Seeing no help for it, Hugh now turned fairly round; but still he thought to keep ten feet of greensward between himself and this genial inquisitor, hoping that so, perhaps, his swollen face would escape notice.
‘Well . . .’ he said, as if nicely considering this question whether or not he were in a hurry. ‘Well, I had thought, as a matter of fact, of putting in an hour’s pistol practice. But . . . anything I can do for you first, sir?’
‘No, Hugh, no. Except tell me how you came by that bruise of yours.’
Hugh went very red, but seeing no chance of escape he resolved to submit with as good a grace as he could muster. He forced a laugh, and came within a more sociable distance of his companion. ‘Oh, that’s nothing. Like a fool I walked into a tree, and got the worst of the encounter. Where’s my father, sir, that he’s not with you?’ Before Brother Raphe could speak—his articulation was slow nowadays and a little painful—Hugh had rattled on, answering his own question and asking another. ‘Why, of course, he’s attending the Court Leet this morning, aint he? I wonder he has the patience to listen to all those fellows, upon my word I do: with their talk of crops and rotations and who shall have this strip of commons and what Farmer So-and-so shall be permitted to grow on that one. Twould put me out of humour in ten minutes, I promise you. But my father seems to enjoy it, for he gives more time to such matters every year; and they’re saying in the village that he’s himself the best farmer for fifty miles round. Do you think tis true, sir, or no more than a toothsome dish for the Squire’s son to sup of?’
Brother Raphe fixed the young man with an ironical eye. ‘My dear Hugh, you cannot doubt I love your father dearly?’ he asked.
‘Why, no, sir. I’ve never doubted it.’
‘Then can you believe, too,’ asked Brother Raphe, ‘that, despite my love for your father, I’m far more concerned at this moment to hear about that so recently acquired bruise of yours than to talk of his farming? I’m an inquisitive fellow nowadays, but I’m old, Hugh, and you must humour me, as you’d humour a child. Indeed I insist on it.
I’ll wager you never met those lines in your reading?’
‘No, sir. Whose are they?’
‘Their author is Erasmus Bailey. He’s been a prodigious poet in his time, and the other day he did me the honour to lend me a parcel of manuscript.’
‘What! Our innkeeper?’
‘Our innkeeper, and my very good friend. I first made his acquaintance—why it must be twenty-five years ago, when his poor daughter got into trouble. But you wouldn’t remember that. You were not with us at the time.’
Hugh was delighted of a chance to keep the conversation going on neutral subjects. ‘Bailey’s daughter? That will be the cowman’s wife, won’t it? What was her trouble, sir?’
‘Well, tis over now,’ answered Brother Raphe, ‘and your bruise, my boy, is only just begun, by the look of it. You walked into a tree, I think you said?’
Hugh, reddening again, grunted a half-hearted affirmative.
‘Now that,’ said the old man meditatively, ‘is an exceedingly unusual event. And, but that I would not seem to lack compassion, I should be tempted to congratulate you on the privilege of so rare an experience.’
‘Rare?’ Hugh smiled uneasily. ‘Rare, or not, tis sufficiently tiresome.’
‘I see you are sceptical,’ said Brother Raphe. ‘But I hold to my opinion that for a man to bruise his face by walking into a tree is a comparatively rare event. You are not to be blamed if you suppose that it must often happen, since in woodland regions, copses and forests and the like, trees are to be found in great profusion, and men frequently walk among them. Nothing, on the face of it, seems more probable than do such collisions; yet I am persuaded that in fact they seldom occur. Providence, for its own inscrutable purposes, defeats our expectations. Indeed I would go so far as to say that for every case you find me of a man bruising his face against a tree, I will engage to find a hundred in which the injury is similar but the cause quite different. There are, for example, the various bruises and abrasions received in hand to hand fighting or common fisticuffs. They alone constitute a very numerous class.’
Hugh stared moodily at distance. ‘Your eyes are too sharp for me, sir,’ he said after a silence. ‘I see you’ve guessed the truth. But you don’t know the whole story, and I’ll wager you’ll find it too fantastic for belief.’
‘We shall see,’ said Brother Raphe with a smile.
‘Positively, sir,’ said Hugh, with a false air of jauntiness, ‘I’ve been involved in a brawl with one of our own servants. The fellow had the insolence to strike me, and I was forced to fight him with my own hands. As it happens I was able to thrash him, having science on my side. But it is a grossly humiliating affair: pray let us talk of something else. And you will understand, sir, that what I’ve told you is in the strictest confidence.’
‘Perfectly,’ said Brother Raphe. ‘And from that I infer that you yourself intend to be silent. You do not, for example, intend to ask your father to dismiss this insolent fellow that struck you?’
Hugh’s jauntiness collapsed, but Brother Raphe continued to gaze at him with bland innocence. ‘I see what you mean, sir. You mean I’m not being quite candid with you, and you’re right. The truth is, I owe my bruises to a woman. This fellow—he is her lover, it would seem—came suddenly upon me when I was talking with the wench, and promptly accused me of having debauched her.’
‘And you denied it?’
‘I denied it,’ agreed Hugh. ‘It was true,’ he added, turning his face away, hot with shame, ‘but I denied it.’
‘Well, well . . .’ said Brother Raphe mildly. And after an unhappy silence he went on: ‘Since I am not confessing you, I must crave pardon for my importunity. Sins of the flesh are grievous, my son, but Holy Church in her wisdom does not always hold them mortal. That you have toyed with the happiness of a woman far beneath you in station is a graver matter, a breach of trust. But let us speak of that another time, as between penitent and priest. First I will finish your story for you.’
Hugh’s face was still averted, and he made no answer.
‘In my fancy,’ said Brother Raphe, ‘it runs somewhat in this fashion. You, for the woman’s protection, deny the charge; but she, being a less ready liar, or for some darker reason of her own, betrays herself. And so you come home with a bruised face, and confide, however reluctantly, in a too inquisitive friend. Is my conjecture a good one?’
‘It is so near the truth,’ said Hugh, ‘that I begin to think you a wizard.’
‘God forbid!’ said Brother Raphe. ‘See,’ he cried, with a smile, ‘you’ve frightened my dove away.’ He sat up in his chair and peered round in search of the bird. But the effort was too much for him. He sank back again, a little wearily; and at the same moment the dove returned, alighting on the dazzling greensward, just beyond the shadow of the arbour.
‘You’re not feeling ill, sir?’ asked Hugh, in some concern.
Brother Raphe, opening his eyes, smiled reassurance. ‘A little drowsy, that’s all.’
‘Then I’ll leave you.’
Brother Raphe lifted a hand as though in benediction. The dove fluttered into the air, circled twice, and came to rest on the uplifted hand. From its beak dangled a marigold, at sight of which the old man smiled with sudden amused pleasure. ‘That’s a pretty thought, brother,’ said he. ‘And now, by your leave, I’ll take my siesta, so God be with you till I wake.’ He lowered his hand gently, and the companioning dove, dipping and curving and rising at last in flight, bore its bright flower into the sunlight and was lost to his view.