stopped. “We ‘ll wait here a bit, sir. No, ‘t ain’t, nothin’ to do with them there Romans as I ‘ve brought you out for to see. They ‘ve bin in these parts nigh on two thousand year, so I bin told; ‘t would n’t be nothin’ out o’ the common to see they.”

‘ “What do you mean?” I asked; “I should think it very much out of the common to see any of them. I should enjoy it of all things.”

‘ “ ‘T is a bit too cold for ‘em,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Summer ‘s the time to see them, dancin’ round a himmidge like they does. But we shan’t see none of ‘em this marnin’. ‘T ain’t them as I’ve brought you out. for to see — if you can see. You keeps quiet a minute, sir, and listen; an’ I ‘d take off my ‘at, sir, if I was you.”

‘He took off the lichen-colored cap as he spoke, and I uncovered, listening intently; but all I could hear was the distant barking of young foxes and the labored breathing of old Whillock, blown after his quick walk.

‘Suddenly I became conscious that there was movement everywhere around me. Wave after wave of it passed over and submerged me, the cold air brimmed and throbbed with it.

‘Then I saw a fox — an old dog fox, no cub he — streaking across the common at a tremendous pace. And after him the hounds, running mute with their noses well off the ground, for the scent was evidently breast-high. Two old hounds were leading. The rest followed, their white-and-tan marking picked out sharply by the clear light; and after them the hunt, some sixty or seventy men, young men eager and joyous, running and riding for all they were worth.

‘The rush of their passing stirred my hair. The soft earth, frozen only on the surface, flew in showers from under the horses’ hooves. I longed to run with them, to holla, to take some part; but my voice died in my throat and my feet seemed rooted in the ground — and they were gone. “Rarely, rarely com’st thou, spirit of delight”; and it had been there, close to me, swift and keen and young — and it was gone.

‘I turned to old Whillock, who was watching me with his queer light eyes. “You see ‘em, sir?” he asked.

‘ “Of course I saw them.”

‘ “Young, was n’t ‘em? Jolly-like, was n’t ‘em? ”

‘ “Whillock,” I said, “in God’s name what was the meaning of it? Why was there no sound?”

‘ “Why was n’t there no sound?” he repeated. “Why, because us has n’t got quick enough ears. Some on us can see a bit farther than others, but I ‘ve not come acrass any yet as can ‘ear — what there is to be ‘eard. We ‘d best, be getting along back, sir; we shan’t see nothin’ more this marnin’. Why, they ‘ll be pretty well over to Hullasy.”

‘ “But I smelt the fox, Whillock.”

‘ “Like enough you did.”

‘I was cold, but not from any supernatural cause. There was only joy and enthusiasm in what I had seen, and I felt stimulated, excited, interested.

‘ “You might as well explain,” I said. “Where did all those youngsters come from?”

‘ “Did n’t you know none of ‘em?” he asked, with scorn in his voice.

‘I thought I did — but —’

‘ “Folks as die old,” he said slowly, “be glad enough to lie quiet till they be fetched. They ‘ve ‘ad their bits o’ fun like as not. But them lads, them as were cut off sharp and suddint-like, they wants a bit o’ sport same as they did afore they was took — an’ they comes back to get it. You look at the names in Reverend’s church— thirtyfive there is there; and in Siren nigh upon seventy. Good sports, too, they was, gentle an’ simple; and they comes back to the countryside they knows. They loves it, bless you, and ‘is lardship would never begrudge it to ‘em if ‘e did know, an’ ‘is own good ‘ounds as ‘e’ve ‘unted years back and ‘is father before ‘en.”

‘ “ But the fox, Whillock! That fox was alive!”

‘ “ ‘E ‘s gettin’ on, but ‘e don’t begrudge ‘em a bit of fun; ‘e knows them ‘ounds ‘d never ‘arm ‘im, but the cubs they ‘re young an’ iggorant; they ‘d be that skeart — Well, sir, this be my turnin’ an’ I ‘opes as you was pleased. ‘T is a bit coldish for the time o’ year. Good marnin’, sir, good marnin’.”

‘And the little man hobbled off round Cloatley Corner.

‘Now,’ Winston said turning to me, ‘how can you explain it? Did old Whillock will me to see all this? We ‘ve heard just lately that photographs can be taken by wireless. Was my vision in some mysterious way a sensitive plate for the reception of his? It was an outstanding experience — a wonderfully happy one. I felt glad “them lads” were there to have their “bit o’ fun,” and they all looked so radiant.

‘Did you say anything to your brother?’ I asked.

Winston shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was leaving t hat day, and — you see two of his sons were among “them lads,” and I know the dear man pictures them differently employed.’

‘And yet — I should have thought — ‘ I began.

‘No,’ Winston interrupted; then he quoted, ‘ “Each one of us must choose his own mystery, the great thing is to have one.” ‘