“Confound it. Oh, let’s go back!”
They might well have been tempted; the shower looked like developing into a steady downpour; but at that moment (seeking a place to maneuver the trap) Bernays turned his head and saw a most curious apparition approaching across the fields. A man of more than average height dressed in a flapping black cloak, he held a large umbrella high above his head and jumped over the furrows in a series of odd little skips; with each jump the umbrella jerked in the air while the rising wind tugged at his cloak, giving him the semblance of an old and agitated bat. He wore no headgear—and indeed would have found some difficulty in keeping anything upon his head by reason of the wind and the fact that both his hands were occupied in an attempt to restrain the umbrella handle. So, struggling against the malice of the elements, he contrived to gain the road where he stood peering at the travelers from under dark eyebrows; strangely hairy eyebrows which almost met over the bridge of his nose.
“Mr. Bernays?”
The words were swept away on a gust of rain. The young men stared at him; then Paul recovered sufficiently to shout:
“Hullo! Are you from the rectory?” And this was more than simple guesswork: at that distance the clerical collar could be plainly observed under the sodden cloak.
“My name is Alaric Halsey. You are welcome, sir, you are most welcome. Dear, dear, dear, what singularly inclement weather!” He smiled, a long grin which etched deep lines around his mouth and displayed a set of rather good teeth. He could have been some fifty years old, the hair still black and worn en brosse, the eyes luminous under those really very peculiar eyebrows. More might have ensued only at that moment there occurred a most unfortunate accident. Whether the wind, the rain, the flapping garments or a combination of all three alarmed the horse, suffice it to say that the animal bolted. It reared abruptly, backed—nearly upsetting the cart—and then set off at a tolerable gallop, causing the Reverend Alaric Halsey to leap into the ditch. His voice echoed thinly after them, the one distinguishable word being “uncle.” It took Paul Bernays the better part of two miles to bring the horse under control. The creature then evinced a marked desire to go straight home, a point of view with which neither young man felt inclined to argue.
As they sat warming themselves before an excellent fire George Markham said: “So much for the clerical friend! We’ve shown seasonal good will, my dear chap. Do we really have to call on your uncle again?”
“Yes.” Paul stretched his legs and reached for the decanter. “I’m sorry for the man, upon my word, he’s been most shabbily treated.”
“How?”
Rain spat against the window, the firelight made little amber gleams in the port. Bernays poured himself another glass before replying.
“Ancient history. He should have inherited this house. But he quarreled with his father over certain companions, a pretty scandalous affair—don’t ask me what!—and the whole West Farthing estate came to me. Uncle Nicholas went abroad; and didn’t return to England till, oh, some time in 1895, I believe.”
“Good Lord. Didn’t he contest the will?”
“No.”
“Lucky for you. Is the estate worth much…?” Markham drained his wine.
“I couldn’t say. Yes, I suppose so. I’ve got the house and about two hundred acres of land. Mostly mixed farming, we passed the farm on the way up.” Paul spoke with a genuine unconcern; he had a young man’s easy contempt for money, a common attribute in those who have never had to do without it. They passed to other more congenial subjects such as women and horses, then went into dinner and gave the unlucky Mr. Nicholas Bernays only a passing thought and his friend the Reverend Alaric Halsey no thought at all.
It was therefore with a certain surprise on the following morning that—caught in the midst of his shaving—the owner of West Farthing looked out of the window and exclaimed:
“Good heavens. My uncle!”
A gentleman could be seen approaching the front door, a man below average height with thinning red hair and a faintly harassed expression. He glanced both right and left; seemingly troubled by something immediately behind him. Precisely what became apparent when a mongrel dog came round the corner of the outbuildings to join his master on the doorstep. Before Mr. Bernays senior could announce his arrival by the conventional rat-a-tat his nephew threw up the window and shouted:
“Uncle Nicholas! I’m delighted to see you, sir! We’re spending Christmas here, I had intended to call on you—Come in, come in!”
Now it is entirely possible that the sight of a young man, his face covered in soap and one hand brandishing a cut-throat razor, startled the visitor; certainly he sprang backwards with an oath while the dog barked, leaping in the air and snapping with some display of viciousness. Both dog and master recovered their composure, however, and entered the house with haste. For the best part of an hour uncle and nephew exchanged the usual aimless remarks which pass for conversation amongst people who meet but seldom and have nothing in common when they do. If Mr. Nicholas Bernays bore any grudge against his relation he gave no sign of it. He was quite frankly a nondescript kind of fellow, he spoke in disconnected spasms and kept his eyes fixed on the carpet. The gaps in his speech grew more frequent, the undergraduates began to wonder how long he intended to stay and whether they should invite him to lunch—Paul being on the point of suggesting it when his uncle suddenly jerked round and cried, “Bless my soul! It’s raining. And I—I—I have no raincoat!”
Well, that omission could speedily be remedied; he really was an odd uncomfortable kind of guest, and they would far rather lend him a raincoat than endure his company throughout a meal—besides, he had the strangest notions. George Markham’s mackintosh fitted him tolerably neatly whereas Paul’s was manifestly too big; yet Mr. Bernays showed a marked preference for the latter and departed with surprising haste, clutching the garment round him and babbling quite excessive gratitude. As they watched him hustle away through the drizzling rain, a curious point struck both young men simultaneously.
“Look!” exclaimed Markham. “What’s the matter with the dog?”
The animal seemed to be following its master at a measured distance, it dodged and hung back and swerved almost as if leaving room for something else; moreover it kept its nose close to the ground, tracing the line of some invisible path. Forward. Sideways. Back a little. And always sniffing, sniffing. The rain dripping relentlessly off its coat made no impression on the creature; intent, it trotted on never once raising its head.
“Oh, there must be something running along under the ground. I feel sure I’ve seen that kind of behavior before—yes, I’m certain I have. Probably a mole.”
“In the middle of winter?”
But they were not country folk, either of them; and lacking any precise information they speedily lost interest in Mr. Bernays and his dog. Preparations for the Christmas feast occupied the next couple of days, they were expecting a group of young companions from London. It is doubtful whether Paul would have given the matter another thought save for one exasperating fact: it kept on raining. By the third day the lack of his raincoat became a serious inconvenience; taking an umbrella and thinking rather uncharitable things about his uncle, he set off across the fields to visit the rectory of St. Wilbrod’s.
He had never been there before: the matter of the inheritance produced coldness on the one side and embarrassment on the other; it was impossible not to feel that he had deprived his relation (possibly unjustly) of a home. How fortunate that the Reverend Alaric stepped forward to provide Uncle Nicholas with a roof over his head. He must have known Uncle Nicholas pretty well—and even played a part in the long-forgotten quarrel between that gentleman and his father. Paul considered the matter as he walked; what had taken place, what could have persuaded a solid conventional pater familias to disinherit his son? Life’s a rum business, thought Paul; with which solemn platitude he looked up and saw the rectory before him.