Free Innocent Birds by T. F. Powys

lane that led down the hill into Madder. It was the trotting of a horse.

Chapter xi
MR. BUGBY FINDS A
BLACK GLOVE
    N O horse can trot along a road with a trap behind it without some reason or other for its being there.
    The reason why this horse sounded so clear, that its trotting even reached to Madder hill, was, besides the stillness of the day, Mr. Bugby’s apparent desire to find a new residence out of town, that he hoped would be the Madder inn.
    ‘’Tis nice to be looked at by the women‚’ Mr. Bugby said to his wife that same morning after breakfast.
    ‘But it bain’t always so nice to be too much talked about.’
    ‘They girls‚’ said Mr. Bugby, seeing two pass the inn windows, as though to remind him of their presence in the world—‘They girls bain’t like they used to be in this little town.’
    ‘I can mind the time,’ continued Mr. Bugby, ‘when I could follow a maid into they shelters and do what I were minded, wi’ nothing said; but now, ’tis only pleasure they women do think of.’
    Whether or no Mrs. Bugby felt herself tobe one of those who preferred her own pleasure to Mr. Bugby’s manners, we cannot say, but at least she took the blame to mean her—and wept.
    ‘I be a man‚’ said Mr. Bugby, seeing her tears, and being rendered more talkative by them, ‘that do frighten they women, for I be free an’ easy wi’ me happy manners when I be out.’
    Mr. Bugby, as though to illustrate his habits, pursued a fly upon the window and crushed it with his thumb.
    ‘I like a maid‚’ said Mr. Bugby, ‘who be simple—“Innocent birds.” I did see they writ down as in a book Squire Kennard did leave behind under parlour table. I do like they “Innocent birds.”’
    Mr. Bugby looked at his wife, and being a natural philosopher, he opened upon a new subject.
    ‘The grave,’ said Mr. Bugby, killing another fly, ‘be a good kind second husband to a married ’oman. An’ a deep garden well mid do instead of parson at thik wedding.’
    Mr. Bugby stood for a moment with his hand upon the handle of the door that he had opened.
    ‘Brandy,’ he said, ‘be a nice comforting drink for a poor man wi’ a wold hag ’oman tied to ’im. And a maiden wi’ crimpy hair, and wi’ a little lace to they clothes that do tear easy, be a pretty drinktoo. Why, I do believe me wife be a-crying,’ said Mr. Bugby, raising his eyes to the ceiling in utter astonishment; ‘an’ bain’t I going to find she a deep well in a Madder garden, and yet she be a-crying!’
    Mr. Bugby softly closed the door, as if he did not wish to interrupt by a loud bang the sobs of his wife.
    ‘I be what I be,’ said Mr. Bugby, smiling to himself as he harnessed the horse in the inn yard. ‘An’ a man’s nature be as the Lord made it, whether ’e be young or old.’
    Driving along past the town clock, Mr. Bugby returned the friendly nod of a policeman with a gesture that made the policeman smile—a smile that would have been a laugh had not the officer noticed the Mayor of the town walking at a little distance. Walking, too, a little way behind the Mayor was a girl, whose shoes were trodden down at the heels. She hurried, rather as though trying to hide herself from the eyes of other women. Mr. Bugby smiled at this girl, who hid her face in her hand and crouched down in a doctor’s doorway until Mr. Bugby went by.
    Mr. Bugby liked misty weather, and he drove through the mist smiling. On the road he thought first of his wife and then of other women. He thought of his wife as being already in a Madder grave, and of the other women in more lively situations.
    Mr, Bugby’s face, that was large and heavy,though not ill-looking, and ornamented with a moustache proper to the kind of man that he was, grew somewhat pale with these and other reflections . And his eyes, the expression of which a magnified spider upon a pin might have been proud of, blinked wickedly. Though not a very healthy man, Mr. Bugby always left a