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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/22480-0.txt b/22480-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a23b0fe --- /dev/null +++ b/22480-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10279 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Prussian Officer and Other Stories, by D. H. Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Prussian Officer and Other Stories + +Author: D. H. Lawrence + +Release Date: August 31, 2007 [eBook #22480] +[Most recently updated: September 17, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER AND OTHER STORIES *** + +cover + + + + +THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER + +_and Other Stories_ + + +by D. H. Lawrence + + + +LONDON +DUCKWORTH & CO, +3 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN + +Published December 1914 + + + +Contents + + + The Prussian Officer + The Thorn in the Flesh + Daughters of the Vicar + A Fragment of Stained Glass + The Shades of Spring + Second Best + The Shadow in the Rose Garden + Goose Fair + The White Stocking + A Sick Collier + The Christening + Odour of Chrysanthemums + + + + +The Prussian Officer + +I + +They had marched more than thirty kilometres since dawn, along the +white, hot road where occasional thickets of trees threw a moment of +shade, then out into the glare again. On either hand, the valley, wide +and shallow, glittered with heat; dark green patches of rye, pale young +corn, fallow and meadow and black pine woods spread in a dull, hot +diagram under a glistening sky. But right in front the mountains ranged +across, pale blue and very still, snow gleaming gently out of the deep +atmosphere. And towards the mountains, on and on, the regiment marched +between the rye fields and the meadows, between the scraggy fruit trees +set regularly on either side the high road. The burnished, dark green +rye threw on a suffocating heat, the mountains drew gradually nearer +and more distinct. While the feet of the soldiers grew hotter, sweat +ran through their hair under their helmets, and their knapsacks could +burn no more in contact with their shoulders, but seemed instead to +give off a cold, prickly sensation. + +He walked on and on in silence, staring at the mountains ahead, that +rose sheer out of the land, and stood fold behind fold, half earth, +half heaven, the heaven, the banner with slits of soft snow, in the +pale, bluish peaks. + +He could now walk almost without pain. At the start, he had determined +not to limp. It had made him sick to take the first steps, and during +the first mile or so, he had compressed his breath, and the cold drops +of sweat had stood on his forehead. But he had walked it off. What were +they after all but bruises! He had looked at them, as he was getting +up: deep bruises on the backs of his thighs. And since he had made his +first step in the morning, he had been conscious of them, till now he +had a tight, hot place in his chest, with suppressing the pain, and +holding himself in. There seemed no air when he breathed. But he walked +almost lightly. + +The Captain’s hand had trembled at taking his coffee at dawn: his +orderly saw it again. And he saw the fine figure of the Captain +wheeling on horseback at the farm-house ahead, a handsome figure in +pale blue uniform with facings of scarlet, and the metal gleaming on +the black helmet and the sword-scabbard, and dark streaks of sweat +coming on the silky bay horse. The orderly felt he was connected with +that figure moving so suddenly on horseback: he followed it like a +shadow, mute and inevitable and damned by it. And the officer was +always aware of the tramp of the company behind, the march of his +orderly among the men. + +The Captain was a tall man of about forty, grey at the temples. He had +a handsome, finely knit figure, and was one of the best horsemen in the +West. His orderly, having to rub him down, admired the amazing +riding-muscles of his loins. + +For the rest, the orderly scarcely noticed the officer any more than he +noticed himself. It was rarely he saw his master’s face: he did not +look at it. The Captain had reddish-brown, stilt hair, that he wore +short upon his skull. His moustache was also cut short and bristly over +a full, brutal mouth. His face was rather rugged, the cheeks thin. +Perhaps the man was the more handsome for the deep lines in his face, +the irritable tension of his brow, which gave him the look of a man who +fights with life. His fair eyebrows stood bushy over light blue eyes +that were always flashing with cold fire. + +He was a Prussian aristocrat, haughty and overbearing. But his mother +had been a Polish Countess. Having made too many gambling debts when he +was young, he had ruined his prospects in the Army, and remained an +infantry captain. He had never married: his position did not allow of +it, and no woman had ever moved him to it. His time he spent +riding—occasionally he rode one of his own horses at the races—and at +the officers’ club. Now and then he took himself a mistress. But after +such an event, he returned to duty with his brow still more tense, his +eyes still more hostile and irritable. With the men, however, he was +merely impersonal, though a devil when roused; so that, on the whole, +they feared him, but had no great aversion from him. They accepted him +as the inevitable. + +To his orderly he was at first cold and just and indifferent: he did +not fuss over trifles. So that his servant knew practically nothing +about him, except just what orders he would give, and how he wanted +them obeyed. That was quite simple. Then the change gradually came. + +The orderly was a youth of about twenty-two, of medium height, and well +built. He had strong, heavy limbs, was swarthy, with a soft, black, +young moustache. There was something altogether warm and young about +him. He had firmly marked eyebrows over dark, expressionless eyes, that +seemed never to have thought, only to have received life direct through +his senses, and acted straight from instinct. + +Gradually the officer had become aware of his servant’s young, +vigorous, unconscious presence about him. He could not get away from +the sense of the youth’s person, while he was in attendance. It was +like a warm flame upon the older man’s tense, rigid body, that had +become almost unliving, fixed. There was something so free and +self-contained about him, and something in the young fellow’s movement, +that made the officer aware of him. And this irritated the Prussian. He +did not choose to be touched into life by his servant. He might easily +have changed his man, but he did not. He now very rarely looked direct +at his orderly, but kept his face averted, as if to avoid seeing him. +And yet as the young soldier moved unthinking about the apartment, the +elder watched him, and would notice the movement of his strong young +shoulders under the blue cloth, the bend of his neck. And it irritated +him. To see the soldier’s young, brown, shapely peasant’s hand grasp +the loaf or the wine-bottle sent a flash of hate or of anger through +the elder man’s blood. It was not that the youth was clumsy: it was +rather the blind, instinctive sureness of movement of an unhampered +young animal that irritated the officer to such a degree. + +Once, when a bottle of wine had gone over, and the red gushed out on to +the tablecloth, the officer had started up with an oath, and his eyes, +bluey like fire, had held those of the confused youth for a moment. It +was a shock for the young soldier. He felt something sink deeper, +deeper into his soul, where nothing had ever gone before. It left him +rather blank and wondering. Some of his natural completeness in himself +was gone, a little uneasiness took its place. And from that time an +undiscovered feeling had held between the two men. + +Henceforward the orderly was afraid of really meeting his master. His +subconsciousness remembered those steely blue eyes and the harsh brows, +and did not intend to meet them again. So he always stared past his +master, and avoided him. Also, in a little anxiety, he waited for the +three months to have gone, when his time would be up. He began to feel +a constraint in the Captain’s presence, and the soldier even more than +the officer wanted to be left alone, in his neutrality as servant. + +He had served the Captain for more than a year, and knew his duty. This +he performed easily, as if it were natural to him. The officer and his +commands he took for granted, as he took the sun and the rain, and he +served as a matter of course. It did not implicate him personally. + +But now if he were going to be forced into a personal interchange with +his master he would be like a wild thing caught, he felt he must get +away. + +But the influence of the young soldier’s being had penetrated through +the officer’s stiffened discipline, and perturbed the man in him. He, +however, was a gentleman, with long, fine hands and cultivated +movements, and was not going to allow such a thing as the stirring of +his innate self. He was a man of passionate temper, who had always kept +himself suppressed. Occasionally there had been a duel, an outburst +before the soldiers. He knew himself to be always on the point of +breaking out. But he kept himself hard to the idea of the Service. +Whereas the young soldier seemed to live out his warm, full nature, to +give it off in his very movements, which had a certain zest, such as +wild animals have in free movement. And this irritated the officer more +and more. + +In spite of himself, the Captain could not regain his neutrality of +feeling towards his orderly. Nor could he leave the man alone. In spite +of himself, he watched him, gave him sharp orders, tried to take up as +much of his time as possible. Sometimes he flew into a rage with the +young soldier, and bullied him. Then the orderly shut himself off, as +it were out of earshot, and waited, with sullen, flushed face, for the +end of the noise. The words never pierced to his intelligence, he made +himself, protectively, impervious to the feelings of his master. + +He had a scar on his left thumb, a deep seam going across the knuckle. +The officer had long suffered from it, and wanted to do something to +it. Still it was there, ugly and brutal on the young, brown hand. At +last the Captain’s reserve gave way. One day, as the orderly was +smoothing out the tablecloth, the officer pinned down his thumb with a +pencil, asking, + +“How did you come by that?” + +The young man winced and drew back at attention. + +“A wood axe, Herr Hauptmann,” he answered. + +The officer waited for further explanation. None came. The orderly went +about his duties. The elder man was sullenly angry. His servant avoided +him. And the next day he had to use all his willpower to avoid seeing +the scarred thumb. He wanted to get hold of it and—— A hot flame ran in +his blood. + +He knew his servant would soon be free, and would be glad. As yet, the +soldier had held himself off from the elder man. The Captain grew madly +irritable. He could not rest when the soldier was away, and when he was +present, he glared at him with tormented eyes. He hated those fine, +black brows over the unmeaning, dark eyes, he was infuriated by the +free movement of the handsome limbs, which no military discipline could +make stiff. And he became harsh and cruelly bullying, using contempt +and satire. The young soldier only grew more mute and expressionless. + +What cattle were you bred by, that you can’t keep straight eyes? Look +me in the eyes when I speak to you. + +And the soldier turned his dark eyes to the other’s face, but there was +no sight in them: he stared with the slightest possible cast, holding +back his sight, perceiving the blue of his master’s eyes, but receiving +no look from them. And the elder man went pale, and his reddish +eyebrows twitched. He gave his order, barrenly. + +Once he flung a heavy military glove into the young soldier’s face. +Then he had the satisfaction of seeing the black eyes flare up into his +own, like a blaze when straw is thrown on a fire. And he had laughed +with a little tremor and a sneer. + +But there were only two months more. The youth instinctively tried to +keep himself intact: he tried to serve the officer as if the latter +were an abstract authority and not a man. All his instinct was to avoid +personal contact, even definite hate. But in spite of himself the hate +grew, responsive to the officer’s passion. However, he put it in the +background. When he had left the Army he could dare acknowledge it. By +nature he was active, and had many friends. He thought what amazing +good fellows they were. But, without knowing it, he was alone. Now this +solitariness was intensified. It would carry him through his term. But +the officer seemed to be going irritably insane, and the youth was +deeply frightened. + +The soldier had a sweetheart, a girl from the mountains, independent +and primitive. The two walked together, rather silently. He went with +her, not to talk, but to have his arm round her, and for the physical +contact. This eased him, made it easier for him to ignore the Captain; +for he could rest with her held fast against his chest. And she, in +some unspoken fashion, was there for him. They loved each other. + +The Captain perceived it, and was mad with irritation. He kept the +young man engaged all the evenings long, and took pleasure in the dark +look that came on his face. Occasionally, the eyes of the two men met, +those of the younger sullen and dark, doggedly unalterable, those of +the elder sneering with restless contempt. + +The officer tried hard not to admit the passion that had got hold of +him. He would not know that his feeling for his orderly was anything +but that of a man incensed by his stupid, perverse servant. So, keeping +quite justified and conventional in his consciousness, he let the other +thing run on. His nerves, however, were suffering. At last he slung the +end of a belt in his servant’s face. When he saw the youth start back, +the pain-tears in his eyes and the blood on his mouth, he had felt at +once a thrill of deep pleasure and of shame. + +But this, he acknowledged to himself, was a thing he had never done +before. The fellow was too exasperating. His own nerves must be going +to pieces. He went away for some days with a woman. + +It was a mockery of pleasure. He simply did not want the woman. But he +stayed on for his time. At the end of it, he came back in an agony of +irritation, torment, and misery. He rode all the evening, then came +straight in to supper. His orderly was out. The officer sat with his +long, fine hands lying on the table, perfectly still, and all his blood +seemed to be corroding. + +At last his servant entered. He watched the strong, easy young figure, +the fine eyebrows, the thick black hair. In a week’s time the youth had +got back his old well-being. The hands of the officer twitched and +seemed to be full of mad flame. The young man stood at attention, +unmoving, shut on. + +The meal went in silence. But the orderly seemed eager. He made a +clatter with the dishes. + +“Are you in a hurry?” asked the officer, watching the intent, warm face +of his servant. The other did not reply. + +“Will you answer my question?” said the Captain. + +“Yes, sir,” replied the orderly, standing with his pile of deep Army +plates. The Captain waited, looked at him, then asked again: + +“Are you in a hurry? + +“Yes, sir,” came the answer, that sent a flash through the listener. + +“For what?” + +“I was going out, sir.” + +“I want you this evening.” + +There was a moment’s hesitation. The officer had a curious stiffness of +countenance. + +“Yes, sir,” replied the servant, in his throat. + +“I want you tomorrow evening also—in fact, you may consider your +evenings occupied, unless I give you leave.” + +The mouth with the young moustache set close. + +“Yes, sir,” answered the orderly, loosening his lips for a moment. + +He again turned to the door. + +“And why have you a piece of pencil in your ear?” + +The orderly hesitated, then continued on his way without answering. He +set the plates in a pile outside the door, took the stump of pencil +from his ear, and put it in his pocket. He had been copying a verse for +his sweetheart’s birthday card. He returned to finish clearing the +table. The officer’s eyes were dancing, he had a little, eager smile. + +“Why have you a piece of pencil in your ear?” he asked. + +The orderly took his hands full of dishes. His master was standing near +the great green stove, a little smile on his face, his chin thrust +forward. When the young soldier saw him his heart suddenly ran hot. He +felt blind. Instead of answering, he turned dazedly to the door. As he +was crouching to set down the dishes, he was pitched forward by a kick +from behind. The pots went in a stream down the stairs, he clung to the +pillar of the banisters. And as he was rising he was kicked heavily +again, and again, so that he clung sickly to the post for some moments. +His master had gone swiftly into the room and closed the door. The +maid-servant downstairs looked up the staircase and made a mocking face +at the crockery disaster. + +The officer’s heart was plunging. He poured himself a glass of wine, +part of which he spilled on the floor, and gulped the remainder, +leaning against the cool, green stove. He heard his man collecting the +dishes from the stairs. Pale, as if intoxicated, he waited. The servant +entered again. The Captain’s heart gave a pang, as of pleasure, seeing +the young fellow bewildered and uncertain on his feet, with pain. + +“Schöner!” he said. + +The soldier was a little slower in coming to attention. + +“Yes, sir!” + +The youth stood before him, with pathetic young moustache, and fine +eyebrows very distinct on his forehead of dark marble. + +“I asked you a question.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +The officer’s tone bit like acid. + +“Why had you a pencil in your ear?” + +Again the servant’s heart ran hot, and he could not breathe. With dark, +strained eyes, he looked at the officer, as if fascinated. And he stood +there sturdily planted, unconscious. The withering smile came into the +Captain’s eyes, and he lifted his foot. + +“I—I forgot it—sir,” panted the soldier, his dark eyes fixed on the +other man’s dancing blue ones. + +“What was it doing there?” + +He saw the young man’s breast heaving as he made an effort for words. + +“I had been writing.” + +“Writing what?” + +Again the soldier looked him up and down. The officer could hear him +panting. The smile came into the blue eyes. The soldier worked his dry +throat, but could not speak. Suddenly the smile lit like a name on the +officer’s face, and a kick came heavily against the orderly’s thigh. +The youth moved a pace sideways. His face went dead, with two black, +staring eyes. + +“Well?” said the officer. + +The orderly’s mouth had gone dry, and his tongue rubbed in it as on dry +brown-paper. He worked his throat. The officer raised his foot. The +servant went stiff. + +“Some poetry, sir,” came the crackling, unrecognizable sound of his +voice. + +“Poetry, what poetry?” asked the Captain, with a sickly smile. + +Again there was the working in the throat. The Captain’s heart had +suddenly gone down heavily, and he stood sick and tired. + +“For my girl, sir,” he heard the dry, inhuman sound. + +“Oh!” he said, turning away. “Clear the table.” + +“Click!” went the soldier’s throat; then again, “click!” and then the +half-articulate: + +“Yes, sir.” + +The young soldier was gone, looking old, and walking heavily. + +The officer, left alone, held himself rigid, to prevent himself from +thinking. His instinct warned him that he must not think. Deep inside +him was the intense gratification of his passion, still working +powerfully. Then there was a counter-action, a horrible breaking down +of something inside him, a whole agony of reaction. He stood there for +an hour motionless, a chaos of sensations, but rigid with a will to +keep blank his consciousness, to prevent his mind grasping. And he held +himself so until the worst of the stress had passed, when he began to +drink, drank himself to an intoxication, till he slept obliterated. +When he woke in the morning he was shaken to the base of his nature. +But he had fought off the realization of what he had done. He had +prevented his mind from taking it in, had suppressed it along with his +instincts, and the conscious man had nothing to do with it. He felt +only as after a bout of intoxication, weak, but the affair itself all +dim and not to be recovered. Of the drunkenness of his passion he +successfully refused remembrance. And when his orderly appeared with +coffee, the officer assumed the same self he had had the morning +before. He refused the event of the past night—denied it had ever +been—and was successful in his denial. He had not done any such +thing—not he himself. Whatever there might be lay at the door of a +stupid, insubordinate servant. + +The orderly had gone about in a stupor all the evening. He drank some +beer because he was parched, but not much, the alcohol made his feeling +come back, and he could not bear it. He was dulled, as if nine-tenths +of the ordinary man in him were inert. He crawled about disfigured. +Still, when he thought of the kicks, he went sick, and when he thought +of the threat of more kicking, in the room afterwards, his heart went +hot and faint, and he panted, remembering the one that had come. He had +been forced to say, “For my girl.” He was much too done even to want to +cry. His mouth hung slightly open, like an idiot’s. He felt vacant, and +wasted. So, he wandered at his work, painfully, and very slowly and +clumsily, fumbling blindly with the brushes, and finding it difficult, +when he sat down, to summon the energy to move again. His limbs, his +jaw, were slack and nerveless. But he was very tired. He got to bed at +last, and slept inert, relaxed, in a sleep that was rather stupor than +slumber, a dead night of stupefaction shot through with gleams of +anguish. + +In the morning were the manœuvres. But he woke even before the bugle +sounded. The painful ache in his chest, the dryness of his throat, the +awful steady feeling of misery made his eyes come awake and dreary at +once. He knew, without thinking, what had happened. And he knew that +the day had come again, when he must go on with his round. The last bit +of darkness was being pushed out of the room. He would have to move his +inert body and go on. He was so young, and had known so little trouble, +that he was bewildered. He only wished it would stay night, so that he +could lie still, covered up by the darkness. And yet nothing would +prevent the day from coming, nothing would save him from having to get +up and saddle the Captain’s horse, and make the Captain’s coffee. It +was there, inevitable. And then, he thought, it was impossible. Yet +they would not leave him free. He must go and take the coffee to the +Captain. He was too stunned to understand it. He only knew it was +inevitable—inevitable however long he lay inert. + +At last, after heaving at himself, for he seemed to be a mass of +inertia, he got up. But he had to force every one of his movements from +behind, with his will. He felt lost, and dazed, and helpless. Then he +clutched hold of the bed, the pain was so keen. And looking at his +thighs, he saw the darker bruises on his swarthy flesh and he knew +that, if he pressed one of his fingers on one of the bruises, he should +faint. But he did not want to faint—he did not want anybody to know. No +one should ever know. It was between him and the Captain. There were +only the two people in the world now—himself and the Captain. + +Slowly, economically, he got dressed and forced himself to walk. +Everything was obscure, except just what he had his hands on. But he +managed to get through his work. The very pain revived his dull senses. +The worst remained yet. He took the tray and went up to the Captain’s +room. The officer, pale and heavy, sat at the table. The orderly, as he +saluted, felt himself put out of existence. He stood still for a moment +submitting to his own nullification, then he gathered himself, seemed +to regain himself, and then the Captain began to grow vague, unreal, +and the younger soldier’s heart beat up. He clung to this +situation—that the Captain did not exist—so that he himself might live. +But when he saw his officer’s hand tremble as he took the coffee, he +felt everything falling shattered. And he went away, feeling as if he +himself were coming to pieces, disintegrated. And when the Captain was +there on horseback, giving orders, while he himself stood, with rifle +and knapsack, sick with pain, he felt as if he must shut his eyes—as if +he must shut his eyes on everything. It was only the long agony of +marching with a parched throat that filled him with one single, +sleep-heavy intention: to save himself. + +II + +He was getting used even to his parched throat. That the snowy peaks +were radiant among the sky, that the whity-green glacier-river twisted +through its pale shoals, in the valley below, seemed almost +supernatural. But he was going mad with fever and thirst. He plodded on +uncomplaining. He did not want to speak, not to anybody. There were two +gulls, like flakes of water and snow, over the river. The scent of +green rye soaked in sunshine came like a sickness. And the march +continued, monotonously, almost like a bad sleep. + +At the next farm-house, which stood low and broad near the high road, +tubs of water had been put out. The soldiers clustered round to drink. +They took off their helmets, and the steam mounted from their wet hair. +The Captain sat on horseback, watching. He needed to see his orderly. +His helmet threw a dark shadow over his light, fierce eyes, but his +moustache and mouth and chin were distinct in the sunshine. The orderly +must move under the presence of the figure of the horseman. It was not +that he was afraid, or cowed. It was as if he was disembowelled, made +empty, like an empty shell. He felt himself as nothing, a shadow +creeping under the sunshine. And, thirsty as he was, he could scarcely +drink, feeling the Captain near him. He would not take off his helmet +to wipe his wet hair. He wanted to stay in shadow, not to be forced +into consciousness. Starting, he saw the light heel of the officer +prick the belly of the horse; the Captain cantered away, and he himself +could relapse into vacancy. + +Nothing, however, could give him back his living place in the hot, +bright morning. He felt like a gap among it all. Whereas the Captain +was prouder, overriding. A hot flash went through the young servant’s +body. The Captain was firmer and prouder with life, he himself was +empty as a shadow. Again the flash went through him, dazing him out. +But his heart ran a little firmer. + +The company turned up the hill, to make a loop for the return. Below, +from among the trees, the farm-bell clanged. He saw the labourers, +mowing barefoot at the thick grass, leave off their work and go +downhill, their scythes hanging over their shoulders, like long, bright +claws curving down behind them. They seemed like dream-people, as if +they had no relation to himself. He felt as in a blackish dream: as if +all the other things were there and had form, but he himself was only a +consciousness, a gap that could think and perceive. + +The soldiers were tramping silently up the glaring hillside. Gradually +his head began to revolve, slowly, rhythmically. Sometimes it was dark +before his eyes, as if he saw this world through a smoked glass, frail +shadows and unreal. It gave him a pain in his head to walk. + +The air was too scented, it gave no breath. All the lush green-stuff +seemed to be issuing its sap, till the air was deathly, sickly with the +smell of greenness. There was the perfume of clover, like pure honey +and bees. Then there grew a faint acrid tang—they were near the +beeches; and then a queer clattering noise, and a suffocating, hideous +smell; they were passing a flock of sheep, a shepherd in a black smock, +holding his crook. Why should the sheep huddle together under this +fierce sun. He felt that the shepherd would not see him, though he +could see the shepherd. + +At last there was the halt. They stacked rifles in a conical stack, put +down their kit in a scattered circle around it, and dispersed a little, +sitting on a small knoll high on the hillside. The chatter began. The +soldiers were steaming with heat, but were lively. He sat still, seeing +the blue mountains rising upon the land, twenty kilometres away. There +was a blue fold in the ranges, then out of that, at the foot, the +broad, pale bed of the river, stretches of whity-green water between +pinkish-grey shoals among the dark pine woods. There it was, spread out +a long way off. And it seemed to come downhill, the river. There was a +raft being steered, a mile away. It was a strange country. Nearer, a +red-roofed, broad farm with white base and square dots of windows +crouched beside the wall of beech foliage on the wood’s edge. There +were long strips of rye and clover and pale green corn. And just at his +feet, below the knoll, was a darkish bog, where globe flowers stood +breathless still on their slim stalks. And some of the pale gold +bubbles were burst, and a broken fragment hung in the air. He thought +he was going to sleep. + +Suddenly something moved into this coloured mirage before his eyes. The +Captain, a small, light-blue and scarlet figure, was trotting evenly +between the strips of corn, along the level brow of the hill. And the +man making flag-signals was coming on. Proud and sure moved the +horseman’s figure, the quick, bright thing, in which was concentrated +all the light of this morning, which for the rest lay a fragile, +shining shadow. Submissive, apathetic, the young soldier sat and +stared. But as the horse slowed to a walk, coming up the last steep +path, the great flash flared over the body and soul of the orderly. He +sat waiting. The back of his head felt as if it were weighted with a +heavy piece of fire. He did not want to eat. His hands trembled +slightly as he moved them. Meanwhile the officer on horseback was +approaching slowly and proudly. The tension grew in the orderly’s soul. +Then again, seeing the Captain ease himself on the saddle, the flash +blazed through him. + +The Captain looked at the patch of light blue and scarlet, and dark +heads, scattered closely on the hillside. It pleased him. The command +pleased him. And he was feeling proud. His orderly was among them in +common subjection. The officer rose a little on his stirrups to look. +The young soldier sat with averted, dumb face. The Captain relaxed on +his seat. His slim-legged, beautiful horse, brown as a beech nut, +walked proudly uphill. The Captain passed into the zone of the +company’s atmosphere: a hot smell of men, of sweat, of leather. He knew +it very well. After a word with the lieutenant, he went a few paces +higher, and sat there, a dominant figure, his sweat-marked horse +swishing its tail, while he looked down on his men, on his orderly, a +nonentity among the crowd. + +The young soldier’s heart was like fire in his chest, and he breathed +with difficulty. The officer, looking downhill, saw three of the young +soldiers, two pails of water between them, staggering across a sunny +green field. A table had been set up under a tree, and there the slim +lieutenant stood, importantly busy. Then the Captain summoned himself +to an act of courage. He called his orderly. + +The name leapt into the young soldier’s throat as he heard the command, +and he rose blindly stifled. He saluted, standing below the officer. He +did not look up. But there was the flicker in the Captain’s voice. + +“Go to the inn and fetch me....” the officer gave his commands. +“Quick!” he added. + +At the last word, the heart of the servant leapt with a flash, and he +felt the strength come over his body. But he turned in mechanical +obedience, and set on at a heavy run downhill, looking almost like a +bear, his trousers bagging over his military boots. And the officer +watched this blind, plunging run all the way. + +But it was only the outside of the orderly’s body that was obeying so +humbly and mechanically. Inside had gradually accumulated a core into +which all the energy of that young life was compact and concentrated. +He executed his commission, and plodded quickly back uphill. There was +a pain in his head, as he walked, that made him twist his features +unknowingly. But hard there in the centre of his chest was himself, +himself, firm, and not to be plucked to pieces. + +The captain had gone up into the wood. The orderly plodded through the +hot, powerfully smelling zone of the company’s atmosphere. He had a +curious mass of energy inside him now. The Captain was less real than +himself. He approached the green entrance to the wood. There, in the +half-shade, he saw the horse standing, the sunshine and the tuckering +shadow of leaves dancing over his brown body. There was a clearing +where timber had lately been felled. Here, in the gold-green shade +beside the brilliant cup of sunshine, stood two figures, blue and pink, +the bits of pink showing out plainly. The Captain was talking to his +lieutenant. + +The orderly stood on the edge of the bright clearing, where great +trunks of trees, stripped and glistening, lay stretched like naked, +brown-skinned bodies. Chips of wood littered the trampled floor, like +splashed light, and the bases of the felled trees stood here and there, +with their raw, level tops. Beyond was the brilliant, sunlit green of a +beech. + +“Then I will ride forward,” the orderly heard his Captain say. The +lieutenant saluted and strode away. He himself went forward. A hot +flash passed through his belly, as he tramped towards his officer. + +The Captain watched the rather heavy figure of the young soldier +stumble forward, and his veins, too, ran hot. This was to be man to man +between them. He yielded before the solid, stumbling figure with bent +head. The orderly stooped and put the food on a level-sawn tree-base. +The Captain watched the glistening, sun-inflamed, naked hands. He +wanted to speak to the young soldier, but could not. The servant +propped a bottle against his thigh, pressed open the cork, and poured +out the beer into the mug. He kept his head bent. The Captain accepted +the mug. + +“Hot!” he said, as if amiably. + +The flame sprang out of the orderly’s heart, nearly suffocating him. + +“Yes, sir,” he replied, between shut teeth. + +And he heard the sound of the Captain’s drinking, and he clenched his +fists, such a strong torment came into his wrists. Then came the faint +clang of the closing of the pot-lid. He looked up. The Captain was +watching him. He glanced swiftly away. Then he saw the officer stoop +and take a piece of bread from the tree-base. Again the flash of flame +went through the young soldier, seeing the stiff body stoop beneath +him, and his hands jerked. He looked away. He could feel the officer +was nervous. The bread fell as it was being broken The officer ate the +other piece. The two men stood tense and still, the master laboriously +chewing his bread, the servant staring with averted face, his fist +clenched. + +Then the young soldier started. The officer had pressed open the lid of +the mug again. The orderly watched the lid of the mug, and the white +hand that clenched the handle, as if he were fascinated. It was raised. +The youth followed it with his eyes. And then he saw the thin, strong +throat of the elder man moving up and down as he drank, the strong jaw +working. And the instinct which had been jerking at the young man’s +wrists suddenly jerked free. He jumped, feeling as if it were rent in +two by a strong flame. + +The spur of the officer caught in a tree-root, he went down backwards +with a crash, the middle of his back thudding sickeningly against a +sharp-edged tree-base, the pot flying away. And in a second the +orderly, with serious, earnest young face, and under-lip between his +teeth, had got his knee in the officer’s chest and was pressing the +chin backward over the farther edge of the tree-stump, pressing, with +all his heart behind in a passion of relief, the tension of his wrists +exquisite with relief. And with the base of his palms he shoved at the +chin, with all his might. And it was pleasant, too, to have that chin, +that hard jaw already slightly rough with beard, in his hands. He did +not relax one hair’s breadth, but, all the force of all his blood +exulting in his thrust, he shoved back the head of the other man, till +there was a little cluck and a crunching sensation. Then he felt as if +his head went to vapour. Heavy convulsions shook the body of the +officer, frightening and horrifying the young soldier. Yet it pleased +him, too, to repress them. It pleased him to keep his hands pressing +back the chin, to feel the chest of the other man yield in expiration +to the weight of his strong, young knees, to feel the hard twitchings +of the prostrate body jerking his own whole frame, which was pressed +down on it. + +But it went still. He could look into the nostrils of the other man, +the eyes he could scarcely see. How curiously the mouth was pushed out, +exaggerating the full lips, and the moustache bristling up from them. +Then, with a start, he noticed the nostrils gradually filled with +blood. The red brimmed, hesitated, ran over, and went in a thin trickle +down the face to the eyes. + +It shocked and distressed him. Slowly, he got up. The body twitched and +sprawled there, inert. He stood and looked at it in silence. It was a +pity it was broken. It represented more than the thing which had kicked +and bullied him. He was afraid to look at the eyes. They were hideous +now, only the whites showing, and the blood running to them. The face +of the orderly was drawn with horror at the sight. Well, it was so. In +his heart he was satisfied. He had hated the face of the Captain. It +was extinguished now. There was a heavy relief in the orderly’s soul. +That was as it should be. But he could not bear to see the long, +military body lying broken over the tree-base, the fine fingers +crisped. He wanted to hide it away. + +Quickly, busily, he gathered it up and pushed it under the felled +tree-trunks, which rested their beautiful, smooth length either end on +logs. The face was horrible with blood. He covered it with the helmet. +Then he pushed the limbs straight and decent, and brushed the dead +leaves off the fine cloth of the uniform. So, it lay quite still in the +shadow under there. A little strip of sunshine ran along the breast, +from a chink between the logs. The orderly sat by it for a few moments. +Here his own life also ended. + +Then, through his daze, he heard the lieutenant, in a loud voice, +explaining to the men outside the wood, that they were to suppose the +bridge on the river below was held by the enemy. Now they were to march +to the attack in such and such a manner. The lieutenant had no gift of +expression. The orderly, listening from habit, got muddled. And when +the lieutenant began it all again he ceased to hear. He knew he must +go. He stood up. It surprised him that the leaves were glittering in +the sun, and the chips of wood reflecting white from the ground. For +him a change had come over the world. But for the rest it had not—all +seemed the same. Only he had left it. And he could not go back. It was +his duty to return with the beer-pot and the bottle. He could not. He +had left all that. The lieutenant was still hoarsely explaining. He +must go, or they would, overtake him. And he could not bear contact +with anyone now. + +He drew his fingers over his eyes, trying to find out where he was. +Then he turned away. He saw the horse standing in the path. He went up +to it and mounted. It hurt him to sit in the saddle. The pain of +keeping his seat occupied him as they cantered through the wood. He +would not have minded anything, but he could not get away from the +sense of being divided from the others. The path led out of the trees. +On the edge of the wood he pulled up and stood watching. There in the +spacious sunshine of the valley soldiers were moving in a little swarm. +Every now and then, a man harrowing on a strip of fallow shouted to his +oxen, at the turn. The village and the white-towered church was small +in the sunshine. And he no longer belonged to it—he sat there, beyond, +like a man outside in the dark. He had gone out from everyday life into +the unknown, and he could not, he even did not want to go back. + +Turning from the sun-blazing valley, he rode deep into the wood. +Tree-trunks, like people standing grey and still, took no notice as he +went. A doe, herself a moving bit of sunshine and shadow, went running +through the flecked shade. There were bright green rents in the +foliage. Then it was all pine wood, dark and cool. And he was sick with +pain, he had an intolerable great pulse in his head, and he was sick. +He had never been ill in his life, he felt lost, quite dazed with all +this. + +Trying to get down from the horse, he fell, astonished at the pain and +his lack of balance. The horse shifted uneasily. He jerked its bridle +and sent it cantering jerkily away. It was his last connection with the +rest of things. + +But he only wanted to lie down and not be disturbed. Stumbling through +the trees, he came on a quiet place where beeches and pine trees grew +on a slope. Immediately he had lain down and closed his eyes, his +consciousness went racing on without him. A big pulse of sickness beat +in him as if it throbbed through the whole earth. He was burning with +dry heat. But he was too busy, too tearingly active in the incoherent +race of delirium to observe. + +III + +He came to with a start. His mouth was dry and hard, his heart beat +heavily, but he had not the energy to get up. His heart beat heavily. +Where was he?—the barracks—at home? There was something knocking. And, +making an effort, he looked round—trees, and litter of greenery, and +reddish, night, still pieces of sunshine on the floor. He did not +believe he was himself, he did not believe what he saw. Something was +knocking. He made a struggle towards consciousness, but relapsed. Then +he struggled again. And gradually his surroundings fell into +relationship with himself. He knew, and a great pang of fear went +through his heart. Somebody was knocking. He could see the heavy, black +rags of a fir tree overhead. Then everything went black. Yet he did not +believe he had closed his eyes. He had not. Out of the blackness sight +slowly emerged again. And someone was knocking. Quickly, he saw the +blood-disgfigured face of his Captain, which he hated. And he held +himself still with horror. Yet, deep inside him, he knew that it was +so, the Captain should be dead. But the physical delirium got hold of +him. Someone was knocking. He lay perfectly still, as if dead, with +fear. And he went unconscious. + +When he opened his eyes again, he started, seeing something creeping +swiftly up a tree-trunk. It was a little bird. And the bird was +whistling overhead. Tap-tap-tap—it was the small, quick bird rapping +the tree-trunk with its beak, as if its head were a little round +hammer. He watched it curiously. It shifted sharply, in its creeping +fashion. Then, like a mouse, it slid down the bare trunk. Its swift +creeping sent a flash of revulsion through him. He raised his head. It +felt a great weight. Then, the little bird ran out of the shadow across +a still patch of sunshine, its little head bobbing swiftly, its white +legs twinkling brightly for a moment. How neat it was in its build, so +compact, with pieces of white on its wings. There were several of them. +They were so pretty—but they crept like swift, erratic mice, running +here and there among the beech-mast. + +He lay down again exhausted, and his consciousness lapsed. He had a +horror of the little creeping birds. All his blood seemed to be darting +and creeping in his head. And yet he could not move. + +He came to with a further ache of exhaustion. There was the pain in his +head, and the horrible sickness, and his inability to move. He had +never been ill in his life. He did not know where he was or what he +was. Probably he had got sunstroke. Or what else?—he had silenced the +Captain for ever—some time ago—oh, a long time ago. There had been +blood on his face, and his eyes had turned upwards. It was all right, +somehow. It was peace. But now he had got beyond himself. He had never +been here before. Was it life, or not life? He was by himself. They +were in a big, bright place, those others, and he was outside. The +town, all the country, a big bright place of light: and he was outside, +here, in the darkened open beyond, where each thing existed alone. But +they would all have to come out there sometime, those others. Little, +and left behind him, they all were. There had been father and mother +and sweetheart. What did they all matter? This was the open land. + +He sat up. Something scuffled. It was a little, brown squirrel running +in lovely, undulating bounds over the floor, its red tail completing +the undulation of its body—and then, as it sat up, furling and +unfurling. He watched it, pleased. It ran on friskily, enjoying itself. +It flew wildly at another squirrel, and they were chasing each other, +and making little scolding, chattering noises. The soldier wanted to +speak to them. But only a hoarse sound came out of his throat. The +squirrels burst away—they flew up the trees. And then he saw the one +peeping round at him, half-way up a tree-trunk. A start of fear went +through him, though, in so far as he was conscious, he was amused. It +still stayed, its little, keen face staring at him halfway up the +tree-trunk, its little ears pricked up, its clawey little hands +clinging to the bark, its white breast reared. He started from it in +panic. + +Struggling to his feet, he lurched away. He went on walking, walking, +looking for something for a drink. His brain felt hot and inflamed for +want of water. He stumbled on. Then he did not know anything. He went +unconscious as he walked. Yet he stumbled on, his mouth open. + +When, to his dumb wonder, he opened his eyes on the world again, he no +longer tried to remember what it was. There was thick, golden light +behind golden-green glitterings, and tall, grey-purple shafts, and +darknesses further off, surrounding him, growing deeper. He was +conscious of a sense of arrival. He was amid the reality, on the real, +dark bottom. But there was the thirst burning in his brain. He felt +lighter, not so heavy. He supposed it was newness. + +The air was muttering with thunder. He thought he was walking +wonderfully swiftly and was coming straight to relief—or was it to +water? + +Suddenly he stood still with fear. There was a tremendous flare of +gold, immense—just a few dark trunks like bars between him and it. All +the young level wheat was burnished gold glaring on its silky green. A +woman, full-skirted, a black cloth on her head for head-dress, was +passing like a block of shadow through the glistening, green corn, into +the full glare. There was a farm, too, pale blue in shadow, and the +timber black. And there was a church spire, nearly fused away in the +gold. The woman moved on, away from him. He had no language with which +to speak to her. She was the bright, solid unreality. She would make a +noise of words that would confuse him, and her eyes would look at him +without seeing him. She was crossing there to the other side. He stood +against a tree. + +When at last he turned, looking down the long, bare grove whose flat +bed was already filling dark, he saw the mountains in a wonder-light, +not far away, and radiant. Behind the soft, grey ridge of the nearest +range the further mountains stood golden and pale grey, the snow all +radiant like pure, soft gold. So still, gleaming in the sky, fashioned +pure out of the ore of the sky, they shone in their silence. He stood +and looked at them, his face illuminated. And like the golden, lustrous +gleaming of the snow he felt his own thirst bright in him. He stood and +gazed, leaning against a tree. And then everything slid away into +space. + +During the night the lightning fluttered perpetually, making the whole +sky white. He must have walked again. The world hung livid round him +for moments, fields a level sheen of grey-green light, trees in dark +bulk, and the range of clouds black across a white sky. Then the +darkness fell like a shutter, and the night was whole. A faint mutter +of a half-revealed world, that could not quite leap out of the +darkness!—Then there again stood a sweep of pallor for the land, dark +shapes looming, a range of clouds hanging overhead. The world was a +ghostly shadow, thrown for a moment upon the pure darkness, which +returned ever whole and complete. + +And the mere delirium of sickness and fever went on inside him—his +brain opening and shutting like the night—then sometimes convulsions of +terror from something with great eyes that stared round a tree—then the +long agony of the march, and the sun decomposing his blood—then the +pang of hate for the Captain, followed, by a pang of tenderness and +ease. But everything was distorted, born of an ache and resolving into +an ache. + +In the morning he came definitely awake. Then his brain flamed with the +sole horror of thirstiness! The sun was on his face, the dew was +steaming from his wet clothes. Like one possessed, he got up. There, +straight in front of him, blue and cool and tender, the mountains +ranged across the pale edge of the morning sky. He wanted them—he +wanted them alone—he wanted to leave himself and be identified with +them. They did not move, they were still and soft, with white, gentle +markings of snow. He stood still, mad with suffering, his hands +crisping and clutching. Then he was twisting in a paroxysm on the +grass. + +He lay still, in a kind of dream of anguish. His thirst seemed to have +separated itself from him, and to stand apart, a single demand. Then +the pain he felt was another single self. Then there was the clog of +his body, another separate thing. He was divided among all kinds of +separate beings. There was some strange, agonized connection between +them, but they were drawing further apart. Then they would all split. +The sun, drilling down on him, was drilling through the bond. Then they +would all fall, fall through the everlasting lapse of space. Then +again, his consciousness reasserted itself. He roused on to his elbow +and stared at the gleaming mountains. There they ranked, all still and +wonderful between earth and heaven. He stared till his eyes went black, +and the mountains, as they stood in their beauty, so clean and cool, +seemed to have it, that which was lost in him. + +IV + +When the soldiers found him, three hours later, he was lying with his +face over his arm, his black hair giving off heat under the sun. But he +was still alive. Seeing the open, black mouth the young soldiers +dropped him in horror. + +He died in the hospital at night, without having seen again. + +The doctors saw the bruises on his legs, behind, and were silent. + +The bodies of the two men lay together, side by side, in the mortuary, +the one white and slender, but laid rigidly at rest, the other looking +as if every moment it must rouse into life again, so young and unused, +from a slumber. + + + +The Thorn in the Flesh + +I + +A wind was running, so that occasionally the poplars whitened as if a +flame flew up them. The sky was broken and blue among moving clouds. +Patches of sunshine lay on the level fields, and shadows on the rye and +the vineyards. In the distance, very blue, the cathedral bristled +against the sky, and the houses of the city of Metz clustered vaguely +below, like a hill. + +Among the fields by the lime trees stood the barracks, upon bare, dry +ground, a collection of round-roofed huts of corrugated iron, where the +soldiers’ nasturtiums climbed brilliantly. There was a tract of +vegetable garden at the side, with the soldiers’ yellowish lettuces in +rows, and at the back the big, hard drilling-yard surrounded by a wire +fence. + +At this time in the afternoon, the huts were deserted, all the beds +pushed up, the soldiers were lounging about under the lime trees +waiting for the call to drill. Bachmann sat on a bench in the shade +that smelled sickly with blossom. Pale green, wrecked lime flowers were +scattered on the ground. He was writing his weekly post card to his +mother. He was a fair, long, limber youth, good looking. He sat very +still indeed, trying to write his post card. His blue uniform, sagging +on him as he sat bent over the card, disfigured his youthful shape. His +sunburnt hand waited motionless for the words to come. “Dear +mother”—was all he had written. Then he scribbled mechanically: “Many +thanks for your letter with what you sent. Everything is all right with +me. We are just off to drill on the fortifications——” Here he broke off +and sat suspended, oblivious of everything, held in some definite +suspense. He looked again at the card. But he could write no more. Out +of the knot of his consciousness no word would come. He signed himself, +and looked up, as a man looks to see if anyone has noticed him in his +privacy. + +There was a self-conscious strain in his blue eyes, and a pallor about +his mouth, where the young, fair moustache glistened. He was almost +girlish in his good looks and his grace. But he had something of +military consciousness, as if he believed in the discipline for +himself, and found satisfaction in delivering himself to his duty. +There was also a trace of youthful swagger and dare-devilry about his +mouth and his limber body, but this was in suppression now. + +He put the post card in the pocket of his tunic, and went to join a +group of his comrades who were lounging in the shade, laughing and +talking grossly. Today he was out of it. He only stood near to them for +the warmth of the association. In his own consciousness something held +him down. + +Presently they were summoned to ranks. The sergeant came out to take +command. He was a strongly built, rather heavy man of forty. His head +was thrust forward, sunk a little between his powerful shoulders, and +the strong jaw was pushed out aggressively. But the eyes were +smouldering, the face hung slack and sodden with drink. + +He gave his orders in brutal, barking shouts, and the little company +moved forward, out of the wire-fenced yard to the open road, marching +rhythmically, raising the dust. Bachmann, one of the inner file of four +deep, marched in the airless ranks, half suffocated with heat and dust +and enclosure. Through the moving of his comrades’ bodies, he could see +the small vines dusty by the roadside, the poppies among the tares +fluttering and blown to pieces, the distant spaces of sky and fields +all free with air and sunshine. But he was bound in a very dark +enclosure of anxiety within himself. + +He marched with his usual ease, being healthy and well adjusted. But +his body went on by itself. His spirit was clenched apart. And ever the +few soldiers drew nearer and nearer to the town, ever the consciousness +of the youth became more gripped and separate, his body worked by a +kind of mechanical intelligence, a mere presence of mind. + +They diverged from the high road and passed in single file down a path +among trees. All was silent and green and mysterious, with shadow of +foliage and long, green, undisturbed grass. Then they came out in the +sunshine on a moat of water, which wound silently between the long, +flowery grass, at the foot of the earthworks, that rose in front in +terraces walled smooth on the face, but all soft with long grass at the +top. Marguerite daisies and lady’s-slipper glimmered white and gold in +the lush grass, preserved here in the intense peace of the +fortifications. Thickets of trees stood round about. Occasionally a +puff of mysterious wind made the flowers and the long grass that +crested the earthworks above bow and shake as with signals of oncoming +alarm. + +The group of soldiers stood at the end of the moat, in their light blue +and scarlet uniforms, very bright. The sergeant was giving them +instructions, and his shout came sharp and alarming in the intense, +untouched stillness of the place. They listened, finding it difficult +to make the effort of understanding. + +Then it was over, and the men were moving to make preparations. On the +other side of the moat the ramparts rose smooth and clear in the sun, +sloping slightly back. Along the summit grass grew and tall daisies +stood ledged high, like magic, against the dark green of the tree-tops +behind. The noise of the town, the running of tram-cars, was heard +distinctly, but it seemed not to penetrate this still place. + +The water of the moat was motionless. In silence the practice began. +One of the soldiers took a scaling ladder, and passing along the narrow +ledge at the foot of the earthworks, with the water of the moat just +behind him, tried to get a fixture on the slightly sloping wall-face. +There he stood, small and isolated, at the foot of the wall, trying to +get his ladder settled. At last it held, and the clumsy, groping figure +in the baggy blue uniform began to clamber up. The rest of the soldiers +stood and watched. Occasionally the sergeant barked a command. Slowly +the clumsy blue figure clambered higher up the wall-face. Bachmann +stood with his bowels turned to water. The figure of the climbing +soldier scrambled out on to the terrace up above, and moved, blue and +distinct, among the bright green grass. The officer shouted from below. +The soldier tramped along, fixed the ladder in another spot, and +carefully lowered himself on to the rungs. Bachmann watched the blind +foot groping in space for the ladder, and he felt the world fall away +beneath him. The figure of the soldier clung cringing against the face +of the wall, cleaving, groping downwards like some unsure insect +working its way lower and lower, fearing every movement. At last, +sweating and with a strained face, the figure had landed safely and +turned to the group of soldiers. But still it had a stiffness and a +blank, mechanical look, was something less than human. + +Bachmann stood there heavy and condemned, waiting for his own turn and +betrayal. Some of the men went up easily enough, and without fear. That +only showed it could be done lightly, and made Bachmann’s case more +bitter. If only he could do it lightly, like that. + +His turn came. He knew intuitively that nobody knew his condition. The +officer just saw him as a mechanical thing. He tried to keep it up, to +carry it through on the face of things. His inside gripped tight, as +yet under control, he took the ladder and went along under the wall. He +placed his ladder with quick success, and wild, quivering hope +possessed him. Then blindly he began to climb. But the ladder was not +very firm, and at every hitch a great, sick, melting feeling took hold +of him. He clung on fast. If only he could keep that grip on himself, +he would get through. He knew this, in agony. What he could not +understand was the blind gush of white-hot fear, that came with great +force whenever the ladder swerved, and which almost melted his belly +and all his joints, and left him powerless. If once it melted all his +joints and his belly, he was done. He clung desperately to himself. He +knew the fear, he knew what it did when it came, he knew he had only to +keep a firm hold. He knew all this. Yet, when the ladder swerved, and +his foot missed, there was the great blast of fear blowing on his heart +and bowels, and he was melting weaker and weaker, in a horror of fear +and lack of control, melting to fall. + +Yet he groped slowly higher and higher, always staring upwards with +desperate face, and always conscious of the space below. But all of +him, body and soul, was growing hot to fusion point. He would have to +let go for very relief’s sake. Suddenly his heart began to lurch. It +gave a great, sickly swoop, rose, and again plunged in a swoop of +horror. He lay against the wall inert as if dead, inert, at peace, save +for one deep core of anxiety, which knew that it was _not_ all over, +that he was still high in space against the wall. But the chief effort +of will was gone. + +There came into his consciousness a small, foreign sensation. He woke +up a little. What was it? Then slowly it penetrated him. His water had +run down his leg. He lay there, clinging, still with shame, half +conscious of the echo of the sergeant’s voice thundering from below. He +waited, in depths of shame beginning to recover himself. He had been +shamed so deeply. Then he could go on, for his fear for himself was +conquered. His shame was known and published. He must go on. + +Slowly he began to grope for the rung above, when a great shock shook +through him. His wrists were grasped from above, he was being hauled +out of himself up, up to the safe ground. Like a sack he was dragged +over the edge of the earthworks by the large hands, and landed there on +his knees, grovelling in the grass to recover command of himself, to +rise up on his feet. + +Shame, blind, deep shame and ignominy overthrew his spirit and left it +writhing. He stood there shrunk over himself, trying to obliterate +himself. + +Then the presence of the officer who had hauled him up made itself felt +upon him. He heard the panting of the elder man, and then the voice +came down on his veins like a fierce whip. He shrank in tension of +shame. + +“Put up your head—eyes front,” shouted the enraged sergeant, and +mechanically the soldier obeyed the command, forced to look into the +eyes of the sergeant. The brutal, hanging face of the officer violated +the youth. He hardened himself with all his might from seeing it. The +tearing noise of the sergeant’s voice continued to lacerate his body. + +Suddenly he set back his head, rigid, and his heart leapt to burst. The +face had suddenly thrust itself close, all distorted and showing the +teeth, the eyes smouldering into him. The breath of the barking words +was on his nose and mouth. He stepped aside in revulsion. With a scream +the face was upon him again. He raised his arm, involuntarily, in +self-defence. A shock of horror went through him, as he felt his +forearm hit the face of the officer a brutal blow. The latter +staggered, swerved back, and with a curious cry, reeled backwards over +the ramparts, his hands clutching the air. There was a second of +silence, then a crash to water. + +Bachmann, rigid, looked out of his inner silence upon the scene. +Soldiers were running. + +“You’d better clear,” said one young, excited voice to him. And with +immediate instinctive decision he started to walk away from the spot. +He went down the tree-hidden path to the high road where the trams ran +to and from the town. In his heart was a sense of vindication, of +escape. He was leaving it all, the military world, the shame. He was +walking away from it. + +Officers on horseback rode sauntering down the street, soldiers passed +along the pavement. Coming to the bridge, Bachmann crossed over to the +town that heaped before him, rising from the flat, picturesque French +houses down below at the water’s edge, up a jumble of roofs and chasms +of streets, to the lovely dark cathedral with its myriad pinnacles +making points at the sky. + +He felt for the moment quite at peace, relieved from a great strain. So +he turned along by the river to the public gardens. Beautiful were the +heaped, purple lilac trees upon the green grass, and wonderful the +walls of the horse-chestnut trees, lighted like an altar with white +flowers on every ledge. Officers went by, elegant and all coloured, +women and girls sauntered in the chequered shade. Beautiful it was, he +walked in a vision, free. + +II + +But where was he going? He began to come out of his trance of delight +and liberty. Deep within him he felt the steady burning of shame in the +flesh. As yet he could not bear to think of it. But there it was, +submerged beneath his attention, the raw, steady-burning shame. + +It behoved him to be intelligent. As yet he dared not remember what he +had done. He only knew the need to get away, away from everything he +had been in contact with. + +But how? A great pang of fear went through him. He could not bear his +shamed flesh to be put again between the hands of authority. Already +the hands had been laid upon him, brutally upon his nakedness, ripping +open his shame and making him maimed, crippled in his own control. + +Fear became an anguish. Almost blindly he was turning in the direction +of the barracks. He could not take the responsibility of himself. He +must give himself up to someone. Then his heart, obstinate in hope, +became obsessed with the idea of his sweetheart. He would make himself +her responsibility. + +Blenching as he took courage, he mounted the small, quick-hurrying tram +that ran out of the town in the direction of the barracks. He sat +motionless and composed, static. + +He got out at the terminus and went down the road. A wind was still +running. He could hear the faint whisper of the rye, and the stronger +swish as a sudden gust was upon it. No one was about. Feeling detached +and impersonal, he went down a field-path between the low vines. Many +little vine trees rose up in spires, holding out tender pink shoots, +waving their tendrils. He saw them distinctly and wondered over them. +In a field a little way off, men and women were taking up the hay. The +bullock-waggon stood by on the path, the men in their blue shirts, the +women with white cloths over their heads carried hay in their arms to +the cart, all brilliant and distinct upon the shorn, glowing green +acres. He felt himself looking out of darkness on to the glamorous, +brilliant beauty of the world around him, outside him. + +The Baron’s house, where Emilie was maidservant, stood square and +mellow among trees and garden and fields. It was an old French grange. +The barracks was quite near. Bachmann walked, drawn by a single +purpose, towards the courtyard. He entered the spacious, shadowy, +sun-swept place. The dog, seeing a soldier, only jumped and whined for +greeting. The pump stood peacefully in a corner, under a lime tree, in +the shade. + +The kitchen door was open. He hesitated, then walked in, speaking shyly +and smiling involuntarily. The two women started, but with pleasure. +Emilie was preparing the tray for afternoon coffee. She stood beyond +the table, drawn up, startled, and challenging, and glad. She had the +proud, timid eyes of some wild animal, some proud animal. Her black +hair was closely banded, her grey eyes watched steadily. She wore a +peasant dress of blue cotton sprigged with little red roses, that +buttoned tight over her strong maiden breasts. + +At the table sat another young woman, the nursery governess, who was +picking cherries from a huge heap, and dropping them into a bowl. She +was young, pretty, freckled. + +“Good day!” she said pleasantly. “The unexpected.” + +Emilie did not speak. The flush came in her dark cheek. She still stood +watching, between fear and a desire to escape, and on the other hand +joy that kept her in his presence. + +“Yes,” he said, bashful and strained, while the eyes of the two women +were upon him. “I’ve got myself in a mess this time.” + +“What?” asked the nursery governess, dropping her hands in her lap. +Emilie stood rigid. + +Bachmann could not raise his head. He looked sideways at the +glistening, ruddy cherries. He could not recover the normal world. + +“I knocked Sergeant Huber over the fortifications down into the moat,” +he said. “It was an accident—but——” + +And he grasped at the cherries, and began to eat them, unknowing, +hearing only Emilie’s little exclamation. + +“You knocked him over the fortifications!” echoed Fräulein Hesse in +horror. “How?” + +Spitting the cherry-stones into his hand, mechanically, absorbedly, he +told them. + +“Ach!” exclaimed Emilie sharply. + +“And how did you get here?” asked Fräulein Hesse. + +“I ran off,” he said. + +There was a dead silence. He stood, putting himself at the mercy of the +women. There came a hissing from the stove, and a stronger smell of +coffee. Emilie turned swiftly away. He saw her flat, straight back and +her strong loins, as she bent over the stove. + +“But what are you going to do?” said Fräulein Hesse, aghast. + +“I don’t know,” he said, grasping at more cherries. He had come to an +end. + +“You’d better go to the barracks,” she said. “We’ll get the Herr Baron +to come and see about it.” + +Emilie was swiftly and quietly preparing the tray. She picked it up, +and stood with the glittering china and silver before her, impassive, +waiting for his reply. Bachmann remained with his head dropped, pale +and obstinate. He could not bear to go back. + +“I’m going to try to get into France,” he said. + +“Yes, but they’ll catch you,” said Fräulein Hesse. + +Emilie watched with steady, watchful grey eyes. + +“I can have a try, if I could hide till tonight,” he said. + +Both women knew what he wanted. And they all knew it was no good. +Emilie picked up the tray, and went out. Bachmann stood with his head +dropped. Within himself he felt the dross of shame and incapacity. + +“You’d never get away,” said the governess. + +“I can try,” he said. + +Today he could not put himself between the hands of the military. Let +them do as they liked with him tomorrow, if he escaped today. + +They were silent. He ate cherries. The colour flushed bright into the +cheek of the young governess. + +Emilie returned to prepare another tray. + +“He could hide in your room,” the governess said to her. + +The girl drew herself away. She could not bear the intrusion. + +“That is all I can think of that is safe from the children,” said +Fräulein Hesse. + +Emilie gave no answer. Bachmann stood waiting for the two women. Emilie +did not want the close contact with him. + +“You could sleep with me,” Fräulein Hesse said to her. + +Emilie lifted her eyes and looked at the young man, direct, clear, +reserving herself. + +“Do you want that?” she asked, her strong virginity proof against him. + +“Yes—yes——” he said uncertainly, destroyed by shame. + +She put back her head. + +“Yes,” she murmured to herself. + +Quickly she filled the tray, and went out. + +“But you can’t walk over the frontier in a night,” said Fräulein Hesse. + +“I can cycle,” he said. + +Emilie returned, a restraint, a neutrality, in her bearing. + +“I’ll see if it’s all right,” said the governess. + +In a moment or two Bachmann was following Emilie through the square +hall, where hung large maps on the walls. He noticed a child’s blue +coat with brass buttons on the peg, and it reminded him of Emilie +walking holding the hand of the youngest child, whilst he watched, +sitting under the lime tree. Already this was a long way off. That was +a sort of freedom he had lost, changed for a new, immediate anxiety. + +They went quickly, fearfully up the stairs and down a long corridor. +Emilie opened her door, and he entered, ashamed, into her room. + +“I must go down,” she murmured, and she departed, closing the door +softly. + +It was a small, bare, neat room. There was a little dish for +holy-water, a picture of the Sacred Heart, a crucifix, and a +_prie-Dieu_. The small bed lay white and untouched, the wash-hand bowl +of red earth stood on a bare table, there was a little mirror and a +small chest of drawers. That was all. + +Feeling safe, in sanctuary, he went to the window, looking over the +courtyard at the shimmering, afternoon country. He was going to leave +this land, this life. Already he was in the unknown. + +He drew away into the room. The curious simplicity and severity of the +little Roman Catholic bedroom was foreign but restoring to him. He +looked at the crucifix. It was a long, lean, peasant Christ carved by a +peasant in the Black Forest. For the first time in his life, Bachmann +saw the figure as a human thing. It represented a man hanging there in +helpless torture. He stared at it, closely, as if for new knowledge. + +Within his own flesh burned and smouldered the restless shame. He could +not gather himself together. There was a gap in his soul. The shame +within him seemed to displace his strength and his manhood. + +He sat down on his chair. The shame, the roused feeling of exposure +acted on his brain, made him heavy, unutterably heavy. + +Mechanically, his wits all gone, he took off his boots, his belt, his +tunic, put them aside, and lay down, heavy, and fell into a kind of +drugged sleep. + +Emilie came in a little while, and looked at him. But he was sunk in +sleep. She saw him lying there inert, and terribly still, and she was +afraid. His shirt was unfastened at the throat. She saw his pure white +flesh, very clean and beautiful. And he slept inert. His legs, in the +blue uniform trousers, his feet in the coarse stockings, lay foreign on +her bed. She went away. + +III + +She was uneasy, perturbed to her last fibre. She wanted to remain +clear, with no touch on her. A wild instinct made her shrink away from +any hands which might be laid on her. + +She was a foundling, probably of some gipsy race, brought up in a Roman +Catholic Rescue Home. A naïve, paganly religious being, she was +attached to the Baroness, with whom she had served for seven years, +since she was fourteen. + +She came into contact with no one, unless it were with Ida Hesse, the +governess. Ida was a calculating, good-natured, not very +straightforward flirt. She was the daughter of a poor country doctor. +Having gradually come into connection with Emilie, more an alliance +than an attachment, she put no distinction of grade between the two of +them. They worked together, sang together, walked together, and went +together to the rooms of Franz Brand, Ida’s sweetheart. There the three +talked and laughed together, or the women listened to Franz, who was a +forester, playing on his violin. + +In all this alliance there was no personal intimacy between the young +women. Emilie was naturally secluded in herself, of a reserved, native +race. Ida used her as a kind of weight to balance her own flighty +movement. But the quick, shifty governess, occupied always in her +dealings with admirers, did all she could to move the violent nature of +Emilie towards some connection with men. + +But the dark girl, primitive yet sensitive to a high degree, was +fiercely virgin. Her blood flamed with rage when the common soldiers +made the long, sucking, kissing noise behind her as she passed. She +hated them for their almost jeering offers. She was well protected by +the Baroness. + +And her contempt of the common men in general was ineffable. But she +loved the Baroness, and she revered the Baron, and she was at her ease +when she was doing something for the service of a gentleman. Her whole +nature was at peace in the service of real masters or mistresses. For +her, a gentleman had some mystic quality that left her free and proud +in service. The common soldiers were brutes, merely nothing. Her desire +was to serve. + +She held herself aloof. When, on Sunday afternoon, she had looked +through the windows of the Reichshalle in passing, and had seen the +soldiers dancing with the common girls, a cold revulsion and anger had +possessed her. She could not bear to see the soldiers taking off their +belts and pulling open their tunics, dancing with their shirts showing +through the open, sagging tunic, their movements gross, their faces +transfigured and sweaty, their coarse hands holding their coarse girls +under the arm-pits, drawing the female up to their breasts. She hated +to see them clutched breast to breast, the legs of the men moving +grossly in the dance. + +At evening, when she had been in the garden, and heard on the other +side of the hedge the sexual inarticulate cries of the girls in the +embraces of the soldiers, her anger had been too much for her, and she +had cried, loud and cold: + +“What are you doing there, in the hedge?” + +She would have had them whipped. + +But Bachmann was not quite a common soldier. Fräulein Hesse had found +out about him, and had drawn him and Emilie together. For he was a +handsome, blond youth, erect and walking with a kind of pride, +unconscious yet clear. Moreover, he came of a rich farming stock, rich +for many generations. His father was dead, his mother controlled the +moneys for the time being. But if Bachmann wanted a hundred pounds at +any moment, he could have them. By trade he, with one of his brothers, +was a waggon-builder. The family had the farming, smithy, and +waggon-building of their village. They worked because that was the form +of life they knew. If they had chosen, they could have lived +independent upon their means. + +In this way, he was a gentleman in sensibility, though his intellect +was not developed. He could afford to pay freely for things. He had, +moreover, his native, fine breeding. Emilie wavered uncertainly before +him. So he became her sweetheart, and she hungered after him. But she +was virgin, and shy, and needed to be in subjection, because she was +primitive and had no grasp on civilized forms of living, nor on +civilized purposes. + +IV + +At six o’clock came the inquiry of the soldiers: Had anything been seen +of Bachmann? Fräulein Hesse answered, pleased to be playing a rôle: + +“No, I’ve not seen him since Sunday—have you, Emilie?” + +“No, I haven’t seen him,” said Emilie, and her awkwardness was +construed as bashfulness. Ida Hesse, stimulated, asked questions, and +played her part. + +“But it hasn’t killed Sergeant Huber?” she cried in consternation. + +“No. He fell into the water. But it gave him a bad shock, and smashed +his foot on the side of the moat. He’s in hospital. It’s a bad look-out +for Bachmann.” + +Emilie, implicated and captive, stood looking on. She was no longer +free, working with all this regulated system which she could not +understand and which was almost god-like to her. She was put out of her +place. Bachmann was in her room, she was no longer the faithful in +service serving with religious surety. + +Her situation was intolerable to her. All evening long the burden was +upon her, she could not live. The children must be fed and put to +sleep. The Baron and Baroness were going out, she must give them light +refreshment. The man-servant was coming in to supper after returning +with the carriage. And all the while she had the insupportable feeling +of being out of the order, self-responsible, bewildered. The control of +her life should come from those above her, and she should move within +that control. But now she was out of it, uncontrolled and troubled. +More than that, the man, the lover, Bachmann, who was he, what was he? +He alone of all men contained for her the unknown quantity which +terrified her beyond her service. Oh, she had wanted him as a distant +sweetheart, not close, like this, casting her out of her world. + +When the Baron and Baroness had departed, and the young man-servant had +gone out to enjoy himself, she went upstairs to Bachmann. He had +wakened up, and sat dimly in the room. Out in the open he heard the +soldiers, his comrades, singing the sentimental songs of the nightfall, +the drone of the concertina rising in accompaniment. + +“Wenn ich zu mei...nem Kinde geh’... +In seinem Au...g die Mutter seh’...” + + +But he himself was removed from it now. Only the sentimental cry of +young, unsatisfied desire in the soldiers’ singing penetrated his blood +and stirred him subtly. He let his head hang; he had become gradually +roused: and he waited in concentration, in another world. + +The moment she entered the room where the man sat alone, waiting +intensely, the thrill passed through her, she died in terror, and after +the death, a great flame gushed up, obliterating her. He sat in +trousers and shirt on the side of the bed. He looked up as she came in, +and she shrank from his face. She could not bear it. Yet she entered +near to him. + +“Do you want anything to eat?” she said. + +“Yes,” he answered, and as she stood in the twilight of the room with +him, he could only hear his heart beat heavily. He saw her apron just +level with his face. She stood silent, a little distance off, as if she +would be there for ever. He suffered. + +As if in a spell she waited, standing motionless and looming there, he +sat rather crouching on the side of the bed. A second will in him was +powerful and dominating. She drew gradually nearer to him, coming up +slowly, as if unconscious. His heart beat up swiftly. He was going to +move. + +As she came quite close, almost invisibly he lifted his arms and put +them round her waist, drawing her with his will and desire. He buried +his face into her apron, into the terrible softness of her belly. And +he was a flame of passion intense about her. He had forgotten. Shame +and memory were gone in a whole, furious flame of passion. + +She was quite helpless. Her hands leapt, fluttered, and closed over his +head, pressing it deeper into her belly, vibrating as she did so. And +his arms tightened on her, his hands spread over her loins, warm as +flame on her loveliness. It was intense anguish of bliss for her, and +she lost consciousness. + +When she recovered, she lay translated in the peace of satisfaction. + +It was what she had had no inkling of, never known could be. She was +strong with eternal gratitude. And he was there with her. Instinctively +with an instinct of reverence and gratitude, her arms tightened in a +little embrace upon him who held her thoroughly embraced. + +And he was restored and completed, close to her. That little, +twitching, momentary clasp of acknowledgment that she gave him in her +satisfaction, roused his pride unconquerable. They loved each other, +and all was whole. She loved him, he had taken her, she was given to +him. It was right. He was given to her, and they were one, complete. + +Warm, with a glow in their hearts and faces, they rose again, modest, +but transfigured with happiness. + +“I will get you something to eat,” she said, and in joy and security of +service again, she left him, making a curious little homage of +departure. He sat on the side of the bed, escaped, liberated, +wondering, and happy. + +V + +Soon she came again with the tray, followed by Fräulein Hesse. The two +women watched him eat, watched the pride and wonder of his being, as he +sat there blond and naïf again. Emilie felt rich and complete. Ida was +a lesser thing than herself. + +“And what are you going to do?” asked Fräulein Hesse, jealous. + +“I must get away,” he said. + +But words had no meaning for him. What did it matter? He had the inner +satisfaction and liberty. + +“But you’ll want a bicycle,” said Ida Hesse. + +“Yes,” he said. + +Emilie sat silent, removed and yet with him, connected with him in +passion. She looked from this talk of bicycles and escape. + +They discussed plans. But in two of them was the one will, that +Bachmann should stay with Emilie. Ida Hesse was an outsider. + +It was arranged, however, that Ida’s lover should put out his bicycle, +leave it at the hut where he sometimes watched. Bachmann should fetch +it in the night, and ride into France. The hearts of all three beat hot +in suspense, driven to thought. They sat in a fire of agitation. + +Then Bachmann would get away to America, and Emilie would come and join +him. They would be in a fine land then. The tale burned up again. + +Emilie and Ida had to go round to Franz Brand’s lodging. They departed +with slight leave-taking. Bachmann sat in the dark, hearing the bugle +for retreat sound out of the night. Then he remembered his post card to +his mother. He slipped out after Emilie, gave it her to post. His +manner was careless and victorious, hers shining and trustful. He +slipped back to shelter. + +There he sat on the side of the bed, thinking. Again he went over the +events of the afternoon, remembering his own anguish of apprehension +because he had known he could not climb the wall without fainting with +fear. Still, a flush of shame came alight in him at the memory. But he +said to himself: “What does it matter?—I can’t help it, well then I +can’t. If I go up a height, I get absolutely weak, and can’t help +myself.” Again memory came over him, and a gush of shame, like fire. +But he sat and endured it. It had to be endured, admitted, and +accepted. “I’m not a coward, for all that,” he continued. “I’m not +afraid of danger. If I’m made that way, that heights melt me and make +me let go my water”—it was torture for him to pluck at this truth—“if +I’m made like that, I shall have to abide by it, that’s all. It isn’t +all of me.” He thought of Emilie, and was satisfied. “What I am, I am; +and let it be enough,” he thought. + +Having accepted his own defect, he sat thinking, waiting for Emilie, to +tell her. She came at length, saying that Franz could not arrange about +his bicycle this night. It was broken. Bachmann would have to stay over +another day. + +They were both happy. Emilie, confused before Ida, who was excited and +prurient, came again to the young man. She was stiff and dignified with +an agony of unusedness. But he took her between his hands, and +uncovered her, and enjoyed almost like madness her helpless, virgin +body that suffered so strongly, and that took its joy so deeply. While +the moisture of torment and modesty was still in her eyes, she clasped +him closer, and closer, to the victory and the deep satisfaction of +both of them. And they slept together, he in repose still satisfied and +peaceful, and she lying close in her static reality. + +VI + +In the morning, when the bugle sounded from the barracks they rose and +looked out of the window. She loved his body that was proud and blond +and able to take command. And he loved her body that was soft and +eternal. They looked at the faint grey vapour of summer steaming off +from the greenness and ripeness of the fields. There was no town +anywhere, their look ended in the haze of the summer morning. Their +bodies rested together, their minds tranquil. Then a little anxiety +stirred in both of them from the sound of the bugle. She was called +back to her old position, to realize the world of authority she did not +understand but had wanted to serve. But this call died away again from +her. She had all. + +She went downstairs to her work, curiously changed. She was in a new +world of her own, that she had never even imagined, and which was the +land of promise for all that. In this she moved and had her being. And +she extended it to her duties. She was curiously happy and absorbed. +She had not to strive out of herself to do her work. The doing came +from within her without call or command. It was a delicious outflow, +like sunshine, the activity that flowed from her and put her tasks to +rights. + +Bachmann sat busily thinking. He would have to get all his plans ready. +He must write to his mother, and she must send him money to Paris. He +would go to Paris, and from thence, quickly, to America. It had to be +done. He must make all preparations. The dangerous part was the getting +into France. He thrilled in anticipation. During the day he would need +a time-table of the trains going to Paris—he would need to think. It +gave him delicious pleasure, using all his wits. It seemed such an +adventure. + +This one day, and he would escape then into freedom. What an agony of +need he had for absolute, imperious freedom. He had won to his own +being, in himself and Emilie, he had drawn the stigma from his shame, +he was beginning to be himself. And now he wanted madly to be free to +go on. A home, his work, and absolute freedom to move and to be, in +her, with her, this was his passionate desire. He thought in a kind of +ecstasy, living an hour of painful intensity. + +Suddenly he heard voices, and a tramping of feet. His heart gave a +great leap, then went still. He was taken. He had known all along. A +complete silence filled his body and soul, a silence like death, a +suspension of life and sound. He stood motionless in the bedroom, in +perfect suspension. + +Emilie was busy passing swiftly about the kitchen preparing the +children’s breakfasts when she heard the tramp of feet and the voice of +the Baron. The latter had come in from the garden, and was wearing an +old green linen suit. He was a man of middle stature, quick, finely +made, and of whimsical charm. His right hand had been shot in the +Franco-Prussian war, and now, as always when he was much agitated, he +shook it down at his side, as if it hurt. He was talking rapidly to a +young, stiff Ober-leutnant. Two private soldiers stood bearishly in the +doorway. + +Emilie, shocked out of herself, stood pale and erect, recoiling. + +“Yes, if you think so, we can look,” the Baron was hastily and +irascibly saying. + +“Emilie,” he said, turning to the girl, “did you put a post card to the +mother of this Bachmann in the box last evening?” + +Emilie stood erect and did not answer. + +“Yes?” said the Baron sharply. + +“Yes, Herr Baron,” replied Emilie, neutral. + +The Baron’s wounded hand shook rapidly in exasperation. The lieutenant +drew himself up still more stiffly. He was right. + +“And do you know anything of the fellow?” asked the Baron, looking at +her with his blazing, greyish-golden eyes. The girl looked back at him +steadily, dumb, but her whole soul naked before him. For two seconds he +looked at her in silence. Then in silence, ashamed and furious, he +turned away. + +“Go up!” he said, with his fierce, peremptory command, to the young +officer. + +The lieutenant gave his order, in military cold confidence, to the +soldiers. They all tramped across the hall. Emilie stood motionless, +her life suspended. + +The Baron marched swiftly upstairs and down the corridor, the +lieutenant and the common soldiers followed. The Baron flung open the +door of Emilie’s room and looked at Bachmann, who stood watching, +standing in shirt and trousers beside the bed, fronting the door. He +was perfectly still. His eyes met the furious, blazing look of the +Baron. The latter shook his wounded hand, and then went still. He +looked into the eyes of the soldier, steadily. He saw the same naked +soul exposed, as if he looked really into the _man_. And the man was +helpless, the more helpless for his singular nakedness. + +“Ha!” he exclaimed impatiently, turning to the approaching lieutenant. + +The latter appeared in the doorway. Quickly his eyes travelled over the +bare-footed youth. He recognized him as his object. He gave the brief +command to dress. + +Bachmann turned round for his clothes. He was very still, silent in +himself. He was in an abstract, motionless world. That the two +gentlemen and the two soldiers stood watching him, he scarcely +realized. They could not see him. + +Soon he was ready. He stood at attention. But only the shell of his +body was at attention. A curious silence, a blankness, like something +eternal, possessed him. He remained true to himself. + +The lieutenant gave the order to march. The little procession went down +the stairs with careful, respectful tread, and passed through the hall +to the kitchen. There Emilie stood with her face uplifted, motionless +and expressionless. Bachmann did not look at her. They knew each other. +They were themselves. Then the little file of men passed out into the +courtyard. + +The Baron stood in the doorway watching the four figures in uniform +pass through the chequered shadow under the lime trees. Bachmann was +walking neutralized, as if he were not there. The lieutenant went +brittle and long, the two soldiers lumbered beside. They passed out +into the sunny morning, growing smaller, going towards the barracks. + +The Baron turned into the kitchen. Emilie was cutting bread. + +“So he stayed the night here?” he said. + +The girl looked at him, scarcely seeing. She was too much herself. The +Baron saw the dark, naked soul of her body in her unseeing eyes. + +“What were you going to do?” he asked. + +“He was going to America,” she replied, in a still voice. + +“Pah! You should have sent him straight back,” fired the Baron. + +Emilie stood at his bidding, untouched. + +“He’s done for now,” he said. + +But he could not bear the dark, deep nakedness of her eyes, that +scarcely changed under this suffering. + +“Nothing but a fool,” he repeated, going away in agitation, and +preparing himself for what he could do. + + + +Daughters of the Vicar + +I + +Mr Lindley was first vicar of Aldecross. The cottages of this tiny +hamlet had nestled in peace since their beginning, and the country folk +had crossed the lanes and farm-lands, two or three miles, to the parish +church at Greymeed, on the bright Sunday mornings. + +But when the pits were sunk, blank rows of dwellings started up beside +the high roads, and a new population, skimmed from the floating scum of +workmen, was filled in, the cottages and the country people almost +obliterated. + +To suit the convenience of these new collier-inhabitants, a church must +be built at Aldecross. There was not too much money. And so the little +building crouched like a humped stone-and-mortar mouse, with two little +turrets at the west corners for ears, in the fields near the cottages +and the apple trees, as far as possible from the dwellings down the +high road. It had an uncertain, timid look about it. And so they +planted big-leaved ivy, to hide its shrinking newness. So that now the +little church stands buried in its greenery, stranded and sleeping +among the fields, while the brick houses elbow nearer and nearer, +threatening to crush it down. It is already obsolete. + +The Reverend Ernest Lindley, aged twenty-seven, and newly married, came +from his curacy in Suffolk to take charge of his church. He was just an +ordinary young man, who had been to Cambridge and taken orders. His +wife was a self-assured young woman, daughter of a Cambridgeshire +rector. Her father had spent the whole of his thousand a year, so that +Mrs Lindley had nothing of her own. Thus the young married people came +to Aldecross to live on a stipend of about a hundred and twenty pounds, +and to keep up a superior position. + +They were not very well received by the new, raw, disaffected +population of colliers. Being accustomed to farm labourers, Mr Lindley +had considered himself as belonging indisputably to the upper or +ordering classes. He had to be humble to the county families, but +still, he was of their kind, whilst the common people were something +different. He had no doubts of himself. + +He found, however, that the collier population refused to accept this +arrangement. They had no use for him in their lives, and they told him +so, callously. The women merely said, “they were throng,” or else, “Oh, +it’s no good you coming here, we’re Chapel.” The men were quite +good-humoured so long as he did not touch them too nigh, they were +cheerfully contemptuous of him, with a preconceived contempt he was +powerless against. + +At last, passing from indignation to silent resentment, even, if he +dared have acknowledged it, to conscious hatred of the majority of his +flock, and unconscious hatred of himself, he confined his activities to +a narrow round of cottages, and he had to submit. He had no particular +character, having always depended on his position in society to give +him position among men. Now he was so poor, he had no social standing +even among the common vulgar tradespeople of the district, and he had +not the nature nor the wish to make his society agreeable to them, nor +the strength to impose himself where he would have liked to be +recognized. He dragged on, pale and miserable and neutral. + +At first his wife raged with mortification. She took on airs and used a +high hand. But her income was too small, the wrestling with tradesmen’s +bills was too pitiful, she only met with general, callous ridicule when +she tried to be impressive. + +Wounded to the quick of her pride, she found herself isolated in an +indifferent, callous population. She raged indoors and out. But soon +she learned that she must pay too heavily for her outdoor rages, and +then she only raged within the walls of the rectory. There her feeling +was so strong, that she frightened herself. She saw herself hating her +husband, and she knew that, unless she were careful, she would smash +her form of life and bring catastrophe upon him and upon herself. So in +very fear, she went quiet. She hid, bitter and beaten by fear, behind +the only shelter she had in the world, her gloomy, poor parsonage. + +Children were born one every year; almost mechanically, she continued +to perform her maternal duty, which was forced upon her. Gradually, +broken by the suppressing of her violent anger and misery and disgust, +she became an invalid and took to her couch. + +The children grew up healthy, but unwarmed and rather rigid. Their +father and mother educated them at home, made them very proud and very +genteel, put them definitely and cruelly in the upper classes, apart +from the vulgar around them. So they lived quite isolated. They were +good-looking, and had that curiously clean, semi-transparent look of +the genteel, isolated poor. + +Gradually Mr and Mrs Lindley lost all hold on life, and spent their +hours, weeks and years merely haggling to make ends meet, and bitterly +repressing and pruning their children into gentility, urging them to +ambition, weighting them with duty. On Sunday morning the whole family, +except the mother, went down the lane to church, the long-legged girls +in skimpy frocks, the boys in black coats and long, grey, unfitting +trousers. They passed by their father’s parishioners with mute, clear +faces, childish mouths closed in pride that was like a doom to them, +and childish eyes already unseeing. Miss Mary, the eldest, was the +leader. She was a long, slim thing with a fine profile and a proud, +pure look of submission to a high fate. Miss Louisa, the second, was +short and plump and obstinate-looking. She had more enemies than +ideals. She looked after the lesser children, Miss Mary after the +elder. The collier children watched this pale, distinguished procession +of the vicar’s family pass mutely by, and they were impressed by the +air of gentility and distance, they made mock of the trousers of the +small sons, they felt inferior in themselves, and hate stirred their +hearts. + +In her time, Miss Mary received as governess a few little daughters of +tradesmen; Miss Louisa managed the house and went among her father’s +church-goers, giving lessons on the piano to the colliers’ daughters at +thirteen shillings for twenty-six lessons. + +II + +One winter morning, when his daughter Mary was about twenty years old, +Mr Lindley, a thin, unobtrusive figure in his black overcoat and his +wideawake, went down into Aldecross with a packet of white papers under +his arm. He was delivering the parish almanacs. + +A rather pale, neutral man of middle age, he waited while the train +thumped over the level-crossing, going up to the pit which rattled +busily just along the line. A wooden-legged man hobbled to open the +gate, Mr Lindley passed on. Just at his left hand, below the road and +the railway, was the red roof of a cottage, showing through the bare +twigs of apple trees. Mr Lindley passed round the low wall, and +descended the worn steps that led from the highway down to the cottage +which crouched darkly and quietly away below the rumble of passing +trains and the clank of coal-carts in a quiet little under-world of its +own. Snowdrops with tight-shut buds were hanging very still under the +bare currant bushes. + +The clergyman was just going to knock when he heard a clinking noise, +and turning saw through the open door of a black shed just behind him +an elderly woman in a black lace cap stooping among reddish big cans, +pouring a very bright liquid into a tundish. There was a smell of +paraffin. The woman put down her can, took the tundish and laid it on a +shelf, then rose with a tin bottle. Her eyes met those of the +clergyman. + +“Oh, is it you, Mr Lin’ley!” she said, in a complaining tone. “Go in.” + +The minister entered the house. In the hot kitchen sat a big, elderly +man with a great grey beard, taking snuff. He grunted in a deep, +muttering voice, telling the minister to sit down, and then took no +more notice of him, but stared vacantly into the fire. Mr Lindley +waited. + +The woman came in, the ribbons of her black lace cap, or bonnet, +hanging on her shawl. She was of medium stature, everything about her +was tidy. She went up a step out of the kitchen, carrying the paraffin +tin. Feet were heard entering the room up the step. It was a little +haberdashery shop, with parcels on the shelves of the walls, a big, +old-fashioned sewing machine with tailor’s work lying round it, in the +open space. The woman went behind the counter, gave the child who had +entered the paraffin bottle, and took from her a jug. + +“My mother says shall yer put it down,” said the child, and she was +gone. The woman wrote in a book, then came into the kitchen with her +jug. The husband, a very large man, rose and brought more coal to the +already hot fire. He moved slowly and sluggishly. Already he was going +dead; being a tailor, his large form had become an encumbrance to him. +In his youth he had been a great dancer and boxer. Now he was taciturn, +and inert. The minister had nothing to say, so he sought for his +phrases. But John Durant took no notice, existing silent and dull. + +Mrs Durant spread the cloth. Her husband poured himself beer into a +mug, and began to smoke and drink. + +“Shall you have some?” he growled through his beard at the clergyman, +looking slowly from the man to the jug, capable of this one idea. + +“No, thank you,” replied Mr Lindley, though he would have liked some +beer. He must set the example in a drinking parish. + +“We need a drop to keep us going,” said Mrs Durant. + +She had rather a complaining manner. The clergyman sat on uncomfortably +while she laid the table for the half-past ten lunch. Her husband drew +up to eat. She remained in her little round armchair by the fire. + +She was a woman who would have liked to be easy in her life, but to +whose lot had fallen a rough and turbulent family, and a slothful +husband who did not care what became of himself or anybody. So, her +rather good-looking square face was peevish, she had that air of having +been compelled all her life to serve unwillingly, and to control where +she did not want to control. There was about her, too, that masterful +_aplomb_ of a woman who has brought up and ruled her sons: but even +them she had ruled unwillingly. She had enjoyed managing her little +haberdashery-shop, riding in the carrier’s cart to Nottingham, going +through the big warehouses to buy her goods. But the fret of managing +her sons she did not like. Only she loved her youngest boy, because he +was her last, and she saw herself free. + +This was one of the houses the clergyman visited occasionally. Mrs +Durant, as part of her regulation, had brought up all her sons in the +Church. Not that she had any religion. Only, it was what she was used +to. Mr Durant was without religion. He read the fervently evangelical +_Life of John Wesley_ with a curious pleasure, getting from it a +satisfaction as from the warmth of the fire, or a glass of brandy. But +he cared no more about John Wesley, in fact, than about John Milton, of +whom he had never heard. + +Mrs Durant took her chair to the table. + +“I don’t feel like eating,” she sighed. + +“Why—aren’t you well?” asked the clergyman, patronizing. + +“It isn’t that,” she sighed. She sat with shut, straight mouth. “I +don’t know what’s going to become of us.” + +But the clergyman had ground himself down so long, that he could not +easily sympathize. + +“Have you any trouble?” he asked. + +“Ay, have I any trouble!” cried the elderly woman. “I shall end my days +in the workhouse.” + +The minister waited unmoved. What could she know of poverty, in her +little house of plenty! + +“I hope not,” he said. + +“And the one lad as I wanted to keep by me——” she lamented. + +The minister listened without sympathy, quite neutral. + +“And the lad as would have been a support to my old age! What is going +to become of us?” she said. + +The clergyman, justly, did not believe in the cry of poverty, but +wondered what had become of the son. + +“Has anything happened to Alfred?” he asked. + +“We’ve got word he’s gone for a Queen’s sailor,” she said sharply. + +“He has joined the Navy!” exclaimed Mr Lindley. “I think he could +scarcely have done better—to serve his Queen and country on the +sea....” + +“He is wanted to serve _me_,” she cried. “And I wanted my lad at home.” + +Alfred was her baby, her last, whom she had allowed herself the luxury +of spoiling. + +“You will miss him,” said Mr Lindley, “that is certain. But this is no +regrettable step for him to have taken—on the contrary.” + +“That’s easy for you to say, Mr Lindley,” she replied tartly. “Do you +think I want my lad climbing ropes at another man’s bidding, like a +monkey——?” + +“There is no _dishonour_, surely, in serving in the Navy?” + +“Dishonour this dishonour that,” cried the angry old woman. “He goes +and makes a slave of himself, and he’ll rue it.” + +Her angry, scornful impatience nettled the clergyman and silenced him +for some moments. + +“I do not see,” he retorted at last, white at the gills and inadequate, +“that the Queen’s service is any more to be called slavery than working +in a mine.” + +“At home he was at home, and his own master. _I_ know he’ll find a +difference.” + +“It may be the making of him,” said the clergyman. “It will take him +away from bad companionship and drink.” + +Some of the Durants’ sons were notorious drinkers, and Alfred was not +quite steady. + +“And why indeed shouldn’t he have his glass?” cried the mother. “He +picks no man’s pocket to pay for it!” + +The clergyman stiffened at what he thought was an allusion to his own +profession, and his unpaid bills. + +“With all due consideration, I am glad to hear he has joined the Navy,” +he said. + +“Me with my old age coming on, and his father working very little! I’d +thank you to be glad about something else besides that, Mr Lindley.” + +The woman began to cry. Her husband, quite impassive, finished his +lunch of meat-pie, and drank some beer. Then he turned to the fire, as +if there were no one in the room but himself. + +“I shall respect all men who serve God and their country on the sea, +Mrs Durant,” said the clergyman stubbornly. + +“That is very well, when they’re not your sons who are doing the dirty +work. It makes a difference,” she replied tartly. + +“I should be proud if one of my sons were to enter the Navy.” + +“Ay—well—we’re not all of us made alike——” + +The minister rose. He put down a large folded paper. + +“I’ve brought the almanac,” he said. + +Mrs Durant unfolded it. + +“I do like a bit of colour in things,” she said, petulantly. + +The clergyman did not reply. + +“There’s that envelope for the organist’s fund——” said the old woman, +and rising, she took the thing from the mantelpiece, went into the +shop, and returned sealing it up. + +“Which is all I can afford,” she said. + +Mr Lindley took his departure, in his pocket the envelope containing +Mrs Durant’s offering for Miss Louisa’s services. He went from door to +door delivering the almanacs, in dull routine. Jaded with the monotony +of the business, and with the repeated effort of greeting half-known +people, he felt barren and rather irritable. At last he returned home. + +In the dining-room was a small fire. Mrs Lindley, growing very stout, +lay on her couch. The vicar carved the cold mutton; Miss Louisa, short +and plump and rather flushed, came in from the kitchen; Miss Mary, +dark, with a beautiful white brow and grey eyes, served the vegetables; +the children chattered a little, but not exuberantly. The very air +seemed starved. + +“I went to the Durants,” said the vicar, as he served out small +portions of mutton; “it appears Alfred has run away to join the Navy.” + +“Do him good,” came the rough voice of the invalid. + +Miss Louisa, attending to the youngest child, looked up in protest. + +“Why has he done that?” asked Mary’s low, musical voice. + +“He wanted some excitement, I suppose,” said the vicar. “Shall we say +grace?” + +The children were arranged, all bent their heads, grace was pronounced, +at the last word every face was being raised to go on with the +interesting subject. + +“He’s just done the right thing, for once,” came the rather deep voice +of the mother; “save him from becoming a drunken sot, like the rest of +them.” + +“They’re not _all_ drunken, mama,” said Miss Louisa, stubbornly. + +“It’s no fault of their upbringing if they’re not. Walter Durant is a +standing disgrace.” + +“As I told Mrs Durant,” said the vicar, eating hungrily, “it is the +best thing he could have done. It will take him away from temptation +during the most dangerous years of his life—how old is he—nineteen?” + +“Twenty,” said Miss Louisa. + +“Twenty!” repeated the vicar. “It will give him wholesome discipline +and set before him some sort of standard of duty and honour—nothing +could have been better for him. But——” + +“We shall miss him from the choir,” said Miss Louisa, as if taking +opposite sides to her parents. + +“That is as it may be,” said the vicar. “I prefer to know he is safe in +the Navy, than running the risk of getting into bad ways here.” + +“Was he getting into bad ways?” asked the stubborn Miss Louisa. + +“You know, Louisa, he wasn’t quite what he used to be,” said Miss Mary +gently and steadily. Miss Louisa shut her rather heavy jaw sulkily. She +wanted to deny it, but she knew it was true. + +For her he had been a laughing, warm lad, with something kindly and +something rich about him. He had made her feel warm. It seemed the days +would be colder since he had gone. + +“Quite the best thing he could do,” said the mother with emphasis. + +“I think so,” said the vicar. “But his mother was almost abusive +because I suggested it.” + +He spoke in an injured tone. + +“What does she care for her children’s welfare?” said the invalid. +“Their wages is all her concern.” + +“I suppose she wanted him at home with her,” said Miss Louisa. + +“Yes, she did—at the expense of his learning to be a drunkard like the +rest of them,” retorted her mother. + +“George Durant doesn’t drink,” defended her daughter. + +“Because he got burned so badly when he was nineteen—in the pit—and +that frightened him. The Navy is a better remedy than that, at least.” + +“Certainly,” said the vicar. “Certainly.” + +And to this Miss Louisa agreed. Yet she could not but feel angry that +he had gone away for so many years. She herself was only nineteen. + +III + +It happened when Miss Mary was twenty-three years old, that Mr Lindley +was very ill. The family was exceedingly poor at the time, such a lot +of money was needed, so little was forthcoming. Neither Miss Mary nor +Miss Louisa had suitors. What chance had they? They met no eligible +young men in Aldecross. And what they earned was a mere drop in a void. +The girls’ hearts were chilled and hardened with fear of this +perpetual, cold penury, this narrow struggle, this horrible nothingness +of their lives. + +A clergyman had to be found for the church work. It so happened the son +of an old friend of Mr Lindley’s was waiting three months before taking +up his duties. He would come and officiate, for nothing. The young +clergyman was keenly expected. He was not more than twenty-seven, a +Master of Arts of Oxford, had written his thesis on Roman Law. He came +of an old Cambridgeshire family, had some private means, was going to +take a church in Northamptonshire with a good stipend, and was not +married. Mrs Lindley incurred new debts, and scarcely regretted her +husband’s illness. + +But when Mr Massy came, there was a shock of disappointment in the +house. They had expected a young man with a pipe and a deep voice, but +with better manners than Sidney, the eldest of the Lindleys. There +arrived instead a small, chétif man, scarcely larger than a boy of +twelve, spectacled, timid in the extreme, without a word to utter at +first; yet with a certain inhuman self-sureness. + +“What a little abortion!” was Mrs Lindley’s exclamation to herself on +first seeing him, in his buttoned-up clerical coat. And for the first +time for many days, she was profoundly thankful to God that all her +children were decent specimens. + +He had not normal powers of perception. They soon saw that he lacked +the full range of human feelings, but had rather a strong, +philosophical mind, from which he lived. His body was almost +unthinkable, in intellect he was something definite. The conversation +at once took a balanced, abstract tone when he participated. There was +no spontaneous exclamation, no violent assertion or expression of +personal conviction, but all cold, reasonable assertion. This was very +hard on Mrs Lindley. The little man would look at her, after one of her +pronouncements, and then give, in his thin voice, his own calculated +version, so that she felt as if she were tumbling into thin air through +a hole in the flimsy floor on which their conversation stood. It was +she who felt a fool. Soon she was reduced to a hardy silence. + +Still, at the back of her mind, she remembered that he was an +unattached gentleman, who would shortly have an income altogether of +six or seven hundred a year. What did the man matter, if there were +pecuniary ease! The man was a trifle thrown in. After twenty-two years +her sentimentality was ground away, and only the millstone of poverty +mattered to her. So she supported the little man as a representative of +a decent income. + +His most irritating habit was that of a sneering little giggle, all on +his own, which came when he perceived or related some illogical +absurdity on the part of another person. It was the only form of humour +he had. Stupidity in thinking seemed to him exquisitely funny. But any +novel was unintelligibly meaningless and dull, and to an Irish sort of +humour he listened curiously, examining it like mathematics, or else +simply not hearing. In normal human relationship he was not there. +Quite unable to take part in simple everyday talk, he padded silently +round the house, or sat in the dining-room looking nervously from side +to side, always apart in a cold, rarefied little world of his own. +Sometimes he made an ironic remark, that did not seem humanly relevant, +or he gave his little laugh, like a sneer. He had to defend himself and +his own insufficiency. And he answered questions grudgingly, with a yes +or no, because he did not see their import and was nervous. It seemed +to Miss Louisa he scarcely distinguished one person from another, but +that he liked to be near her, or to Miss Mary, for some sort of contact +which stimulated him unknown. + +Apart from all this, he was the most admirable workman. He was +unremittingly shy, but perfect in his sense of duty: as far as he could +conceive Christianity, he was a perfect Christian. Nothing that he +realized he could do for anyone did he leave undone, although he was so +incapable of coming into contact with another being, that he could not +proffer help. Now he attended assiduously to the sick man, investigated +all the affairs of the parish or the church which Mr Lindley had in +control, straightened out accounts, made lists of the sick and needy, +padded round with help and to see what he could do. He heard of Mrs +Lindley’s anxiety about her sons, and began to investigate means of +sending them to Cambridge. His kindness almost frightened Miss Mary. +She honoured it so, and yet she shrank from it. For, in it all Mr Massy +seemed to have no sense of any person, any human being whom he was +helping: he only realized a kind of mathematical working out, solving +of given situations, a calculated well-doing. And it was as if he had +accepted the Christian tenets as axioms. His religion consisted in what +his scrupulous, abstract mind approved of. + +Seeing his acts, Miss Mary must respect and honour him. In consequence +she must serve him. To this she had to force herself, shuddering and +yet desirous, but he did not perceive it. She accompanied him on his +visiting in the parish, and whilst she was cold with admiration for +him, often she was touched with pity for the little padding figure with +bent shoulders, buttoned up to the chin in his overcoat. She was a +handsome, calm girl, tall, with a beautiful repose. Her clothes were +poor, and she wore a black silk scarf, having no furs. But she was a +lady. As the people saw her walking down Aldecross beside Mr Massy, +they said: + +“My word, Miss Mary’s got a catch. Did ever you see such a sickly +little shrimp!” + +She knew they were talking so, and it made her heart grow hot against +them, and she drew herself as it were protectively towards the little +man beside her. At any rate, she could see and give honour to his +genuine goodness. + +He could not walk fast, or far. + +“You have not been well?” she asked, in her dignified way. + +“I have an internal trouble.” + +He was not aware of her slight shudder. There was silence, whilst she +bowed to recover her composure, to resume her gentle manner towards +him. + +He was fond of Miss Mary. She had made it a rule of hospitality that he +should always be escorted by herself or by her sister on his visits in +the parish, which were not many. But some mornings she was engaged. +Then Miss Louisa took her place. It was no good Miss Louisa’s trying to +adopt to Mr Massy an attitude of queenly service. She was unable to +regard him save with aversion. When she saw him from behind, thin and +bent-shouldered, looking like a sickly lad of thirteen, she disliked +him exceedingly, and felt a desire to put him out of existence. And yet +a deeper justice in Mary made Louisa humble before her sister. + +They were going to see Mr Durant, who was paralysed and not expected to +live. Miss Louisa was crudely ashamed at being admitted to the cottage +in company with the little clergyman. + +Mrs Durant was, however, much quieter in the face of her real trouble. + +“How is Mr Durant?” asked Louisa. + +“He is no different—and we don’t expect him to be,” was the reply. The +little clergyman stood looking on. + +They went upstairs. The three stood for some time looking at the bed, +at the grey head of the old man on the pillow, the grey beard over the +sheet. Miss Louisa was shocked and afraid. + +“It is so dreadful,” she said, with a shudder. + +“It is how I always thought it would be,” replied Mrs Durant. + +Then Miss Louisa was afraid of her. The two women were uneasy, waiting +for Mr Massy to say something. He stood, small and bent, too nervous to +speak. + +“Has he any understanding?” he asked at length. + +“Maybe,” said Mrs Durant. “Can you hear, John?” she asked loudly. The +dull blue eye of the inert man looked at her feebly. + +“Yes, he understands,” said Mrs Durant to Mr Massy. Except for the dull +look in his eyes, the sick man lay as if dead. The three stood in +silence. Miss Louisa was obstinate but heavy-hearted under the load of +unlivingness. It was Mr Massy who kept her there in discipline. His +non-human will dominated them all. + +Then they heard a sound below, a man’s footsteps, and a man’s voice +called subduedly: + +“Are you upstairs, mother?” + +Mrs Durant started and moved to the door. But already a quick, firm +step was running up the stairs. + +“I’m a bit early, mother,” a troubled voice said, and on the landing +they saw the form of the sailor. His mother came and clung to him. She +was suddenly aware that she needed something to hold on to. He put his +arms round her, and bent over her, kissing her. + +“He’s not gone, mother?” he asked anxiously, struggling to control his +voice. + +Miss Louisa looked away from the mother and son who stood together in +the gloom on the landing. She could not bear it that she and Mr Massy +should be there. The latter stood nervously, as if ill at ease before +the emotion that was running. He was a witness, nervous, unwilling, but +dispassionate. To Miss Louisa’s hot heart it seemed all, all wrong that +they should be there. + +Mrs Durant entered the bedroom, her face wet. + +“There’s Miss Louisa and the vicar,” she said, out of voice and +quavering. + +Her son, red-faced and slender, drew himself up to salute. But Miss +Louisa held out her hand. Then she saw his hazel eyes recognize her for +a moment, and his small white teeth showed in a glimpse of the greeting +she used to love. She was covered with confusion. He went round to the +bed; his boots clicked on the plaster floor, he bowed his head with +dignity. + +“How are you, dad?” he said, laying his hand on the sheet, faltering. +But the old man stared fixedly and unseeing. The son stood perfectly +still for a few minutes, then slowly recoiled. Miss Louisa saw the fine +outline of his breast, under the sailor’s blue blouse, as his chest +began to heave. + +“He doesn’t know me,” he said, turning to his mother. He gradually went +white. + +“No, my boy!” cried the mother, pitiful, lifting her face. And suddenly +she put her face against his shoulder, he was stooping down to her, +holding her against him, and she cried aloud for a moment or two. Miss +Louisa saw his sides heaving, and heard the sharp hiss of his breath. +She turned away, tears streaming down her face. The father lay inert +upon the white bed, Mr Massy looked queer and obliterated, so little +now that the sailor with his sunburned skin was in the room. He stood +waiting. Miss Louisa wanted to die, she wanted to have done. She dared +not turn round again to look. + +“Shall I offer a prayer?” came the frail voice of the clergyman, and +all kneeled down. + +Miss Louisa was frightened of the inert man upon the bed. Then she felt +a flash of fear of Mr Massy, hearing his thin, detached voice. And +then, calmed, she looked up. On the far side of the bed were the heads +of the mother and son, the one in the black lace cap, with the small +white nape of the neck beneath, the other, with brown, sun-scorched +hair too close and wiry to allow of a parting, and neck tanned firm, +bowed as if unwillingly. The great grey beard of the old man did not +move, the prayer continued. Mr Massy prayed with a pure lucidity, that +they all might conform to the higher Will. He was like something that +dominated the bowed heads, something dispassionate that governed them +inexorably. Miss Louisa was afraid of him. And she was bound, during +the course of the prayer, to have a little reverence for him. It was +like a foretaste of inexorable, cold death, a taste of pure justice. + +That evening she talked to Mary of the visit. Her heart, her veins were +possessed by the thought of Alfred Durant as he held his mother in his +arms; then the break in his voice, as she remembered it again and +again, was like a flame through her; and she wanted to see his face +more distinctly in her mind, ruddy with the sun, and his golden-brown +eyes, kind and careless, strained now with a natural fear, the fine +nose tanned hard by the sun, the mouth that could not help smiling at +her. And it went through her with pride, to think of his figure, a +straight, fine jet of life. + +“He is a handsome lad,” said she to Miss Mary, as if he had not been a +year older than herself. Underneath was the deeper dread, almost +hatred, of the inhuman being of Mr Massy. She felt she must protect +herself and Alfred from him. + +“When I felt Mr Massy there,” she said, “I almost hated him. What right +had he to be there!” + +“Surely he had all right,” said Miss Mary after a pause. “He is +_really_ a Christian.” + +“He seems to me nearly an imbecile,” said Miss Louisa. + +Miss Mary, quiet and beautiful, was silent for a moment: + +“Oh, no,” she said. “Not _imbecile_——” + +“Well then—he reminds me of a six months’ child—or a five months’ +child—as if he didn’t have time to get developed enough before he was +born.” + +“Yes,” said Miss Mary, slowly. “There is something lacking. But there +is something wonderful in him: and he is really _good_——” + +“Yes,” said Miss Louisa, “it doesn’t seem right that he should be. What +right has _that_ to be called goodness!” + +“But it _is_ goodness,” persisted Mary. Then she added, with a laugh: +“And come, you wouldn’t deny that as well.” + +There was a doggedness in her voice. She went about very quietly. In +her soul, she knew what was going to happen. She knew that Mr Massy was +stronger than she, and that she must submit to what he was. Her +physical self was prouder, stronger than he, her physical self disliked +and despised him. But she was in the grip of his moral, mental being. +And she felt the days allotted out to her. And her family watched. + +IV + +A few days after, old Mr Durant died. Miss Louisa saw Alfred once more, +but he was stiff before her now, treating her not like a person, but as +if she were some sort of will in command and he a separate, distinct +will waiting in front of her. She had never felt such utter steel-plate +separation from anyone. It puzzled her and frightened her. What had +become of him? And she hated the military discipline—she was +antagonistic to it. Now he was not himself. He was the will which obeys +set over against the will which commands. She hesitated over accepting +this. He had put himself out of her range. He had ranked himself +inferior, subordinate to her. And that was how he would get away from +her, that was how he would avoid all connection with her: by fronting +her impersonally from the opposite camp, by taking up the abstract +position of an inferior. + +She went brooding steadily and sullenly over this, brooding and +brooding. Her fierce, obstinate heart could not give way. It clung to +its own rights. Sometimes she dismissed him. Why should he, inferior, +trouble her? + +Then she relapsed to him, and almost hated him. It was his way of +getting out of it. She felt the cowardice of it, his calmly placing her +in a superior class, and placing himself inaccessibly apart, in an +inferior, as if she, the sensient woman who was fond of him, did not +count. But she was not going to submit. Dogged in her heart she held on +to him. + +V + +In six months’ time Miss Mary had married Mr Massy. There had been no +love-making, nobody had made any remark. But everybody was tense and +callous with expectation. When one day Mr Massy asked for Mary’s hand, +Mr Lindley started and trembled from the thin, abstract voice of the +little man. Mr Massy was very nervous, but so curiously absolute. + +“I shall be very glad,” said the vicar, “but of course the decision +lies with Mary herself.” And his still feeble hand shook as he moved a +Bible on his desk. + +The small man, keeping fixedly to his idea, padded out of the room to +find Miss Mary. He sat a long time by her, while she made some +conversation, before he had readiness to speak. She was afraid of what +was coming, and sat stiff in apprehension. She felt as if her body +would rise and fling him aside. But her spirit quivered and waited. +Almost in expectation she waited, almost wanting him. And then she knew +he would speak. + +“I have already asked Mr Lindley,” said the clergyman, while suddenly +she looked with aversion at his little knees, “if he would consent to +my proposal.” He was aware of his own disadvantage, but his will was +set. + +She went cold as she sat, and impervious, almost as if she had become +stone. He waited a moment nervously. He would not persuade her. He +himself never even heard persuasion, but pursued his own course. He +looked at her, sure of himself, unsure of her, and said: + +“Will you become my wife, Mary?” + +Still her heart was hard and cold. She sat proudly. + +“I should like to speak to mama first,” she said. + +“Very well,” replied Mr Massy. And in a moment he padded away. + +Mary went to her mother. She was cold and reserved. + +“Mr Massy has asked me to marry him, mama,” she said. Mrs Lindley went +on staring at her book. She was cramped in her feeling. + +“Well, and what did you say?” + +They were both keeping calm and cold. + +“I said I would speak to you before answering him.” + +This was equivalent to a question. Mrs Lindley did not want to reply to +it. She shifted her heavy form irritably on the couch. Miss Mary sat +calm and straight, with closed mouth. + +“Your father thinks it would not be a bad match,” said the mother, as +if casually. + +Nothing more was said. Everybody remained cold and shut-off. Miss Mary +did not speak to Miss Louisa, the Reverend Ernest Lindley kept out of +sight. + +At evening Miss Mary accepted Mr Massy. + +“Yes, I will marry you,” she said, with even a little movement of +tenderness towards him. He was embarrassed, but satisfied. She could +see him making some movement towards her, could feel the male in him, +something cold and triumphant, asserting itself. She sat rigid, and +waited. + +When Miss Louisa knew, she was silent with bitter anger against +everybody, even against Mary. She felt her faith wounded. Did the real +things to her not matter after all? She wanted to get away. She thought +of Mr Massy. He had some curious power, some unanswerable right. He was +a will that they could not controvert.—Suddenly a flush started in her. +If he had come to her she would have flipped him out of the room. He +was never going to touch _her_. And she was glad. She was glad that her +blood would rise and exterminate the little man, if he came too near to +her, no matter how her judgment was paralysed by him, no matter how he +moved in abstract goodness. She thought she was perverse to be glad, +but glad she was. “I would just flip him out of the room,” she said, +and she derived great satisfaction from the open statement. +Nevertheless, perhaps she ought still to feel that Mary, on her plane, +was a higher being than herself. But then Mary was Mary, and she was +Louisa, and that also was inalterable. + +Mary, in marrying him, tried to become a pure reason such as he was, +without feeling or impulse. She shut herself up, she shut herself rigid +against the agonies of shame and the terror of violation which came at +first. She _would_ not feel, and she _would_ not feel. She was a pure +will acquiescing to him. She elected a certain kind of fate. She would +be good and purely just, she would live in a higher freedom than she +had ever known, she would be free of mundane care, she was a pure will +towards right. She had sold herself, but she had a new freedom. She had +got rid of her body. She had sold a lower thing, her body, for a higher +thing, her freedom from material things. She considered that she paid +for all she got from her husband. So, in a kind of independence, she +moved proud and free. She had paid with her body: that was henceforward +out of consideration. She was glad to be rid of it. She had bought her +position in the world—that henceforth was taken for granted. There +remained only the direction of her activity towards charity and +high-minded living. + +She could scarcely bear other people to be present with her and her +husband. Her private life was her shame. But then, she could keep it +hidden. She lived almost isolated in the rectory of the tiny village +miles from the railway. She suffered as if it were an insult to her own +flesh, seeing the repulsion which some people felt for her husband, or +the special manner they had of treating him, as if he were a “case”. +But most people were uneasy before him, which restored her pride. + +If she had let herself, she would have hated him, hated his padding +round the house, his thin voice devoid of human understanding, his bent +little shoulders and rather incomplete face that reminded her of an +abortion. But rigorously she kept to her position. She took care of him +and was just to him. There was also a deep craven fear of him, +something slave-like. + +There was not much fault to be found with his behaviour. He was +scrupulously just and kind according to his lights. But the male in him +was cold and self-complete, and utterly domineering. Weak, insufficient +little thing as he was, she had not expected this of him. It was +something in the bargain she had not understood. It made her hold her +head, to keep still. She knew, vaguely, that she was murdering herself. +After all, her body was not quite so easy to get rid of. And this +manner of disposing of it—ah, sometimes she felt she must rise and +bring about death, lift her hand for utter denial of everything, by a +general destruction. + +He was almost unaware of the conditions about him. He did not fuss in +the domestic way, she did as she liked in the house. Indeed, she was a +great deal free of him. He would sit obliterated for hours. He was +kind, and almost anxiously considerate. But when he considered he was +right, his will was just blindly male, like a cold machine. And on most +points he was logically right, or he had with him the right of the +creed they both accepted. It was so. There was nothing for her to go +against. + +Then she found herself with child, and felt for the first time horror, +afraid before God and man. This also she had to go through—it was the +right. When the child arrived, it was a bonny, healthy lad. Her heart +hurt in her body, as she took the baby between her hands. The flesh +that was trampled and silent in her must speak again in the boy. After +all, she had to live—it was not so simple after all. Nothing was +finished completely. She looked and looked at the baby, and almost +hated it, and suffered an anguish of love for it. She hated it because +it made her live again in the flesh, when she _could_ not live in the +flesh, she could not. She wanted to trample her flesh down, down, +extinct, to live in the mind. And now there was this child. It was too +cruel, too racking. For she must love the child. Her purpose was broken +in two again. She had to become amorphous, purposeless, without real +being. As a mother, she was a fragmentary, ignoble thing. + +Mr Massy, blind to everything else in the way of human feeling, became +obsessed by the idea of his child. When it arrived, suddenly it filled +the whole world of feeling for him. It was his obsession, his terror +was for its safety and well-being. It was something new, as if he +himself had been born a naked infant, conscious of his own exposure, +and full of apprehension. He who had never been aware of anyone else, +all his life, now was aware of nothing but the child. Not that he ever +played with it, or kissed it, or tended it. He did nothing for it. But +it dominated him, it filled, and at the same time emptied his mind. The +world was all baby for him. + +This his wife must also bear, his question: “What is the reason that he +cries?”—his reminder, at the first sound: “Mary, that is the +child,”—his restlessness if the feeding-time were five minutes past. +She had bargained for this—now she must stand by her bargain. + +VI + +Miss Louisa, at home in the dingy vicarage, had suffered a great deal +over her sister’s wedding. Having once begun to cry out against it, +during the engagement, she had been silenced by Mary’s quiet: “I don’t +agree with you about him, Louisa, I _want_ to marry him.” Then Miss +Louisa had been angry deep in her heart, and therefore silent. This +dangerous state started the change in her. Her own revulsion made her +recoil from the hitherto undoubted Mary. + +“I’d beg the streets barefoot first,” said Miss Louisa, thinking of Mr +Massy. + +But evidently Mary could perform a different heroism. So she, Louisa +the practical, suddenly felt that Mary, her ideal, was questionable +after all. How could she be pure—one cannot be dirty in act and +spiritual in being. Louisa distrusted Mary’s high spirituality. It was +no longer genuine for her. And if Mary were spiritual and misguided, +why did not her father protect her? Because of the money. He disliked +the whole affair, but he backed away, because of the money. And the +mother frankly did not care: her daughters could do as they liked. Her +mother’s pronouncement: + +“Whatever happens to _him_, Mary is safe for life,”—so evidently and +shallowly a calculation, incensed Louisa. + +“I’d rather be safe in the workhouse,” she cried. + +“Your father will see to that,” replied her mother brutally. This +speech, in its indirectness, so injured Miss Louisa that she hated her +mother deep, deep in her heart, and almost hated herself. It was a long +time resolving itself out, this hate. But it worked and worked, and at +last the young woman said: + +“They are wrong—they are all wrong. They have ground out their souls +for what isn’t worth anything, and there isn’t a grain of love in them +anywhere. And I _will_ have love. They want us to deny it. They’ve +never found it, so they want to say it doesn’t exist. But I _will_ have +it. I _will_ love—it is my birthright. I will love the man I marry—that +is all I care about.” + +So Miss Louisa stood isolated from everybody. She and Mary had parted +over Mr Massy. In Louisa’s eyes, Mary was degraded, married to Mr +Massy. She could not bear to think of her lofty, spiritual sister +degraded in the body like this. Mary was wrong, wrong, wrong: she was +not superior, she was flawed, incomplete. The two sisters stood apart. +They still loved each other, they would love each other as long as they +lived. But they had parted ways. A new solitariness came over the +obstinate Louisa, and her heavy jaw set stubbornly. She was going on +her own way. But which way? She was quite alone, with a blank world +before her. How could she be said to have any way? Yet she had her +fixed will to love, to have the man she loved. + +VII + +When her boy was three years old, Mary had another baby, a girl. The +three years had gone by monotonously. They might have been an eternity, +they might have been brief as a sleep. She did not know. Only, there +was always a weight on top of her, something that pressed down her +life. The only thing that had happened was that Mr Massy had had an +operation. He was always exceedingly fragile. His wife had soon learned +to attend to him mechanically, as part of her duty. + +But this third year, after the baby girl had been born, Mary felt +oppressed and depressed. Christmas drew near: the gloomy, unleavened +Christmas of the rectory, where all the days were of the same dark +fabric. And Mary was afraid. It was as if the darkness were coming upon +her. + +“Edward, I should like to go home for Christmas,” she said, and a +certain terror filled her as she spoke. + +“But you can’t leave baby,” said her husband, blinking. + +“We can all go.” + +He thought, and stared in his collective fashion. + +“Why do you wish to go?” he asked. + +“Because I need a change. A change would do me good, and it would be +good for the milk.” + +He heard the will in his wife’s voice, and was at a loss. Her language +was unintelligible to him. And while she was breeding, either about to +have a child, or nursing, he regarded her as a special sort of being. + +“Wouldn’t it hurt baby to take her by the train?” he said. + +“No,” replied the mother, “why should it?” + +They went. When they were in the train, it began to snow. From the +window of his first-class carriage the little clergyman watched the big +flakes sweep by, like a blind drawn across the country. He was obsessed +by thought of the baby, and afraid of the draughts of the carriage. + +“Sit right in the corner,” he said to his wife, “and hold baby close +back.” + +She moved at his bidding, and stared out of the window. His eternal +presence was like an iron weight on her brain. But she was going +partially to escape for a few days. + +“Sit on the other side, Jack,” said the father. “It is less draughty. +Come to this window.” + +He watched the boy in anxiety. But his children were the only beings in +the world who took not the slightest notice of him. + +“Look, mother, look!” cried the boy. “They fly right in my face”—he +meant the snowflakes. + +“Come into this corner,” repeated his father, out of another world. + +“He’s jumped on this one’s back, mother, an’ they’re riding to the +bottom!” cried the boy, jumping with glee. + +“Tell him to come on this side,” the little man bade his wife. + +“Jack, kneel on this cushion,” said the mother, putting her white hand +on the place. + +The boy slid over in silence to the place she indicated, waited still +for a moment, then almost deliberately, stridently cried: + +“Look at all those in the corner, mother, making a heap,” and he +pointed to the cluster of snowflakes with finger pressed dramatically +on the pane, and he turned to his mother a bit ostentatiously. + +“All in a heap!” she said. + +He had seen her face, and had her response, and he was somewhat +assured. Vaguely uneasy, he was reassured if he could win her +attention. + +They arrived at the vicarage at half-past two, not having had lunch. + +“How are you, Edward?” said Mr Lindley, trying on his side to be +fatherly. But he was always in a false position with his son-in-law, +frustrated before him, therefore, as much as possible, he shut his eyes +and ears to him. The vicar was looking thin and pale and ill-nourished. +He had gone quite grey. He was, however, still haughty; but, since the +growing-up of his children, it was a brittle haughtiness, that might +break at any moment and leave the vicar only an impoverished, pitiable +figure. Mrs Lindley took all the notice of her daughter, and of the +children. She ignored her son-in-law. Miss Louisa was clucking and +laughing and rejoicing over the baby. Mr Massy stood aside, a bent, +persistent little figure. + +“Oh a pretty!—a little pretty! oh a cold little pretty come in a +railway-train!” Miss Louisa was cooing to the infant, crouching on the +hearthrug opening the white woollen wraps and exposing the child to the +fireglow. + +“Mary,” said the little clergyman, “I think it would be better to give +baby a warm bath; she may take a cold.” + +“I think it is not necessary,” said the mother, coming and closing her +hand judiciously over the rosy feet and hands of the mite. “She is not +chilly.” + +“Not a bit,” cried Miss Louisa. “She’s not caught cold.” + +“I’ll go and bring her flannels,” said Mr Massy, with one idea. + +“I can bath her in the kitchen then,” said Mary, in an altered, cold +tone. + +“You can’t, the girl is scrubbing there,” said Miss Louisa. “Besides, +she doesn’t want a bath at this time of day.” + +“She’d better have one,” said Mary, quietly, out of submission. Miss +Louisa’s gorge rose, and she was silent. When the little man padded +down with the flannels on his arm, Mrs Lindley asked: + +“Hadn’t _you_ better take a hot bath, Edward?” + +But the sarcasm was lost on the little clergyman. He was absorbed in +the preparations round the baby. + +The room was dull and threadbare, and the snow outside seemed +fairy-like by comparison, so white on the lawn and tufted on the +bushes. Indoors the heavy pictures hung obscurely on the walls, +everything was dingy with gloom. + +Except in the fireglow, where they had laid the bath on the hearth. Mrs +Massy, her black hair always smoothly coiled and queenly, kneeled by +the bath, wearing a rubber apron, and holding the kicking child. Her +husband stood holding the towels and the flannels to warm. Louisa, too +cross to share in the joy of the baby’s bath, was laying the table. The +boy was hanging on the door-knob, wrestling with it to get out. His +father looked round. + +“Come away from the door, Jack,” he said, ineffectually. Jack tugged +harder at the knob as if he did not hear. Mr Massy blinked at him. + +“He must come away from the door, Mary,” he said. “There will be a +draught if it is opened.” + +“Jack, come away from the door, dear,” said the mother, dexterously +turning the shiny wet baby on to her towelled knee, then glancing +round: “Go and tell Auntie Louisa about the train.” + +Louisa, also afraid to open the door, was watching the scene on the +hearth. Mr Massy stood holding the baby’s flannel, as if assisting at +some ceremonial. If everybody had not been subduedly angry, it would +have been ridiculous. + +“I want to see out of the window,” Jack said. His father turned +hastily. + +“Do _you_ mind lifting him on to a chair, Louisa,” said Mary hastily. +The father was too delicate. + +When the baby was flannelled, Mr Massy went upstairs and returned with +four pillows, which he set in the fender to warm. Then he stood +watching the mother feed her child, obsessed by the idea of his infant. + +Louisa went on with her preparations for the meal. She could not have +told why she was so sullenly angry. Mrs Lindley, as usual, lay silently +watching. + +Mary carried her child upstairs, followed by her husband with the +pillows. After a while he came down again. + +“What is Mary doing? Why doesn’t she come down to eat?” asked Mrs +Lindley. + +“She is staying with baby. The room is rather cold. I will ask the girl +to put in a fire.” He was going absorbedly to the door. + +“But Mary has had nothing to eat. It is _she_ who will catch cold,” +said the mother, exasperated. + +Mr Massy seemed as if he did not hear. Yet he looked at his +mother-in-law, and answered: + +“I will take her something.” + +He went out. Mrs Lindley shifted on her couch with anger. Miss Louisa +glowered. But no one said anything, because of the money that came to +the vicarage from Mr Massy. + +Louisa went upstairs. Her sister was sitting by the bed, reading a +scrap of paper. + +“Won’t you come down and eat?” the younger asked. + +“In a moment or two,” Mary replied, in a quiet, reserved voice, that +forbade anyone to approach her. + +It was this that made Miss Louisa most furious. She went downstairs, +and announced to her mother: + +“I am going out. I may not be home to tea.” + +VIII + +No one remarked on her exit. She put on her fur hat, that the village +people knew so well, and the old Norfolk jacket. Louisa was short and +plump and plain. She had her mother’s heavy jaw, her father’s proud +brow, and her own grey, brooding eyes that were very beautiful when she +smiled. It was true, as the people said, that she looked sulky. Her +chief attraction was her glistening, heavy, deep-blond hair, which +shone and gleamed with a richness that was not entirely foreign to her. + +“Where am I going?” she said to herself, when she got outside in the +snow. She did not hesitate, however, but by mechanical walking found +herself descending the hill towards Old Aldecross. In the valley that +was black with trees, the colliery breathed in stertorous pants, +sending out high conical columns of steam that remained upright, whiter +than the snow on the hills, yet shadowy, in the dead air. Louisa would +not acknowledge to herself whither she was making her way, till she +came to the railway crossing. Then the bunches of snow in the twigs of +the apple tree that leaned towards the fence told her she must go and +see Mrs Durant. The tree was in Mrs Durant’s garden. + +Alfred was now at home again, living with his mother in the cottage +below the road. From the highway hedge, by the railway crossing, the +snowy garden sheered down steeply, like the side of a hole, then +dropped straight in a wall. In this depth the house was snug, its +chimney just level with the road. Miss Louisa descended the stone +stairs, and stood below in the little backyard, in the dimness and the +semi-secrecy. A big tree leaned overhead, above the paraffin hut. +Louisa felt secure from all the world down there. She knocked at the +open door, then looked round. The tongue of garden narrowing in from +the quarry bed was white with snow: she thought of the thick fringes of +snowdrops it would show beneath the currant bushes in a month’s time. +The ragged fringe of pinks hanging over the garden brim behind her was +whitened now with snow-flakes, that in summer held white blossom to +Louisa’s face. It was pleasant, she thought, to gather flowers that +stooped to one’s face from above. + +She knocked again. Peeping in, she saw the scarlet glow of the kitchen, +red firelight falling on the brick floor and on the bright chintz +cushions. It was alive and bright as a peep-show. She crossed the +scullery, where still an almanac hung. There was no one about. “Mrs +Durant,” called Louisa softly, “Mrs Durant.” + +She went up the brick step into the front room, that still had its +little shop counter and its bundles of goods, and she called from the +stair-foot. Then she knew Mrs Durant was out. + +She went into the yard to follow the old woman’s footsteps up the +garden path. + +She emerged from the bushes and raspberry canes. There was the whole +quarry bed, a wide garden white and dimmed, brindled with dark bushes, +lying half submerged. On the left, overhead, the little colliery train +rumbled by. Right away at the back was a mass of trees. + +Louisa followed the open path, looking from right to left, and then she +gave a cry of concern. The old woman was sitting rocking slightly among +the ragged snowy cabbages. Louisa ran to her, found her whimpering with +little, involuntary cries. + +“Whatever have you done?” cried Louisa, kneeling in the snow. + +“I’ve—I’ve—I was pulling a brussel-sprout stalk—and—oh-h!—something +tore inside me. I’ve had a pain,” the old woman wept from shock and +suffering, gasping between her whimpers—“I’ve had a pain there—a long +time—and now—oh—oh!” She panted, pressed her hand on her side, leaned +as if she would faint, looking yellow against the snow. Louisa +supported her. + +“Do you think you could walk now?” she asked. + +“Yes,” gasped the old woman. + +Louisa helped her to her feet. + +“Get the cabbage—I want it for Alfred’s dinner,” panted Mrs Durant. +Louisa picked up the stalk of brussel-sprouts, and with difficulty got +the old woman indoors. She gave her brandy, laid her on the couch, +saying: + +“I’m going to send for a doctor—wait just a minute.” + +The young woman ran up the steps to the public-house a few yards away. +The landlady was astonished to see Miss Louisa. + +“Will you send for a doctor at once to Mrs Durant,” she said, with some +of her father in her commanding tone. + +“Is something the matter?” fluttered the landlady in concern. + +Louisa, glancing out up the road, saw the grocer’s cart driving to +Eastwood. She ran and stopped the man, and told him. + +Mrs Durant lay on the sofa, her face turned away, when the young woman +came back. + +“Let me put you to bed,” Louisa said. Mrs Durant did not resist. + +Louisa knew the ways of the working people. In the bottom drawer of the +dresser she found dusters and flannels. With the old pit-flannel she +snatched out the oven shelves, wrapped them up, and put them in the +bed. From the son’s bed she took a blanket, and, running down, set it +before the fire. Having undressed the little old woman, Louisa carried +her upstairs. + +“You’ll drop me, you’ll drop me!” cried Mrs Durant. + +Louisa did not answer, but bore her burden quickly. She could not light +a fire, because there was no fire-place in the bedroom. And the floor +was plaster. So she fetched the lamp, and stood it lighted in one +corner. + +“It will air the room,” she said. + +“Yes,” moaned the old woman. + +Louisa ran with more hot flannels, replacing those from the oven +shelves. Then she made a bran-bag and laid it on the woman’s side. +There was a big lump on the side of the abdomen. + +“I’ve felt it coming a long time,” moaned the old lady, when the pain +was easier, “but I’ve not said anything; I didn’t want to upset our +Alfred.” + +Louisa did not see why “our Alfred” should be spared. + +“What time is it?” came the plaintive voice. + +“A quarter to four.” + +“Oh!” wailed the old lady, “he’ll be here in half an hour, and no +dinner ready for him.” + +“Let me do it?” said Louisa, gently. + +“There’s that cabbage—and you’ll find the meat in the pantry—and +there’s an apple pie you can hot up. But _don’t you_ do it——!” + +“Who will, then?” asked Louisa. + +“I don’t know,” moaned the sick woman, unable to consider. + +Louisa did it. The doctor came and gave serious examination. He looked +very grave. + +“What is it, doctor?” asked the old lady, looking up at him with old, +pathetic eyes in which already hope was dead. + +“I think you’ve torn the skin in which a tumour hangs,” he replied. + +“Ay!” she murmured, and she turned away. + +“You see, she may die any minute—and it _may_ be swaled away,” said the +old doctor to Louisa. + +The young woman went upstairs again. + +“He says the lump may be swaled away, and you may get quite well +again,” she said. + +“Ay!” murmured the old lady. It did not deceive her. Presently she +asked: + +“Is there a good fire?” + +“I think so,” answered Louisa. + +“He’ll want a good fire,” the mother said. Louisa attended to it. + +Since the death of Durant, the widow had come to church occasionally, +and Louisa had been friendly to her. In the girl’s heart the purpose +was fixed. No man had affected her as Alfred Durant had done, and to +that she kept. In her heart, she adhered to him. A natural sympathy +existed between her and his rather hard, materialistic mother. + +Alfred was the most lovable of the old woman’s sons. He had grown up +like the rest, however, headstrong and blind to everything but his own +will. Like the other boys, he had insisted on going into the pit as +soon as he left school, because that was the only way speedily to +become a man, level with all the other men. This was a great chagrin to +his mother, who would have liked to have this last of her sons a +gentleman. + +But still he remained constant to her. His feeling for her was deep and +unexpressed. He noticed when she was tired, or when she had a new cap. +And he bought little things for her occasionally. She was not wise +enough to see how much he lived by her. + +At the bottom he did not satisfy her, he did not seem manly enough. He +liked to read books occasionally, and better still he liked to play the +piccolo. It amused her to see his head nod over the instrument as he +made an effort to get the right note. It made her fond of him, with +tenderness, almost pity, but not with respect. She wanted a man to be +fixed, going his own way without knowledge of women. Whereas she knew +Alfred depended on her. He sang in the choir because he liked singing. +In the summer he worked in the garden, attended to the fowls and pigs. +He kept pigeons. He played on Saturday in the cricket or football team. +But to her he did not seem the man, the independent man her other boys +had been. He was her baby—and whilst she loved him for it, she was a +little bit contemptuous of him. + +There grew up a little hostility between them. Then he began to drink, +as the others had done; but not in their blind, oblivious way. He was a +little self-conscious over it. She saw this, and she pitied it in him. +She loved him most, but she was not satisfied with him because he was +not free of her. He could not quite go his own way. + +Then at twenty he ran away and served his time in the Navy. This made a +man of him. He had hated it bitterly, the service, the subordination. +For years he fought with himself under the military discipline, for his +own self-respect, struggling through blind anger and shame and a +cramping sense of inferiority. Out of humiliation and self-hatred, he +rose into a sort of inner freedom. And his love for his mother, whom he +idealised, remained the fact of hope and of belief. + +He came home again, nearly thirty years old, but naïve and +inexperienced as a boy, only with a silence about him that was new: a +sort of dumb humility before life, a fear of living. He was almost +quite chaste. A strong sensitiveness had kept him from women. Sexual +talk was all very well among men, but somehow it had no application to +living women. There were two things for him, the _idea_ of women, with +which he sometimes debauched himself, and real women, before whom he +felt a deep uneasiness, and a need to draw away. He shrank and defended +himself from the approach of any woman. And then he felt ashamed. In +his innermost soul he felt he was not a man, he was less than the +normal man. In Genoa he went with an under officer to a drinking house +where the cheaper sort of girl came in to look for lovers. He sat there +with his glass, the girls looked at him, but they never came to him. He +knew that if they did come he could only pay for food and drink for +them, because he felt a pity for them, and was anxious lest they lacked +good necessities. He could not have gone with one of them: he knew it, +and was ashamed, looking with curious envy at the swaggering, +easy-passionate Italian whose body went to a woman by instinctive +impersonal attraction. They were men, he was not a man. He sat feeling +short, feeling like a leper. And he went away imagining sexual scenes +between himself and a woman, walking wrapt in this indulgence. But when +the ready woman presented herself, the very fact that she was a +palpable woman made it impossible for him to touch her. And this +incapacity was like a core of rottenness in him. + +So several times he went, drunk, with his companions, to the licensed +prostitute houses abroad. But the sordid insignificance of the +experience appalled him. It had not been anything really: it meant +nothing. He felt as if he were, not physically, but spiritually +impotent: not actually impotent, but intrinsically so. + +He came home with this secret, never changing burden of his unknown, +unbestowed self torturing him. His navy training left him in perfect +physical condition. He was sensible of, and proud of his body. He +bathed and used dumb-bells, and kept himself fit. He played cricket and +football. He read books and began to hold fixed ideas which he got from +the Fabians. He played his piccolo, and was considered an expert. But +at the bottom of his soul was always this canker of shame and +incompleteness: he was miserable beneath all his healthy cheerfulness, +he was uneasy and felt despicable among all his confidence and +superiority of ideas. He would have changed with any mere brute, just +to be free of himself, to be free of this shame of self-consciousness. +He saw some collier lurching straight forward without misgiving, +pursuing his own satisfactions, and he envied him. Anything, he would +have given anything for this spontaneity and this blind stupidity which +went to its own satisfaction direct. + +IX + +He was not unhappy in the pit. He was admired by the men, and well +enough liked. It was only he himself who felt the difference between +himself and the others. He seemed to hide his own stigma. But he was +never sure that the others did not really despise him for a ninny, as +being less a man than they were. Only he pretended to be more manly, +and was surprised by the ease with which they were deceived. And, being +naturally cheerful, he was happy at his work. He was sure of himself +there. Naked to the waist, hot and grimy with labour, they squatted on +their heels for a few minutes and talked, seeing each other dimly by +the light of the safety lamps, while the black coal rose jutting round +them, and the props of wood stood like little pillars in the low, +black, very dark temple. Then the pony came and the gang-lad with a +message from Number 7, or with a bottle of water from the horse-trough +or some news of the world above. The day passed pleasantly enough. +There was an ease, a go-as-you-please about the day underground, a +delightful camaraderie of men shut off alone from the rest of the +world, in a dangerous place, and a variety of labour, holing, loading, +timbering, and a glamour of mystery and adventure in the atmosphere, +that made the pit not unattractive to him when he had again got over +his anguish of desire for the open air and the sea. + +This day there was much to do and Durant was not in humour to talk. He +went on working in silence through the afternoon. + +“Loose-all” came, and they tramped to the bottom. The whitewashed +underground office shone brightly. Men were putting out their lamps. +They sat in dozens round the bottom of the shaft, down which black, +heavy drops of water fell continuously into the sump. The electric +lights shone away down the main underground road. + +“Is it raining?” asked Durant. + +“Snowing,” said an old man, and the younger was pleased. He liked to go +up when it was snowing. + +“It’ll just come right for Christmas,” said the old man. + +“Ay,” replied Durant. + +“A green Christmas, a fat churchyard,” said the other sententiously. + +Durant laughed, showing his small, rather pointed teeth. + +The cage came down, a dozen men lined on. Durant noticed tufts of snow +on the perforated, arched roof of the chain, and he was pleased. + +He wondered how it liked its excursion underground. But already it was +getting soppy with black water. + +He liked things about him. There was a little smile on his face. But +underlying it was the curious consciousness he felt in himself. + +The upper world came almost with a flash, because of the glimmer of +snow. Hurrying along the bank, giving up his lamp at the office, he +smiled to feel the open about him again, all glimmering round him with +snow. The hills on either side were pale blue in the dusk, and the +hedges looked savage and dark. The snow was trampled between the +railway lines. But far ahead, beyond the black figures of miners moving +home, it became smooth again, spreading right up to the dark wall of +the coppice. + +To the west there was a pinkness, and a big star hovered half revealed. +Below, the lights of the pit came out crisp and yellow among the +darkness of the buildings, and the lights of Old Aldecross twinkled in +rows down the bluish twilight. + +Durant walked glad with life among the miners, who were all talking +animatedly because of the snow. He liked their company, he liked the +white dusky world. It gave him a little thrill to stop at the garden +gate and see the light of home down below, shining on the silent blue +snow. + +X + +By the big gate of the railway, in the fence, was a little gate, that +he kept locked. As he unfastened it, he watched the kitchen light that +shone on to the bushes and the snow outside. It was a candle burning +till night set in, he thought to himself. He slid down the steep path +to the level below. He liked making the first marks in the smooth snow. +Then he came through the bushes to the house. The two women heard his +heavy boots ring outside on the scraper, and his voice as he opened the +door: + +“How much worth of oil do you reckon to save by that candle, mother?” +He liked a good light from the lamp. + +He had just put down his bottle and snap-bag and was hanging his coat +behind the scullery door, when Miss Louisa came upon him. He was +startled, but he smiled. + +His eyes began to laugh—then his face went suddenly straight, and he +was afraid. + +“Your mother’s had an accident,” she said. + +“How?” he exclaimed. + +“In the garden,” she answered. He hesitated with his coat in his hands. +Then he hung it up and turned to the kitchen. + +“Is she in bed?” he asked. + +“Yes,” said Miss Louisa, who found it hard to deceive him. He was +silent. He went into the kitchen, sat down heavily in his father’s old +chair, and began to pull off his boots. His head was small, rather +finely shapen. His brown hair, close and crisp, would look jolly +whatever happened. He wore heavy moleskin trousers that gave off the +stale, exhausted scent of the pit. Having put on his slippers, he +carried his boots into the scullery. + +“What is it?” he asked, afraid. + +“Something internal,” she replied. + +He went upstairs. His mother kept herself calm for his coming. Louisa +felt his tread shake the plaster floor of the bedroom above. + +“What have you done?” he asked. + +“It’s nothing, my lad,” said the old woman, rather hard. “It’s nothing. +You needn’t fret, my boy, it’s nothing more the matter with me than I +had yesterday, or last week. The doctor said I’d done nothing serious.” + +“What were you doing?” asked her son. + +“I was pulling up a cabbage, and I suppose I pulled too hard; for, +oh—there was such a pain——” + +Her son looked at her quickly. She hardened herself. + +“But who doesn’t have a sudden pain sometimes, my boy. We all do.” + +“And what’s it done?” + +“I don’t know,” she said, “but I don’t suppose it’s anything.” + +The big lamp in the corner was screened with a dark green, so that he +could scarcely see her face. He was strung tight with apprehension and +many emotions. Then his brow knitted. + +“What did you go pulling your inside out at cabbages for,” he asked, +“and the ground frozen? You’d go on dragging and dragging, if you +killed yourself.” + +“Somebody’s got to get them,” she said. + +“You needn’t do yourself harm.” + +But they had reached futility. + +Miss Louisa could hear plainly downstairs. Her heart sank. It seemed so +hopeless between them. + +“Are you sure it’s nothing much, mother?” he asked, appealing, after a +little silence. + +“Ay, it’s nothing,” said the old woman, rather bitter. + +“I don’t want you to—to—to be badly—you know.” + +“Go an’ get your dinner,” she said. She knew she was going to die: +moreover, the pain was torture just then. “They’re only cosseting me up +a bit because I’m an old woman. Miss Louisa’s _very_ good—and she’ll +have got your dinner ready, so you’d better go and eat it.” + +He felt stupid and ashamed. His mother put him off. He had to turn +away. The pain burned in his bowels. He went downstairs. The mother was +glad he was gone, so that she could moan with pain. + +He had resumed the old habit of eating before he washed himself. Miss +Louisa served his dinner. It was strange and exciting to her. She was +strung up tense, trying to understand him and his mother. She watched +him as he sat. He was turned away from his food, looking in the fire. +Her soul watched him, trying to see what he was. His black face and +arms were uncouth, he was foreign. His face was masked black with +coal-dust. She could not see him, she could not even know him. The +brown eyebrows, the steady eyes, the coarse, small moustache above the +closed mouth—these were the only familiar indications. What was he, as +he sat there in his pit-dirt? She could not see him, and it hurt her. + +She ran upstairs, presently coming down with the flannels and the +bran-bag, to heat them, because the pain was on again. + +He was half-way through his dinner. He put down the fork, suddenly +nauseated. + +“They will soothe the wrench,” she said. He watched, useless and left +out. + +“Is she bad?” he asked. + +“I think she is,” she answered. + +It was useless for him to stir or comment. Louisa was busy. She went +upstairs. The poor old woman was in a white, cold sweat of pain. +Louisa’s face was sullen with suffering as she went about to relieve +her. Then she sat and waited. The pain passed gradually, the old woman +sank into a state of coma. Louisa still sat silent by the bed. She +heard the sound of water downstairs. Then came the voice of the old +mother, faint but unrelaxing: + +“Alfred’s washing himself—he’ll want his back washing——” + +Louisa listened anxiously, wondering what the sick woman wanted. + +“He can’t bear if his back isn’t washed——” the old woman persisted, in +a cruel attention to his needs. Louisa rose and wiped the sweat from +the yellowish brow. + +“I will go down,” she said soothingly. + +“If you would,” murmured the sick woman. + +Louisa waited a moment. Mrs Durant closed her eyes, having discharged +her duty. The young woman went downstairs. Herself, or the man, what +did they matter? Only the suffering woman must be considered. + +Alfred was kneeling on the hearthrug, stripped to the waist, washing +himself in a large panchion of earthenware. He did so every evening, +when he had eaten his dinner; his brothers had done so before him. But +Miss Louisa was strange in the house. + +He was mechanically rubbing the white lather on his head, with a +repeated, unconscious movement, his hand every now and then passing +over his neck. Louisa watched. She had to brace herself to this also. +He bent his head into the water, washed it free of soap, and pressed +the water out of his eyes. + +“Your mother said you would want your back washing,” she said. + +Curious how it hurt her to take part in their fixed routine of life! +Louisa felt the almost repulsive intimacy being forced upon her. It was +all so common, so like herding. She lost her own distinctness. + +He ducked his face round, looking up at her in what was a very comical +way. She had to harden herself. + +“How funny he looks with his face upside down,” she thought. After all, +there was a difference between her and the common people. The water in +which his arms were plunged was quite black, the soap-froth was +darkish. She could scarcely conceive him as human. Mechanically, under +the influence of habit, he groped in the black water, fished out soap +and flannel, and handed them backward to Louisa. Then he remained rigid +and submissive, his two arms thrust straight in the panchion, +supporting the weight of his shoulders. His skin was beautifully white +and unblemished, of an opaque, solid whiteness. Gradually Louisa saw +it: this also was what he was. It fascinated her. Her feeling of +separateness passed away: she ceased to draw back from contact with him +and his mother. There was this living centre. Her heart ran hot. She +had reached some goal in this beautiful, clear, male body. She loved +him in a white, impersonal heat. But the sun-burnt, reddish neck and +ears: they were more personal, more curious. A tenderness rose in her, +she loved even his queer ears. A person—an intimate being he was to +her. She put down the towel and went upstairs again, troubled in her +heart. She had only seen one human being in her life—and that was Mary. +All the rest were strangers. Now her soul was going to open, she was +going to see another. She felt strange and pregnant. + +“He’ll be more comfortable,” murmured the sick woman abstractedly, as +Louisa entered the room. The latter did not answer. Her own heart was +heavy with its own responsibility. Mrs Durant lay silent awhile, then +she murmured plaintively: + +“You mustn’t mind, Miss Louisa.” + +“Why should I?” replied Louisa, deeply moved. + +“It’s what we’re used to,” said the old woman. + +And Louisa felt herself excluded again from their life. She sat in +pain, with the tears of disappointment distilling her heart. Was that +all? + +Alfred came upstairs. He was clean, and in his shirt-sleeves. He looked +a workman now. Louisa felt that she and he were foreigners, moving in +different lives. It dulled her again. Oh, if she could only find some +fixed relations, something sure and abiding. + +“How do you feel?” he said to his mother. + +“It’s a bit better,” she replied wearily, impersonally. This strange +putting herself aside, this abstracting herself and answering him only +what she thought good for him to hear, made the relations between +mother and son poignant and cramping to Miss Louisa. It made the man so +ineffectual, so nothing. Louisa groped as if she had lost him. The +mother was real and positive—he was not very actual. It puzzled and +chilled the young woman. + +“I’d better fetch Mrs Harrison?” he said, waiting for his mother to +decide. + +“I suppose we shall have to have somebody,” she replied. + +Miss Louisa stood by, afraid to interfere in their business. They did +not include her in their lives, they felt she had nothing to do with +them, except as a help from outside. She was quite external to them. +She felt hurt and powerless against this unconscious difference. But +something patient and unyielding in her made her say: + +“I will stay and do the nursing: you can’t be left.” + +The other two were shy, and at a loss for an answer. + +“Wes’ll manage to get somebody,” said the old woman wearily. She did +not care very much what happened, now. + +“I will stay until tomorrow, in any case,” said Louisa. “Then we can +see.” + +“I’m sure you’ve no right to trouble yourself,” moaned the old woman. +But she must leave herself in any hands. + +Miss Louisa felt glad that she was admitted, even in an official +capacity. She wanted to share their lives. At home they would need her, +now Mary had come. But they must manage without her. + +“I must write a note to the vicarage,” she said. + +Alfred Durant looked at her inquiringly, for her service. He had always +that intelligent readiness to serve, since he had been in the Navy. But +there was a simple independence in his willingness, which she loved. +She felt nevertheless it was hard to get at him. He was so deferential, +quick to take the slightest suggestion of an order from her, +implicitly, that she could not get at the man in him. + +He looked at her very keenly. She noticed his eyes were golden brown, +with a very small pupil, the kind of eyes that can see a long way off. +He stood alert, at military attention. His face was still rather +weather-reddened. + +“Do you want pen and paper?” he asked, with deferential suggestion to a +superior, which was more difficult for her than reserve. + +“Yes, please,” she said. + +He turned and went downstairs. He seemed to her so self-contained, so +utterly sure in his movement. How was she to approach him? For he would +take not one step towards her. He would only put himself entirely and +impersonally at her service, glad to serve her, but keeping himself +quite removed from her. She could see he felt real joy in doing +anything for her, but any recognition would confuse him and hurt him. +Strange it was to her, to have a man going about the house in his +shirt-sleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his throat bare, waiting on +her. He moved well, as if he had plenty of life to spare. She was +attracted by his completeness. And yet, when all was ready, and there +was nothing more for him to do, she quivered, meeting his questioning +look. + +As she sat writing, he placed another candle near her. The rather dense +light fell in two places on the overfoldings of her hair till it +glistened heavy and bright, like a dense golden plumage folded up. Then +the nape of her neck was very white, with fine down and pointed wisps +of gold. He watched it as it were a vision, losing himself. She was all +that was beyond him, of revelation and exquisiteness. All that was +ideal and beyond him, she was that—and he was lost to himself in +looking at her. She had no connection with him. He did not approach +her. She was there like a wonderful distance. But it was a treat, +having her in the house. Even with this anguish for his mother +tightening about him, he was sensible of the wonder of living this +evening. The candles glistened on her hair, and seemed to fascinate +him. He felt a little awe of her, and a sense of uplifting, that he and +she and his mother should be together for a time, in the strange, +unknown atmosphere. And, when he got out of the house, he was afraid. +He saw the stars above ringing with fine brightness, the snow beneath +just visible, and a new night was gathering round him. He was afraid +almost with obliteration. What was this new night ringing about him, +and what was he? He could not recognize himself nor any of his +surroundings. He was afraid to think of his mother. And yet his chest +was conscious of her, and of what was happening to her. He could not +escape from her, she carried him with her into an unformed, unknown +chaos. + +XI + +He went up the road in an agony, not knowing what it was all about, but +feeling as if a red-hot iron were gripped round his chest. Without +thinking, he shook two or three tears on to the snow. Yet in his mind +he did not believe his mother would die. He was in the grip of some +greater consciousness. As he sat in the hall of the vicarage, waiting +whilst Mary put things for Louisa into a bag, he wondered why he had +been so upset. He felt abashed and humbled by the big house, he felt +again as if he were one of the rank and file. When Miss Mary spoke to +him, he almost saluted. + +“An honest man,” thought Mary. And the patronage was applied as salve +to her own sickness. She had station, so she could patronize: it was +almost all that was left to her. But she could not have lived without +having a certain position. She could never have trusted herself outside +a definite place, nor respected herself except as a woman of superior +class. + +As Alfred came to the latch-gate, he felt the grief at his heart again, +and saw the new heavens. He stood a moment looking northward to the +Plough climbing up the night, and at the far glimmer of snow in distant +fields. Then his grief came on like physical pain. He held tight to the +gate, biting his mouth, whispering “Mother!” It was a fierce, cutting, +physical pain of grief, that came on in bouts, as his mother’s pain +came on in bouts, and was so acute he could scarcely keep erect. He did +not know where it came from, the pain, nor why. It had nothing to do +with his thoughts. Almost it had nothing to do with him. Only it +gripped him and he must submit. The whole tide of his soul, gathering +in its unknown towards this expansion into death, carried him with it +helplessly, all the fritter of his thought and consciousness caught up +as nothing, the heave passing on towards its breaking, taking him +further than he had ever been. When the young man had regained himself, +he went indoors, and there he was almost gay. It seemed to excite him. +He felt in high spirits: he made whimsical fun of things. He sat on one +side of his mother’s bed, Louisa on the other, and a certain gaiety +seized them all. But the night and the dread was coming on. + +Alfred kissed his mother and went to bed. When he was half undressed +the knowledge of his mother came upon him, and the suffering seized him +in its grip like two hands, in agony. He lay on the bed screwed up +tight. It lasted so long, and exhausted him so much, that he fell +asleep, without having the energy to get up and finish undressing. He +awoke after midnight to find himself stone cold. He undressed and got +into bed, and was soon asleep again. + +At a quarter to six he woke, and instantly remembered. Having pulled on +his trousers and lighted a candle, he went into his mother’s room. He +put his hand before the candle flame so that no light fell on the bed. + +“Mother!” he whispered. + +“Yes,” was the reply. + +There was a hesitation. + +“Should I go to work?” + +He waited, his heart was beating heavily. + +“I think I’d go, my lad.” + +His heart went down in a kind of despair. + +“You want me to?” + +He let his hand down from the candle flame. The light fell on the bed. +There he saw Louisa lying looking up at him. Her eyes were upon him. +She quickly shut her eyes and half buried her face in the pillow, her +back turned to him. He saw the rough hair like bright vapour about her +round head, and the two plaits flung coiled among the bedclothes. It +gave him a shock. He stood almost himself, determined. Louisa cowered +down. He looked, and met his mother’s eyes. Then he gave way again, and +ceased to be sure, ceased to be himself. + +“Yes, go to work, my boy,” said the mother. + +“All right,” replied he, kissing her. His heart was down at despair, +and bitter. He went away. + +“Alfred!” cried his mother faintly. + +He came back with beating heart. + +“What, mother?” + +“You’ll always do what’s right, Alfred?” the mother asked, beside +herself in terror now he was leaving her. He was too terrified and +bewildered to know what she meant. + +“Yes,” he said. + +She turned her cheek to him. He kissed her, then went away, in bitter +despair. He went to work. + +XII + +By midday his mother was dead. The word met him at the pit-mouth. As he +had known, inwardly, it was not a shock to him, and yet he trembled. He +went home quite calmly, feeling only heavy in his breathing. + +Miss Louisa was still at the house. She had seen to everything +possible. Very succinctly, she informed him of what he needed to know. +But there was one point of anxiety for her. + +“You _did_ half expect it—it’s not come as a blow to you?” she asked, +looking up at him. Her eyes were dark and calm and searching. She too +felt lost. He was so dark and inchoate. + +“I suppose—yes,” he said stupidly. He looked aside, unable to endure +her eyes on him. + +“I could not bear to think you might not have guessed,” she said. + +He did not answer. + +He felt it a great strain to have her near him at this time. He wanted +to be alone. As soon as the relatives began to arrive, Louisa departed +and came no more. While everything was arranging, and a crowd was in +the house, whilst he had business to settle, he went well enough, with +only those uncontrollable paroxysms of grief. For the rest, he was +superficial. By himself, he endured the fierce, almost insane bursts of +grief which passed again and left him calm, almost clear, just +wondering. He had not known before that everything could break down, +that he himself could break down, and all be a great chaos, very vast +and wonderful. It seemed as if life in him had burst its bounds, and he +was lost in a great, bewildering flood, immense and unpeopled. He +himself was broken and spilled out amid it all. He could only breathe +panting in silence. Then the anguish came on again. + +When all the people had gone from the Quarry Cottage, leaving the young +man alone with an elderly housekeeper, then the long trial began. The +snow had thawed and frozen, a fresh fall had whitened the grey, this +then began to thaw. The world was a place of loose grey slosh. Alfred +had nothing to do in the evenings. He was a man whose life had been +filled up with small activities. Without knowing it, he had been +centralized, polarized in his mother. It was she who had kept him. Even +now, when the old housekeeper had left him, he might still have gone on +in his old way. But the force and balance of his life was lacking. He +sat pretending to read, all the time holding his fists clenched, and +holding himself in, enduring he did not know what. He walked the black +and sodden miles of field-paths, till he was tired out: but all this +was only running away from whence he must return. At work he was all +right. If it had been summer he might have escaped by working in the +garden till bedtime. But now, there was no escape, no relief, no help. +He, perhaps, was made for action rather than for understanding; for +doing than for being. He was shocked out of his activities, like a +swimmer who forgets to swim. + +For a week, he had the force to endure this suffocation and struggle, +then he began to get exhausted, and knew it must come out. The instinct +of self-preservation became strongest. But there was the question: +Where was he to go? The public-house really meant nothing to him, it +was no good going there. He began to think of emigration. In another +country he would be all right. He wrote to the emigration offices. + +On the Sunday after the funeral, when all the Durant people had +attended church, Alfred had seen Miss Louisa, impassive and reserved, +sitting with Miss Mary, who was proud and very distant, and with the +other Lindleys, who were people removed. Alfred saw them as people +remote. He did not think about it. They had nothing to do with his +life. After service Louisa had come to him and shaken hands. + +“My sister would like you to come to supper one evening, if you would +be so good.” + +He looked at Miss Mary, who bowed. Out of kindness, Mary had proposed +this to Louisa, disapproving of herself even as she did so. But she did +not examine herself closely. + +“Yes,” said Durant awkwardly, “I’ll come if you want me.” But he +vaguely felt that it was misplaced. + +“You’ll come tomorrow evening, then, about half-past six.” + +He went. Miss Louisa was very kind to him. There could be no music, +because of the babies. He sat with his fists clenched on his thighs, +very quiet and unmoved, lapsing, among all those people, into a kind of +muse or daze. There was nothing between him and them. They knew it as +well as he. But he remained very steady in himself, and the evening +passed slowly. Mrs Lindley called him “young man”. + +“Will you sit here, young man?” + +He sat there. One name was as good as another. What had they to do with +him? + +Mr Lindley kept a special tone for him, kind, indulgent, but +patronizing. Durant took it all without criticism or offence, just +submitting. But he did not want to eat—that troubled him, to have to +eat in their presence. He knew he was out of place. But it was his duty +to stay yet awhile. He answered precisely, in monosyllables. + +When he left he winced with confusion. He was glad it was finished. He +got away as quickly as possible. And he wanted still more intensely to +go right away, to Canada. + +Miss Louisa suffered in her soul, indignant with all of them, with him +too, but quite unable to say why she was indignant. + +XIII + +Two evenings after, Louisa tapped at the door of the Quarry Cottage, at +half-pas six. He had finished dinner, the woman had washed up and gone +away, but still he sat in his pit dirt. He was going later to the New +Inn. He had begun to go there because he must go somewhere. The mere +contact with other men was necessary to him, the noise, the warmth, the +forgetful flight of the hours. But still he did not move. He sat alone +in the empty house till it began to grow on him like something +unnatural. + +He was in his pit dirt when he opened the door. + +“I have been wanting to call—I thought I would,” she said, and she went +to the sofa. He wondered why she wouldn’t use his mother’s round +armchair. Yet something stirred in him, like anger, when the +housekeeper placed herself in it. + +“I ought to have been washed by now,” he said, glancing at the clock, +which was adorned with butterflies and cherries, and the name of “T. +Brooks, Mansfield.” He laid his black hands along his mottled dirty +arms. Louisa looked at him. There was the reserve, and the simple +neutrality towards her, which she dreaded in him. It made it impossible +for her to approach him. + +“I am afraid,” she said, “that I wasn’t kind in asking you to supper.” + +“I’m not used to it,” he said, smiling with his mouth, showing the +interspaced white teeth. His eyes, however, were steady and unseeing. + +“It’s not _that_,” she said hastily. Her repose was exquisite and her +dark grey eyes rich with understanding. He felt afraid of her as she +sat there, as he began to grow conscious of her. + +“How do you get on alone?” she asked. + +He glanced away to the fire. + +“Oh——” he answered, shifting uneasily, not finishing his answer. + +Her face settled heavily. + +“How close it is in this room. You have such immense fires. I will take +off my coat,” she said. + +He watched her take off her hat and coat. She wore a cream cashmir +blouse embroidered with gold silk. It seemed to him a very fine +garment, fitting her throat and wrists close. It gave him a feeling of +pleasure and cleanness and relief from himself. + +“What were you thinking about, that you didn’t get washed?” she asked, +half intimately. He laughed, turning aside his head. The whites of his +eyes showed very distinct in his black face. + +“Oh,” he said, “I couldn’t tell you.” + +There was a pause. + +“Are you going to keep this house on?” she asked. + +He stirred in his chair, under the question. + +“I hardly know,” he said. “I’m very likely going to Canada.” + +Her spirit became very quiet and attentive. + +“What for?” she asked. + +Again he shifted restlessly on his seat. + +“Well”—he said slowly—“to try the life.” + +“But which life?” + +“There’s various things—farming or lumbering or mining. I don’t mind +much what it is.” + +“And is that what you want?” + +He did not think in these times, so he could not answer. + +“I don’t know,” he said, “till I’ve tried.” + +She saw him drawing away from her for ever. + +“Aren’t you sorry to leave this house and garden?” she asked. + +“I don’t know,” he answered reluctantly. “I suppose our Fred would come +in—that’s what he’s wanting.” + +“You don’t want to settle down?” she asked. + +He was leaning forward on the arms of his chair. He turned to her. Her +face was pale and set. It looked heavy and impassive, her hair shone +richer as she grew white. She was to him something steady and immovable +and eternal presented to him. His heart was hot in an anguish of +suspense. Sharp twitches of fear and pain were in his limbs. He turned +his whole body away from her. The silence was unendurable. He could not +bear her to sit there any more. It made his heart go hot and stifled in +his breast. + +“Were you going out tonight?” she asked. + +“Only to the New Inn,” he said. + +Again there was silence. + +She reached for her hat. Nothing else was suggested to her. She _had_ +to go. He sat waiting for her to be gone, for relief. And she knew that +if she went out of that house as she was, she went out a failure. Yet +she continued to pin on her hat; in a moment she would have to go. +Something was carrying her. + +Then suddenly a sharp pang, like lightning, seared her from head to +foot, and she was beyond herself. + +“Do you want me to go?” she asked, controlled, yet speaking out of a +fiery anguish, as if the words were spoken from her without her +intervention. + +He went white under his dirt. + +“Why?” he asked, turning to her in fear, compelled. + +“Do you want me to go?” she repeated. + +“Why?” he asked again. + +“Because I wanted to stay with you,” she said, suffocated, with her +lungs full of fire. + +His face worked, he hung forward a little, suspended, staring straight +into her eyes, in torment, in an agony of chaos, unable to collect +himself. And as if turned to stone, she looked back into his eyes. +Their souls were exposed bare for a few moments. It was agony. They +could not bear it. He dropped his head, whilst his body jerked with +little sharp twitchings. + +She turned away for her coat. Her soul had gone dead in her. Her hands +trembled, but she could not feel any more. She drew on her coat. There +was a cruel suspense in the room. The moment had come for her to go. He +lifted his head. His eyes were like agate, expressionless, save for the +black points of torture. They held her, she had no will, no life any +more. She felt broken. + +“Don’t you want me?” she said helplessly. + +A spasm of torture crossed his eyes, which held her fixed. + +“I—I——” he began, but he could not speak. Something drew him from his +chair to her. She stood motionless, spellbound, like a creature given +up as prey. He put his hand tentatively, uncertainly, on her arm. The +expression of his face was strange and inhuman. She stood utterly +motionless. Then clumsily he put his arms round her, and took her, +cruelly, blindly, straining her till she nearly lost consciousness, +till he himself had almost fallen. + +Then, gradually, as he held her gripped, and his brain reeled round, +and he felt himself falling, falling from himself, and whilst she, +yielded up, swooned to a kind of death of herself, a moment of utter +darkness came over him, and they began to wake up again as if from a +long sleep. He was himself. + +After a while his arms slackened, she loosened herself a little, and +put her arms round him, as he held her. So they held each other close, +and hid each against the other for assurance, helpless in speech. And +it was ever her hands that trembled more closely upon him, drawing him +nearer into her, with love. + +And at last she drew back her face and looked up at him, her eyes wet, +and shining with light. His heart, which saw, was silent with fear. He +was with her. She saw his face all sombre and inscrutable, and he +seemed eternal to her. And all the echo of pain came back into the +rarity of bliss, and all her tears came up. + +“I love you,” she said, her lips drawn and sobbing. He put down his +head against her, unable to hear her, unable to bear the sudden coming +of the peace and passion that almost broke his heart. They stood +together in silence whilst the thing moved away a little. + +At last she wanted to see him. She looked up. His eyes were strange and +glowing, with a tiny black pupil. Strange, they were, and powerful over +her. And his mouth came to hers, and slowly her eyelids closed, as his +mouth sought hers closer and closer, and took possession of her. + +They were silent for a long time, too much mixed up with passion and +grief and death to do anything but hold each other in pain and kiss +with long, hurting kisses wherein fear was transfused into desire. At +last she disengaged herself. He felt as if his heart were hurt, but +glad, and he scarcely dared look at her. + +“I’m glad,” she said also. + +He held her hands in passionate gratitude and desire. He had not yet +the presence of mind to say anything. He was dazed with relief. + +“I ought to go,” she said. + +He looked at her. He could not grasp the thought of her going, he knew +he could never be separated from her any more. Yet he dared not assert +himself. He held her hands tight. + +“Your face is black,” she said. + +He laughed. + +“Yours is a bit smudged,” he said. + +They were afraid of each other, afraid to talk. He could only keep her +near to him. After a while she wanted to wash her face. He brought her +some warm water, standing by and watching her. There was something he +wanted to say, that he dared not. He watched her wiping her face, and +making tidy her hair. + +“They’ll see your blouse is dirty,” he said. + +She looked at her sleeves and laughed for joy. + +He was sharp with pride. + +“What shall you do?” he asked. + +“How?” she said. + +He was awkward at a reply. + +“About me,” he said. + +“What do you want me to do?” she laughed. + +He put his hand out slowly to her. What did it matter! + +“But make yourself clean,” she said. + +XIV + +As they went up the hill, the night seemed dense with the unknown. They +kept close together, feeling as if the darkness were alive and full of +knowledge, all around them. In silence they walked up the hill. At +first the street lamps went their way. Several people passed them. He +was more shy than she, and would have let her go had she loosened in +the least. But she held firm. + +Then they came into the true darkness, between the fields. They did not +want to speak, feeling closer together in silence. So they arrived at +the Vicarage gate. They stood under the naked horse-chestnut tree. + +“I wish you didn’t have to go,” he said. + +She laughed a quick little laugh. + +“Come tomorrow,” she said, in a low tone, “and ask father.” + +She felt his hand close on hers. + +She gave the same sorrowful little laugh of sympathy. Then she kissed +him, sending him home. + +At home, the old grief came on in another paroxysm, obliterating +Louisa, obliterating even his mother for whom the stress was raging +like a burst of fever in a wound. But something was sound in his heart. + +XV + +The next evening he dressed to go to the vicarage, feeling it was to be +done, not imagining what it would be like. He would not take this +seriously. He was sure of Louisa, and this marriage was like fate to +him. It filled him also with a blessed feeling of fatality. He was not +responsible, neither had her people anything really to do with it. + +They ushered him into the little study, which was fireless. By and by +the vicar came in. His voice was cold and hostile as he said: + +“What can I do for you, young man?” + +He knew already, without asking. + +Durant looked up at him, again like a sailor before a superior. He had +the subordinate manner. Yet his spirit was clear. + +“I wanted, Mr Lindley——” he began respectfully, then all the colour +suddenly left his face. It seemed now a violation to say what he had to +say. What was he doing there? But he stood on, because it had to be +done. He held firmly to his own independence and self-respect. He must +not be indecisive. He must put himself aside: the matter was bigger +than just his personal self. He must not feel. This was his highest +duty. + +“You wanted——” said the vicar. + +Durant’s mouth was dry, but he answered with steadiness: + +“Miss Louisa—Louisa—promised to marry me——” + +“You asked Miss Louisa if she would marry you—yes——” corrected the +vicar. Durant reflected he had not asked her this: + +“If she would marry me, sir. I hope you—don’t mind.” + +He smiled. He was a good-looking man, and the vicar could not help +seeing it. + +“And my daughter was willing to marry you?” said Mr Lindley. + +“Yes,” said Durant seriously. It was pain to him, nevertheless. He felt +the natural hostility between himself and the elder man. + +“Will you come this way?” said the vicar. He led into the dining-room, +where were Mary, Louisa, and Mrs Lindley. Mr Massy sat in a corner with +a lamp. + +“This young man has come on your account, Louisa?” said Mr Lindley. + +“Yes,” said Louisa, her eyes on Durant, who stood erect, in discipline. +He dared not look at her, but he was aware of her. + +“You don’t want to marry a collier, you little fool,” cried Mrs Lindley +harshly. She lay obese and helpless upon the couch, swathed in a loose, +dove-grey gown. + +“Oh, hush, mother,” cried Mary, with quiet intensity and pride. + +“What means have you to support a wife?” demanded the vicar’s wife +roughly. + +“I!” Durant replied, starting. “I think I can earn enough.” + +“Well, and how much?” came the rough voice. + +“Seven and six a day,” replied the young man. + +“And will it get to be any more?” + +“I hope so.” + +“And are you going to live in that poky little house?” + +“I think so,” said Durant, “if it’s all right.” + +He took small offence, only was upset, because they would not think him +good enough. He knew that, in their sense, he was not. + +“Then she’s a fool, I tell you, if she marries you,” cried the mother +roughly, casting her decision. + +“After all, mama, it is Louisa’s affair,” said Mary distinctly, “and we +must remember——” + +“As she makes her bed, she must lie—but she’ll repent it,” interrupted +Mrs Lindley. + +“And after all,” said Mr Lindley, “Louisa cannot quite hold herself +free to act entirely without consideration for her family.” + +“What do you want, papa?” asked Louisa sharply. + +“I mean that if you marry this man, it will make my position very +difficult for me, particularly if you stay in this parish. If you were +moving quite away, it would be simpler. But living here in a collier’s +cottage, under my nose, as it were—it would be almost unseemly. I have +my position to maintain, and a position which may not be taken +lightly.” + +“Come over here, young man,” cried the mother, in her rough voice, “and +let us look at you.” + +Durant, flushing, went over and stood—not quite at attention, so that +he did not know what to do with his hands. Miss Louisa was angry to see +him standing there, obedient and acquiescent. He ought to show himself +a man. + +“Can’t you take her away and live out of sight?” said the mother. +“You’d both of you be better off.” + +“Yes, we can go away,” he said. + +“Do you want to?” asked Miss Mary clearly. + +He faced round. Mary looked very stately and impressive. He flushed. + +“I do if it’s going to be a trouble to anybody,” he said. + +“For yourself, you would rather stay?” said Mary. + +“It’s my home,” he said, “and that’s the house I was born in.” + +“Then”—Mary turned clearly to her parents, “I really don’t see how you +can make the conditions, papa. He has his own rights, and if Louisa +wants to marry him——” + +“Louisa, Louisa!” cried the father impatiently. “I cannot understand +why Louisa should not behave in the normal way. I cannot see why she +should only think of herself, and leave her family out of count. The +thing is enough in itself, and she ought to try to ameliorate it as +much as possible. And if——” + +“But I love the man, papa,” said Louisa. + +“And I hope you love your parents, and I hope you want to spare them as +much of the—the loss of prestige, as possible.” + +“We _can_ go away to live,” said Louisa, her face breaking to tears. At +last she was really hurt. + +“Oh, yes, easily,” Durant replied hastily, pale, distressed. + +There was dead silence in the room. + +“I think it would really be better,” murmured the vicar, mollified. + +“Very likely it would,” said the rough-voiced invalid. + +“Though I think we ought to apologize for asking such a thing,” said +Mary haughtily. + +“No,” said Durant. “It will be best all round.” He was glad there was +no more bother. + +“And shall we put up the banns here or go to the registrar?” he asked +clearly, like a challenge. + +“We will go to the registrar,” replied Louisa decidedly. + +Again there was a dead silence in the room. + +“Well, if you will have your own way, you must go your own way,” said +the mother emphatically. + +All the time Mr Massy had sat obscure and unnoticed in a corner of the +room. At this juncture he got up, saying: + +“There is baby, Mary.” + +Mary rose and went out of the room, stately; her little husband padded +after her. Durant watched the fragile, small man go, wondering. + +“And where,” asked the vicar, almost genial, “do you think you will go +when you are married?” + +Durant started. + +“I was thinking of emigrating,” he said. + +“To Canada? or where?” + +“I think to Canada.” + +“Yes, that would be very good.” + +Again there was a pause. + +“We shan’t see much of you then, as a son-in-law,” said the mother, +roughly but amicably. + +“Not much,” he said. + +Then he took his leave. Louisa went with him to the gate. She stood +before him in distress. + +“You won’t mind them, will you?” she said humbly. + +“I don’t mind them, if they don’t mind me!” he said. Then he stooped +and kissed her. + +“Let us be married soon,” she murmured, in tears. + +“All right,” he said. “I’ll go tomorrow to Barford.” + + + +A Fragment of Stained Glass + +Beauvale is, or was, the largest parish in England. It is thinly +populated, only just netting the stragglers from shoals of houses in +three large mining villages. For the rest, it holds a great tract of +woodland, fragment of old Sherwood, a few hills of pasture and arable +land, three collieries, and, finally, the ruins of a Cistercian abbey. +These ruins lie in a still rich meadow at the foot of the last fall of +woodland, through whose oaks shines a blue of hyacinths, like water, in +Maytime. Of the abbey, there remains only the east wall of the chancel +standing, a wild thick mass of ivy weighting one shoulder, while +pigeons perch in the tracery of the lofty window. This is the window in +question. + +The vicar of Beauvale is a bachelor of forty-two years. Quite early in +life some illness caused a slight paralysis of his right side, so that +he drags a little, and so that the right corner of his mouth is twisted +up into his cheek with a constant grimace, unhidden by a heavy +moustache. There is something pathetic about this twist on the vicar’s +countenance: his eyes are so shrewd and sad. It would be hard to get +near to Mr Colbran. Indeed, now, his soul had some of the twist of his +face, so that, when he is not ironical, he is satiric. Yet a man of +more complete tolerance and generosity scarcely exists. Let the boors +mock him, he merely smiles on the other side, and there is no malice in +his eyes, only a quiet expression of waiting till they have finished. +His people do not like him, yet none could bring forth an accusation +against him, save, that “You never can tell when he’s having you.” + +I dined the other evening with the vicar in his study. The room +scandalizes the neighbourhood because of the statuary which adorns it: +a Laocoön and other classic copies, with bronze and silver Italian +Renaissance work. For the rest, it is all dark and tawny. + +Mr Colbran is an archæologist. He does not take himself seriously, +however, in his hobby, so that nobody knows the worth of his opinions +on the subject. + +“Here you are,” he said to me after dinner, “I’ve found another +paragraph for my great work.” + +“What’s that?” I asked. + +“Haven’t I told you I was compiling a Bible of the English people—the +Bible of their hearts—their exclamations in presence of the unknown? +I’ve found a fragment at home, a jump at God from Beauvale.” + +“Where?” I asked, startled. + +The vicar closed his eyes whilst looking at me. + +“Only on parchment,” he said. + +Then, slowly, he reached for a yellow book, and read, translating as he +went: + +“Then, while we chanted, came a crackling at the window, at the great +east window, where hung our Lord on the Cross. It was a malicious +covetous Devil wrathed by us, rended the lovely image of the glass. We +saw the iron clutches of the fiend pick the window, and a face flaming +red like fire in a basket did glower down on us. Our hearts melted +away, our legs broke, we thought to die. The breath of the wretch +filled the chapel. + +“But our dear Saint, etc., etc., came hastening down heaven to defend +us. The fiend began to groan and bray—he was daunted and beat off. + +“When the sun uprose, and it was morning, some went out in dread upon +the thin snow. There the figure of our Saint was broken and thrown +down, whilst in the window was a wicked hole as from the Holy Wounds +the Blessed Blood was run out at the touch of the Fiend, and on the +snow was the Blood, sparkling like gold. Some gathered it up for the +joy of this House....” + +“Interesting,” I said. “Where’s it from?” + +“Beauvale records—fifteenth century.” + +“Beauvale Abbey,” I said; “they were only very few, the monks. What +frightened them, I wonder.” + +“I wonder,” he repeated. + +“Somebody climbed up,” I supposed, “and attempted to get in.” + +“What?” he exclaimed, smiling. + +“Well, what do you think?” + +“Pretty much the same,” he replied. “I glossed it out for my book.” + +“Your great work? Tell me.” + +He put a shade over the lamp so that the room was almost in darkness. + +“Am I more than a voice?” he asked. + +“I can see your hand,” I replied. He moved entirely from the circle of +light. Then his voice began, sing-song, sardonic: + +“I was a serf in Rollestoun’s Newthorpe Manor, master of the stables I +was. One day a horse bit me as I was grooming him. He was an old enemy +of mine. I fetched him a blow across the nose. Then, when he got a +chance, he lashed out at me and caught me a gash over the mouth. I +snatched at a hatchet and cut his head. He yelled, fiend as he was, and +strained for me with all his teeth bare. I brought him down. + +“For killing him they flogged me till they thought I was dead. I was +sturdy, because we horse-serfs got plenty to eat. I was sturdy, but +they flogged me till I did not move. The next night I set fire to the +stables, and the stables set fire to the house. I watched and saw the +red flame rise and look out of the window, I saw the folk running, each +for himself, master no more than one of a frightened party. It was +freezing, but the heat made me sweat. I saw them all turn again to +watch, all rimmed with red. They cried, all of them when the roof went +in, when the sparks splashed up at rebound. They cried then like dogs +at the bagpipes howling. Master cursed me, till I laughed as I lay +under a bush quite near. + +“As the fire went down I got frightened. I ran for the woods, with fire +blazing in my eyes and crackling in my ears. For hours I was all fire. +Then I went to sleep under the bracken. When I woke it was evening. I +had no mantle, was frozen stiff. I was afraid to move, lest all the +sores of my back should be broken like thin ice. I lay still until I +could bear my hunger no longer. I moved then to get used to the pain of +movement, when I began to hunt for food. There was nothing to be found +but hips. + +“After wandering about till I was faint I dropped again in the bracken. +The boughs above me creaked with frost. I started and looked round. The +branches were like hair among the starlight. My heart stood still. +Again there was a creak, creak, and suddenly a whoop, that whistled in +fading. I fell down in the bracken like dead wood. Yet, by the peculiar +whistling sound at the end, I knew it was only the ice bending or +tightening in the frost. I was in the woods above the lake, only two +miles from the Manor. And yet, when the lake whooped hollowly again, I +clutched the frozen soil, every one of my muscles as stiff as the stiff +earth. So all the night long I dare not move my face, but pressed it +flat down, and taut I lay as if pegged down and braced. + +“When morning came still I did not move, I lay still in a dream. By +afternoon my ache was such it enlivened me. I cried, rocking my breath +in the ache of moving. Then again I became fierce. I beat my hands on +the rough bark to hurt them, so that I should not ache so much. In such +a rage I was I swung my limbs to torture till I fell sick with pain. +Yet I fought the hurt, fought it and fought by twisting and flinging +myself, until it was overcome. Then the evening began to draw on. All +day the sun had not loosened the frost. I felt the sky chill again +towards afternoon. Then I knew the night was coming, and, remembering +the great space I had just come through, horrible so that it seemed to +have made me another man, I fled across the wood. + +“But in my running I came upon the oak where hanged five bodies. There +they must hang, bar-stiff, night after night. It was a terror worse +than any. Turning, blundering through the forest, I came out where the +trees thinned, where only hawthorns, ragged and shaggy, went down to +the lake’s edge. + +“The sky across was red, the ice on the water glistened as if it were +warm. A few wild geese sat out like stones on the sheet of ice. I +thought of Martha. She was the daughter of the miller at the upper end +of the lake. Her hair was red like beech leaves in a wind. When I had +gone often to the mill with the horses she had brought me food. + +“‘I thought,’ said I to her, ‘’twas a squirrel sat on your shoulder. +’Tis your hair fallen loose.’ + +“‘They call me the fox,’ she said. + +“‘Would I were your dog,’ said I. She would bring me bacon and good +bread, when I called at the mill with the horses. The thought of cakes +of bread and of bacon made me reel as if drunk. I had torn at the +rabbit holes, I had chewed wood all day. In such a dimness was my head +that I felt neither the soreness of my wounds nor the cuts of thorns on +my knees, but stumbled towards the mill, almost past fear of man and +death, panting with fear of the darkness that crept behind me from +trunk to trunk. + +“Coming to the gap in the wood, below which lay the pond, I heard no +sound. Always I knew the place filled with the buzz of water, but now +it was silent. In fear of this stillness I ran forward, forgetting +myself, forgetting the frost. The wood seemed to pursue me. I fell, +just in time, down by a shed wherein were housed the few wintry pigs. +The miller came riding in on his horse, and the barking of dogs was for +him. I heard him curse the day, curse his servant, curse me, whom he +had been out to hunt, in his rage of wasted labour, curse all. As I lay +I heard inside the shed a sucking. Then I knew that the sow was there, +and that the most of her sucking pigs would be already killed for +tomorrow’s Christmas. The miller, from forethought to have young at +that time, made profit by his sucking pigs that were sold for the +mid-winter feast. + +“When in a moment all was silent in the dusk, I broke the bar and came +into the shed. The sow grunted, but did not come forth to discover me. +By and by I crept in towards her warmth. She had but three young left, +which now angered her, she being too full of milk. Every now and again +she slashed at them and they squealed. Busy as she was with them, I in +the darkness advanced towards her. I trembled so that scarce dared I +trust myself near her, for long dared not put my naked face towards +her. Shuddering with hunger and fear, I at last fed of her, guarding my +face with my arm. Her own full young tumbled squealing against me, but +she, feeling her ease, lay grunting. At last I, too, lay drunk, +swooning. + +“I was roused by the shouting of the miller. He, angered by his +daughter who wept, abused her, driving her from the house to feed the +swine. She came, bowing under a yoke, to the door of the shed. Finding +the pin broken she stood afraid, then, as the sow grunted, she came +cautiously in. I took her with my arm, my hand over her mouth. As she +struggled against my breast my heart began to beat loudly. At last she +knew it was I. I clasped her. She hung in my arms, turning away her +face, so that I kissed her throat. The tears blinded my eyes, I know +not why, unless it were the hurt of my mouth, wounded by the horse, was +keen. + +“‘They will kill you,’ she whispered. + +“‘No,’ I answered. + +“And she wept softly. She took my head in her arms and kissed me, +wetting me with her tears, brushing me with her keen hair, warming me +through. + +“‘I will not go away from here,’ I said. ‘Bring me a knife, and I will +defend myself.’ + +“‘No,’ she wept. ‘Ah, no!’ + +“When she went I lay down, pressing my chest where she had rested on +the earth, lest being alone were worse emptiness than hunger. + +“Later she came again. I saw her bend in the doorway, a lanthorn +hanging in front. As she peered under the redness of her falling hair, +I was afraid of her. But she came with food. We sat together in the +dull light. Sometimes still I shivered and my throat would not swallow. + +“‘If,’ said I, ‘I eat all this you have brought me, I shall sleep till +somebody finds me.’ + +“Then she took away the rest of the meat. + +“‘Why,’ said I, ‘should I not eat?’ She looked at me in tears of fear. + +“‘What?’ I said, but still she had no answer. I kissed her, and the +hurt of my wounded mouth angered me. + +“‘Now there is my blood,’ said I, ‘on your mouth.’ Wiping her smooth +hand over her lips, she looked thereat, then at me. + +“‘Leave me,’ I said, ‘I am tired.’ She rose to leave me. + +“‘But bring a knife,’ I said. Then she held the lanthorn near my face, +looking as at a picture. + +“‘You look to me,’ she said, ‘like a stirk that is roped for the axe. +Your eyes are dark, but they are wide open.’ + +“‘Then I will sleep,’ said I, ‘but will not wake too late.’ + +“‘Do not stay here,’ she said. + +“‘I will not sleep in the wood,’ I answered, and it was my heart that +spoke, ‘for I am afraid. I had better be afraid of the voice of man and +dogs, than the sounds in the woods. Bring me a knife, and in the +morning I will go. Alone will I not go now.’ + +“‘The searchers will take you,’ she said. + +“‘Bring me a knife,’ I answered. + +“‘Ah, go,’ she wept. + +“‘Not now—I will not——’ + +“With that she lifted the lanthorn, lit up her own face and mine. Her +blue eyes dried of tears. Then I took her to myself, knowing she was +mine. + +“‘I will come again,’ she said. + +“She went, and I folded my arms, lay down and slept. + +“When I woke, she was rocking me wildly to rouse me. + +“‘I dreamed,’ said I, ‘that a great heap, as if it were a hill, lay on +me and above me.’ + +“She put a cloak over me, gave me a hunting-knife and a wallet of food, +and other things I did not note. Then under her own cloak she hid the +lanthorn. + +“‘Let us go,’ she said, and blindly I followed her. + +“When I came out into the cold someone touched my face and my hair. + +“‘Ha!’ I cried, ‘who now——?’ Then she swiftly clung to me, hushed me. + +“‘Someone has touched me,’ I said aloud, still dazed with sleep. + +“‘Oh hush!’ she wept. ‘’Tis snowing.’ The dogs within the house began +to bark. She fled forward, I after her. Coming to the ford of the +stream she ran swiftly over, but I broke through the ice. Then I knew +where I was. Snowflakes, fine and rapid, were biting at my face. In the +wood there was no wind nor snow. + +“‘Listen,’ said I to her, ‘listen, for I am locked up with sleep.’ + +“‘I hear roaring overhead,’ she answered. ‘I hear in the trees like +great bats squeaking.’ + +“‘Give me your hand,’ said I. + +“We heard many noises as we passed. Once as there uprose a whiteness +before us, she cried aloud. + +“‘Nay,’ said I, ‘do not untie thy hand from mine,’ and soon we were +crossing fallen snow. But ever and again she started back from fear. + +“‘When you draw back my arm,’ I said, angry, ‘you loosen a weal on my +shoulder.’ + +“Thereafter she ran by my side, like a fawn beside its mother. + +“‘We will cross the valley and gain the stream,’ I said. ‘That will +lead us on its ice as on a path deep into the forest. There we can join +the outlaws. The wolves are driven from this part. They have followed +the driven deer.’ + +“We came directly on a large gleam that shaped itself up among flying +grains of snow. + +“‘Ah!’ she cried, and she stood amazed. + +“Then I thought we had gone through the bounds into faery realm, and I +was no more a man. How did I know what eyes were gleaming at me between +the snow, what cunning spirits in the draughts of air? So I waited for +what would happen, and I forgot her, that she was there. Only I could +feel the spirits whirling and blowing about me. + +“Whereupon she clung upon me, kissing me lavishly, and, were dogs or +men or demons come upon us at that moment, she had let us be stricken +down, nor heeded not. So we moved forward to the shadow that shone in +colours upon the passing snow. We found ourselves under a door of light +which shed its colours mixed with snow. This Martha had never seen, nor +I, this door open for a red and brave issuing like fires. We wondered. + +“‘It is faery,’ she said, and after a while, ‘Could one catch such—— +Ah, no!’ + +“Through the snow shone bunches of red and blue. + +“‘Could one have such a little light like a red flower—only a little, +like a rose-berry scarlet on one’s breast!—then one were singled out as +Our Lady.’ + +“I flung off my cloak and my burden to climb up the face of the shadow. +Standing on rims of stone, then in pockets of snow, I reached upward. +My hand was red and blue, but I could not take the stuff. Like colour +of a moth’s wing it was on my hand, it flew on the increasing snow. I +stood higher on the head of a frozen man, reached higher my hand. Then +I felt the bright stuff cold. I could not pluck it off. Down below she +cried to me to come again to her. I felt a rib that yielded, I struck +at it with my knife. There came a gap in the redness. Looking through I +saw below as it were white stunted angels, with sad faces lifted in +fear. Two faces they had each, and round rings of hair. I was afraid. I +grasped the shining red, I pulled. Then the cold man under me sank, so +I fell as if broken on to the snow. + +“Soon I was risen again, and we were running downwards towards the +stream. We felt ourselves eased when the smooth road of ice was beneath +us. For a while it was resting, to travel thus evenly. But the wind +blew round us, the snow hung upon us, we leaned us this way and that, +towards the storm. I drew her along, for she came as a bird that stems +lifting and swaying against the wind. By and by the snow came smaller, +there was not wind in the wood. Then I felt nor labour, nor cold. Only +I knew the darkness drifted by on either side, that overhead was a lane +of paleness where a moon fled us before. Still, I can feel the moon +fleeing from me, can feel the trees passing round me in slow dizzy +reel, can feel the hurt of my shoulder and my straight arm torn with +holding her. I was following the moon and the stream, for I knew where +the water peeped from its burrow in the ground there were shelters of +the outlaw. But she fell, without sound or sign. + +“I gathered her up and climbed the bank. There all round me hissed the +larchwood, dry beneath, and laced with its dry-fretted cords. For a +little way I carried her into the trees. Then I laid her down till I +cut flat hairy boughs. I put her in my bosom on this dry bed, so we +swooned together through the night. I laced her round and covered her +with myself, so she lay like a nut within its shell. + +“Again, when morning came, it was pain of cold that woke me. I groaned, +but my heart was warm as I saw the heap of red hair in my arms. As I +looked at her, her eyes opened into mine. She smiled—from out of her +smile came fear. As if in a trap she pressed back her head. + +“‘We have no flint,’ said I. + +“‘Yes—in the wallet, flint and steel and tinder box,’ she answered. + +“‘God yield you blessing,’ I said. + +“In a place a little open I kindled a fire of larch boughs. She was +afraid of me, hovering near, yet never crossing a space. + +“‘Come,’ said I, ‘let us eat this food.’ + +“‘Your face,’ she said, ‘is smeared with blood.’ + +“I opened out my cloak. + +“‘But come,’ said I, ‘you are frosted with cold.’ + +“I took a handful of snow in my hand, wiping my face with it, which +then I dried on my cloak. + +“‘My face is no longer painted with blood, you are no longer afraid of +me. Come here then, sit by me while we eat.’ + +“But as I cut the cold bread for her, she clasped me suddenly, kissing +me. She fell before me, clasped my knees to her breast, weeping. She +laid her face down to my feet, so that her hair spread like a fire +before me. I wondered at the woman. ‘Nay,’ I cried. At that she lifted +her face to me from below. ‘Nay,’ I cried, feeling my tears fall. With +her head on my breast, my own tears rose from their source, wetting my +cheek and her hair, which was wet with the rain of my eyes. + +“Then I remembered and took from my bosom the coloured light of that +night before. I saw it was black and rough. + +“‘Ah,’ said I, ‘this is magic.’ + +“‘The black stone!’ she wondered. + +“‘It is the red light of the night before,’ I said. + +“‘It is magic,’ she answered. + +“‘Shall I throw it?’ said I, lifting the stone, ‘shall I throw it away, +for fear?’ + +“‘It shines!’ she cried, looking up. ‘It shines like the eye of a +creature at night, the eye of a wolf in the doorway.’ + +“‘’Tis magic,’ I said, ‘let me throw it from us.’ But nay, she held my +arm. + +“‘It is red and shining,’ she cried. + +“‘It is a bloodstone,’ I answered. ‘It will hurt us, we shall die in +blood.’ + +“‘But give it to me,’ she answered. + +“‘It is red of blood,’ I said. + +“‘Ah, give it to me,’ she called. + +“‘It is my blood,’ I said. + +“‘Give it,’ she commanded, low. + +“‘It is my life-stone,’ I said. + +“‘Give it me,’ she pleaded. + +“‘I gave it her. She held it up, she smiled, she smiled in my face, +lifting her arms to me. I took her with my mouth, her mouth, her white +throat. Nor she ever shrank, but trembled with happiness. + +“What woke us, when the woods were filling again with shadow, when the +fire was out, when we opened our eyes and looked up as if drowned, into +the light which stood bright and thick on the tree-tops, what woke us +was the sound of wolves....” + + +“Nay,” said the vicar, suddenly rising, “they lived happily ever +after.” + +“No,” I said. + + + +The Shades of Spring + +I + +It was a mile nearer through the wood. Mechanically, Syson turned up by +the forge and lifted the field-gate. The blacksmith and his mate stood +still, watching the trespasser. But Syson looked too much a gentleman +to be accosted. They let him go in silence across the small field to +the wood. + +There was not the least difference between this morning and those of +the bright springs, six or eight years back. White and sandy-gold fowls +still scratched round the gate, littering the earth and the field with +feathers and scratched-up rubbish. Between the two thick holly bushes +in the wood-hedge was the hidden gap, whose fence one climbed to get +into the wood; the bars were scored just the same by the keeper’s +boots. He was back in the eternal. + +Syson was extraordinarily glad. Like an uneasy spirit he had returned +to the country of his past, and he found it waiting for him, unaltered. +The hazel still spread glad little hands downwards, the bluebells here +were still wan and few, among the lush grass and in shade of the +bushes. + +The path through the wood, on the very brow of a slope, ran winding +easily for a time. All around were twiggy oaks, just issuing their +gold, and floor spaces diapered with woodruff, with patches of +dog-mercury and tufts of hyacinth. Two fallen trees still lay across +the track. Syson jolted down a steep, rough slope, and came again upon +the open land, this time looking north as through a great window in the +wood. He stayed to gaze over the level fields of the hill-top, at the +village which strewed the bare upland as if it had tumbled off the +passing waggons of industry, and been forsaken. There was a stiff, +modern, grey little church, and blocks and rows of red dwellings lying +at random; at the back, the twinkling headstocks of the pit, and the +looming pit-hill. All was naked and out-of-doors, not a tree! It was +quite unaltered. + +Syson turned, satisfied, to follow the path that sheered downhill into +the wood. He was curiously elated, feeling himself back in an enduring +vision. He started. A keeper was standing a few yards in front, barring +the way. + +“Where might you be going this road, sir?” asked the man. The tone of +his question had a challenging twang. Syson looked at the fellow with +an impersonal, observant gaze. It was a young man of four or five and +twenty, ruddy and well favoured. His dark blue eyes now stared +aggressively at the intruder. His black moustache, very thick, was +cropped short over a small, rather soft mouth. In every other respect +the fellow was manly and good-looking. He stood just above middle +height; the strong forward thrust of his chest, and the perfect ease of +his erect, self-sufficient body, gave one the feeling that he was taut +with animal life, like the thick jet of a fountain balanced in itself. +He stood with the butt of his gun on the ground, looking uncertainly +and questioningly at Syson. The dark, restless eyes of the trespasser, +examining the man and penetrating into him without heeding his office, +troubled the keeper and made him flush. + +“Where is Naylor? Have you got his job?” Syson asked. + +“You’re not from the House, are you?” inquired the keeper. It could not +be, since everyone was away. + +“No, I’m not from the House,” the other replied. It seemed to amuse +him. + +“Then might I ask where you were making for?” said the keeper, nettled. + +“Where I am making for?” Syson repeated. “I am going to Willey-Water +Farm.” + +“This isn’t the road.” + +“I think so. Down this path, past the well, and out by the white gate.” + +“But that’s not the public road.” + +“I suppose not. I used to come so often, in Naylor’s time, I had +forgotten. Where is he, by the way?” + +“Crippled with rheumatism,” the keeper answered reluctantly. + +“Is he?” Syson exclaimed in pain. + +“And who might you be?” asked the keeper, with a new intonation. + +“John Adderley Syson; I used to live in Cordy Lane.” + +“Used to court Hilda Millership?” + +Syson’s eyes opened with a pained smile. He nodded. There was an +awkward silence. + +“And you—who are you?” asked Syson. + +“Arthur Pilbeam—Naylor’s my uncle,” said the other. + +“You live here in Nuttall?” + +“I’m lodgin’ at my uncle’s—at Naylor’s.” + +“I see!” + +“Did you say you was goin’ down to Willey-Water?” asked the keeper. + +“Yes.” + +There was a pause of some moments, before the keeper blurted: “_I’m_ +courtin’ Hilda Millership.” + +The young fellow looked at the intruder with a stubborn defiance, +almost pathetic. Syson opened new eyes. + +“Are you?” he said, astonished. The keeper flushed dark. + +“She and me are keeping company,” he said. + +“I didn’t know!” said Syson. The other man waited uncomfortably. + +“What, is the thing settled?” asked the intruder. + +“How, settled?” retorted the other sulkily. + +“Are you going to get married soon, and all that?” + +The keeper stared in silence for some moments, impotent. + +“I suppose so,” he said, full of resentment. + +“Ah!” Syson watched closely. + +“I’m married myself,” he added, after a time. + +“You are?” said the other incredulously. + +Syson laughed in his brilliant, unhappy way. + +“This last fifteen months,” he said. + +The keeper gazed at him with wide, wondering eyes, apparently thinking +back, and trying to make things out. + +“Why, didn’t you know?” asked Syson. + +“No, I didn’t,” said the other sulkily. + +There was silence for a moment. + +“Ah well!” said Syson, “I will go on. I suppose I may.” The keeper +stood in silent opposition. The two men hesitated in the open, grassy +space, set around with small sheaves of sturdy bluebells; a little open +platform on the brow of the hill. Syson took a few indecisive steps +forward, then stopped. + +“I say, how beautiful!” he cried. + +He had come in full view of the downslope. The wide path ran from his +feet like a river, and it was full of bluebells, save for a green +winding thread down the centre, where the keeper walked. Like a stream +the path opened into azure shallows at the levels, and there were pools +of bluebells, with still the green thread winding through, like a thin +current of ice-water through blue lakes. And from under the twig-purple +of the bushes swam the shadowed blue, as if the flowers lay in flood +water over the woodland. + +“Ah, isn’t it lovely!” Syson exclaimed; this was his past, the country +he had abandoned, and it hurt him to see it so beautiful. Wood-pigeons +cooed overhead, and the air was full of the brightness of birds +singing. + +“If you’re married, what do you keep writing to her for, and sending +her poetry books and things?” asked the keeper. Syson stared at him, +taken aback and humiliated. Then he began to smile. + +“Well,” he said, “I did not know about you....” + +Again the keeper flushed darkly. + +“But if you are married——” he charged. + +“I am,” answered the other cynically. + +Then, looking down the blue, beautiful path, Syson felt his own +humiliation. “What right _have_ I to hang on to her?” he thought, +bitterly self-contemptuous. + +“She knows I’m married and all that,” he said. + +“But you keep sending her books,” challenged the keeper. + +Syson, silenced, looked at the other man quizzically, half pitying. +Then he turned. + +“Good day,” he said, and was gone. Now, everything irritated him: the +two sallows, one all gold and perfume and murmur, one silver-green and +bristly, reminded him, that here he had taught her about pollination. +What a fool he was! What god-forsaken folly it all was! + +“Ah well,” he said to himself; “the poor devil seems to have a grudge +against me. I’ll do my best for him.” He grinned to himself, in a very +bad temper. + +II + +The farm was less than a hundred yards from the wood’s edge. The wall +of trees formed the fourth side to the open quadrangle. The house faced +the wood. With tangled emotions, Syson noted the plum blossom falling +on the profuse, coloured primroses, which he himself had brought here +and set. How they had increased! There were thick tufts of scarlet, and +pink, and pale purple primroses under the plum trees. He saw somebody +glance at him through the kitchen window, heard men’s voices. + +The door opened suddenly: very womanly she had grown! He felt himself +going pale. + +“You?—Addy!” she exclaimed, and stood motionless. + +“Who?” called the farmer’s voice. Men’s low voices answered. Those low +voices, curious and almost jeering, roused the tormented spirit in the +visitor. Smiling brilliantly at her, he waited. + +“Myself—why not?” he said. + +The flush burned very deep on her cheek and throat. + +“We are just finishing dinner,” she said. + +“Then I will stay outside.” He made a motion to show that he would sit +on the red earthenware pipkin that stood near the door among the +daffodils, and contained the drinking water. + +“Oh no, come in,” she said hurriedly. He followed her. In the doorway, +he glanced swiftly over the family, and bowed. Everyone was confused. +The farmer, his wife, and the four sons sat at the coarsely laid +dinner-table, the men with arms bare to the elbows. + +“I am sorry I come at lunch-time,” said Syson. + +“Hello, Addy!” said the farmer, assuming the old form of address, but +his tone cold. “How are you?” + +And he shook hands. + +“Shall you have a bit?” he invited the young visitor, but taking for +granted the offer would be refused. He assumed that Syson was become +too refined to eat so roughly. The young man winced at the imputation. + +“Have you had any dinner?” asked the daughter. + +“No,” replied Syson. “It is too early. I shall be back at half-past +one.” + +“You call it lunch, don’t you?” asked the eldest son, almost ironical. +He had once been an intimate friend of this young man. + +“We’ll give Addy something when we’ve finished,” said the mother, an +invalid, deprecating. + +“No—don’t trouble. I don’t want to give you any trouble,” said Syson. + +“You could allus live on fresh air an’ scenery,” laughed the youngest +son, a lad of nineteen. + +Syson went round the buildings, and into the orchard at the back of the +house, where daffodils all along the hedgerow swung like yellow, +ruffled birds on their perches. He loved the place extraordinarily, the +hills ranging round, with bear-skin woods covering their giant +shoulders, and small red farms like brooches clasping their garments; +the blue streak of water in the valley, the bareness of the home +pasture, the sound of myriad-threaded bird-singing, which went mostly +unheard. To his last day, he would dream of this place, when he felt +the sun on his face, or saw the small handfuls of snow between the +winter twigs, or smelt the coming of spring. + +Hilda was very womanly. In her presence he felt constrained. She was +twenty-nine, as he was, but she seemed to him much older. He felt +foolish, almost unreal, beside her. She was so static. As he was +fingering some shed plum blossom on a low bough, she came to the back +door to shake the tablecloth. Fowls raced from the stackyard, birds +rustled from the trees. Her dark hair was gathered up in a coil like a +crown on her head. She was very straight, distant in her bearing. As +she folded the cloth, she looked away over the hills. + +Presently Syson returned indoors. She had prepared eggs and curd +cheese, stewed gooseberries and cream. + +“Since you will dine tonight,” she said, “I have only given you a light +lunch.” + +“It is awfully nice,” he said. “You keep a real idyllic atmosphere—your +belt of straw and ivy buds.” + +Still they hurt each other. + +He was uneasy before her. Her brief, sure speech, her distant bearing, +were unfamiliar to him. He admired again her grey-black eyebrows, and +her lashes. Their eyes met. He saw, in the beautiful grey and black of +her glance, tears and a strange light, and at the back of all, calm +acceptance of herself, and triumph over him. + +He felt himself shrinking. With an effort he kept up the ironic manner. + +She sent him into the parlour while she washed the dishes. The long low +room was refurnished from the Abbey sale, with chairs upholstered in +claret-coloured rep, many years old, and an oval table of polished +walnut, and another piano, handsome, though still antique. In spite of +the strangeness, he was pleased. Opening a high cupboard let into the +thickness of the wall, he found it full of his books, his old +lesson-books, and volumes of verse he had sent her, English and German. +The daffodils in the white window-bottoms shone across the room, he +could almost feel their rays. The old glamour caught him again. His +youthful water-colours on the wall no longer made him grin; he +remembered how fervently he had tried to paint for her, twelve years +before. + +She entered, wiping a dish, and he saw again the bright, kernel-white +beauty of her arms. + +“You are quite splendid here,” he said, and their eyes met. + +“Do you like it?” she asked. It was the old, low, husky tone of +intimacy. He felt a quick change beginning in his blood. It was the +old, delicious sublimation, the thinning, almost the vaporizing of +himself, as if his spirit were to be liberated. + +“Aye,” he nodded, smiling at her like a boy again. She bowed her head. + +“This was the countess’s chair,” she said in low tones. “I found her +scissors down here between the padding.” + +“Did you? Where are they?” + +Quickly, with a lilt in her movement, she fetched her work-basket, and +together they examined the long-shanked old scissors. + +“What a ballad of dead ladies!” he said, laughing, as he fitted his +fingers into the round loops of the countess’s scissors. + +“I knew you could use them,” she said, with certainty. He looked at his +fingers, and at the scissors. She meant his fingers were fine enough +for the small-looped scissors. + +“That is something to be said for me,” he laughed, putting the scissors +aside. She turned to the window. He noticed the fine, fair down on her +cheek and her upper lip, and her soft, white neck, like the throat of a +nettle flower, and her fore-arms, bright as newly blanched kernels. He +was looking at her with new eyes, and she was a different person to +him. He did not know her. But he could regard her objectively now. + +“Shall we go out awhile?” she asked. + +“Yes!” he answered. But the predominant emotion, that troubled the +excitement and perplexity of his heart, was fear, fear of that which he +saw. There was about her the same manner, the same intonation in her +voice, now as then, but she was not what he had known her to be. He +knew quite well what she had been for him. And gradually he was +realizing that she was something quite other, and always had been. + +She put no covering on her head, merely took off her apron, saying, “We +will go by the larches.” As they passed the old orchard, she called him +in to show him a blue-tit’s nest in one of the apple trees, and a +sycock’s in the hedge. He rather wondered at her surety, at a certain +hardness like arrogance hidden under her humility. + +“Look at the apple buds,” she said, and he then perceived myriads of +little scarlet balls among the drooping boughs. Watching his face, her +eyes went hard. She saw the scales were fallen from him, and at last he +was going to see her as she was. It was the thing she had most dreaded +in the past, and most needed, for her soul’s sake. Now he was going to +see her as she was. He would not love her, and he would know he never +could have loved her. The old illusion gone, they were strangers, crude +and entire. But he would give her her due—she would have her due from +him. + +She was brilliant as he had not known her. She showed him nests: a +jenny wren’s in a low bush. + +“See this jinty’s!” she exclaimed. + +He was surprised to hear her use the local name. She reached carefully +through the thorns, and put her fingers in the nest’s round door. + +“Five!” she said. “Tiny little things.” + +She showed him nests of robins, and chaffinches, and linnets, and +buntings; of a wagtail beside the water. + +“And if we go down, nearer the lake, I will show you a +kingfisher’s....” + +“Among the young fir trees,” she said, “there’s a throstle’s or a +blackie’s on nearly every bough, every ledge. The first day, when I had +seen them all, I felt as if I mustn’t go in the wood. It seemed a city +of birds: and in the morning, hearing them all, I thought of the noisy +early markets. I was afraid to go in my own wood.” + +She was using the language they had both of them invented. Now it was +all her own. He had done with it. She did not mind his silence, but was +always dominant, letting him see her wood. As they came along a marshy +path where forget-me-nots were opening in a rich blue drift: “We know +all the birds, but there are many flowers we can’t find out,” she said. +It was half an appeal to him, who had known the names of things. + +She looked dreamily across to the open fields that slept in the sun. + +“I have a lover as well, you know,” she said, with assurance, yet +dropping again almost into the intimate tone. + +This woke in him the spirit to fight her. + +“I think I met him. He is good-looking—also in Arcady.” + +Without answering, she turned into a dark path that led up-hill, where +the trees and undergrowth were very thick. + +“They did well,” she said at length, “to have various altars to various +gods, in old days.” + +“Ah yes!” he agreed. “To whom is the new one?” + +“There are no old ones,” she said. “I was always looking for this.” + +“And whose is it?” he asked. + +“I don’t know,” she said, looking full at him. + +“I’m very glad, for your sake,” he said, “that you are satisfied.” + +“Aye—but the man doesn’t matter so much,” she said. There was a pause. + +“No!” he exclaimed, astonished, yet recognizing her as her real self. + +“It is one’s self that matters,” she said. “Whether one is being one’s +own self and serving one’s own God.” + +There was silence, during which he pondered. The path was almost +flowerless, gloomy. At the side, his heels sank into soft clay. + +III + +“I,” she said, very slowly, “I was married the same night as you.” + +He looked at her. + +“Not legally, of course,” she replied. “But—actually.” + +“To the keeper?” he said, not knowing what else to say. + +She turned to him. + +“You thought I could not?” she said. But the flush was deep in her +cheek and throat, for all her assurance. + +Still he would not say anything. + +“You see”—she was making an effort to explain—”_I_ had to understand +also.” + +“And what does it amount to, this _understanding_?” he asked. + +“A very great deal—does it not to you?” she replied. “One is free.” + +“And you are not disappointed?” + +“Far from it!” Her tone was deep and sincere. + +“You love him?” + +“Yes, I love him.” + +“Good!” he said. + +This silenced her for a while. + +“Here, among his things, I love him,” she said. + +His conceit would not let him be silent. + +“It needs this setting?” he asked. + +“It does,” she cried. “You were always making me to be not myself.” + +He laughed shortly. + +“But is it a matter of surroundings?” he said. He had considered her +all spirit. + +“I am like a plant,” she replied. “I can only grow in my own soil.” + +They came to a place where the undergrowth shrank away, leaving a bare, +brown space, pillared with the brick-red and purplish trunks of pine +trees. On the fringe, hung the sombre green of elder trees, with flat +flowers in bud, and below were bright, unfurling pennons of fern. In +the midst of the bare space stood a keeper’s log hut. Pheasant-coops +were lying about, some occupied by a clucking hen, some empty. + +Hilda walked over the brown pine-needles to the hut, took a key from +among the eaves, and opened the door. It was a bare wooden place with a +carpenter’s bench and form, carpenter’s tools, an axe, snares, traps, +some skins pegged down, everything in order. Hilda closed the door. +Syson examined the weird flat coats of wild animals, that were pegged +down to be cured. She turned some knotch in the side wall, and +disclosed a second, small apartment. + +“How romantic!” said Syson. + +“Yes. He is very curious—he has some of a wild animal’s cunning—in a +nice sense—and he is inventive, and thoughtful—but not beyond a certain +point.” + +She pulled back a dark green curtain. The apartment was occupied almost +entirely by a large couch of heather and bracken, on which was spread +an ample rabbit-skin rug. On the floor were patchwork rugs of cat-skin, +and a red calf-skin, while hanging from the wall were other furs. Hilda +took down one, which she put on. It was a cloak of rabbit-skin and of +white fur, with a hood, apparently of the skins of stoats. She laughed +at Syson from out of this barbaric mantle, saying: + +“What do you think of it?” + +“Ah—! I congratulate you on your man,” he replied. + +“And look!” she said. + +In a little jar on a shelf were some sprays, frail and white, of the +first honeysuckle. + +“They will scent the place at night,” she said. + +He looked round curiously. + +“Where does he come short, then?” he asked. She gazed at him for a few +moments. Then, turning aside: + +“The stars aren’t the same with him,” she said. “You could make them +flash and quiver, and the forget-me-nots come up at me like +phosphorescence. You could make things _wonderful_. I have found it +out—it is true. But I have them all for myself, now.” + +He laughed, saying: + +“After all, stars and forget-me-nots are only luxuries. You ought to +make poetry.” + +“Aye,” she assented. “But I have them all now.” + +Again he laughed bitterly at her. + +She turned swiftly. He was leaning against the small window of the +tiny, obscure room, and was watching her, who stood in the doorway, +still cloaked in her mantle. His cap was removed, so she saw his face +and head distinctly in the dim room. His black, straight, glossy hair +was brushed clean back from his brow. His black eyes were watching her, +and his face, that was clear and cream, and perfectly smooth, was +flickering. + +“We are very different,” she said bitterly. + +Again he laughed. + +“I see you disapprove of me,” he said. + +“I disapprove of what you have become,” she said. + +“You think we might”—he glanced at the hut—“have been like this—you and +I?” + +She shook her head. + +“You! no; never! You plucked a thing and looked at it till you had +found out all you wanted to know about it, then you threw it away,” she +said. + +“Did I?” he asked. “And could your way never have been my way? I +suppose not.” + +“Why should it?” she said. “I am a separate being.” + +“But surely two people sometimes go the same way,” he said. + +“You took me away from myself,” she said. + +He knew he had mistaken her, had taken her for something she was not. +That was his fault, not hers. + +“And did you always know?” he asked. + +“No—you never let me know. You bullied me. I couldn’t help myself. I +was glad when you left me, really.” + +“I know you were,” he said. But his face went paler, almost deathly +luminous. + +“Yet,” he said, “it was you who sent me the way I have gone.” + +“I!” she exclaimed, in pride. + +“You _would_ have me take the Grammar School scholarship—and you would +have me foster poor little Botell’s fervent attachment to me, till he +couldn’t live without me—and because Botell was rich and influential. +You triumphed in the wine-merchant’s offer to send me to Cambridge, to +befriend his only child. You wanted me to rise in the world. And all +the time you were sending me away from you—every new success of mine +put a separation between us, and more for you than for me. You never +wanted to come with me: you wanted just to send me to see what it was +like. I believe you even wanted me to marry a lady. You wanted to +triumph over society in me.” + +“And I am responsible,” she said, with sarcasm. + +“I distinguished myself to satisfy you,” he replied. + +“Ah!” she cried, “you always wanted change, change, like a child.” + +“Very well! And I am a success, and I know it, and I do some good work. +But—I thought you were different. What right have you to a man?” + +“What do you want?” she said, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes. + +He looked back at her, his eyes pointed, like weapons. + +“Why, nothing,” he laughed shortly. + +There was a rattling at the outer latch, and the keeper entered. The +woman glanced round, but remained standing, fur-cloaked, in the inner +doorway. Syson did not move. + +The other man entered, saw, and turned away without speaking. The two +also were silent. + +Pilbeam attended to his skins. + +“I must go,” said Syson. + +“Yes,” she replied. + +“Then I give you ‘To our vast and varying fortunes.’” He lifted his +hand in pledge. + +“‘To our vast and varying fortunes,’” she answered gravely, and +speaking in cold tones. + +“Arthur!” she said. + +The keeper pretended not to hear. Syson, watching keenly, began to +smile. The woman drew herself up. + +“Arthur!” she said again, with a curious upward inflection, which +warned the two men that her soul was trembling on a dangerous crisis. + +The keeper slowly put down his tool and came to her. + +“Yes,” he said. + +“I wanted to introduce you,” she said, trembling. + +“I’ve met him a’ready,” said the keeper. + +“Have you? It is Addy, Mr Syson, whom you know about.—This is Arthur, +Mr Pilbeam,” she added, turning to Syson. The latter held out his hand +to the keeper, and they shook hands in silence. + +“I’m glad to have met you,” said Syson. “We drop our correspondence, +Hilda?” + +“Why need we?” she asked. + +The two men stood at a loss. + +“_Is_ there no need?” said Syson. + +Still she was silent. + +“It is as you will,” she said. + +They went all three together down the gloomy path. + +“‘_Qu’il était bleu, le ciel, et grand l’espoir_,’” quoted Syson, not +knowing what to say. + +“What do you mean?” she said. “Besides, _we_ can’t walk in _our_ wild +oats—we never sowed any.” + +Syson looked at her. He was startled to see his young love, his nun, +his Botticelli angel, so revealed. It was he who had been the fool. He +and she were more separate than any two strangers could be. She only +wanted to keep up a correspondence with him—and he, of course, wanted +it kept up, so that he could write to her, like Dante to some Beatrice +who had never existed save in the man’s own brain. + +At the bottom of the path she left him. He went along with the keeper, +towards the open, towards the gate that closed on the wood. The two men +walked almost like friends. They did not broach the subject of their +thoughts. + +Instead of going straight to the high-road gate, Syson went along the +wood’s edge, where the brook spread out in a little bog, and under the +alder trees, among the reeds, great yellow stools and bosses of +marigolds shone. Threads of brown water trickled by, touched with gold +from the flowers. Suddenly there was a blue flash in the air, as a +kingfisher passed. + +Syson was extraordinarily moved. He climbed the bank to the gorse +bushes, whose sparks of blossom had not yet gathered into a flame. +Lying on the dry brown turf, he discovered sprigs of tiny purple +milkwort and pink spots of lousewort. What a wonderful world it +was—marvellous, for ever new. He felt as if it were underground, like +the fields of monotone hell, notwithstanding. Inside his breast was a +pain like a wound. He remembered the poem of William Morris, where in +the Chapel of Lyonesse a knight lay wounded, with the truncheon of a +spear deep in his breast, lying always as dead, yet did not die, while +day after day the coloured sunlight dipped from the painted window +across the chancel, and passed away. He knew now it never had been +true, that which was between him and her, not for a moment. The truth +had stood apart all the time. + +Syson turned over. The air was full of the sound of larks, as if the +sunshine above were condensing and falling in a shower. Amid this +bright sound, voices sounded small and distinct. + +“But if he’s married, an’ quite willing to drop it off, what has ter +against it?” said the man’s voice. + +“I don’t want to talk about it now. I want to be alone.” + +Syson looked through the bushes. Hilda was standing in the wood, near +the gate. The man was in the field, loitering by the hedge, and playing +with the bees as they settled on the white bramble flowers. + +There was silence for a while, in which Syson imagined her will among +the brightness of the larks. Suddenly the keeper exclaimed “Ah!” and +swore. He was gripping at the sleeve of his coat, near the shoulder. +Then he pulled off his jacket, threw it on the ground, and absorbedly +rolled up his shirt sleeve right to the shoulder. + +“Ah!” he said vindictively, as he picked out the bee and flung it away. +He twisted his fine, bright arm, peering awkwardly over his shoulder. + +“What is it?” asked Hilda. + +“A bee—crawled up my sleeve,” he answered. + +“Come here to me,” she said. + +The keeper went to her, like a sulky boy. She took his arm in her +hands. + +“Here it is—and the sting left in—poor bee!” + +She picked out the sting, put her mouth to his arm, and sucked away the +drop of poison. As she looked at the red mark her mouth had made, and +at his arm, she said, laughing: + +“That is the reddest kiss you will ever have.” + +When Syson next looked up, at the sound of voices, he saw in the shadow +the keeper with his mouth on the throat of his beloved, whose head was +thrown back, and whose hair had fallen, so that one rough rope of dark +brown hair hung across his bare arm. + +“No,” the woman answered. “I am not upset because he’s gone. You won’t +understand....” + +Syson could not distinguish what the man said. Hilda replied, clear and +distinct: + +“You know I love you. He has gone quite out of my life—don’t trouble +about him....” He kissed her, murmuring. She laughed hollowly. + +“Yes,” she said, indulgent. “We will be married, we will be married. +But not just yet.” He spoke to her again. Syson heard nothing for a +time. Then she said: + +“You must go home, now, dear—you will get no sleep.” + +Again was heard the murmur of the keeper’s voice, troubled by fear and +passion. + +“But why should we be married at once?” she said. “What more would you +have, by being married? It is most beautiful as it is.” + +At last he pulled on his coat and departed. She stood at the gate, not +watching him, but looking over the sunny country. + +When at last she had gone, Syson also departed, going back to town. + + + +Second Best + +“Oh, I’m tired!” Frances exclaimed petulantly, and in the same instant +she dropped down on the turf, near the hedge-bottom. Anne stood a +moment surprised, then, accustomed to the vagaries of her beloved +Frances, said: + +“Well, and aren’t you always likely to be tired, after travelling that +blessed long way from Liverpool yesterday?” and she plumped down beside +her sister. Anne was a wise young body of fourteen, very buxom, +brimming with common sense. Frances was much older, about twenty-three, +and whimsical, spasmodic. She was the beauty and the clever child of +the family. She plucked the goose-grass buttons from her dress in a +nervous, desperate fashion. Her beautiful profile, looped above with +black hair, warm with the dusky-and-scarlet complexion of a pear, was +calm as a mask, her thin brown hand plucked nervously. + +“It’s not the journey,” she said, objecting to Anne’s obtuseness. Anne +looked inquiringly at her darling. The young girl, in her +self-confident, practical way, proceeded to reckon up this whimsical +creature. But suddenly she found herself full in the eyes of Frances; +felt two dark, hectic eyes flaring challenge at her, and she shrank +away. Frances was peculiar for these great, exposed looks, which +disconcerted people by their violence and their suddenness. + +“What’s a matter, poor old duck?” asked Anne, as she folded the slight, +wilful form of her sister in her arms. Frances laughed shakily, and +nestled down for comfort on the budding breasts of the strong girl. + +“Oh, I’m only a bit tired,” she murmured, on the point of tears. + +“Well, of course you are, what do you expect?” soothed Anne. It was a +joke to Frances that Anne should play elder, almost mother to her. But +then, Anne was in her unvexed teens; men were like big dogs to her: +while Frances, at twenty-three, suffered a good deal. + +The country was intensely morning-still. On the common everything shone +beside its shadow, and the hillside gave off heat in silence. The brown +turf seemed in a low state of combustion, the leaves of the oaks were +scorched brown. Among the blackish foliage in the distance shone the +small red and orange of the village. + +The willows in the brook-course at the foot of the common suddenly +shook with a dazzling effect like diamonds. It was a puff of wind. Anne +resumed her normal position. She spread her knees, and put in her lap a +handful of hazel nuts, whity-green leafy things, whose one cheek was +tanned between brown and pink. These she began to crack and eat. +Frances, with bowed head, mused bitterly. + +“Eh, you know Tom Smedley?” began the young girl, as she pulled a tight +kernel out of its shell. + +“I suppose so,” replied Frances sarcastically. + +“Well, he gave me a wild rabbit what he’d caught, to keep with my tame +one—and it’s living.” + +“That’s a good thing,” said Frances, very detached and ironic. + +“Well, it _is!_ He reckoned he’d take me to Ollerton Feast, but he +never did. Look here, he took a servant from the rectory; I saw him.” + +“So he ought,” said Frances. + +“No, he oughtn’t! and I told him so. And I told him I should tell +you—an’ I have done.” + +Click and snap went a nut between her teeth. She sorted out the kernel, +and chewed complacently. + +“It doesn’t make much difference,” said Frances. + +“Well, ’appen it doesn’t; but I was mad with him all the same.” + +“Why?” + +“Because I was; he’s no right to go with a servant.” + +“He’s a perfect right,” persisted Frances, very just and cold. + +“No, he hasn’t, when he’d said he’d take me.” + +Frances burst into a laugh of amusement and relief. + +“Oh, no; I’d forgot that,” she said, adding, “And what did he say when +you promised to tell me?” + +“He laughed and said, ‘he won’t fret her fat over that.’” + +“And she won’t,” sniffed Frances. + +There was silence. The common, with its sere, blonde-headed thistles, +its heaps of silent bramble, its brown-husked gorse in the glare of +sunshine, seemed visionary. Across the brook began the immense pattern +of agriculture, white chequering of barley stubble, brown squares of +wheat, khaki patches of pasture, red stripes of fallow, with the +woodland and the tiny village dark like ornaments, leading away to the +distance, right to the hills, where the check-pattern grew smaller and +smaller, till, in the blackish haze of heat, far off, only the tiny +white squares of barley stubble showed distinct. + +“Eh, I say, here’s a rabbit hole!” cried Anne suddenly. “Should we +watch if one comes out? You won’t have to fidget, you know.” + +The two girls sat perfectly still. Frances watched certain objects in +her surroundings: they had a peculiar, unfriendly look about them: the +weight of greenish elderberries on their purpling stalks; the twinkling +of the yellowing crab-apples that clustered high up in the hedge, +against the sky: the exhausted, limp leaves of the primroses lying flat +in the hedge-bottom: all looked strange to her. Then her eyes caught a +movement. A mole was moving silently over the warm, red soil, nosing, +shuffling hither and thither, flat, and dark as a shadow, shifting +about, and as suddenly brisk, and as silent, like a very ghost of _joie +de vivre_. Frances started, from habit was about to call on Anne to +kill the little pest. But, today, her lethargy of unhappiness was too +much for her. She watched the little brute paddling, snuffing, touching +things to discover them, running in blindness, delighted to ecstasy by +the sunlight and the hot, strange things that caressed its belly and +its nose. She felt a keen pity for the little creature. + +“Eh, our Fran, look there! It’s a mole.” + +Anne was on her feet, standing watching the dark, unconscious beast. +Frances frowned with anxiety. + +“It doesn’t run off, does it?” said the young girl softly. Then she +stealthily approached the creature. The mole paddled fumblingly away. +In an instant Anne put her foot upon it, not too heavily. Frances could +see the struggling, swimming movement of the little pink hands of the +brute, the twisting and twitching of its pointed nose, as it wrestled +under the sole of the boot. + +“It _does_ wriggle!” said the bonny girl, knitting her brows in a frown +at the eerie sensation. Then she bent down to look at her trap. Frances +could now see, beyond the edge of the boot-sole, the heaving of the +velvet shoulders, the pitiful turning of the sightless face, the +frantic rowing of the flat, pink hands. + +“Kill the thing,” she said, turning away her face. + +“Oh—I’m not,” laughed Anne, shrinking. “You can, if you like.” + +“I _don’t_ like,” said Frances, with quiet intensity. + +After several dabbling attempts, Anne succeeded in picking up the +little animal by the scruff of its neck. It threw back its head, flung +its long blind snout from side to side, the mouth open in a peculiar +oblong, with tiny pinkish teeth at the edge. The blind, frantic mouth +gaped and writhed. The body, heavy and clumsy, hung scarcely moving. + +“Isn’t it a snappy little thing,” observed Anne twisting to avoid the +teeth. + +“What are you going to do with it?” asked Frances sharply. + +“It’s got to be killed—look at the damage they do. I s’ll take it home +and let dadda or somebody kill it. I’m not going to let it go.” + +She swaddled the creature clumsily in her pocket-handkerchief and sat +down beside her sister. There was an interval of silence, during which +Anne combated the efforts of the mole. + +“You’ve not had much to say about Jimmy this time. Did you see him +often in Liverpool?” Anne asked suddenly. + +“Once or twice,” replied Frances, giving no sign of how the question +troubled her. + +“And aren’t you sweet on him any more, then?” + +“I should think I’m not, seeing that he’s engaged.” + +“Engaged? Jimmy Barrass! Well, of all things! I never thought _he’d_ +get engaged.” + +“Why not, he’s as much right as anybody else?” snapped Frances. + +Anne was fumbling with the mole. + +“’Appen so,” she said at length; “but I never thought Jimmy would, +though.” + +“Why not?” snapped Frances. + +“_I_ don’t know—this blessed mole, it’ll not keep still!—who’s he got +engaged to?” + +“How should I know?” + +“I thought you’d ask him; you’ve known him long enough. I s’d think he +thought he’d get engaged now he’s a Doctor of Chemistry.” + +Frances laughed in spite of herself. + +“What’s that got to do with it?” she asked. + +“I’m sure it’s got a lot. He’ll want to feel _somebody_ now, so he’s +got engaged. Hey, stop it; go in!” + +But at this juncture the mole almost succeeded in wriggling clear. It +wrestled and twisted frantically, waved its pointed blind head, its +mouth standing open like a little shaft, its big, wrinkled hands spread +out. + +“Go in with you!” urged Anne, poking the little creature with her +forefinger, trying to get it back into the handkerchief. Suddenly the +mouth turned like a spark on her finger. + +“Oh!” she cried, “he’s bit me.” + +She dropped him to the floor. Dazed, the blind creature fumbled round. +Frances felt like shrieking. She expected him to dart away in a flash, +like a mouse, and there he remained groping; she wanted to cry to him +to be gone. Anne, in a sudden decision of wrath, caught up her sister’s +walking-cane. With one blow the mole was dead. Frances was startled and +shocked. One moment the little wretch was fussing in the heat, and the +next it lay like a little bag, inert and black—not a struggle, scarce a +quiver. + +“It is dead!” Frances said breathlessly. Anne took her finger from her +mouth, looked at the tiny pinpricks, and said: + +“Yes, he is, and I’m glad. They’re vicious little nuisances, moles +are.” + +With which her wrath vanished. She picked up the dead animal. + +“Hasn’t it got a beautiful skin,” she mused, stroking the fur with her +forefinger, then with her cheek. + +“Mind,” said Frances sharply. “You’ll have the blood on your skirt!” + +One ruby drop of blood hung on the small snout, ready to fall. Anne +shook it off on to some harebells. Frances suddenly became calm; in +that moment, grown-up. + +“I suppose they have to be killed,” she said, and a certain rather +dreary indifference succeeded to her grief. The twinkling crab-apples, +the glitter of brilliant willows now seemed to her trifling, scarcely +worth the notice. Something had died in her, so that things lost their +poignancy. She was calm, indifference overlying her quiet sadness. +Rising, she walked down to the brook course. + +“Here, wait for me,” cried Anne, coming tumbling after. + +Frances stood on the bridge, looking at the red mud trodden into +pockets by the feet of cattle. There was not a drain of water left, but +everything smelled green, succulent. Why did she care so little for +Anne, who was so fond of her? she asked herself. Why did she care so +little for anyone? She did not know, but she felt a rather stubborn +pride in her isolation and indifference. + +They entered a field where stooks of barley stood in rows, the +straight, blonde tresses of the corn streaming on to the ground. The +stubble was bleached by the intense summer, so that the expanse glared +white. The next field was sweet and soft with a second crop of seeds; +thin, straggling clover whose little pink knobs rested prettily in the +dark green. The scent was faint and sickly. The girls came up in single +file, Frances leading. + +Near the gate a young man was mowing with the scythe some fodder for +the afternoon feed of the cattle. As he saw the girls he left off +working and waited in an aimless kind of way. Frances was dressed in +white muslin, and she walked with dignity, detached and forgetful. Her +lack of agitation, her simple, unheeding advance made him nervous. She +had loved the far-off Jimmy for five years, having had in return his +half-measures. This man only affected her slightly. + +Tom was of medium stature, energetic in build. His smooth, fair-skinned +face was burned red, not brown, by the sun, and this ruddiness enhanced +his appearance of good humour and easiness. Being a year older than +Frances, he would have courted her long ago had she been so inclined. +As it was, he had gone his uneventful way amiably, chatting with many a +girl, but remaining unattached, free of trouble for the most part. Only +he knew he wanted a woman. He hitched his trousers just a trifle +self-consciously as the girls approached. Frances was a rare, delicate +kind of being, whom he realized with a queer and delicious stimulation +in his veins. She gave him a slight sense of suffocation. Somehow, this +morning, she affected him more than usual. She was dressed in white. +He, however, being matter-of-fact in his mind, did not realize. His +feeling had never become conscious, purposive. + +Frances knew what she was about. Tom was ready to love her as soon as +she would show him. Now that she could not have Jimmy, she did not +poignantly care. Still, she would have something. If she could not have +the best—Jimmy, whom she knew to be something of a snob—she would have +the second best, Tom. She advanced rather indifferently. + +“You are back, then!” said Tom. She marked the touch of uncertainty in +his voice. + +“No,” she laughed, “I’m still in Liverpool,” and the undertone of +intimacy made him burn. + +“This isn’t you, then?” he asked. + +Her heart leapt up in approval. She looked in his eyes, and for a +second was with him. + +“Why, what do you think?” she laughed. + +He lifted his hat from his head with a distracted little gesture. She +liked him, his quaint ways, his humour, his ignorance, and his slow +masculinity. + +“Here, look here, Tom Smedley,” broke in Anne. + +“A moudiwarp! Did you find it dead?” he asked. + +“No, it bit me,” said Anne. + +“Oh, aye! An’ that got your rag out, did it?” + +“No, it didn’t!” Anne scolded sharply. “Such language!” + +“Oh, what’s up wi’ it?” + +“I can’t bear you to talk broad.” + +“Can’t you?” + +He glanced at Frances. + +“It isn’t nice,” Frances said. She did not care, really. The vulgar +speech jarred on her as a rule; Jimmy was a gentleman. But Tom’s manner +of speech did not matter to her. + +“I like you to talk _nicely_,” she added. + +“Do you,” he replied, tilting his hat, stirred. + +“And generally you _do_, you know,” she smiled. + +“I s’ll have to have a try,” he said, rather tensely gallant. + +“What?” she asked brightly. + +“To talk nice to you,” he said. Frances coloured furiously, bent her +head for a moment, then laughed gaily, as if she liked this clumsy +hint. + +“Eh now, you mind what you’re saying,” cried Anne, giving the young man +an admonitory pat. + +“You wouldn’t have to give yon mole many knocks like that,” he teased, +relieved to get on safe ground, rubbing his arm. + +“No indeed, it died in one blow,” said Frances, with a flippancy that +was hateful to her. + +“You’re not so good at knockin’ ’em?” he said, turning to her. + +“I don’t know, if I’m cross,” she said decisively. + +“No?” he replied, with alert attentiveness. + +“I could,” she added, harder, “if it was necessary.” + +He was slow to feel her difference. + +“And don’t you consider it _is_ necessary?” he asked, with misgiving. + +“W—ell—is it?” she said, looking at him steadily, coldly. + +“I reckon it is,” he replied, looking away, but standing stubborn. + +She laughed quickly. + +“But it isn’t necessary for _me_,” she said, with slight contempt. + +“Yes, that’s quite true,” he answered. + +She laughed in a shaky fashion. + +“_I know it is_,” she said; and there was an awkward pause. + +“Why, would you _like_ me to kill moles then?” she asked tentatively, +after a while. + +“They do us a lot of damage,” he said, standing firm on his own ground, +angered. + +“Well, I’ll see the next time I come across one,” she promised, +defiantly. Their eyes met, and she sank before him, her pride troubled. +He felt uneasy and triumphant and baffled, as if fate had gripped him. +She smiled as she departed. + +“Well,” said Anne, as the sisters went through the wheat stubble; “I +don’t know what you two’s been jawing about, I’m sure.” + +“Don’t you?” laughed Frances significantly. + +“No, I don’t. But, at any rate, Tom Smedley’s a good deal better to my +thinking than Jimmy, so there—and nicer.” + +“Perhaps he is,” said Frances coldly. + +And the next day, after a secret, persistent hunt, she found another +mole playing in the heat. She killed it, and in the evening, when Tom +came to the gate to smoke his pipe after supper, she took him the dead +creature. + +“Here you are then!” she said. + +“Did you catch it?” he replied, taking the velvet corpse into his +fingers and examining it minutely. This was to hide his trepidation. + +“Did you think I couldn’t?” she asked, her face very near his. + +“Nay, I didn’t know.” + +She laughed in his face, a strange little laugh that caught her breath, +all agitation, and tears, and recklessness of desire. He looked +frightened and upset. She put her hand to his arm. + +“Shall you go out wi’ me?” he asked, in a difficult, troubled tone. + +She turned her face away, with a shaky laugh. The blood came up in him, +strong, overmastering. He resisted it. But it drove him down, and he +was carried away. Seeing the winsome, frail nape of her neck, fierce +love came upon him for her, and tenderness. + +“We s’ll ’ave to tell your mother,” he said. And he stood, suffering, +resisting his passion for her. + +“Yes,” she replied, in a dead voice. But there was a thrill of pleasure +in this death. + + + +The Shadow in the Rose Garden + +A rather small young man sat by the window of a pretty seaside cottage +trying to persuade himself that he was reading the newspaper. It was +about half-past eight in the morning. Outside, the glory roses hung in +the morning sunshine like little bowls of fire tipped up. The young man +looked at the table, then at the clock, then at his own big silver +watch. An expression of stiff endurance came on to his face. Then he +rose and reflected on the oil-paintings that hung on the walls of the +room, giving careful but hostile attention to “The Stag at Bay”. He +tried the lid of the piano, and found it locked. He caught sight of his +own face in a little mirror, pulled his brown moustache, and an alert +interest sprang into his eyes. He was not ill-favoured. He twisted his +moustache. His figure was rather small, but alert and vigorous. As he +turned from the mirror a look of self-commiseration mingled with his +appreciation of his own physiognomy. + +In a state of self-suppression, he went through into the garden. His +jacket, however, did not look dejected. It was new, and had a smart and +self-confident air, sitting upon a confident body. He contemplated the +Tree of Heaven that flourished by the lawn, then sauntered on to the +next plant. There was more promise in a crooked apple tree covered with +brown-red fruit. Glancing round, he broke off an apple and, with his +back to the house, took a clean, sharp bite. To his surprise the fruit +was sweet. He took another. Then again he turned to survey the bedroom +windows overlooking the garden. He started, seeing a woman’s figure; +but it was only his wife. She was gazing across to the sea, apparently +ignorant of him. + +For a moment or two he looked at her, watching her. She was a +good-looking woman, who seemed older than he, rather pale, but healthy, +her face yearning. Her rich auburn hair was heaped in folds on her +forehead. She looked apart from him and his world, gazing away to the +sea. It irked her husband that she should continue abstracted and in +ignorance of him; he pulled poppy fruits and threw them at the window. +She started, glanced at him with a wild smile, and looked away again. +Then almost immediately she left the window. He went indoors to meet +her. She had a fine carriage, very proud, and wore a dress of soft +white muslin. + +“I’ve been waiting long enough,” he said. + +“For me or for breakfast?” she said lightly. “You know we said nine +o’clock. I should have thought you could have slept after the journey.” + +“You know I’m always up at five, and I couldn’t stop in bed after six. +You might as well be in pit as in bed, on a morning like this.” + +“I shouldn’t have thought the pit would occur to you, here.” + +She moved about examining the room, looking at the ornaments under +glass covers. He, planted on the hearthrug, watched her rather +uneasily, and grudgingly indulgent. She shrugged her shoulders at the +apartment. + +“Come,” she said, taking his arm, “let us go into the garden till Mrs +Coates brings the tray.” + +“I hope she’ll be quick,” he said, pulling his moustache. She gave a +short laugh, and leaned on his arm as they went. He had lighted a pipe. + +Mrs Coates entered the room as they went down the steps. The +delightful, erect old lady hastened to the window for a good view of +her visitors. Her china-blue eyes were bright as she watched the young +couple go down the path, he walking in an easy, confident fashion, with +his wife, on his arm. The landlady began talking to herself in a soft, +Yorkshire accent. + +“Just of a height they are. She wouldn’t ha’ married a man less than +herself in stature, I think, though he’s not her equal otherwise.” Here +her granddaughter came in, setting a tray on the table. The girl went +to the old woman’s side. + +“He’s been eating the apples, gran’,” she said. + +“Has he, my pet? Well, if he’s happy, why not?” + +Outside, the young, well-favoured man listened with impatience to the +chink of the teacups. At last, with a sigh of relief, the couple came +in to breakfast. After he had eaten for some time, he rested a moment +and said: + +“Do you think it’s any better place than Bridlington?” + +“I do,” she said, “infinitely! Besides, I am at home here—it’s not like +a strange seaside place to me.” + +“How long were you here?” + +“Two years.” + +He ate reflectively. + +“I should ha’ thought you’d rather go to a fresh place,” he said at +length. + +She sat very silent, and then, delicately, put out a feeler. + +“Why?” she said. “Do you think I shan’t enjoy myself?” + +He laughed comfortably, putting the marmalade thick on his bread. + +“I hope so,” he said. + +She again took no notice of him. + +“But don’t say anything about it in the village, Frank,” she said +casually. “Don’t say who I am, or that I used to live here. There’s +nobody I want to meet, particularly, and we should never feel free if +they knew me again.” + +“Why did you come, then?” + +“‘Why?’ Can’t you understand why?” + +“Not if you don’t want to know anybody.” + +“I came to see the place, not the people.” + +He did not say any more. + +“Women,” she said, “are different from men. I don’t know why I wanted +to come—but I did.” + +She helped him to another cup of coffee, solicitously. + +“Only,” she resumed, “don’t talk about me in the village.” She laughed +shakily. “I don’t want my past brought up against me, you know.” And +she moved the crumbs on the cloth with her finger-tip. + +He looked at her as he drank his coffee; he sucked his moustache, and +putting down his cup, said phlegmatically: + +“I’ll bet you’ve had a lot of past.” + +She looked with a little guiltiness, that flattered him, down at the +tablecloth. + +“Well,” she said, caressive, “you won’t give me away, who I am, will +you?” + +“No,” he said, comforting, laughing, “I won’t give you away.” + +He was pleased. + +She remained silent. After a moment or two she lifted her head, saying: + +“I’ve got to arrange with Mrs Coates, and do various things. So you’d +better go out by yourself this morning—and we’ll be in to dinner at +one.” + +“But you can’t be arranging with Mrs Coates all morning,” he said. + +“Oh, well—then I’ve some letters to write, and I must get that mark out +of my skirt. I’ve got plenty of little things to do this morning. You’d +better go out by yourself.” + +He perceived that she wanted to be rid of him, so that when she went +upstairs, he took his hat and lounged out on to the cliffs, +suppressedly angry. + +Presently she too came out. She wore a hat with roses, and a long lace +scarf hung over her white dress. Rather nervously, she put up her +sunshade, and her face was half-hidden in its coloured shadow. She went +along the narrow track of flag-stones that were worn hollow by the feet +of the fishermen. She seemed to be avoiding her surroundings, as if she +remained safe in the little obscurity of her parasol. + +She passed the church, and went down the lane till she came to a high +wall by the wayside. Under this she went slowly, stopping at length by +an open doorway, which shone like a picture of light in the dark wall. +There in the magic beyond the doorway, patterns of shadow lay on the +sunny court, on the blue and white sea-pebbles of its paving, while a +green lawn glowed beyond, where a bay tree glittered at the edges. She +tiptoed nervously into the courtyard, glancing at the house that stood +in shadow. The uncurtained windows looked black and soulless, the +kitchen door stood open. Irresolutely she took a step forward, and +again forward, leaning, yearning, towards the garden beyond. + +She had almost gained the corner of the house when a heavy step came +crunching through the trees. A gardener appeared before her. He held a +wicker tray on which were rolling great, dark red gooseberries, +overripe. He moved slowly. + +“The garden isn’t open today,” he said quietly to the attractive woman, +who was poised for retreat. + +For a moment she was silent with surprise. How should it be public at +all? + +“When is it open?” she asked, quick-witted. + +“The rector lets visitors in on Fridays and Tuesdays.” + +She stood still, reflecting. How strange to think of the rector opening +his garden to the public! + +“But everybody will be at church,” she said coaxingly to the man. +“There’ll be nobody here, will there?” + +He moved, and the big gooseberries rolled. + +“The rector lives at the new rectory,” he said. + +The two stood still. He did not like to ask her to go. At last she +turned to him with a winning smile. + +“Might I have _one_ peep at the roses?” she coaxed, with pretty +wilfulness. + +“I don’t suppose it would matter,” he said, moving aside: “you won’t +stop long——” + +She went forward, forgetting the gardener in a moment. Her face became +strained, her movements eager. Glancing round, she saw all the windows +giving on to the lawn were curtainless and dark. The house had a +sterile appearance, as if it were still used, but not inhabited. A +shadow seemed to go over her. She went across the lawn towards the +garden, through an arch of crimson ramblers, a gate of colour. There +beyond lay the soft blue sea with the bay, misty with morning, and the +farthest headland of black rock jutting dimly out between blue and blue +of the sky and water. Her face began to shine, transfigured with pain +and joy. At her feet the garden fell steeply, all a confusion of +flowers, and away below was the darkness of tree-tops covering the +beck. + +She turned to the garden that shone with sunny flowers around her. She +knew the little corner where was the seat beneath the yew tree. Then +there was the terrace where a great host of flowers shone, and from +this, two paths went down, one at each side of the garden. She closed +her sunshade and walked slowly among the many flowers. All round were +rose bushes, big banks of roses, then roses hanging and tumbling from +pillars, or roses balanced on the standard bushes. By the open earth +were many other flowers. If she lifted her head, the sea was upraised +beyond, and the Cape. + +Slowly she went down one path, lingering, like one who has gone back +into the past. Suddenly she was touching some heavy crimson roses that +were soft as velvet, touching them thoughtfully, without knowing, as a +mother sometimes fondles the hand of her child. She leaned slightly +forward to catch the scent. Then she wandered on in abstraction. +Sometimes a flame-coloured, scentless rose would hold her arrested. She +stood gazing at it as if she could not understand it. Again the same +softness of intimacy came over her, as she stood before a tumbling heap +of pink petals. Then she wondered over the white rose, that was +greenish, like ice, in the centre. So, slowly, like a white, pathetic +butterfly, she drifted down the path, coming at last to a tiny terrace +all full of roses. They seemed to fill the place, a sunny, gay throng. +She was shy of them, they were so many and so bright. They seemed to be +conversing and laughing. She felt herself in a strange crowd. It +exhilarated her, carried her out of herself. She flushed with +excitement. The air was pure scent. + +Hastily, she went to a little seat among the white roses, and sat down. +Her scarlet sunshade made a hard blot of colour. She sat quite still, +feeling her own existence lapse. She was no more than a rose, a rose +that could not quite come into blossom, but remained tense. A little +fly dropped on her knee, on her white dress. She watched it, as if it +had fallen on a rose. She was not herself. + +Then she started cruelly as a shadow crossed her and a figure moved +into her sight. It was a man who had come in slippers, unheard. He wore +a linen coat. The morning was shattered, the spell vanished away. She +was only afraid of being questioned. He came forward. She rose. Then, +seeing him, the strength went from her and she sank on the seat again. + +He was a young man, military in appearance, growing slightly stout. His +black hair was brushed smooth and bright, his moustache was waxed. But +there was something rambling in his gait. She looked up, blanched to +the lips, and saw his eyes. They were black, and stared without seeing. +They were not a man’s eyes. He was coming towards her. + +He stared at her fixedly, made unconscious salute, and sat down beside +her on the seat. He moved on the bench, shifted his feet, saying, in a +gentlemanly, military voice: + +“I don’t disturb you—do I?” + +She was mute and helpless. He was scrupulously dressed in dark clothes +and a linen coat. She could not move. Seeing his hands, with the ring +she knew so well upon the little finger, she felt as if she were going +dazed. The whole world was deranged. She sat unavailing. For his hands, +her symbols of passionate love, filled her with horror as they rested +now on his strong thighs. + +“May I smoke?” he asked intimately, almost secretly, his hand going to +his pocket. + +She could not answer, but it did not matter, he was in another world. +She wondered, craving, if he recognized her—if he could recognize her. +She sat pale with anguish. But she had to go through it. + +“I haven’t got any tobacco,” he said thoughtfully. + +But she paid no heed to his words, only she attended to him. Could he +recognize her, or was it all gone? She sat still in a frozen kind of +suspense. + +“I smoke John Cotton,” he said, “and I must economize with it, it is +expensive. You know, I’m not very well off while these lawsuits are +going on.” + +“No,” she said, and her heart was cold, her soul kept rigid. + +He moved, made a loose salute, rose, and went away. She sat motionless. +She could see his shape, the shape she had loved, with all her passion: +his compact, soldier’s head, his fine figure now slackened. And it was +not he. It only filled her with horror too difficult to know. + +Suddenly he came again, his hand in his jacket pocket. + +“Do you mind if I smoke?” he said. “Perhaps I shall be able to see +things more clearly.” + +He sat down beside her again, filling a pipe. She watched his hands +with the fine strong fingers. They had always inclined to tremble +slightly. It had surprised her, long ago, in such a healthy man. Now +they moved inaccurately, and the tobacco hung raggedly out of the pipe. + +“I have legal business to attend to. Legal affairs are always so +uncertain. I tell my solicitor exactly, precisely what I want, but I +can never get it done.” + +She sat and heard him talking. But it was not he. Yet those were the +hands she had kissed, there were the glistening, strange black eyes +that she had loved. Yet it was not he. She sat motionless with horror +and silence. He dropped his tobacco pouch, and groped for it on the +ground. Yet she must wait if he would recognize her. Why could she not +go! In a moment he rose. + +“I must go at once,” he said. “The owl is coming.” Then he added +confidentially: “His name isn’t really the owl, but I call him that. I +must go and see if he has come.” + +She rose too. He stood before her, uncertain. He was a handsome, +soldierly fellow, and a lunatic. Her eyes searched him, and searched +him, to see if he would recognize her, if she could discover him. + +“You don’t know me?” she asked, from the terror of her soul, standing +alone. + +He looked back at her quizzically. She had to bear his eyes. They +gleamed on her, but with no intelligence. He was drawing nearer to her. + +“Yes, I do know you,” he said, fixed, intent, but mad, drawing his face +nearer hers. Her horror was too great. The powerful lunatic was coming +too near to her. + +A man approached, hastening. + +“The garden isn’t open this morning,” he said. + +The deranged man stopped and looked at him. The keeper went to the seat +and picked up the tobacco pouch left lying there. + +“Don’t leave your tobacco, sir,” he said, taking it to the gentleman in +the linen coat. + +“I was just asking this lady to stay to lunch,” the latter said +politely. “She is a friend of mine.” + +The woman turned and walked swiftly, blindly, between the sunny roses, +out of the garden, past the house with the blank, dark windows, through +the sea-pebbled courtyard to the street. Hastening and blind, she went +forward without hesitating, not knowing whither. Directly she came to +the house she went upstairs, took off her hat, and sat down on the bed. +It was as if some membrane had been torn in two in her, so that she was +not an entity that could think and feel. She sat staring across at the +window, where an ivy spray waved slowly up and down in the sea wind. +There was some of the uncanny luminousness of the sunlit sea in the +air. She sat perfectly still, without any being. She only felt she +might be sick, and it might be blood that was loose in her torn +entrails. She sat perfectly still and passive. + +After a time she heard the hard tread of her husband on the floor +below, and, without herself changing, she registered his movement. She +heard his rather disconsolate footsteps go out again, then his voice +speaking, answering, growing cheery, and his solid tread drawing near. + +He entered, ruddy, rather pleased, an air of complacency about his +alert figure. She moved stiffly. He faltered in his approach. + +“What’s the matter?” he asked a tinge of impatience in his voice. +“Aren’t you feeling well?” + +This was torture to her. + +“Quite,” she replied. + +His brown eyes became puzzled and angry. + +“What is the matter?” he said. + +“Nothing.” + +He took a few strides, and stood obstinately, looking out of the +window. + +“Have you run up against anybody?” he asked. + +“Nobody who knows me,” she said. + +His hands began to twitch. It exasperated him, that she was no more +sensible of him than if he did not exist. Turning on her at length, +driven, he asked: + +“Something has upset you hasn’t it?” + +“No, why?” she said neutral. He did not exist for her, except as an +irritant. + +His anger rose, filling the veins in his throat. + +“It seems like it,” he said, making an effort not to show his anger, +because there seemed no reason for it. He went away downstairs. She sat +still on the bed, and with the residue of feeling left to her, she +disliked him because he tormented her. The time went by. She could +smell the dinner being served, the smoke of her husband’s pipe from the +garden. But she could not move. She had no being. There was a tinkle of +the bell. She heard him come indoors. And then he mounted the stairs +again. At every step her heart grew tight in her. He opened the door. + +“Dinner is on the table,” he said. + +It was difficult for her to endure his presence, for he would interfere +with her. She could not recover her life. She rose stiffly and went +down. She could neither eat nor talk during the meal. She sat absent, +torn, without any being of her own. He tried to go on as if nothing +were the matter. But at last he became silent with fury. As soon as it +was possible, she went upstairs again, and locked the bedroom door. She +must be alone. He went with his pipe into the garden. All his +suppressed anger against her who held herself superior to him filled +and blackened his heart. Though he had not known it, yet he had never +really won her, she had never loved him. She had taken him on +sufference. This had foiled him. He was only a labouring electrician in +the mine, she was superior to him. He had always given way to her. But +all the while, the injury and ignominy had been working in his soul +because she did not hold him seriously. And now all his rage came up +against her. + +He turned and went indoors. The third time, she heard him mounting the +stairs. Her heart stood still. He turned the catch and pushed the +door—it was locked. He tried it again, harder. Her heart was standing +still. + +“Have you fastened the door?” he asked quietly, because of the +landlady. + +“Yes. Wait a minute.” + +She rose and turned the lock, afraid he would burst it. She felt hatred +towards him, because he did not leave her free. He entered, his pipe +between his teeth, and she returned to her old position on the bed. He +closed the door and stood with his back to it. + +“What’s the matter?” he asked determinedly. + +She was sick with him. She could not look at him. + +“Can’t you leave me alone?” she replied, averting her face from him. + +He looked at her quickly, fully, wincing with ignominy. Then he seemed +to consider for a moment. + +“There’s something up with you, isn’t there?” he asked definitely. + +“Yes,” she said, “but that’s no reason why you should torment me.” + +“I don’t torment you. What’s the matter?” + +“Why should you know?” she cried, in hate and desperation. + +Something snapped. He started and caught his pipe as it fell from his +mouth. Then he pushed forward the bitten-off mouth-piece with his +tongue, took it from off his lips, and looked at it. Then he put out +his pipe, and brushed the ash from his waistcoat. After which he raised +his head. + +“I want to know,” he said. His face was greyish pale, and set uglily. + +Neither looked at the other. She knew he was fired now. His heart was +pounding heavily. She hated him, but she could not withstand him. +Suddenly she lifted her head and turned on him. + +“What right have you to know?” she asked. + +He looked at her. She felt a pang of surprise for his tortured eyes and +his fixed face. But her heart hardened swiftly. She had never loved +him. She did not love him now. + +But suddenly she lifted her head again swiftly, like a thing that tries +to get free. She wanted to be free of it. It was not him so much, but +it, something she had put on herself, that bound her so horribly. And +having put the bond on herself, it was hardest to take it off. But now +she hated everything and felt destructive. He stood with his back to +the door, fixed, as if he would oppose her eternally, till she was +extinguished. She looked at him. Her eyes were cold and hostile. His +workman’s hands spread on the panels of the door behind him. + +“You know I used to live here?” she began, in a hard voice, as if +wilfully to wound him. He braced himself against her, and nodded. + +“Well, I was companion to Miss Birch of Torril Hall—she and the rector +were friends, and Archie was the rector’s son.” There was a pause. He +listened without knowing what was happening. He stared at his wife. She +was squatted in her white dress on the bed, carefully folding and +refolding the hem of her skirt. Her voice was full of hostility. + +“He was an officer—a sub-lieutenant—then he quarrelled with his colonel +and came out of the army. At any rate”—she plucked at her skirt hem, +her husband stood motionless, watching her movements which filled his +veins with madness—“he was awfully fond of me, and I was of +him—awfully.” + +“How old was he?” asked the husband. + +“When—when I first knew him? Or when he went away?——” + +“When you first knew him.” + +“When I first knew him, he was twenty-six—now—he’s thirty-one—nearly +thirty-two—because I’m twenty-nine, and he is nearly three years +older——” + +She lifted her head and looked at the opposite wall. + +“And what then?” said her husband. + +She hardened herself, and said callously: + +“We were as good as engaged for nearly a year, though nobody knew—at +least—they talked—but—it wasn’t open. Then he went away——” + +“He chucked you?” said the husband brutally, wanting to hurt her into +contact with himself. Her heart rose wildly with rage. Then “Yes”, she +said, to anger him. He shifted from one foot to the other, giving a +“Ph!” of rage. There was silence for a time. + +“Then,” she resumed, her pain giving a mocking note to her words, “he +suddenly went out to fight in Africa, and almost the very day I first +met you, I heard from Miss Birch he’d got sunstroke—and two months +after, that he was dead——” + +“That was before you took on with me?” said the husband. + +There was no answer. Neither spoke for a time. He had not understood. +His eyes were contracted uglily. + +“So you’ve been looking at your old courting places!” he said. “That +was what you wanted to go out by yourself for this morning.” + +Still she did not answer him anything. He went away from the door to +the window. He stood with his hands behind him, his back to her. She +looked at him. His hands seemed gross to her, the back of his head +paltry. + +At length, almost against his will, he turned round, asking: + +“How long were you carrying on with him?” + +“What do you mean?” she replied coldly. + +“I mean how long were you carrying on with him?” + +She lifted her head, averting her face from him. She refused to answer. +Then she said: + +“I don’t know what you mean, by carrying on. I loved him from the first +days I met him—two months after I went to stay with Miss Birch.” + +“And do you reckon he loved you?” he jeered. + +“I know he did.” + +“How do you know, if he’d have no more to do with you?” + +There was a long silence of hate and suffering. + +“And how far did it go between you?” he asked at length, in a +frightened, stiff voice. + +“I hate your not-straightforward questions,” she cried, beside herself +with his baiting. “We loved each other, and we _were_ lovers—we were. I +don’t care what _you_ think: what have you got to do with it? We were +lovers before ever I knew you——” + +“Lovers—lovers,” he said, white with fury. “You mean you had your fling +with an army man, and then came to me to marry you when you’d done——” + +She sat swallowing her bitterness. There was a long pause. + +“Do you mean to say you used to go—the whole hogger?” he asked, still +incredulous. + +“Why, what else do you think I mean?” she cried brutally. + +He shrank, and became white, impersonal. There was a long, paralysed +silence. He seemed to have gone small. + +“You never thought to tell me all this before I married you,” he said, +with bitter irony, at last. + +“You never asked me,” she replied. + +“I never thought there was any need.” + +“Well, then, you _should_ think.” + +He stood with expressionless, almost childlike set face, revolving many +thoughts, whilst his heart was mad with anguish. + +Suddenly she added: + +“And I saw him today,” she said. “He is not dead, he’s mad.” + +Her husband looked at her, startled. + +“Mad!’ he said involuntarily. + +“A lunatic,” she said. It almost cost her her reason to utter the word. +There was a pause. + +“Did he know you?” asked the husband in a small voice. + +“No,” she said. + +He stood and looked at her. At last he had learned the width of the +breach between them. She still squatted on the bed. He could not go +near her. It would be violation to each of them to be brought into +contact with the other. The thing must work itself out. They were both +shocked so much, they were impersonal, and no longer hated each other. +After some minutes he left her and went out. + + + +Goose Fair + +I + +Through the gloom of evening, and the flare of torches of the night +before the fair, through the still fogs of the succeeding dawn came +paddling the weary geese, lifting their poor feet that had been dipped +in tar for shoes, and trailing them along the cobble-stones into the +town. Last of all, in the afternoon, a country girl drove in her dozen +birds, disconsolate because she was so late. She was a heavily built +girl, fair, with regular features, and yet unprepossessing. She needed +chiselling down, her contours were brutal. Perhaps it was weariness +that hung her eyelids a little lower than was pleasant. When she spoke +to her clumsily lagging birds it was in a snarling nasal tone. One of +the silly things sat down in the gutter and refused to move. It looked +very ridiculous, but also rather pitiful, squat there with its head up, +refusing to be urged on by the ungentle toe of the girl. The latter +swore heavily, then picked up the great complaining bird, and fronting +her road stubbornly, drove on the lamentable eleven. + +No one had noticed her. This afternoon the women were not sitting +chatting on their doorsteps, seaming up the cotton hose, or swiftly +passing through their fingers the piled white lace; and in the high +dark houses the song of the hosiery frames was hushed: “Shackety-boom, +Shackety-shackety-boom, Z—zzz!” As she dragged up Hollow Stone, people +returned from the fair chaffed her and asked her what o’clock it was. +She did not reply, her look was sullen. The Lace Market was quiet as +the Sabbath: even the great brass plates on the doors were dull with +neglect. There seemed an afternoon atmosphere of raw discontent. The +girl stopped a moment before the dismal prospect of one of the great +warehouses that had been gutted with fire. She looked at the lean, +threatening walls, and watched her white flock waddling in reckless +misery below, and she would have laughed out loud had the wall fallen +flat upon them and relieved her of them. But the wall did not fall, so +she crossed the road, and walking on the safe side, hurried after her +charge. Her look was even more sullen. She remembered the state of +trade—Trade, the invidious enemy; Trade, which thrust out its hand and +shut the factory doors, and pulled the stockingers off their seats, and +left the web half-finished on the frame; Trade, which mysteriously +choked up the sources of the rivulets of wealth, and blacker and more +secret than a pestilence, starved the town. Through this morose +atmosphere of bad trade, in the afternoon of the first day of the fair, +the girl strode down to the Poultry with eleven sound geese and one +lame one to sell. + +The Frenchmen were at the bottom of it! So everybody said, though +nobody quite knew how. At any rate, they had gone to war with the +Prussians and got beaten, and trade was ruined in Nottingham! + +A little fog rose up, and the twilight gathered around. Then they +flared abroad their torches in the fair, insulting the night. The girl +still sat in the Poultry, and her weary geese unsold on the stones, +illuminated by the hissing lamp of a man who sold rabbits and pigeons +and such-like assorted live-stock. + +II + +In another part of the town, near Sneinton Church, another girl came to +the door to look at the night. She was tall and slender, dressed with +the severe accuracy which marks the girl of superior culture. Her hair +was arranged with simplicity about the long, pale, cleanly cut face. +She leaned forward very slightly to glance down the street, listening. +She very carefully preserved the appearance of having come quite +casually to the door, yet she lingered and lingered and stood very +still to listen when she heard a footstep, but when it proved to be +only a common man, she drew herself up proudly and looked with a small +smile over his head. He hesitated to glance into the open hall, lighted +so spaciously with a scarlet-shaded lamp, and at the slim girl in brown +silk lifted up before the light. But she, she looked over his head. He +passed on. + +Presently she started and hung in suspense. Somebody was crossing the +road. She ran down the steps in a pretty welcome, not effuse, saying in +quick, but accurately articulated words: “Will! I began to think you’d +gone to the fair. I came out to listen to it. I felt almost sure you’d +gone. You’re coming in, aren’t you?” She waited a moment anxiously. “We +expect you to dinner, you know,” she added wistfully. + +The man, who had a short face and spoke with his lip curling up on one +side, in a drawling speech with ironically exaggerated intonation, +replied after a short hesitation: + +“I’m awfully sorry, I am, straight, Lois. It’s a shame. I’ve got to go +round to the biz. Man proposes—the devil disposes.” He turned aside +with irony in the darkness. + +“But surely, Will!” remonstrated the girl, keenly disappointed. + +“Fact, Lois!—I feel wild about it myself. But I’ve got to go down to +the works. They may be getting a bit warm down there, you know”—he +jerked his head in the direction of the fair. “If the Lambs get +frisky!—they’re a bit off about the work, and they’d just be in their +element if they could set a lighted match to something——” + +“Will, you don’t think——!” exclaimed the girl, laying her hand on his +arm in the true fashion of romance, and looking up at him earnestly. + +“Dad’s not sure,” he replied, looking down at her with gravity. They +remained in this attitude for a moment, then he said: + +“I might stop a bit. It’s all right for an hour, I should think.” + +She looked at him earnestly, then said in tones of deep disappointment +and of fortitude: “No, Will, you must go. You’d better go——” + +“It’s a shame!” he murmured, standing a moment at a loose end. Then, +glancing down the street to see he was alone, he put his arm round her +waist and said in a difficult voice: “How goes it?” + +She let him keep her for a moment, then he kissed her as if afraid of +what he was doing. They were both uncomfortable. + +“Well——!” he said at length. + +“Good night!” she said, setting him free to go. + +He hung a moment near her, as if ashamed. Then “Good night,” he +answered, and he broke away. She listened to his footsteps in the +night, before composing herself to turn indoors. + +“Helloa!” said her father, glancing over his paper as she entered the +dining-room. “What’s up, then?” + +“Oh, nothing,” she replied, in her calm tones. “Will won’t be here to +dinner tonight.” + +“What, gone to the fair?” + +“No.” + +“Oh! What’s got him then?” + +Lois looked at her father, and answered: + +“He’s gone down to the factory. They are afraid of the hands.” + +Her father looked at her closely. + +“Oh, aye!” he answered, undecided, and they sat down to dinner. + +III + +Lois retired very early. She had a fire in her bedroom. She drew the +curtains and stood holding aside a heavy fold, looking out at the +night. She could see only the nothingness of the fog; not even the +glare of the fair was evident, though the noise clamoured small in the +distance. In front of everything she could see her own faint image. She +crossed to the dressing-table, and there leaned her face to the mirror, +and looked at herself. She looked a long time, then she rose, changed +her dress for a dressing-jacket, and took up _Sesame and Lilies._ + +Late in the night she was roused from sleep by a bustle in the house. +She sat up and heard a hurrying to and fro and the sound of anxious +voices. She put on her dressing-gown and went out to her mother’s room. +Seeing her mother at the head of the stairs, she said in her quick, +clean voice: + +“Mother, what it it?” + +“Oh, child, don’t ask me! Go to bed, dear, do! I shall surely be +worried out of my life.” + +“Mother, what is it?” Lois was sharp and emphatic. + +“I hope your father won’t go. Now I do hope your father won’t go. He’s +got a cold as it is.” + +“Mother, tell me what is it?” Lois took her mother’s arm. + +“It’s Selby’s. I should have thought you would have heard the +fire-engine, and Jack isn’t in yet. I hope we’re safe!” Lois returned +to her bedroom and dressed. She coiled her plaited hair, and having put +on a cloak, left the house. + +She hurried along under the fog-dripping trees towards the meaner part +of the town. When she got near, she saw a glare in the fog, and closed +her lips tight. She hastened on till she was in the crowd. With peaked, +noble face she watched the fire. Then she looked a little wildly over +the fire-reddened faces in the crowd, and catching sight of her father, +hurried to him. + +“Oh, Dadda—is he safe? Is Will safe——?” + +“Safe, aye, why not? You’ve no business here. Here, here’s Sampson, +he’ll take you home. I’ve enough to bother me; there’s my own place to +watch. Go home now, I can’t do with you here.” + +“Have you seen Will?” she asked. + +“Go home—Sampson, just take Miss Lois home—now!” + +“You don’t really know where he is—father?” + +“Go home now—I don’t want you here——” her father ordered peremptorily. + +The tears sprang to Lois’ eyes. She looked at the fire and the tears +were quickly dried by fear. The flames roared and struggled upward. The +great wonder of the fire made her forget even her indignation at her +father’s light treatment of herself and of her lover. There was a +crashing and bursting of timber, as the first floor fell in a mass into +the blazing gulf, splashing the fire in all directions, to the terror +of the crowd. She saw the steel of the machines growing white-hot and +twisting like flaming letters. Piece after piece of the flooring gave +way, and the machines dropped in red ruin as the wooden framework +burned out. The air became unbreathable; the fog was swallowed up; +sparks went rushing up as if they would burn the dark heavens; +sometimes cards of lace went whirling into the gulf of the sky, waving +with wings of fire. It was dangerous to stand near this great cup of +roaring destruction. + +Sampson, the grey old manager of Buxton and Co’s, led her away as soon +as she would turn her face to listen to him. He was a stout, irritable +man. He elbowed his way roughly through the crowd, and Lois followed +him, her head high, her lips closed. He led her for some distance +without speaking, then at last, unable to contain his garrulous +irritability, he broke out: + +“What do they expect? What can they expect? They can’t expect to stand +a bad time. They spring up like mushrooms as big as a house-side, but +there’s no stability in ’em. I remember William Selby when he’d run on +my errands. Yes, there’s some as can make much out of little, and +there’s some as can make much out of nothing, but they find it won’t +last. William Selby’s sprung up in a day, and he’ll vanish in a night. +You can’t trust to luck alone. Maybe he thinks it’s a lucky thing this +fire has come when things are looking black. But you can’t get out of +it as easy as that. There’s been a few too many of ’em. No, indeed, a +fire’s the last thing I should hope to come to—the very last!” + +Lois hurried and hurried, so that she brought the old manager panting +in distress up the steps of her home. She could not bear to hear him +talking so. They could get no one to open the door for some time. When +at last Lois ran upstairs, she found her mother dressed, but all +unbuttoned again, lying back in the chair in her daughter’s room, +suffering from palpitation of the heart, with _Sesame and Lilies_ +crushed beneath her. Lois administered brandy, and her decisive words +and movements helped largely to bring the good lady to a state of +recovery sufficient to allow of her returning to her own bedroom. + +Then Lois locked the door. She glanced at her fire-darkened face, and +taking the flattened Ruskin out of the chair, sat down and wept. After +a while she calmed herself, rose, and sponged her face. Then once more +on that fatal night she prepared for rest. Instead, however, or +retiring, she pulled a silk quilt from her disordered bed and wrapping +it round her, sat miserably to think. It was two o’clock in the +morning. + +IV + +The fire was sunk to cold ashes in the grate, and the grey morning was +creeping through the half-opened curtains like a thing ashamed, when +Lois awoke. It was painful to move her head: her neck was cramped. The +girl awoke in full recollection. She sighed, roused herself and pulled +the quilt closer about her. For a little while she sat and mused. A +pale, tragic resignation fixed her face like a mask. She remembered her +father’s irritable answer to her question concerning her lover’s +safety—“Safe, aye—why not?” She knew that he suspected the factory of +having been purposely set on fire. But then, he had never liked Will. +And yet—and yet—Lois’ heart was heavy as lead. She felt her lover was +guilty. And she felt she must hide her secret of his last communication +to her. She saw herself being cross-examined—“When did you last see +this man?” But she would hide what he had said about watching at the +works. How dreary it was—and how dreadful. Her life was ruined now, and +nothing mattered any more. She must only behave with dignity, and +submit to her own obliteration. For even if Will were never accused, +she knew in her heart he was guilty. She knew it was over between them. + +It was dawn among the yellow fog outside, and Lois, as she moved +mechanically about her toilet, vaguely felt that all her days would +arrive slowly struggling through a bleak fog. She felt an intense +longing at this uncanny hour to slough the body’s trammelled weariness +and to issue at once into the new bright warmth of the far Dawn where a +lover waited transfigured; it is so easy and pleasant in imagination to +step out of the chill grey dampness of another terrestrial daybreak, +straight into the sunshine of the eternal morning! And who can escape +his hour? So Lois performed the meaningless routine of her toilet, +which at last she made meaningful when she took her black dress, and +fastened a black jet brooch at her throat. + +Then she went downstairs and found her father eating a mutton chop. She +quickly approached and kissed him on the forehead. Then she retreated +to the other end of the table. Her father looked tired, even haggard. + +“You are early,” he said, after a while. Lois did not reply. Her father +continued to eat for a few moments, then he said: + +“Have a chop—here’s one! Ring for a hot plate. Eh, what? Why not?” + +Lois was insulted, but she gave no sign. She sat down and took a cup of +coffee, making no pretence to eat. Her father was absorbed, and had +forgotten her. + +“Our Jack’s not come home yet,” he said at last. + +Lois stirred faintly. “Hasn’t he?” she said. + +“No.” There was silence for a time. Lois was frightened. Had something +happened also to her brother? This fear was closer and more irksome. + +“Selby’s was cleaned out, gutted. We had a near shave of it——” + +“You have no loss, Dadda?” + +“Nothing to mention.” After another silence, her father said: + +“I’d rather be myself than William Selby. Of course it may merely be +bad luck—you don’t know. But whatever it was, I wouldn’t like to add +one to the list of fires just now. Selby was at the ‘George’ when it +broke out—I don’t know where the lad was——!” + +“Father,” broke in Lois, “why do you talk like that? Why do you talk as +if Will had done it?” She ended suddenly. Her father looked at her +pale, mute face. + +“I don’t talk as if Will had done it,” he said. “I don’t even think +it.” + +Feeling she was going to cry, Lois rose and left the room. Her father +sighed, and leaning his elbows on his knees, whistled faintly into the +fire. He was not thinking about her. + +Lois went down to the kitchen and asked Lucy, the parlour-maid, to go +out with her. She somehow shrank from going alone, lest people should +stare at her overmuch: and she felt an overpowering impulse to go to +the scene of the tragedy, to judge for herself. + +The churches were chiming half-past eight when the young lady and the +maid set off down the street. Nearer the fair, swarthy, thin-legged men +were pushing barrels of water towards the market-place, and the gipsy +women, with hard brows, and dressed in tight velvet bodices, hurried +along the pavement with jugs of milk, and great brass water ewers and +loaves and breakfast parcels. People were just getting up, and in the +poorer streets was a continual splash of tea-leaves, flung out on to +the cobble-stones. A teapot came crashing down from an upper story just +behind Lois, and she, starting round and looking up, thought that the +trembling, drink-bleared man at the upper window, who was stupidly +staring after his pot, had had designs on her life; and she went on her +way shuddering at the grim tragedy of life. + +In the dull October morning the ruined factory was black and ghastly. +The window-frames were all jagged, and the walls stood gaunt. Inside +was a tangle of twisted _débris_, the iron, in parts red with bright +rust, looking still hot; the charred wood was black and satiny; from +dishevelled heaps, sodden with water, a faint smoke rose dimly. Lois +stood and looked. If he had done that! He might even be dead there, +burned to ash and lost for ever. It was almost soothing to feel so. He +would be safe in the eternity which now she must hope in. + +At her side the pretty, sympathetic maid chatted plaintively. Suddenly, +from one of her lapses into silence, she exclaimed: + +“Why if there isn’t Mr Jack!” + +Lois turned suddenly and saw her brother and her lover approaching her. +Both looked soiled, untidy and wan. Will had a black eye, some ten +hours old, well coloured. Lois turned very pale as they approached. +They were looking gloomily at the factory, and for a moment did not +notice the girls. + +“I’ll be jiggered if there ain’t our Lois!” exclaimed Jack, the +reprobate, swearing under his breath. + +“Oh, God!” exclaimed the other in disgust. + +“Jack, where have you been?” said Lois sharply, in keen pain, not +looking at her lover. Her sharp tone of suffering drove her lover to +defend himself with an affectation of comic recklessness. + +“In quod,” replied her brother, smiling sickly. + +“Jack!” cried his sister very sharply. + +“Fact.” + +Will Selby shuffled on his feet and smiled, trying to turn away his +face so that she should not see his black eye. She glanced at him. He +felt her boundless anger and contempt, and with great courage he looked +straight at her, smiling ironically. Unfortunately his smile would not +go over his swollen eye, which remained grave and lurid. + +“Do I look pretty?” he inquired with a hateful twist of his lip. + +“Very!” she replied. + +“I thought I did,” he replied. And he turned to look at his father’s +ruined works, and he felt miserable and stubborn. The girl standing +there so clean and out of it all! Oh, God, he felt sick. He turned to +go home. + +The three went together, Lois silent in anger and resentment. Her +brother was tired and overstrung, but not suppressed. He chattered on +blindly. + +“It was a lark we had! We met Bob Osborne and Freddy Mansell coming +down Poultry. There was a girl with some geese. She looked a tanger +sitting there, all like statues, her and the geese. It was Will who +began it. He offered her three-pence and asked her to begin the show. +She called him a—she called him something, and then somebody poked an +old gander to stir him up, and somebody squirted him in the eye. He +upped and squawked and started off with his neck out. Laugh! We nearly +killed ourselves, keeping back those old birds with squirts and +teasers. Oh, Lum! Those old geese, oh, scrimmy, they didn’t know where +to turn, they fairly went off their dots, coming at us right an’ left, +and such a row—it was fun, you never knew! Then the girl she got up and +knocked somebody over the jaw, and we were right in for it. Well, in +the end, Billy here got hold of her round the waist——” + +“Oh, dry it up!” exclaimed Will bitterly. + +Jack looked at him, laughed mirthlessly, and continued: “An’ we said +we’d buy her birds. So we got hold of one goose apiece—an’ they took +some holding, I can tell you—and off we set round the fair, Billy +leading with the girl. The bloomin’ geese squawked an’ pecked. Laugh—I +thought I should a’ died. Well, then we wanted the girl to have her +birds back—and then she fired up. She got some other chaps on her side, +and there was a proper old row. The girl went tooth and nail for Will +there—she was dead set against him. She gave him a black eye, by gum, +and we went at it, I can tell you. It was a free fight, a beauty, an’ +we got run in. I don’t know what became of the girl.” + +Lois surveyed the two men. There was no glimmer of a smile on her face, +though the maid behind her was sniggering. Will was very bitter. He +glanced at his sweetheart and at the ruined factory. + +“How’s dad taken it?” he asked, in a biting, almost humble tone. + +“I don’t know,” she replied coldly. “Father’s in an awful way. I +believe everybody thinks you set the place on fire.” + +Lois drew herself up. She had delivered her blow. She drew herself up +in cold condemnation and for a moment enjoyed her complete revenge. He +was despicable, abject in his dishevelled, disfigured, unwashed +condition. + +“Aye, well, they made a mistake for once,” he replied, with a curl of +the lip. + +Curiously enough, they walked side by side as if they belonged to each +other. She was his conscience-keeper. She was far from forgiving him, +but she was still farther from letting him go. And he walked at her +side like a boy who had to be punished before he can be exonerated. He +submitted. But there was a genuine bitter contempt in the curl of his +lip. + + + +The White Stocking + +I + +“I’m getting up, Teddilinks,” said Mrs Whiston, and she sprang out of +bed briskly. + +“What the Hanover’s got you?” asked Whiston. + +“Nothing. Can’t I get up?” she replied animatedly. + +It was about seven o’clock, scarcely light yet in the cold bedroom. +Whiston lay still and looked at his wife. She was a pretty little +thing, with her fleecy, short black hair all tousled. He watched her as +she dressed quickly, flicking her small, delightful limbs, throwing her +clothes about her. Her slovenliness and untidiness did not trouble him. +When she picked up the edge of her petticoat, ripped off a torn string +of white lace, and flung it on the dressing-table, her careless abandon +made his spirit glow. She stood before the mirror and roughly scrambled +together her profuse little mane of hair. He watched the quickness and +softness of her young shoulders, calmly, like a husband, and +appreciatively. + +“Rise up,” she cried, turning to him with a quick wave of her arm—“and +shine forth.” + +They had been married two years. But still, when she had gone out of +the room, he felt as if all his light and warmth were taken away, he +became aware of the raw, cold morning. So he rose himself, wondering +casually what had roused her so early. Usually she lay in bed as late +as she could. + +Whiston fastened a belt round his loins and went downstairs in shirt +and trousers. He heard her singing in her snatchy fashion. The stairs +creaked under his weight. He passed down the narrow little passage, +which she called a hall, of the seven and sixpenny house which was his +first home. + +He was a shapely young fellow of about twenty-eight, sleepy now and +easy with well-being. He heard the water drumming into the kettle, and +she began to whistle. He loved the quick way she dodged the supper cups +under the tap to wash them for breakfast. She looked an untidy minx, +but she was quick and handy enough. + +“Teddilinks,” she cried. + +“What?” + +“Light a fire, quick.” + +She wore an old, sack-like dressing-jacket of black silk pinned across +her breast. But one of the sleeves, coming unfastened, showed some +delightful pink upper-arm. + +“Why don’t you sew your sleeve up?” he said, suffering from the sight +of the exposed soft flesh. + +“Where?” she cried, peering round. “Nuisance,” she said, seeing the +gap, then with light fingers went on drying the cups. + +The kitchen was of fair size, but gloomy. Whiston poked out the dead +ashes. + +Suddenly a thud was heard at the door down the passage. + +“I’ll go,” cried Mrs Whiston, and she was gone down the hall. + +The postman was a ruddy-faced man who had been a soldier. He smiled +broadly, handing her some packages. + +“They’ve not forgot you,” he said impudently. + +“No—lucky for them,” she said, with a toss of the head. But she was +interested only in her envelopes this morning. The postman waited +inquisitively, smiling in an ingratiating fashion. She slowly, +abstractedly, as if she did not know anyone was there, closed the door +in his face, continuing to look at the addresses on her letters. + +She tore open the thin envelope. There was a long, hideous, cartoon +valentine. She smiled briefly and dropped it on the floor. Struggling +with the string of a packet, she opened a white cardboard box, and +there lay a white silk handkerchief packed neatly under the paper lace +of the box, and her initial, worked in heliotrope, fully displayed. She +smiled pleasantly, and gently put the box aside. The third envelope +contained another white packet—apparently a cotton handkerchief neatly +folded. She shook it out. It was a long white stocking, but there was a +little weight in the toe. Quickly, she thrust down her arm, wriggling +her fingers into the toe of the stocking, and brought out a small box. +She peeped inside the box, then hastily opened a door on her left hand, +and went into the little, cold sitting-room. She had her lower lip +caught earnestly between her teeth. + +With a little flash of triumph, she lifted a pair of pearl ear-rings +from the small box, and she went to the mirror. There, earnestly, she +began to hook them through her ears, looking at herself sideways in the +glass. Curiously concentrated and intent she seemed as she fingered the +lobes of her ears, her head bent on one side. + +Then the pearl ear-rings dangled under her rosy, small ears. She shook +her head sharply, to see the swing of the drops. They went chill +against her neck, in little, sharp touches. Then she stood still to +look at herself, bridling her head in the dignified fashion. Then she +simpered at herself. Catching her own eye, she could not help winking +at herself and laughing. + +She turned to look at the box. There was a scrap of paper with this +posy: + +“Pearls may be fair, but thou art fairer. +Wear these for me, and I’ll love the wearer.” + + +She made a grimace and a grin. But she was drawn to the mirror again, +to look at her ear-rings. + +Whiston had made the fire burn, so he came to look for her. When she +heard him, she started round quickly, guiltily. She was watching him +with intent blue eyes when he appeared. + +He did not see much, in his morning-drowsy warmth. He gave her, as +ever, a feeling of warmth and slowness. His eyes were very blue, very +kind, his manner simple. + +“What ha’ you got?” he asked. + +“Valentines,” she said briskly, ostentatiously turning to show him the +silk handkerchief. She thrust it under his nose. “Smell how good,” she +said. + +“Who’s that from?” he replied, without smelling. + +“It’s a valentine,” she cried. “How do I know who it’s from?” + +“I’ll bet you know,” he said. + +“Ted!—I don’t!” she cried, beginning to shake her head, then stopping +because of the ear-rings. + +He stood still a moment, displeased. + +“They’ve no right to send you valentines, now,” he said. + +“Ted!—Why not? You’re not jealous, are you? I haven’t the least idea +who it’s from. Look—there’s my initial”—she pointed with an emphatic +finger at the heliotrope embroidery— + +“E for Elsie, +Nice little gelsie,” + + +she sang. + +“Get out,” he said. “You know who it’s from.” + +“Truth, I don’t,” she cried. + +He looked round, and saw the white stocking lying on a chair. + +“Is this another?” he said. + +“No, that’s a sample,” she said. “There’s only a comic.” And she +fetched in the long cartoon. + +He stretched it out and looked at it solemnly. + +“Fools!” he said, and went out of the room. + +She flew upstairs and took off the ear-rings. When she returned, he was +crouched before the fire blowing the coals. The skin of his face was +flushed, and slightly pitted, as if he had had small-pox. But his neck +was white and smooth and goodly. She hung her arms round his neck as he +crouched there, and clung to him. He balanced on his toes. + +“This fire’s a slow-coach,” he said. + +“And who else is a slow-coach?” she said. + +“One of us two, I know,” he said, and he rose carefully. She remained +clinging round his neck, so that she was lifted off her feet. + +“Ha!—swing me,” she cried. + +He lowered his head, and she hung in the air, swinging from his neck, +laughing. Then she slipped off. + +“The kettle is singing,” she sang, flying for the teapot. He bent down +again to blow the fire. The veins in his neck stood out, his shirt +collar seemed too tight. + +“Doctor Wyer, +Blow the fire, +Puff! puff! puff!” + + +she sang, laughing. + +He smiled at her. + +She was so glad because of her pearl ear-rings. + +Over the breakfast she grew serious. He did not notice. She became +portentous in her gravity. Almost it penetrated through his steady +good-humour to irritate him. + +“Teddy!” she said at last. + +“What?” he asked. + +“I told you a lie,” she said, humbly tragic. + +His soul stirred uneasily. + +“Oh aye?” he said casually. + +She was not satisfied. He ought to be more moved. + +“Yes,” she said. + +He cut a piece of bread. + +“Was it a good one?” he asked. + +She was piqued. Then she considered—_was_ it a good one? Then she +laughed. + +“No,” she said, “it wasn’t up to much.” + +“Ah!” he said easily, but with a steady strength of fondness for her in +his tone. “Get it out then.” + +It became a little more difficult. + +“You know that white stocking,” she said earnestly. “I told you a lie. +It wasn’t a sample. It was a valentine.” + +A little frown came on his brow. + +“Then what did you invent it as a sample for?” he said. But he knew +this weakness of hers. The touch of anger in his voice frightened her. + +“I was afraid you’d be cross,” she said pathetically. + +“I’ll bet you were vastly afraid,” he said. + +“I _was_, Teddy.” + +There was a pause. He was resolving one or two things in his mind. + +“And who sent it?” he asked. + +“I can guess,” she said, “though there wasn’t a word with it—except——” + +She ran to the sitting-room and returned with a slip of paper. + +“Pearls may be fair, but thou art fairer. +Wear these for me, and I’ll love the wearer.” + + +He read it twice, then a dull red flush came on his face. + +“And _who_ do you guess it is?” he asked, with a ringing of anger in +his voice. + +“I suspect it’s Sam Adams,” she said, with a little virtuous +indignation. + +Whiston was silent for a moment. + +“Fool!” he said. “An’ what’s it got to do with pearls?—and how can he +say ‘wear these for me’ when there’s only one? He hasn’t got the brain +to invent a proper verse.” + +He screwed the sup of paper into a ball and flung it into the fire. + +“I suppose he thinks it’ll make a pair with the one last year,” she +said. + +“Why, did he send one then?” + +“Yes. I thought you’d be wild if you knew.” + +His jaw set rather sullenly. + +Presently he rose, and went to wash himself, rolling back his sleeves +and pulling open his shirt at the breast. It was as if his fine, +clear-cut temples and steady eyes were degraded by the lower, rather +brutal part of his face. But she loved it. As she whisked about, +clearing the table, she loved the way in which he stood washing +himself. He was such a man. She liked to see his neck glistening with +water as he swilled it. It amused her and pleased her and thrilled her. +He was so sure, so permanent, he had her so utterly in his power. It +gave her a delightful, mischievous sense of liberty. Within his grasp, +she could dart about excitingly. + +He turned round to her, his face red from the cold water, his eyes +fresh and very blue. + +“You haven’t been seeing anything of him, have you?” he asked roughly. + +“Yes,” she answered, after a moment, as if caught guilty. “He got into +the tram with me, and he asked me to drink a coffee and a Benedictine +in the Royal.” + +“You’ve got it off fine and glib,” he said sullenly. “And did you?” + +“Yes,” she replied, with the air of a traitor before the rack. + +The blood came up into his neck and face, he stood motionless, +dangerous. + +“It was cold, and it was such fun to go into the Royal,” she said. + +“You’d go off with a nigger for a packet of chocolate,” he said, in +anger and contempt, and some bitterness. Queer how he drew away from +her, cut her off from him. + +“Ted—how beastly!” she cried. “You know quite well——” She caught her +lip, flushed, and the tears came to her eyes. + +He turned away, to put on his necktie. She went about her work, making +a queer pathetic little mouth, down which occasionally dripped a tear. + +He was ready to go. With his hat jammed down on his head, and his +overcoat buttoned up to his chin, he came to kiss her. He would be +miserable all the day if he went without. She allowed herself to be +kissed. Her cheek was wet under his lips, and his heart burned. She +hurt him so deeply. And she felt aggrieved, and did not quite forgive +him. + +In a moment she went upstairs to her ear-rings. Sweet they looked +nestling in the little drawer—sweet! She examined them with voluptuous +pleasure, she threaded them in her ears, she looked at herself, she +posed and postured and smiled, and looked sad and tragic and winning +and appealing, all in turn before the mirror. And she was happy, and +very pretty. + +She wore her ear-rings all morning, in the house. She was +self-conscious, and quite brilliantly winsome, when the baker came, +wondering if he would notice. All the tradesmen left her door with a +glow in them, feeling elated, and unconsciously favouring the +delightful little creature, though there had been nothing to notice in +her behaviour. + +She was stimulated all the day. She did not think about her husband. He +was the permanent basis from which she took these giddy little flights +into nowhere. At night, like chickens and curses, she would come home +to him, to roost. + +Meanwhile Whiston, a traveller and confidential support of a small +firm, hastened about his work, his heart all the while anxious for her, +yearning for surety, and kept tense by not getting it. + +II + +She had been a warehouse girl in Adams’s lace factory before she was +married. Sam Adams was her employer. He was a bachelor of forty, +growing stout, a man well dressed and florid, with a large brown +moustache and thin hair. From the rest of his well-groomed, showy +appearance, it was evident his baldness was a chagrin to him. He had a +good presence, and some Irish blood in his veins. + +His fondness for the girls, or the fondness of the girls for him, was +notorious. And Elsie, quick, pretty, almost witty little thing—she +_seemed_ witty, although, when her sayings were repeated, they were +entirely trivial—she had a great attraction for him. He would come into +the warehouse dressed in a rather sporting reefer coat, of fawn colour, +and trousers of fine black-and-white check, a cap with a big peak and a +scarlet carnation in his button-hole, to impress her. She was only half +impressed. He was too loud for her good taste. Instinctively perceiving +this, he sobered down to navy blue. Then a well-built man, florid, with +large brown whiskers, smart navy blue suit, fashionable boots, and +manly hat, he was the irreproachable. Elsie was impressed. + +But meanwhile Whiston was courting her, and she made splendid little +gestures, before her bedroom mirror, of the constant-and-true sort. + +“True, true till death——” + + +That was her song. Whiston was made that way, so there was no need to +take thought for him. + +Every Christmas Sam Adams gave a party at his house, to which he +invited his superior work-people—not factory hands and labourers, but +those above. He was a generous man in his way, with a real warm feeling +for giving pleasure. + +Two years ago Elsie had attended this Christmas-party for the last +time. Whiston had accompanied her. At that time he worked for Sam +Adams. + +She had been very proud of herself, in her close-fitting, full-skirted +dress of blue silk. Whiston called for her. Then she tripped beside +him, holding her large cashmere shawl across her breast. He strode with +long strides, his trousers handsomely strapped under his boots, and her +silk shoes bulging the pockets of his full-skirted overcoat. + +They passed through the park gates, and her spirits rose. Above them +the Castle Rock loomed grandly in the night, the naked trees stood +still and dark in the frost, along the boulevard. + +They were rather late. Agitated with anticipation, in the cloak-room +she gave up her shawl, donned her silk shoes, and looked at herself in +the mirror. The loose bunches of curls on either side her face danced +prettily, her mouth smiled. + +She hung a moment in the door of the brilliantly lighted room. Many +people were moving within the blaze of lamps, under the crystal +chandeliers, the full skirts of the women balancing and floating, the +side-whiskers and white cravats of the men bowing above. Then she +entered the light. + +In an instant Sam Adams was coming forward, lifting both his arms in +boisterous welcome. There was a constant red laugh on his face. + +“Come late, would you,” he shouted, “like royalty.” + +He seized her hands and led her forward. He opened his mouth wide when +he spoke, and the effect of the warm, dark opening behind the brown +whiskers was disturbing. But she was floating into the throng on his +arm. He was very gallant. + +“Now then,” he said, taking her card to write down the dances, “I’ve +got _carte blanche_, haven’t I?” + +“Mr Whiston doesn’t dance,” she said. + +“I am a lucky man!” he said, scribbling his initials. “I was born with +an _amourette_ in my mouth.” + +He wrote on, quietly. She blushed and laughed, not knowing what it +meant. + +“Why, what is that?” she said. + +“It’s you, even littler than you are, dressed in little wings,” he +said. + +“I should have to be pretty small to get in your mouth,” she said. + +“You think you’re too big, do you!” he said easily. + +He handed her her card, with a bow. + +“Now I’m set up, my darling, for this evening,” he said. + +Then, quick, always at his ease, he looked over the room. She waited in +front of him. He was ready. Catching the eye of the band, he nodded. In +a moment, the music began. He seemed to relax, giving himself up. + +“Now then, Elsie,” he said, with a curious caress in his voice that +seemed to lap the outside of her body in a warm glow, delicious. She +gave herself to it. She liked it. + +He was an excellent dancer. He seemed to draw her close in to him by +some male warmth of attraction, so that she became all soft and pliant +to him, flowing to his form, whilst he united her with him and they +lapsed along in one movement. She was just carried in a kind of strong, +warm flood, her feet moved of themselves, and only the music threw her +away from him, threw her back to him, to his clasp, in his strong form +moving against her, rhythmically, deliriously. + +When it was over, he was pleased and his eyes had a curious gleam which +thrilled her and yet had nothing to do with her. Yet it held her. He +did not speak to her. He only looked straight into her eyes with a +curious, gleaming look that disturbed her fearfully and deliriously. +But also there was in his look some of the automatic irony of the +_roué_. It left her partly cold. She was not carried away. + +She went, driven by an opposite, heavier impulse, to Whiston. He stood +looking gloomy, trying to admit that she had a perfect right to enjoy +herself apart from him. He received her with rather grudging +kindliness. + +“Aren’t you going to play whist?” she asked. + +“Aye,” he said. “Directly.” + +“I do wish you could dance.” + +“Well, I can’t,” he said. “So you enjoy yourself.” + +“But I should enjoy it better if I could dance with you.” + +“Nay, you’re all right,” he said. “I’m not made that way.” + +“Then you ought to be!” she cried. + +“Well, it’s my fault, not yours. You enjoy yourself,” he bade her. +Which she proceeded to do, a little bit irked. + +She went with anticipation to the arms of Sam Adams, when the time came +to dance with him. It _was_ so gratifying, irrespective of the man. And +she felt a little grudge against Whiston, soon forgotten when her host +was holding her near to him, in a delicious embrace. And she watched +his eyes, to meet the gleam in them, which gratified her. + +She was getting warmed right through, the glow was penetrating into +her, driving away everything else. Only in her heart was a little +tightness, like conscience. + +When she got a chance, she escaped from the dancing-room to the +card-room. There, in a cloud of smoke, she found Whiston playing +cribbage. Radiant, roused, animated, she came up to him and greeted +him. She was too strong, too vibrant a note in the quiet room. He +lifted his head, and a frown knitted his gloomy forehead. + +“Are you playing cribbage? Is it exciting? How are you getting on?” she +chattered. + +He looked at her. None of these questions needed answering, and he did +not feel in touch with her. She turned to the cribbage-board. + +“Are you white or red?” she asked. + +“He’s red,” replied the partner. + +“Then you’re losing,” she said, still to Whiston. And she lifted the +red peg from the board. “One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—Right +up there you ought to jump——” + +“Now put it back in its right place,” said Whiston. + +“Where was it?” she asked gaily, knowing her transgression. He took the +little red peg away from her and stuck it in its hole. + +The cards were shuffled. + +“What a shame you’re losing!” said Elsie. + +“You’d better cut for him,” said the partner. + +She did so, hastily. The cards were dealt. She put her hand on his +shoulder, looking at his cards. + +“It’s good,” she cried, “isn’t it?” + +He did not answer, but threw down two cards. It moved him more strongly +than was comfortable, to have her hand on his shoulder, her curls +dangling and touching his ears, whilst she was roused to another man. +It made the blood flame over him. + +At that moment Sam Adams appeared, florid and boisterous, intoxicated +more with himself, with the dancing, than with wine. In his eyes the +curious, impersonal light gleamed. + +“I thought I should find you here, Elsie,” he cried boisterously, a +disturbing, high note in his voice. + +“What made you think so?” she replied, the mischief rousing in her. + +The florid, well-built man narrowed his eyes to a smile. + +“I should never look for you among the ladies,” he said, with a kind of +intimate, animal call to her. He laughed, bowed, and offered her his +arm. + +“Madam, the music waits.” + +She went almost helplessly, carried along with him, unwilling, yet +delighted. + +That dance was an intoxication to her. After the first few steps, she +felt herself slipping away from herself. She almost knew she was going, +she did not even want to go. Yet she must have chosen to go. She lay in +the arm of the steady, close man with whom she was dancing, and she +seemed to swim away out of contact with the room, into him. She had +passed into another, denser element of him, an essential privacy. The +room was all vague around her, like an atmosphere, like under sea, with +a flow of ghostly, dumb movements. But she herself was held real +against her partner, and it seemed she was connected with him, as if +the movements of his body and limbs were her own movements, yet not her +own movements—and oh, delicious! He also was given up, oblivious, +concentrated, into the dance. His eye was unseeing. Only his large, +voluptuous body gave off a subtle activity. His fingers seemed to +search into her flesh. Every moment, and every moment, she felt she +would give way utterly, and sink molten: the fusion point was coming +when she would fuse down into perfect unconsciousness at his feet and +knees. But he bore her round the room in the dance, and he seemed to +sustain all her body with his limbs, his body, and his warmth seemed to +come closer into her, nearer, till it would fuse right through her, and +she would be as liquid to him, as an intoxication only. + +It was exquisite. When it was over, she was dazed, and was scarcely +breathing. She stood with him in the middle of the room as if she were +alone in a remote place. He bent over her. She expected his lips on her +bare shoulder, and waited. Yet they were not alone, they were not +alone. It was cruel. + +“’Twas good, wasn’t it, my darling?” he said to her, low and delighted. +There was a strange impersonality about his low, exultant call that +appealed to her irresistibly. Yet why was she aware of some part shut +off in her? She pressed his arm, and he led her towards the door. + +She was not aware of what she was doing, only a little grain of +resistant trouble was in her. The man, possessed, yet with a +superficial presence of mind, made way to the dining-room, as if to +give her refreshment, cunningly working to his own escape with her. He +was molten hot, filmed over with presence of mind, and bottomed with +cold disbelief. + +In the dining-room was Whiston, carrying coffee to the plain, neglected +ladies. Elsie saw him, but felt as if he could not see her. She was +beyond his reach and ken. A sort of fusion existed between her and the +large man at her side. She ate her custard, but an incomplete fusion +all the while sustained and contained her within the being of her +employer. + +But she was growing cooler. Whiston came up. She looked at him, and saw +him with different eyes. She saw his slim, young man’s figure real and +enduring before her. That was he. But she was in the spell with the +other man, fused with him, and she could not be taken away. + +“Have you finished your cribbage?” she asked, with hasty evasion of +him. + +“Yes,” he replied. “Aren’t you getting tired of dancing?” + +“Not a bit,” she said. + +“Not she,” said Adams heartily. “No girl with any spirit gets tired of +dancing.—Have something else, Elsie. Come—sherry. Have a glass of +sherry with us, Whiston.” + +Whilst they sipped the wine, Adams watched Whiston almost cunningly, to +find his advantage. + +“We’d better be getting back—there’s the music,” he said. “See the +women get something to eat, Whiston, will you, there’s a good chap.” + +And he began to draw away. Elsie was drifting helplessly with him. But +Whiston put himself beside them, and went along with them. In silence +they passed through to the dancing-room. There Adams hesitated, and +looked round the room. It was as if he could not see. + +A man came hurrying forward, claiming Elsie, and Adams went to his +other partner. Whiston stood watching during the dance. She was +conscious of him standing there observant of her, like a ghost, or a +judgment, or a guardian angel. She was also conscious, much more +intimately and impersonally, of the body of the other man moving +somewhere in the room. She still belonged to him, but a feeling of +distraction possessed her, and helplessness. Adams danced on, adhering +to Elsie, waiting his time, with the persistence of cynicism. + +The dance was over. Adams was detained. Elsie found herself beside +Whiston. There was something shapely about him as he sat, about his +knees and his distinct figure, that she clung to. It was as if he had +enduring form. She put her hand on his knee. + +“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked. + +“_Ever_ so,” she replied, with a fervent, yet detached tone. + +“It’s going on for one o’clock,” he said. + +“Is it?” she answered. It meant nothing to her. + +“Should we be going?” he said. + +She was silent. For the first time for an hour or more an inkling of +her normal consciousness returned. She resented it. + +“What for?” she said. + +“I thought you might have had enough,” he said. + +A slight soberness came over her, an irritation at being frustrated of +her illusion. + +“Why?” she said. + +“We’ve been here since nine,” he said. + +That was no answer, no reason. It conveyed nothing to her. She sat +detached from him. Across the room Sam Adams glanced at her. She sat +there exposed for him. + +“You don’t want to be too free with Sam Adams,” said Whiston +cautiously, suffering. “You know what he is.” + +“How, free?” she asked. + +“Why—you don’t want to have too much to do with him.” + +She sat silent. He was forcing her into consciousness of her position. +But he could not get hold of her feelings, to change them. She had a +curious, perverse desire that he should not. + +“I like him,” she said. + +“What do you find to like in him?” he said, with a hot heart. + +“I don’t know—but I like him,” she said. + +She was immutable. He sat feeling heavy and dulled with rage. He was +not clear as to what he felt. He sat there unliving whilst she danced. +And she, distracted, lost to herself between the opposing forces of the +two men, drifted. Between the dances, Whiston kept near to her. She was +scarcely conscious. She glanced repeatedly at her card, to see when she +would dance again with Adams, half in desire, half in dread. Sometimes +she met his steady, glaucous eye as she passed him in the dance. +Sometimes she saw the steadiness of his flank as he danced. And it was +always as if she rested on his arm, were borne along, upborne by him, +away from herself. And always there was present the other’s antagonism. +She was divided. + +The time came for her to dance with Adams. Oh, the delicious closing of +contact with him, of his limbs touching her limbs, his arm supporting +her. She seemed to resolve. Whiston had not made himself real to her. +He was only a heavy place in her consciousness. + +But she breathed heavily, beginning to suffer from the closeness of +strain. She was nervous. Adams also was constrained. A tightness, a +tension was coming over them all. And he was exasperated, feeling +something counteracting physical magnetism, feeling a will stronger +with her than his own, intervening in what was becoming a vital +necessity to him. + +Elsie was almost lost to her own control. As she went forward with him +to take her place at the dance, she stooped for her +pocket-handkerchief. The music sounded for quadrilles. Everybody was +ready. Adams stood with his body near her, exerting his attraction over +her. He was tense and fighting. She stooped for her +pocket-handkerchief, and shook it as she rose. It shook out and fell +from her hand. With agony, she saw she had taken a white stocking +instead of a handkerchief. For a second it lay on the floor, a twist of +white stocking. Then, in an instant, Adams picked it up, with a little, +surprised laugh of triumph. + +“That’ll do for me,” he whispered—seeming to take possession of her. +And he stuffed the stocking in his trousers pocket, and quickly offered +her his handkerchief. + +The dance began. She felt weak and faint, as if her will were turned to +water. A heavy sense of loss came over her. She could not help herself +anymore. But it was peace. + +When the dance was over, Adams yielded her up. Whiston came to her. + +“What was it as you dropped?” Whiston asked. + +“I thought it was my handkerchief—I’d taken a stocking by mistake,” she +said, detached and muted. + +“And he’s got it?” + +“Yes.” + +“What does he mean by that?” + +She lifted her shoulders. + +“Are you going to let him keep it?” he asked. + +“I don’t let him.” + +There was a long pause. + +“Am I to go and have it out with him?” he asked, his face flushed, his +blue eyes going hard with opposition. + +“No,” she said, pale. + +“Why?” + +“No—I don’t want to say anything about it.” + +He sat exasperated and nonplussed. + +“You’ll let him keep it, then?” he asked. + +She sat silent and made no form of answer. + +“What do you mean by it?” he said, dark with fury. And he started up. + +“No!” she cried. “Ted!” And she caught hold of him, sharply detaining +him. + +It made him black with rage. + +“Why?” he said. + +Then something about her mouth was pitiful to him. He did not +understand, but he felt she must have her reasons. + +“Then I’m not stopping here,” he said. “Are you coming with me?” + +She rose mutely, and they went out of the room. Adams had not noticed. + +In a few moments they were in the street. + +“What the hell do you mean?” he said, in a black fury. + +She went at his side, in silence, neutral. + +“That great hog, an’ all,” he added. + +Then they went a long time in silence through the frozen, deserted +darkness of the town. She felt she could not go indoors. They were +drawing near her house. + +“I don’t want to go home,” she suddenly cried in distress and anguish. +“I don’t want to go home.” + +He looked at her. + +“Why don’t you?” he said. + +“I don’t want to go home,” was all she could sob. + +He heard somebody coming. + +“Well, we can walk a bit further,” he said. + +She was silent again. They passed out of the town into the fields. He +held her by the arm—they could not speak. + +“What’s a-matter?” he asked at length, puzzled. + +She began to cry again. + +At last he took her in his arms, to soothe her. She sobbed by herself, +almost unaware of him. + +“Tell me what’s a-matter, Elsie,” he said. “Tell me what’s a-matter—my +dear—tell me, then——” + +He kissed her wet face, and caressed her. She made no response. He was +puzzled and tender and miserable. + +At length she became quiet. Then he kissed her, and she put her arms +round him, and clung to him very tight, as if for fear and anguish. He +held her in his arms, wondering. + +“Ted!” she whispered, frantic. “Ted!” + +“What, my love?” he answered, becoming also afraid. + +“Be good to me,” she cried. “Don’t be cruel to me.” + +“No, my pet,” he said, amazed and grieved. “Why?” + +“Oh, be good to me,” she sobbed. + +And he held her very safe, and his heart was white-hot with love for +her. His mind was amazed. He could only hold her against his chest that +was white-hot with love and belief in her. So she was restored at last. + +III + +She refused to go to her work at Adams’s any more. Her father had to +submit and she sent in her notice—she was not well. Sam Adams was +ironical. But he had a curious patience. He did not fight. + +In a few weeks, she and Whiston were married. She loved him with +passion and worship, a fierce little abandon of love that moved him to +the depths of his being, and gave him a permanent surety and sense of +realness in himself. He did not trouble about himself any more: he felt +he was fulfilled and now he had only the many things in the world to +busy himself about. Whatever troubled him, at the bottom was surety. He +had found himself in this love. + +They spoke once or twice of the white stocking. + +“Ah!” Whiston exclaimed. “What does it matter?” + +He was impatient and angry, and could not bear to consider the matter. +So it was left unresolved. + +She was quite happy at first, carried away by her adoration of her +husband. Then gradually she got used to him. He always was the ground +of her happiness, but she got used to him, as to the air she breathed. +He never got used to her in the same way. + +Inside of marriage she found her liberty. She was rid of the +responsibility of herself. Her husband must look after that. She was +free to get what she could out of her time. + +So that, when, after some months, she met Sam Adams, she was not quite +as unkind to him as she might have been. With a young wife’s new and +exciting knowledge of men, she perceived he was in love with her, she +knew he had always kept an unsatisfied desire for her. And, sportive, +she could not help playing a little with this, though she cared not one +jot for the man himself. + +When Valentine’s day came, which was near the first anniversary of her +wedding day, there arrived a white stocking with a little amethyst +brooch. Luckily Whiston did not see it, so she said nothing of it to +him. She had not the faintest intention of having anything to do with +Sam Adams, but once a little brooch was in her possession, it was hers, +and she did not trouble her head for a moment how she had come by it. +She kept it. + +Now she had the pearl ear-rings. They were a more valuable and a more +conspicuous present. She would have to ask her mother to give them to +her, to explain their presence. She made a little plan in her head. And +she was extraordinarily pleased. As for Sam Adams, even if he saw her +wearing them, he would not give her away. What fun, if he saw her +wearing his ear-rings! She would pretend she had inherited them from +her grandmother, her mother’s mother. She laughed to herself as she +went down town in the afternoon, the pretty drops dangling in front of +her curls. But she saw no one of importance. + +Whiston came home tired and depressed. All day the male in him had been +uneasy, and this had fatigued him. She was curiously against him, +inclined, as she sometimes was nowadays, to make mock of him and jeer +at him and cut him off. He did not understand this, and it angered him +deeply. She was uneasy before him. + +She knew he was in a state of suppressed irritation. The veins stood +out on the backs of his hands, his brow was drawn stiffly. Yet she +could not help goading him. + +“What did you do wi’ that white stocking?” he asked, out of a gloomy +silence, his voice strong and brutal. + +“I put it in a drawer—why?” she replied flippantly. + +“Why didn’t you put it on the fire back?” he said harshly. “What are +you hoarding it up for?” + +“I’m not hoarding it up,” she said. “I’ve got a pair.” + +He relapsed into gloomy silence. She, unable to move him, ran away +upstairs, leaving him smoking by the fire. Again she tried on the +ear-rings. Then another little inspiration came to her. She drew on the +white stockings, both of them. + +Presently she came down in them. Her husband still sat immovable and +glowering by the fire. + +“Look!” she said. “They’ll do beautifully.” + +And she picked up her skirts to her knees, and twisted round, looking +at her pretty legs in the neat stockings. + +He filled with unreasonable rage, and took the pipe from his mouth. + +“Don’t they look nice?” she said. “One from last year and one from +this, they just do. Save you buying a pair.” + +And she looked over her shoulders at her pretty calves, and the +dangling frills of her knickers. + +“Put your skirts down and don’t make a fool of yourself,” he said. + +“Why a fool of myself?” she asked. + +And she began to dance slowly round the room, kicking up her feet half +reckless, half jeering, in a ballet-dancer’s fashion. Almost fearfully, +yet in defiance, she kicked up her legs at him, singing as she did so. +She resented him. + +“You little fool, ha’ done with it,” he said. “And you’ll backfire them +stockings, I’m telling you.” He was angry. His face flushed dark, he +kept his head bent. She ceased to dance. + +“I shan’t,” she said. “They’ll come in very useful.” + +He lifted his head and watched her, with lighted, dangerous eyes. + +“You’ll put ’em on the fire back, I tell you,” he said. + +It was a war now. She bent forward, in a ballet-dancer’s fashion, and +put her tongue between her teeth. + +“I shan’t backfire them stockings,” she sang, repeating his words, “I +shan’t, I shan’t, I shan’t.” + +And she danced round the room doing a high kick to the tune of her +words. There was a real biting indifference in her behaviour. + +“We’ll see whether you will or not,” he said, “trollops! You’d like Sam +Adams to know you was wearing ’em, wouldn’t you? That’s what would +please you.” + +“Yes, I’d like him to see how nicely they fit me, he might give me some +more then.” + +And she looked down at her pretty legs. + +He knew somehow that she _would_ like Sam Adams to see how pretty her +legs looked in the white stockings. It made his anger go deep, almost +to hatred. + +“Yer nasty trolley,” he cried. “Put yer petticoats down, and stop being +so foul-minded.” + +“I’m not foul-minded,” she said. “My legs are my own. And why shouldn’t +Sam Adams think they’re nice?” + +There was a pause. He watched her with eyes glittering to a point. + +“Have you been havin’ owt to do with him?” he asked. + +“I’ve just spoken to him when I’ve seen him,” she said. “He’s not as +bad as you would make out.” + +“Isn’t he?” he cried, a certain wakefulness in his voice. “Them who has +anything to do wi’ him is too bad for me, I tell you.” + +“Why, what are you frightened of him for?” she mocked. + +She was rousing all his uncontrollable anger. He sat glowering. Every +one of her sentences stirred him up like a red-hot iron. Soon it would +be too much. And she was afraid herself; but she was neither conquered +nor convinced. + +A curious little grin of hate came on his face. He had a long score +against her. + +“What am I frightened of him for?” he repeated automatically. “What am +I frightened of him for? Why, for you, you stray-running little bitch.” + +She flushed. The insult went deep into her, right home. + +“Well, if you’re so dull——” she said, lowering her eyelids, and +speaking coldly, haughtily. + +“If I’m so dull I’ll break your neck the first word you speak to him,” +he said, tense. + +“Pf!” she sneered. “Do you think I’m frightened of you?” She spoke +coldly, detached. + +She was frightened, for all that, white round the mouth. + +His heart was getting hotter. + +“You _will_ be frightened of me, the next time you have anything to do +with him,” he said. + +“Do you think _you’d_ ever be told—ha!” + +Her jeering scorn made him go white-hot, molten. He knew he was +incoherent, scarcely responsible for what he might do. Slowly, +unseeing, he rose and went out of doors, stifled, moved to kill her. + +He stood leaning against the garden fence, unable either to see or +hear. Below him, far off, fumed the lights of the town. He stood still, +unconscious with a black storm of rage, his face lifted to the night. + +Presently, still unconscious of what he was doing, he went indoors +again. She stood, a small stubborn figure with tight-pressed lips and +big, sullen, childish eyes, watching him, white with fear. He went +heavily across the floor and dropped into his chair. + +There was a silence. + +“_You’re_ not going to tell me everything I shall do, and everything I +shan’t,” she broke out at last. + +He lifted his head. + +“I tell you _this_,” he said, low and intense. “Have anything to do +with Sam Adams, and I’ll break your neck.” + +She laughed, shrill and false. + +“How I hate your word ‘break your neck’,” she said, with a grimace of +the mouth. “It sounds so common and beastly. Can’t you say something +else——” + +There was a dead silence. + +“And besides,” she said, with a queer chirrup of mocking laughter, +“what do you know about anything? He sent me an amethyst brooch and a +pair of pearl ear-rings.” + +“He what?” said Whiston, in a suddenly normal voice. His eyes were +fixed on her. + +“Sent me a pair of pearl ear-rings, and an amethyst brooch,” she +repeated, mechanically, pale to the lips. + +And her big, black, childish eyes watched him, fascinated, held in her +spell. + +He seemed to thrust his face and his eyes forward at her, as he rose +slowly and came to her. She watched transfixed in terror. Her throat +made a small sound, as she tried to scream. + +Then, quick as lightning, the back of his hand struck her with a crash +across the mouth, and she was flung back blinded against the wall. The +shock shook a queer sound out of her. And then she saw him still coming +on, his eyes holding her, his fist drawn back, advancing slowly. At any +instant the blow might crash into her. + +Mad with terror, she raised her hands with a queer clawing movement to +cover her eyes and her temples, opening her mouth in a dumb shriek. +There was no sound. But the sight of her slowly arrested him. He hung +before her, looking at her fixedly, as she stood crouched against the +wall with open, bleeding mouth, and wide-staring eyes, and two hands +clawing over her temples. And his lust to see her bleed, to break her +and destroy her, rose from an old source against her. It carried him. +He wanted satisfaction. + +But he had seen her standing there, a piteous, horrified thing, and he +turned his face aside in shame and nausea. He went and sat heavily in +his chair, and a curious ease, almost like sleep, came over his brain. + +She walked away from the wall towards the fire, dizzy, white to the +lips, mechanically wiping her small, bleeding mouth. He sat motionless. +Then, gradually, her breath began to hiss, she shook, and was sobbing +silently, in grief for herself. Without looking, he saw. It made his +mad desire to destroy her come back. + +At length he lifted his head. His eyes were glowing again, fixed on +her. + +“And what did he give them you for?” he asked, in a steady, unyielding +voice. + +Her crying dried up in a second. She also was tense. + +“They came as valentines,” she replied, still not subjugated, even if +beaten. + +“When, today?” + +“The pearl ear-rings today—the amethyst brooch last year.” + +“You’ve had it a year?” + +“Yes.” + +She felt that now nothing would prevent him if he rose to kill her. She +could not prevent him any more. She was yielded up to him. They both +trembled in the balance, unconscious. + +“What have you had to do with him?” he asked, in a barren voice. + +“I’ve not had anything to do with him,” she quavered. + +“You just kept ’em because they were jewellery?” he said. + +A weariness came over him. What was the worth of speaking any more of +it? He did not care any more. He was dreary and sick. + +She began to cry again, but he took no notice. She kept wiping her +mouth on her handkerchief. He could see it, the blood-mark. It made him +only more sick and tired of the responsibility of it, the violence, the +shame. + +When she began to move about again, he raised his head once more from +his dead, motionless position. + +“Where are the things?” he said. + +“They are upstairs,” she quavered. She knew the passion had gone down +in him. + +“Bring them down,” he said. + +“I won’t,” she wept, with rage. “You’re not going to bully me and hit +me like that on the mouth.” + +And she sobbed again. He looked at her in contempt and compassion and +in rising anger. + +“Where are they?” he said. + +“They’re in the little drawer under the looking-glass,” she sobbed. + +He went slowly upstairs, struck a match, and found the trinkets. He +brought them downstairs in his hand. + +“These?” he said, looking at them as they lay in his palm. + +She looked at them without answering. She was not interested in them +any more. + +He looked at the little jewels. They were pretty. + +“It’s none of their fault,” he said to himself. + +And he searched round slowly, persistently, for a box. He tied the +things up and addressed them to Sam Adams. Then he went out in his +slippers to post the little package. + +When he came back she was still sitting crying. + +“You’d better go to bed,” he said. + +She paid no attention. He sat by the fire. She still cried. + +“I’m sleeping down here,” he said. “Go you to bed.” + +In a few moments she lifted her tear-stained, swollen face and looked +at him with eyes all forlorn and pathetic. A great flash of anguish +went over his body. He went over, slowly, and very gently took her in +his hands. She let herself be taken. Then as she lay against his +shoulder, she sobbed aloud: + +“I never meant——” + +“My love—my little love——” he cried, in anguish of spirit, holding her +in his arms. + + + +A Sick Collier + +She was too good for him, everybody said. Yet still she did not regret +marrying him. He had come courting her when he was only nineteen, and +she twenty. He was in build what they call a tight little fellow; +short, dark, with a warm colour, and that upright set of the head and +chest, that flaunting way in movement recalling a mating bird, which +denotes a body taut and compact with life. Being a good worker he had +earned decent money in the mine, and having a good home had saved a +little. + +She was a cook at “Uplands”, a tall, fair girl, very quiet. Having seen +her walk down the street, Horsepool had followed her from a distance. +He was taken with her, he did not drink, and he was not lazy. So, +although he seemed a bit simple, without much intelligence, but having +a sort of physical brightness, she considered, and accepted him. + +When they were married they went to live in Scargill Street, in a +highly respectable six-roomed house which they had furnished between +them. The street was built up the side of a long, steep hill. It was +narrow and rather tunnel-like. Nevertheless, the back looked out over +the adjoining pasture, across a wide valley of fields and woods, in the +bottom of which the mine lay snugly. + +He made himself gaffer in his own house. She was unacquainted with a +collier’s mode of life. They were married on a Saturday. On the Sunday +night he said: + +“Set th’ table for my breakfast, an’ put my pit-things afront o’ th’ +fire. I s’ll be gettin’ up at ha’ef pas’ five. Tha nedna shift thysen +not till when ter likes.” + +He showed her how to put a newspaper on the table for a cloth. When she +demurred: + +“I want none o’ your white cloths i’ th’ mornin’. I like ter be able to +slobber if I feel like it,” he said. + +He put before the fire his moleskin trousers, a clean singlet, or +sleeveless vest of thick flannel, a pair of stockings and his pit +boots, arranging them all to be warm and ready for morning. + +“Now tha sees. That wants doin’ ivery night.” + +Punctually at half past five he left her, without any form of +leave-taking, going downstairs in his shirt. + +When he arrived home at four o’clock in the afternoon his dinner was +ready to be dished up. She was startled when he came in, a short, +sturdy figure, with a face indescribably black and streaked. She stood +before the fire in her white blouse and white apron, a fair girl, the +picture of beautiful cleanliness. He “clommaxed” in, in his heavy +boots. + +“Well, how ’as ter gone on?” he asked. + +“I was ready for you to come home,” she replied tenderly. In his black +face the whites of his brown eyes flashed at her. + +“An’ I wor ready for comin’,” he said. He planked his tin bottle and +snap-bag on the dresser, took off his coat and scarf and waistcoat, +dragged his armchair nearer the fire and sat down. + +“Let’s ha’e a bit o’ dinner, then—I’m about clammed,” he said. + +“Aren’t you goin’ to wash yourself first?” + +“What am I to wesh mysen for?” + +“Well, you can’t eat your dinner——” + +“Oh, strike a daisy, Missis! Dunna I eat my snap i’ th’ pit wi’out +weshin’?—forced to.” + +She served the dinner and sat opposite him. His small bullet head was +quite black, save for the whites of his eyes and his scarlet lips. It +gave her a queer sensation to see him open his red mouth and bare his +white teeth as he ate. His arms and hands were mottled black; his bare, +strong neck got a little fairer as it settled towards his shoulders, +reassuring her. There was the faint indescribable odour of the pit in +the room, an odour of damp, exhausted air. + +“Why is your vest so black on the shoulders?” she asked. + +“My singlet? That’s wi’ th’ watter droppin’ on us from th’ roof. This +is a dry un as I put on afore I come up. They ha’e gre’t +clothes-’osses, an’ as we change us things, we put ’em on theer ter +dry.” + +When he washed himself, kneeling on the hearth-rug stripped to the +waist, she felt afraid of him again. He was so muscular, he seemed so +intent on what he was doing, so intensely himself, like a vigorous +animal. And as he stood wiping himself, with his naked breast towards +her, she felt rather sick, seeing his thick arms bulge their muscles. + +They were nevertheless very happy. He was at a great pitch of pride +because of her. The men in the pit might chaff him, they might try to +entice him away, but nothing could reduce his self-assured pride +because of her, nothing could unsettle his almost infantile +satisfaction. In the evening he sat in his armchair chattering to her, +or listening as she read the newspaper to him. When it was fine, he +would go into the street, squat on his heels as colliers do, with his +back against the wall of his parlour, and call to the passers-by, in +greeting, one after another. If no one were passing, he was content +just to squat and smoke, having such a fund of sufficiency and +satisfaction in his heart. He was well married. + +They had not been wed a year when all Brent and Wellwood’s men came out +on strike. Willy was in the Union, so with a pinch they scrambled +through. The furniture was not all paid for, and other debts were +incurred. She worried and contrived, he left it to her. But he was a +good husband; he gave her all he had. + +The men were out fifteen weeks. They had been back just over a year +when Willy had an accident in the mine, tearing his bladder. At the pit +head the doctor talked of the hospital. Losing his head entirely, the +young collier raved like a madman, what with pain and fear of hospital. + +“Tha s’lt go whoam, Willy, tha s’lt go whoam,” the deputy said. + +A lad warned the wife to have the bed ready. Without speaking or +hesitating she prepared. But when the ambulance came, and she heard him +shout with pain at being moved, she was afraid lest she should sink +down. They carried him in. + +“Yo’ should ’a’ had a bed i’ th’ parlour, Missis,” said the deputy, +“then we shouldna ha’ had to hawkse ’im upstairs, an’ it ’ud ’a’ saved +your legs.” + +But it was too late now. They got him upstairs. + +“They let me lie, Lucy,” he was crying, “they let me lie two mortal +hours on th’ sleck afore they took me outer th’ stall. Th’ peen, Lucy, +th’ peen; oh, Lucy, th’ peen, th’ peen!” + +“I know th’ pain’s bad, Willy, I know. But you must try an’ bear it a +bit.” + +“Tha munna carry on in that form, lad, thy missis’ll niver be able ter +stan’ it,” said the deputy. + +“I canna ’elp it, it’s th’ peen, it’s th’ peen,” he cried again. He had +never been ill in his life. When he had smashed a finger he could look +at the wound. But this pain came from inside, and terrified him. At +last he was soothed and exhausted. + +It was some time before she could undress him and wash him. He would +let no other woman do for him, having that savage modesty usual in such +men. + +For six weeks he was in bed, suffering much pain. The doctors were not +quite sure what was the matter with him, and scarcely knew what to do. +He could eat, he did not lose flesh, nor strength, yet the pain +continued, and he could hardly walk at all. + +In the sixth week the men came out in the national strike. He would get +up quite early in the morning and sit by the window. On Wednesday, the +second week of the strike, he sat gazing out on the street as usual, a +bullet-headed young man, still vigorous-looking, but with a peculiar +expression of hunted fear in his face. + +“Lucy,” he called, “Lucy!” + +She, pale and worn, ran upstairs at his bidding. + +“Gi’e me a han’kercher,” he said. + +“Why, you’ve got one,” she replied, coming near. + +“Tha nedna touch me,” he cried. Feeling his pocket, he produced a white +handkerchief. + +“I non want a white un, gi’e me a red un,” he said. + +“An’ if anybody comes to see you,” she answered, giving him a red +handkerchief. + +“Besides,” she continued, “you needn’t ha’ brought me upstairs for +that.” + +“I b’lieve th’ peen’s commin’ on again,” he said, with a little horror +in his voice. + +“It isn’t, you know, it isn’t,” she replied. “The doctor says you +imagine it’s there when it isn’t.” + +“Canna I feel what’s inside me?” he shouted. + +“There’s a traction-engine coming downhill,” she said. “That’ll scatter +them. I’ll just go an’ finish your pudding.” + +She left him. The traction-engine went by, shaking the houses. Then the +street was quiet, save for the men. A gang of youths from fifteen to +twenty-five years old were playing marbles in the middle of the road. +Other little groups of men were playing on the pavement. The street was +gloomy. Willy could hear the endless calling and shouting of men’s +voices. + +“Tha’rt skinchin’!” + +“I arena!” + +“Come ’ere with that blood-alley.” + +“Swop us four for’t.” + +“Shonna, gie’s hold on’t.” + +He wanted to be out, he wanted to be playing marbles. The pain had +weakened his mind, so that he hardly knew any self-control. + +Presently another gang of men lounged up the street. It was pay +morning. The Union was paying the men in the Primitive Chapel. They +were returning with their half-sovereigns. + +“Sorry!” bawled a voice. “Sorry!” + +The word is a form of address, corruption probably of “Sirrah”. Willy +started almost out of his chair. + +“Sorry!” again bawled a great voice. “Art goin’ wi’ me to see Notts +play Villa?” + +Many of the marble players started up. + +“What time is it? There’s no treens, we s’ll ha’e ter walk.” + +The street was alive with men. + +“Who’s goin’ ter Nottingham ter see th’ match?” shouted the same big +voice. A very large, tipsy man, with his cap over his eyes, was +calling. + +“Com’ on—aye, com’ on!” came many voices. The street was full of the +shouting of men. They split up in excited cliques and groups. + +“Play up, Notts!” the big man shouted. + +“Plee up, Notts!” shouted the youths and men. They were at kindling +pitch. It only needed a shout to rouse them. Of this the careful +authorities were aware. + +“I’m goin’, I’m goin’!” shouted the sick man at his window. + +Lucy came running upstairs. + +“I’m goin’ ter see Notts play Villa on th’ Meadows ground,” he +declared. + +“You—_you_ can’t go. There are no trains. You can’t walk nine miles.” + +“I’m goin’ ter see th’ match,” he declared, rising. + +“You know you can’t. Sit down now an’ be quiet.” + +She put her hand on him. He shook it off. + +“Leave me alone, leave me alone. It’s thee as ma’es th’ peen come, it’s +thee. I’m goin’ ter Nottingham to see th’ football match.” + +“Sit down—folks’ll hear you, and what will they think?” + +“Come off’n me. Com’ off. It’s her, it’s her as does it. Com’ off.” + +He seized hold of her. His little head was bristling with madness, and +he was strong as a lion. + +“Oh, Willy!” she cried. + +“It’s ’er, it’s ’er. Kill her!” he shouted, “kill her.” + +“Willy, folks’ll hear you.” + +“Th’ peen’s commin’ on again, I tell yer. I’ll kill her for it.” + +He was completely out of his mind. She struggled with him to prevent +his going to the stairs. When she escaped from him, he was shouting and +raving, she beckoned to her neighbour, a girl of twenty-four, who was +cleaning the window across the road. + +Ethel Mellor was the daughter of a well-to-do check-weighman. She ran +across in fear to Mrs Horsepool. Hearing the man raving, people were +running out in the street and listening. Ethel hurried upstairs. +Everything was clean and pretty in the young home. + +Willy was staggering round the room, after the slowly retreating Lucy, +shouting: + +“Kill her! Kill her!” + +“Mr Horsepool!” cried Ethel, leaning against the bed, white as the +sheets, and trembling. “Whatever are you saying?” + +“I tell yer it’s ’er fault as th’ peen comes on—I tell yer it is! Kill +’er—kill ’er!” + +“Kill Mrs Horsepool!” cried the trembling girl. “Why, you’re ever so +fond of her, you know you are.” + +“The peen—I ha’e such a lot o’ peen—I want to kill ’er.” + +He was subsiding. When he sat down his wife collapsed in a chair, +weeping noiselessly. The tears ran down Ethel’s face. He sat staring +out of the window; then the old, hurt look came on his face. + +“What ’ave I been sayin’?” he asked, looking piteously at his wife. + +“Why!” said Ethel, “you’ve been carrying on something awful, saying, +‘Kill her, kill her!’” + +“Have I, Lucy?” he faltered. + +“You didn’t know what you was saying,” said his young wife gently but +coldly. + +His face puckered up. He bit his lip, then broke into tears, sobbing +uncontrollably, with his face to the window. + +There was no sound in the room but of three people crying bitterly, +breath caught in sobs. Suddenly Lucy put away her tears and went over +to him. + +“You didn’t know what you was sayin’, Willy, I know you didn’t. I knew +you didn’t, all the time. It doesn’t matter, Willy. Only don’t do it +again.” + +In a little while, when they were calmer, she went downstairs with +Ethel. + +“See if anybody is looking in the street,” she said. + +Ethel went into the parlour and peeped through the curtains. + +“Aye!” she said. “You may back your life Lena an’ Mrs Severn’ll be out +gorping, and that clat-fartin’ Mrs Allsop.” + +“Oh, I hope they haven’t heard anything! If it gets about as he’s out +of his mind, they’ll stop his compensation, I know they will.” + +“They’d never stop his compensation for _that_,” protested Ethel. + +“Well, they _have_ been stopping some——” + +“It’ll not get about. I s’ll tell nobody.” + +“Oh, but if it does, whatever shall we do?...” + + + +The Christening + +The mistress of the British School stepped down from her school gate, +and instead of turning to the left as usual, she turned to the right. +Two women who were hastening home to scramble their husbands’ dinners +together—it was five minutes to four—stopped to look at her. They stood +gazing after her for a moment; then they glanced at each other with a +woman’s little grimace. + +To be sure, the retreating figure was ridiculous: small and thin, with +a black straw hat, and a rusty cashmere dress hanging full all round +the skirt. For so small and frail and rusty a creature to sail with +slow, deliberate stride was also absurd. Hilda Rowbotham was less than +thirty, so it was not years that set the measure of her pace; she had +heart disease. Keeping her face, that was small with sickness, but not +uncomely, firmly lifted and fronting ahead, the young woman sailed on +past the market-place, like a black swan of mournful, disreputable +plumage. + +She turned into Berryman’s, the baker’s. The shop displayed bread and +cakes, sacks of flour and oatmeal, flitches of bacon, hams, lard and +sausages. The combination of scents was not unpleasing. Hilda Rowbotham +stood for some minutes nervously tapping and pushing a large knife that +lay on the counter, and looking at the tall, glittering brass scales. +At last a morose man with sandy whiskers came down the step from the +house-place. + +“What is it?” he asked, not apologizing for his delay. + +“Will you give me six-pennyworth of assorted cakes and pastries—and put +in some macaroons, please?” she asked, in remarkably rapid and nervous +speech. Her lips fluttered like two leaves in a wind, and her words +crowded and rushed like a flock of sheep at a gate. + +“We’ve got no macaroons,” said the man churlishly. + +He had evidently caught that word. He stood waiting. + +“Then I can’t have any, Mr Berryman. Now I do feel disappointed. I like +those macaroons, you know, and it’s not often I treat myself. One gets +so tired of trying to spoil oneself, don’t you think? It’s less +profitable even than trying to spoil somebody else.” She laughed a +quick little nervous laugh, putting her hand to her face. + +“Then what’ll you have?” asked the man, without the ghost of an +answering smile. He evidently had not followed, so he looked more glum +than ever. + +“Oh, anything you’ve got,” replied the schoolmistress, flushing +slightly. The man moved slowly about, dropping the cakes from various +dishes one by one into a paper bag. + +“How’s that sister o’ yours getting on?” he asked, as if he were +talking to the flour scoop. + +“Whom do you mean?” snapped the schoolmistress. + +“The youngest,” answered the stooping, pale-faced man, with a note of +sarcasm. + +“Emma! Oh, she’s very well, thank you!” The schoolmistress was very +red, but she spoke with sharp, ironical defiance. The man grunted. Then +he handed her the bag and watched her out of the shop without bidding +her “Good afternoon”. + +She had the whole length of the main street to traverse, a half-mile of +slow-stepping torture, with shame flushing over her neck. But she +carried her white bag with an appearance of steadfast unconcern. When +she turned into the field she seemed to droop a little. The wide valley +opened out from her, with the far woods withdrawing into twilight, and +away in the centre the great pit streaming its white smoke and chuffing +as the men were being turned up. A full, rose-coloured moon, like a +flamingo flying low under the far, dusky east, drew out of the mist. It +was beautiful, and it made her irritable sadness soften, diffuse. + +Across the field, and she was at home. It was a new, substantial +cottage, built with unstinted hand, such a house as an old miner could +build himself out of his savings. In the rather small kitchen a woman +of dark, saturnine complexion sat nursing a baby in a long white gown; +a young woman of heavy, brutal cast stood at the table, cutting bread +and butter. She had a downcast, humble mien that sat unnaturally on +her, and was strangely irritating. She did not look round when her +sister entered. Hilda put down the bag of cakes and left the room, not +having spoken to Emma, nor to the baby, not to Mrs Carlin, who had come +in to help for the afternoon. + +Almost immediately the father entered from the yard with a dustpan full +of coals. He was a large man, but he was going to pieces. As he passed +through, he gripped the door with his free hand to steady himself, but +turning, he lurched and swayed. He began putting the coals on the fire, +piece by piece. One lump fell from his hand and smashed on the white +hearth. Emma Rowbotham looked round, and began in a rough, loud voice +of anger: “Look at you!” Then she consciously moderated her tones. +“I’ll sweep it up in a minute—don’t you bother; you’ll only be going +head first into the fire.” + +Her father bent down nevertheless to clear up the mess he had made, +saying, articulating his words loosely and slavering in his speech: + +“The lousy bit of a thing, it slipped between my fingers like a fish.” + +As he spoke he went tilting towards the fire. The dark-browed woman +cried out: he put his hand on the hot stove to save himself; Emma swung +round and dragged him off. + +“Didn’t I tell you!” she cried roughly. “Now, have you burnt yourself?” + +She held tight hold of the big man, and pushed him into his chair. + +“What’s the matter?” cried a sharp voice from the other room. The +speaker appeared, a hard well-favoured woman of twenty-eight. “Emma, +don’t speak like that to father.” Then, in a tone not so cold, but just +as sharp: “Now, father, what have you been doing?” + +Emma withdrew to her table sullenly. + +“It’s nöwt,” said the old man, vainly protesting. “It’s nöwt at a’. Get +on wi’ what you’re doin’.” + +“I’m afraid ’e’s burnt ’is ’and,” said the black-browed woman, speaking +of him with a kind of hard pity, as if he were a cumbersome child. +Bertha took the old man’s hand and looked at it, making a quick +tut-tutting noise of impatience. + +“Emma, get that zinc ointment—and some white rag,” she commanded +sharply. The younger sister put down her loaf with the knife in it, and +went. To a sensitive observer, this obedience was more intolerable than +the most hateful discord. The dark woman bent over the baby and made +silent, gentle movements of motherliness to it. The little one smiled +and moved on her lap. It continued to move and twist. + +“I believe this child’s hungry,” she said. “How long is it since he had +anything?” + +“Just afore dinner,” said Emma dully. + +“Good gracious!” exclaimed Bertha. “You needn’t starve the child now +you’ve got it. Once every two hours it ought to be fed, as I’ve told +you; and now it’s three. Take him, poor little mite—I’ll cut the +bread.” She bent and looked at the bonny baby. She could not help +herself: she smiled, and pressed its cheek with her finger, and nodded +to it, making little noises. Then she turned and took the loaf from her +sister. The woman rose and gave the child to its mother. Emma bent over +the little sucking mite. She hated it when she looked at it, and saw it +as a symbol, but when she felt it, her love was like fire in her blood. + +“I should think ’e canna be comin’,” said the father uneasily, looking +up at the clock. + +“Nonsense, father—the clock’s fast! It’s but half-past four! Don’t +fidget!” Bertha continued to cut the bread and butter. + +“Open a tin of pears,” she said to the woman, in a much milder tone. +Then she went into the next room. As soon as she was gone, the old man +said again: “I should ha’e thought he’d ’a’ been ’ere by now, if he +means comin’.” + +Emma, engrossed, did not answer. The father had ceased to consider her, +since she had become humbled. + +“’E’ll come—’e’ll come!” assured the stranger. + +A few minutes later Bertha hurried into the kitchen, taking off her +apron. The dog barked furiously. She opened the door, commanded the dog +to silence, and said: “He will be quiet now, Mr Kendal.” + +“Thank you,” said a sonorous voice, and there was the sound of a +bicycle being propped against a wall. A clergyman entered, a big-boned, +thin, ugly man of nervous manner. He went straight to the father. + +“Ah—how are you?” he asked musically, peering down on the great frame +of the miner, ruined by locomotor ataxy. + +His voice was full of gentleness, but he seemed as if he could not see +distinctly, could not get things clear. + +“Have you hurt your hand?” he said comfortingly, seeing the white rag. + +“It wor nöwt but a pestered bit o’ coal as dropped, an’ I put my hand +on th’ hub. I thought tha worna commin’.” + +The familiar ‘tha’, and the reproach, were unconscious retaliation on +the old man’s part. The minister smiled, half wistfully, half +indulgently. He was full of vague tenderness. Then he turned to the +young mother, who flushed sullenly because her dishonoured breast was +uncovered. + +“How are _you_?” he asked, very softly and gently, as if she were ill +and he were mindful of her. + +“I’m all right,” she replied, awkwardly taking his hand without rising, +hiding her face and the anger that rose in her. + +“Yes—yes”—he peered down at the baby, which sucked with distended mouth +upon the firm breast. “Yes, yes.” He seemed lost in a dim musing. + +Coming to, he shook hands unseeingly with the woman. + +Presently they all went into the next room, the minister hesitating to +help his crippled old deacon. + +“I can go by myself, thank yer,” testily replied the father. + +Soon all were seated. Everybody was separated in feeling and isolated +at table. High tea was spread in the middle kitchen, a large, ugly room +kept for special occasions. + +Hilda appeared last, and the clumsy, raw-boned clergyman rose to meet +her. He was afraid of this family, the well-to-do old collier, and the +brutal, self-willed children. But Hilda was queen among them. She was +the clever one, and had been to college. She felt responsible for the +keeping up of a high standard of conduct in all the members of the +family. There _was_ a difference between the Rowbothams and the common +collier folk. Woodbine Cottage was a superior house to most—and was +built in pride by the old man. She, Hilda, was a college-trained +schoolmistress; she meant to keep up the prestige of her house in spite +of blows. + +She had put on a dress of green voile for this special occasion. But +she was very thin; her neck protruded painfully. The clergyman, +however, greeted her almost with reverence, and, with some assumption +of dignity, she sat down before the tray. At the far end of the table +sat the broken, massive frame of her father. Next to him was the +youngest daughter, nursing the restless baby. The minister sat between +Hilda and Bertha, hulking his bony frame uncomfortably. + +There was a great spread on the table, of tinned fruits and tinned +salmon, ham and cakes. Miss Rowbotham kept a keen eye on everything: +she felt the importance of the occasion. The young mother who had given +rise to all this solemnity ate in sulky discomfort, snatching sullen +little smiles at her child, smiles which came, in spite of her, when +she felt its little limbs stirring vigorously on her lap. Bertha, sharp +and abrupt, was chiefly concerned with the baby. She scorned her +sister, and treated her like dirt. But the infant was a streak of light +to her. Miss Rowbotham concerned herself with the function and the +conversation. Her hands fluttered; she talked in little volleys +exceedingly nervous. Towards the end of the meal, there came a pause. +The old man wiped his mouth with his red handkerchief, then, his blue +eyes going fixed and staring, he began to speak, in a loose, slobbering +fashion, charging his words at the clergyman. + +“Well, mester—we’n axed you to come her ter christen this childt, an’ +you’n come, an’ I’m sure we’re very thankful. I can’t see lettin’ the +poor blessed childt miss baptizing, an’ they aren’t for goin’ to church +wi’t—” He seemed to lapse into a muse. “So,” he resumed, “we’v axed you +to come here to do the job. I’m not sayin’ as it’s not ’ard on us, it +is. I’m breakin’ up, an’ mother’s gone. I don’t like leavin’ a girl o’ +mine in a situation like ’ers is, but what the Lord’s done, He’s done, +an’ it’s no matter murmuring.... There’s one thing to be thankful for, +an’ we _are_ thankful for it: they never need know the want of bread.” + +Miss Rowbotham, the lady of the family, sat very stiff and pained +during this discourse. She was sensitive to so many things that she was +bewildered. She felt her young sister’s shame, then a kind of swift +protecting love for the baby, a feeling that included the mother; she +was at a loss before her father’s religious sentiment, and she felt and +resented bitterly the mark upon the family, against which the common +folk could lift their fingers. Still she winced from the sound of her +father’s words. It was a painful ordeal. + +“It is hard for you,” began the clergyman in his soft, lingering, +unworldly voice. “It is hard for you today, but the Lord gives comfort +in His time. A man child is born unto us, therefore let us rejoice and +be glad. If sin has entered in among us, let us purify out hearts +before the Lord....” + +He went on with his discourse. The young mother lifted the whimpering +infant, till its face was hid in her loose hair. She was hurt, and a +little glowering anger shone in her face. But nevertheless her fingers +clasped the body of the child beautifully. She was stupefied with anger +against this emotion let loose on her account. + +Miss Bertha rose and went to the little kitchen, returning with water +in a china bowl. She placed it there among the tea-things. + +“Well, we’re all ready,” said the old man, and the clergyman began to +read the service. Miss Bertha was godmother, the two men godfathers. +The old man sat with bent head. The scene became impressive. At last +Miss Bertha took the child and put it in the arms of the clergyman. He, +big and ugly, shone with a kind of unreal love. He had never mixed with +life, and women were all unliving, Biblical things to him. When he +asked for the name, the old man lifted his head fiercely. “Joseph +William, after me,” he said, almost out of breath. + +“Joseph William, I baptize thee....” resounded the strange, full, +chanting voice of the clergyman. The baby was quite still. + +“Let us pray!” It came with relief to them all. They knelt before their +chairs, all but the young mother, who bent and hid herself over her +baby. The clergyman began his hesitating, struggling prayer. + +Just then heavy footsteps were heard coming up the path, ceasing at the +window. The young mother, glancing up, saw her brother, black in his +pit dirt, grinning in through the panes. His red mouth curved in a +sneer; his fair hair shone above his blackened skin. He caught the eye +of his sister and grinned. Then his black face disappeared. He had gone +on into the kitchen. The girl with the child sat still and anger filled +her heart. She herself hated now the praying clergyman and the whole +emotional business; she hated her brother bitterly. In anger and +bondage she sat and listened. + +Suddenly her father began to pray. His familiar, loud, rambling voice +made her shut herself up and become even insentient. Folks said his +mind was weakening. She believed it to be true, and kept herself always +disconnected from him. + +“We ask Thee, Lord,” the old man cried, “to look after this childt. +Fatherless he is. But what does the earthly father matter before Thee? +The childt is Thine, he is Thy childt. Lord, what father has a man but +Thee? Lord, when a man says he is a father, he is wrong from the first +word. For Thou art the Father, Lord. Lord, take away from us the +conceit that our children are ours. Lord, Thou art Father of this +childt as is fatherless here. O God, Thou bring him up. For I have +stood between Thee and my children; I’ve had _my_ way with them, Lord; +I’ve stood between Thee and my children; I’ve cut ’em off from Thee +because they were mine. And they’ve grown twisted, because of me. Who +is their father, Lord, but Thee? But I put myself in the way, they’ve +been plants under a stone, because of me. Lord, if it hadn’t been for +me, they might ha’ been trees in the sunshine. Let me own it, Lord, +I’ve done ’em mischief. It could ha’ been better if they’d never known +no father. No man is a father, Lord: only Thou art. They can never grow +beyond Thee, but I hampered them. Lift ’em up again, and undo what I’ve +done to my children. And let this young childt be like a willow tree +beside the waters, with no father but Thee, O God. Aye an’ I wish it +had been so with my children, that they’d had no father but Thee. For +I’ve been like a stone upon them, and they rise up and curse me in +their wickedness. But let me go, an’ lift Thou them up, Lord....” + +The minister, unaware of the feelings of a father, knelt in trouble, +hearing without understanding the special language of fatherhood. Miss +Rowbotham alone felt and understood a little. Her heart began to +flutter; she was in pain. The two younger daughters kneeled unhearing, +stiffened and impervious. Bertha was thinking of the baby; and the +younger mother thought of the father of her child, whom she hated. +There was a clatter in the scullery. There the youngest son made as +much noise as he could, pouring out the water for his wash, muttering +in deep anger: + +“Blortin’, slaverin’ old fool!” + +And while the praying of his father continued, his heart was burning +with rage. On the table was a paper bag. He picked it up and read, +“John Berryman—Bread, Pastries, etc.” Then he grinned with a grimace. +The father of the baby was baker’s man at Berryman’s. The prayer went +on in the middle kitchen. Laurie Rowbotham gathered together the mouth +of the bag, inflated it, and burst it with his fist. There was a loud +report. He grinned to himself. But he writhed at the same time with +shame and fear of his father. + +The father broke off from his prayer; the party shuffled to their feet. +The young mother went into the scullery. + +“What art doin’, fool?” she said. + +The collier youth tipped the baby under the chin, singing: + +“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man, +Bake me a cake as fast as you can....” + + +The mother snatched the child away. “Shut thy mouth,” she said, the +colour coming into her cheek. + +“Prick it and stick it and mark it with P, +And put it i’ th’ oven for baby an’ me....” + + +He grinned, showing a grimy, and jeering and unpleasant red mouth and +white teeth. + +“I s’ll gi’e thee a dab ower th’ mouth,” said the mother of the baby +grimly. He began to sing again, and she struck out at him. + +“Now what’s to do?” said the father, staggering in. + +The youth began to sing again. His sister stood sullen and furious. + +“Why, does _that_ upset you?” asked the eldest Miss Rowbotham, sharply, +of Emma the mother. “Good gracious, it hasn’t improved your temper.” + +Miss Bertha came in, and took the bonny baby. + +The father sat big and unheeding in his chair, his eyes vacant, his +physique wrecked. He let them do as they would, he fell to pieces. And +yet some power, involuntary, like a curse, remained in him. The very +ruin of him was like a lodestone that held them in its control. The +wreck of him still dominated the house, in his dissolution even he +compelled their being. They had never lived; his life, his will had +always been upon them and contained them. They were only +half-individuals. + +The day after the christening he staggered in at the doorway declaring, +in a loud voice, with joy in life still: “The daisies light up the +earth, they clap their hands in multitudes, in praise of the morning.” +And his daughters shrank, sullen. + + + +Odour of Chrysanthemums + +I + +The small locomotive engine, Number 4, came clanking, stumbling down +from Selston with seven full waggons. It appeared round the corner with +loud threats of speed, but the colt that it startled from among the +gorse, which still flickered indistinctly in the raw afternoon, +outdistanced it at a canter. A woman, walking up the railway line to +Underwood, drew back into the hedge, held her basket aside, and watched +the footplate of the engine advancing. The trucks thumped heavily past, +one by one, with slow inevitable movement, as she stood insignificantly +trapped between the jolting black waggons and the hedge; then they +curved away towards the coppice where the withered oak leaves dropped +noiselessly, while the birds, pulling at the scarlet hips beside the +track, made off into the dusk that had already crept into the spinney. +In the open, the smoke from the engine sank and cleaved to the rough +grass. The fields were dreary and forsaken, and in the marshy strip +that led to the whimsey, a reedy pit-pond, the fowls had already +abandoned their run among the alders, to roost in the tarred +fowl-house. The pit-bank loomed up beyond the pond, flames like red +sores licking its ashy sides, in the afternoon’s stagnant light. Just +beyond rose the tapering chimneys and the clumsy black headstocks of +Brinsley Colliery. The two wheels were spinning fast up against the +sky, and the winding-engine rapped out its little spasms. The miners +were being turned up. + +The engine whistled as it came into the wide bay of railway lines +beside the colliery, where rows of trucks stood in harbour. + +Miners, single, trailing and in groups, passed like shadows diverging +home. At the edge of the ribbed level of sidings squat a low cottage, +three steps down from the cinder track. A large bony vine clutched at +the house, as if to claw down the tiled roof. Round the bricked yard +grew a few wintry primroses. Beyond, the long garden sloped down to a +bush-covered brook course. There were some twiggy apple trees, +winter-crack trees, and ragged cabbages. Beside the path hung +dishevelled pink chrysanthemums, like pink cloths hung on bushes. A +woman came stooping out of the felt-covered fowl-house, half-way down +the garden. She closed and padlocked the door, then drew herself erect, +having brushed some bits from her white apron. + +She was a tall woman of imperious mien, handsome, with definite black +eyebrows. Her smooth black hair was parted exactly. For a few moments +she stood steadily watching the miners as they passed along the +railway: then she turned towards the brook course. Her face was calm +and set, her mouth was closed with disillusionment. After a moment she +called: + +“John!” There was no answer. She waited, and then said distinctly: + +“Where are you?” + +“Here!” replied a child’s sulky voice from among the bushes. The woman +looked piercingly through the dusk. + +“Are you at that brook?” she asked sternly. + +For answer the child showed himself before the raspberry-canes that +rose like whips. He was a small, sturdy boy of five. He stood quite +still, defiantly. + +“Oh!” said the mother, conciliated. “I thought you were down at that +wet brook—and you remember what I told you——” + +The boy did not move or answer. + +“Come, come on in,” she said more gently, “it’s getting dark. There’s +your grandfather’s engine coming down the line!” + +The lad advanced slowly, with resentful, taciturn movement. He was +dressed in trousers and waistcoat of cloth that was too thick and hard +for the size of the garments. They were evidently cut down from a man’s +clothes. + +As they went slowly towards the house he tore at the ragged wisps of +chrysanthemums and dropped the petals in handfuls along the path. + +“Don’t do that—it does look nasty,” said his mother. He refrained, and +she, suddenly pitiful, broke off a twig with three or four wan flowers +and held them against her face. When mother and son reached the yard +her hand hesitated, and instead of laying the flower aside, she pushed +it in her apron-band. The mother and son stood at the foot of the three +steps looking across the bay of lines at the passing home of the +miners. The trundle of the small train was imminent. Suddenly the +engine loomed past the house and came to a stop opposite the gate. + +The engine-driver, a short man with round grey beard, leaned out of the +cab high above the woman. + +“Have you got a cup of tea?” he said in a cheery, hearty fashion. + +It was her father. She went in, saying she would mash. Directly, she +returned. + +“I didn’t come to see you on Sunday,” began the little grey-bearded +man. + +“I didn’t expect you,” said his daughter. + +The engine-driver winced; then, reassuming his cheery, airy manner, he +said: + +“Oh, have you heard then? Well, and what do you think——?” + +“I think it is soon enough,” she replied. + +At her brief censure the little man made an impatient gesture, and said +coaxingly, yet with dangerous coldness: + +“Well, what’s a man to do? It’s no sort of life for a man of my years, +to sit at my own hearth like a stranger. And if I’m going to marry +again it may as well be soon as late—what does it matter to anybody?” + +The woman did not reply, but turned and went into the house. The man in +the engine-cab stood assertive, till she returned with a cup of tea and +a piece of bread and butter on a plate. She went up the steps and stood +near the footplate of the hissing engine. + +“You needn’t ’a’ brought me bread an’ butter,” said her father. “But a +cup of tea”—he sipped appreciatively—“it’s very nice.” He sipped for a +moment or two, then: “I hear as Walter’s got another bout on,” he said. + +“When hasn’t he?” said the woman bitterly. + +“I heered tell of him in the ‘Lord Nelson’ braggin’ as he was going to +spend that b—— afore he went: half a sovereign that was.” + +“When?” asked the woman. + +“A’ Sat’day night—I know that’s true.” + +“Very likely,” she laughed bitterly. “He gives me twenty-three +shillings.” + +“Aye, it’s a nice thing, when a man can do nothing with his money but +make a beast of himself!” said the grey-whiskered man. The woman turned +her head away. Her father swallowed the last of his tea and handed her +the cup. + +“Aye,” he sighed, wiping his mouth. “It’s a settler, it is——” + +He put his hand on the lever. The little engine strained and groaned, +and the train rumbled towards the crossing. The woman again looked +across the metals. Darkness was settling over the spaces of the railway +and trucks: the miners, in grey sombre groups, were still passing home. +The winding-engine pulsed hurriedly, with brief pauses. Elizabeth Bates +looked at the dreary flow of men, then she went indoors. Her husband +did not come. + +The kitchen was small and full of firelight; red coals piled glowing up +the chimney mouth. All the life of the room seemed in the white, warm +hearth and the steel fender reflecting the red fire. The cloth was laid +for tea; cups glinted in the shadows. At the back, where the lowest +stairs protruded into the room, the boy sat struggling with a knife and +a piece of whitewood. He was almost hidden in the shadow. It was +half-past four. They had but to await the father’s coming to begin tea. +As the mother watched her son’s sullen little struggle with the wood, +she saw herself in his silence and pertinacity; she saw the father in +her child’s indifference to all but himself. She seemed to be occupied +by her husband. He had probably gone past his home, slunk past his own +door, to drink before he came in, while his dinner spoiled and wasted +in waiting. She glanced at the clock, then took the potatoes to strain +them in the yard. The garden and fields beyond the brook were closed in +uncertain darkness. When she rose with the saucepan, leaving the drain +steaming into the night behind her, she saw the yellow lamps were lit +along the high road that went up the hill away beyond the space of the +railway lines and the field. + +Then again she watched the men trooping home, fewer now and fewer. + +Indoors the fire was sinking and the room was dark red. The woman put +her saucepan on the hob, and set a batter pudding near the mouth of the +oven. Then she stood unmoving. Directly, gratefully, came quick young +steps to the door. Someone hung on the latch a moment, then a little +girl entered and began pulling off her outdoor things, dragging a mass +of curls, just ripening from gold to brown, over her eyes with her hat. + +Her mother chid her for coming late from school, and said she would +have to keep her at home the dark winter days. + +“Why, mother, it’s hardly a bit dark yet. The lamp’s not lighted, and +my father’s not home.” + +“No, he isn’t. But it’s a quarter to five! Did you see anything of +him?” + +The child became serious. She looked at her mother with large, wistful +blue eyes. + +“No, mother, I’ve never seen him. Why? Has he come up an’ gone past, to +Old Brinsley? He hasn’t, mother, ’cos I never saw him.” + +“He’d watch that,” said the mother bitterly, “he’d take care as you +didn’t see him. But you may depend upon it, he’s seated in the ‘Prince +o’ Wales’. He wouldn’t be this late.” + +The girl looked at her mother piteously. + +“Let’s have our teas, mother, should we?” said she. + +The mother called John to table. She opened the door once more and +looked out across the darkness of the lines. All was deserted: she +could not hear the winding-engines. + +“Perhaps,” she said to herself, “he’s stopped to get some ripping +done.” + +They sat down to tea. John, at the end of the table near the door, was +almost lost in the darkness. Their faces were hidden from each other. +The girl crouched against the fender slowly moving a thick piece of +bread before the fire. The lad, his face a dusky mark on the shadow, +sat watching her who was transfigured in the red glow. + +“I do think it’s beautiful to look in the fire,” said the child. + +“Do you?” said her mother. “Why?” + +“It’s so red, and full of little caves—and it feels so nice, and you +can fair smell it.” + +“It’ll want mending directly,” replied her mother, “and then if your +father comes he’ll carry on and say there never is a fire when a man +comes home sweating from the pit. A public-house is always warm +enough.” + +There was silence till the boy said complainingly: “Make haste, our +Annie.” + +“Well, I am doing! I can’t make the fire do it no faster, can I?” + +“She keeps wafflin’ it about so’s to make ’er slow,” grumbled the boy. + +“Don’t have such an evil imagination, child,” replied the mother. + +Soon the room was busy in the darkness with the crisp sound of +crunching. The mother ate very little. She drank her tea determinedly, +and sat thinking. When she rose her anger was evident in the stern +unbending of her head. She looked at the pudding in the fender, and +broke out: + +“It is a scandalous thing as a man can’t even come home to his dinner! +If it’s crozzled up to a cinder I don’t see why I should care. Past his +very door he goes to get to a public-house, and here I sit with his +dinner waiting for him——” + +She went out. As she dropped piece after piece of coal on the red fire, +the shadows fell on the walls, till the room was almost in total +darkness. + +“I canna see,” grumbled the invisible John. In spite of herself, the +mother laughed. + +“You know the way to your mouth,” she said. She set the dustpan outside +the door. When she came again like a shadow on the hearth, the lad +repeated, complaining sulkily: + +“I canna see.” + +“Good gracious!” cried the mother irritably, “you’re as bad as your +father if it’s a bit dusk!” + +Nevertheless she took a paper spill from a sheaf on the mantelpiece and +proceeded to light the lamp that hung from the ceiling in the middle of +the room. As she reached up, her figure displayed itself just rounding +with maternity. + +“Oh, mother——!” exclaimed the girl. + +“What?” said the woman, suspended in the act of putting the lamp glass +over the flame. The copper reflector shone handsomely on her, as she +stood with uplifted arm, turning to face her daughter. + +“You’ve got a flower in your apron!” said the child, in a little +rapture at this unusual event. + +“Goodness me!” exclaimed the woman, relieved. “One would think the +house was afire.” She replaced the glass and waited a moment before +turning up the wick. A pale shadow was seen floating vaguely on the +floor. + +“Let me smell!” said the child, still rapturously, coming forward and +putting her face to her mother’s waist. + +“Go along, silly!” said the mother, turning up the lamp. The light +revealed their suspense so that the woman felt it almost unbearable. +Annie was still bending at her waist. Irritably, the mother took the +flowers out from her apron-band. + +“Oh, mother—don’t take them out!” Annie cried, catching her hand and +trying to replace the sprig. + +“Such nonsense!” said the mother, turning away. The child put the pale +chrysanthemums to her lips, murmuring: + +“Don’t they smell beautiful!” + +Her mother gave a short laugh. + +“No,” she said, “not to me. It was chrysanthemums when I married him, +and chrysanthemums when you were born, and the first time they ever +brought him home drunk, he’d got brown chrysanthemums in his +button-hole.” + +She looked at the children. Their eyes and their parted lips were +wondering. The mother sat rocking in silence for some time. Then she +looked at the clock. + +“Twenty minutes to six!” In a tone of fine bitter carelessness she +continued: “Eh, he’ll not come now till they bring him. There he’ll +stick! But he needn’t come rolling in here in his pit-dirt, for _I_ +won’t wash him. He can lie on the floor—— Eh, what a fool I’ve been, +what a fool! And this is what I came here for, to this dirty hole, rats +and all, for him to slink past his very door. Twice last week—he’s +begun now——” + +She silenced herself, and rose to clear the table. + +While for an hour or more the children played, subduedly intent, +fertile of imagination, united in fear of the mother’s wrath, and in +dread of their father’s home-coming, Mrs Bates sat in her rocking-chair +making a ‘singlet’ of thick cream-coloured flannel, which gave a dull +wounded sound as she tore off the grey edge. She worked at her sewing +with energy, listening to the children, and her anger wearied itself, +lay down to rest, opening its eyes from time to time and steadily +watching, its ears raised to listen. Sometimes even her anger quailed +and shrank, and the mother suspended her sewing, tracing the footsteps +that thudded along the sleepers outside; she would lift her head +sharply to bid the children ‘hush’, but she recovered herself in time, +and the footsteps went past the gate, and the children were not flung +out of their playing world. + +But at last Annie sighed, and gave in. She glanced at her waggon of +slippers, and loathed the game. She turned plaintively to her mother. + +“Mother!”—but she was inarticulate. + +John crept out like a frog from under the sofa. His mother glanced up. + +“Yes,” she said, “just look at those shirt-sleeves!” + +The boy held them out to survey them, saying nothing. Then somebody +called in a hoarse voice away down the line, and suspense bristled in +the room, till two people had gone by outside, talking. + +“It is time for bed,” said the mother. + +“My father hasn’t come,” wailed Annie plaintively. But her mother was +primed with courage. + +“Never mind. They’ll bring him when he does come—like a log.” She meant +there would be no scene. “And he may sleep on the floor till he wakes +himself. I know he’ll not go to work tomorrow after this!” + +The children had their hands and faces wiped with a flannel. They were +very quiet. When they had put on their nightdresses, they said their +prayers, the boy mumbling. The mother looked down at them, at the brown +silken bush of intertwining curls in the nape of the girl’s neck, at +the little black head of the lad, and her heart burst with anger at +their father who caused all three such distress. The children hid their +faces in her skirts for comfort. + +When Mrs Bates came down, the room was strangely empty, with a tension +of expectancy. She took up her sewing and stitched for some time +without raising her head. Meantime her anger was tinged with fear. + +II + +The clock struck eight and she rose suddenly, dropping her sewing on +her chair. She went to the stairfoot door, opened it, listening. Then +she went out, locking the door behind her. + +Something scuffled in the yard, and she started, though she knew it was +only the rats with which the place was overrun. The night was very +dark. In the great bay of railway lines, bulked with trucks, there was +no trace of light, only away back she could see a few yellow lamps at +the pit-top, and the red smear of the burning pit-bank on the night. +She hurried along the edge of the track, then, crossing the converging +lines, came to the stile by the white gates, whence she emerged on the +road. Then the fear which had led her shrank. People were walking up to +New Brinsley; she saw the lights in the houses; twenty yards further on +were the broad windows of the ‘Prince of Wales’, very warm and bright, +and the loud voices of men could be heard distinctly. What a fool she +had been to imagine that anything had happened to him! He was merely +drinking over there at the ‘Prince of Wales’. She faltered. She had +never yet been to fetch him, and she never would go. So she continued +her walk towards the long straggling line of houses, standing blank on +the highway. She entered a passage between the dwellings. + +“Mr Rigley?—Yes! Did you want him? No, he’s not in at this minute.” + +The raw-boned woman leaned forward from her dark scullery and peered at +the other, upon whom fell a dim light through the blind of the kitchen +window. + +“Is it Mrs Bates?” she asked in a tone tinged with respect. + +“Yes. I wondered if your Master was at home. Mine hasn’t come yet.” + +“’Asn’t ’e! Oh, Jack’s been ’ome an’ ’ad ’is dinner an’ gone out. ’E’s +just gone for ’alf an hour afore bedtime. Did you call at the ‘Prince +of Wales’?” + +“No——” + +“No, you didn’t like——! It’s not very nice.” The other woman was +indulgent. There was an awkward pause. “Jack never said nothink +about—about your Mester,” she said. + +“No!—I expect he’s stuck in there!” + +Elizabeth Bates said this bitterly, and with recklessness. She knew +that the woman across the yard was standing at her door listening, but +she did not care. As she turned: + +“Stop a minute! I’ll just go an’ ask Jack if e’ knows anythink,” said +Mrs Rigley. + +“Oh, no—I wouldn’t like to put——!” + +“Yes, I will, if you’ll just step inside an’ see as th’ childer doesn’t +come downstairs and set theirselves afire.” + +Elizabeth Bates, murmuring a remonstrance, stepped inside. The other +woman apologized for the state of the room. + +The kitchen needed apology. There were little frocks and trousers and +childish undergarments on the squab and on the floor, and a litter of +playthings everywhere. On the black American cloth of the table were +pieces of bread and cake, crusts, slops, and a teapot with cold tea. + +“Eh, ours is just as bad,” said Elizabeth Bates, looking at the woman, +not at the house. Mrs Rigley put a shawl over her head and hurried out, +saying: + +“I shanna be a minute.” + +The other sat, noting with faint disapproval the general untidiness of +the room. Then she fell to counting the shoes of various sizes +scattered over the floor. There were twelve. She sighed and said to +herself, “No wonder!”—glancing at the litter. There came the scratching +of two pairs of feet on the yard, and the Rigleys entered. Elizabeth +Bates rose. Rigley was a big man, with very large bones. His head +looked particularly bony. Across his temple was a blue scar, caused by +a wound got in the pit, a wound in which the coal-dust remained blue +like tattooing. + +“Asna ’e come whoam yit?” asked the man, without any form of greeting, +but with deference and sympathy. “I couldna say wheer he is—’e’s non +ower theer!”—he jerked his head to signify the ‘Prince of Wales’. + +“’E’s ’appen gone up to th’ ‘Yew’,” said Mrs Rigley. + +There was another pause. Rigley had evidently something to get off his +mind: + +“Ah left ’im finishin’ a stint,” he began. “Loose-all ’ad bin gone +about ten minutes when we com’n away, an’ I shouted, ‘Are ter comin’, +Walt?’ an’ ’e said, ‘Go on, Ah shanna be but a’ef a minnit,’ so we +com’n ter th’ bottom, me an’ Bowers, thinkin’ as ’e wor just behint, +an’ ’ud come up i’ th’ next bantle——” + +He stood perplexed, as if answering a charge of deserting his mate. +Elizabeth Bates, now again certain of disaster, hastened to reassure +him: + +“I expect ’e’s gone up to th’ ‘Yew Tree’, as you say. It’s not the +first time. I’ve fretted myself into a fever before now. He’ll come +home when they carry him.” + +“Ay, isn’t it too bad!” deplored the other woman. + +“I’ll just step up to Dick’s an’ see if ’e _is_ theer,” offered the +man, afraid of appearing alarmed, afraid of taking liberties. + +“Oh, I wouldn’t think of bothering you that far,” said Elizabeth Bates, +with emphasis, but he knew she was glad of his offer. + +As they stumbled up the entry, Elizabeth Bates heard Rigley’s wife run +across the yard and open her neighbour’s door. At this, suddenly all +the blood in her body seemed to switch away from her heart. + +“Mind!” warned Rigley. “Ah’ve said many a time as Ah’d fill up them +ruts in this entry, sumb’dy ’ll be breakin’ their legs yit.” + +She recovered herself and walked quickly along with the miner. + +“I don’t like leaving the children in bed, and nobody in the house,” +she said. + +“No, you dunna!” he replied courteously. They were soon at the gate of +the cottage. + +“Well, I shanna be many minnits. Dunna you be frettin’ now, ’e’ll be +all right,” said the butty. + +“Thank you very much, Mr Rigley,” she replied. + +“You’re welcome!” he stammered, moving away. “I shanna be many +minnits.” + +The house was quiet. Elizabeth Bates took off her hat and shawl, and +rolled back the rug. When she had finished, she sat down. It was a few +minutes past nine. She was startled by the rapid chuff of the +winding-engine at the pit, and the sharp whirr of the brakes on the +rope as it descended. Again she felt the painful sweep of her blood, +and she put her hand to her side, saying aloud, “Good gracious!—it’s +only the nine o’clock deputy going down,” rebuking herself. + +She sat still, listening. Half an hour of this, and she was wearied +out. + +“What am I working myself up like this for?” she said pitiably to +herself, “I s’ll only be doing myself some damage.” + +She took out her sewing again. + +At a quarter to ten there were footsteps. One person! She watched for +the door to open. It was an elderly woman, in a black bonnet and a +black woollen shawl—his mother. She was about sixty years old, pale, +with blue eyes, and her face all wrinkled and lamentable. She shut the +door and turned to her daughter-in-law peevishly. + +“Eh, Lizzie, whatever shall we do, whatever shall we do!” she cried. + +Elizabeth drew back a little, sharply. + +“What is it, mother?” she said. + +The elder woman seated herself on the sofa. + +“I don’t know, child, I can’t tell you!”—she shook her head slowly. +Elizabeth sat watching her, anxious and vexed. + +“I don’t know,” replied the grandmother, sighing very deeply. “There’s +no end to my troubles, there isn’t. The things I’ve gone through, I’m +sure it’s enough——!” She wept without wiping her eyes, the tears +running. + +“But, mother,” interrupted Elizabeth, “what do you mean? What is it?” + +The grandmother slowly wiped her eyes. The fountains of her tears were +stopped by Elizabeth’s directness. She wiped her eyes slowly. + +“Poor child! Eh, you poor thing!” she moaned. “I don’t know what we’re +going to do, I don’t—and you as you are—it’s a thing, it is indeed!” + +Elizabeth waited. + +“Is he dead?” she asked, and at the words her heart swung violently, +though she felt a slight flush of shame at the ultimate extravagance of +the question. Her words sufficiently frightened the old lady, almost +brought her to herself. + +“Don’t say so, Elizabeth! We’ll hope it’s not as bad as that; no, may +the Lord spare us that, Elizabeth. Jack Rigley came just as I was +sittin’ down to a glass afore going to bed, an’ ’e said, ‘’Appen you’ll +go down th’ line, Mrs Bates. Walt’s had an accident. ’Appen you’ll go +an’ sit wi’ ’er till we can get him home.’ I hadn’t time to ask him a +word afore he was gone. An’ I put my bonnet on an’ come straight down, +Lizzie. I thought to myself, ‘Eh, that poor blessed child, if anybody +should come an’ tell her of a sudden, there’s no knowin’ what’ll ’appen +to ’er.’ You mustn’t let it upset you, Lizzie—or you know what to +expect. How long is it, six months—or is it five, Lizzie? Ay!”—the old +woman shook her head—“time slips on, it slips on! Ay!” + +Elizabeth’s thoughts were busy elsewhere. If he was killed—would she be +able to manage on the little pension and what she could earn?—she +counted up rapidly. If he was hurt—they wouldn’t take him to the +hospital—how tiresome he would be to nurse!—but perhaps she’d be able +to get him away from the drink and his hateful ways. She would—while he +was ill. The tears offered to come to her eyes at the picture. But what +sentimental luxury was this she was beginning?—She turned to consider +the children. At any rate she was absolutely necessary for them. They +were her business. + +“Ay!” repeated the old woman, “it seems but a week or two since he +brought me his first wages. Ay—he was a good lad, Elizabeth, he was, in +his way. I don’t know why he got to be such a trouble, I don’t. He was +a happy lad at home, only full of spirits. But there’s no mistake he’s +been a handful of trouble, he has! I hope the Lord’ll spare him to mend +his ways. I hope so, I hope so. You’ve had a sight o’ trouble with him, +Elizabeth, you have indeed. But he was a jolly enough lad wi’ me, he +was, I can assure you. I don’t know how it is....” + +The old woman continued to muse aloud, a monotonous irritating sound, +while Elizabeth thought concentratedly, startled once, when she heard +the winding-engine chuff quickly, and the brakes skirr with a shriek. +Then she heard the engine more slowly, and the brakes made no sound. +The old woman did not notice. Elizabeth waited in suspense. The +mother-in-law talked, with lapses into silence. + +“But he wasn’t your son, Lizzie, an’ it makes a difference. Whatever he +was, I remember him when he was little, an’ I learned to understand him +and to make allowances. You’ve got to make allowances for them——” + +It was half-past ten, and the old woman was saying: “But it’s trouble +from beginning to end; you’re never too old for trouble, never too old +for that——” when the gate banged back, and there were heavy feet on the +steps. + +“I’ll go, Lizzie, let me go,” cried the old woman, rising. But +Elizabeth was at the door. It was a man in pit-clothes. + +“They’re bringin’ ’im, Missis,” he said. Elizabeth’s heart halted a +moment. Then it surged on again, almost suffocating her. + +“Is he—is it bad?” she asked. + +The man turned away, looking at the darkness: + +“The doctor says ’e’d been dead hours. ’E saw ’im i’ th’ lamp-cabin.” + +The old woman, who stood just behind Elizabeth, dropped into a chair, +and folded her hands, crying: “Oh, my boy, my boy!” + +“Hush!” said Elizabeth, with a sharp twitch of a frown. “Be still, +mother, don’t waken th’ children: I wouldn’t have them down for +anything!” + +The old woman moaned softly, rocking herself. The man was drawing away. +Elizabeth took a step forward. + +“How was it?” she asked. + +“Well, I couldn’t say for sure,” the man replied, very ill at ease. “’E +wor finishin’ a stint an’ th’ butties ’ad gone, an’ a lot o’ stuff come +down atop ’n ’im.” + +“And crushed him?” cried the widow, with a shudder. + +“No,” said the man, “it fell at th’ back of ’im. ’E wor under th’ face, +an’ it niver touched ’im. It shut ’im in. It seems ’e wor smothered.” + +Elizabeth shrank back. She heard the old woman behind her cry: + +“What?—what did ’e say it was?” + +The man replied, more loudly: “’E wor smothered!” + +Then the old woman wailed aloud, and this relieved Elizabeth. + +“Oh, mother,” she said, putting her hand on the old woman, “don’t waken +th’ children, don’t waken th’ children.” + +She wept a little, unknowing, while the old mother rocked herself and +moaned. Elizabeth remembered that they were bringing him home, and she +must be ready. “They’ll lay him in the parlour,” she said to herself, +standing a moment pale and perplexed. + +Then she lighted a candle and went into the tiny room. The air was cold +and damp, but she could not make a fire, there was no fireplace. She +set down the candle and looked round. The candle-light glittered on the +lustre-glasses, on the two vases that held some of the pink +chrysanthemums, and on the dark mahogany. There was a cold, deathly +smell of chrysanthemums in the room. Elizabeth stood looking at the +flowers. She turned away, and calculated whether there would be room to +lay him on the floor, between the couch and the chiffonier. She pushed +the chairs aside. There would be room to lay him down and to step round +him. Then she fetched the old red tablecloth, and another old cloth, +spreading them down to save her bit of carpet. She shivered on leaving +the parlour; so, from the dresser-drawer she took a clean shirt and put +it at the fire to air. All the time her mother-in-law was rocking +herself in the chair and moaning. + +“You’ll have to move from there, mother,” said Elizabeth. “They’ll be +bringing him in. Come in the rocker.” + +The old mother rose mechanically, and seated herself by the fire, +continuing to lament. Elizabeth went into the pantry for another +candle, and there, in the little penthouse under the naked tiles, she +heard them coming. She stood still in the pantry doorway, listening. +She heard them pass the end of the house, and come awkwardly down the +three steps, a jumble of shuffling footsteps and muttering voices. The +old woman was silent. The men were in the yard. + +Then Elizabeth heard Matthews, the manager of the pit, say: “You go in +first, Jim. Mind!” + +The door came open, and the two women saw a collier backing into the +room, holding one end of a stretcher, on which they could see the +nailed pit-boots of the dead man. The two carriers halted, the man at +the head stooping to the lintel of the door. + +“Wheer will you have him?” asked the manager, a short, white-bearded +man. + +Elizabeth roused herself and came from the pantry carrying the +unlighted candle. + +“In the parlour,” she said. + +“In there, Jim!” pointed the manager, and the carriers backed round +into the tiny room. The coat with which they had covered the body fell +off as they awkwardly turned through the two doorways, and the women +saw their man, naked to the waist, lying stripped for work. The old +woman began to moan in a low voice of horror. + +“Lay th’ stretcher at th’ side,” snapped the manager, “an’ put ’im on +th’ cloths. Mind now, mind! Look you now——!” + +One of the men had knocked off a vase of chrysanthemums. He stared +awkwardly, then they set down the stretcher. Elizabeth did not look at +her husband. As soon as she could get in the room, she went and picked +up the broken vase and the flowers. + +“Wait a minute!” she said. + +The three men waited in silence while she mopped up the water with a +duster. + +“Eh, what a job, what a job, to be sure!” the manager was saying, +rubbing his brow with trouble and perplexity. “Never knew such a thing +in my life, never! He’d no business to ha’ been left. I never knew such +a thing in my life! Fell over him clean as a whistle, an’ shut him in. +Not four foot of space, there wasn’t—yet it scarce bruised him.” + +He looked down at the dead man, lying prone, half naked, all grimed +with coal-dust. + +“‘’Sphyxiated,’ the doctor said. It _is_ the most terrible job I’ve +ever known. Seems as if it was done o’ purpose. Clean over him, an’ +shut ’im in, like a mouse-trap”—he made a sharp, descending gesture +with his hand. + +The colliers standing by jerked aside their heads in hopeless comment. + +The horror of the thing bristled upon them all. + +Then they heard the girl’s voice upstairs calling shrilly: “Mother, +mother—who is it? Mother, who is it?” + +Elizabeth hurried to the foot of the stairs and opened the door: + +“Go to sleep!” she commanded sharply. “What are you shouting about? Go +to sleep at once—there’s nothing——” + +Then she began to mount the stairs. They could hear her on the boards, +and on the plaster floor of the little bedroom. They could hear her +distinctly: + +“What’s the matter now?—what’s the matter with you, silly thing?”—her +voice was much agitated, with an unreal gentleness. + +“I thought it was some men come,” said the plaintive voice of the +child. “Has he come?” + +“Yes, they’ve brought him. There’s nothing to make a fuss about. Go to +sleep now, like a good child.” + +They could hear her voice in the bedroom, they waited whilst she +covered the children under the bedclothes. + +“Is he drunk?” asked the girl, timidly, faintly. + +“No! No—he’s not! He—he’s asleep.” + +“Is he asleep downstairs?” + +“Yes—and don’t make a noise.” + +There was silence for a moment, then the men heard the frightened child +again: + +“What’s that noise?” + +“It’s nothing, I tell you, what are you bothering for?” + +The noise was the grandmother moaning. She was oblivious of everything, +sitting on her chair rocking and moaning. The manager put his hand on +her arm and bade her “Sh—sh!!” + +The old woman opened her eyes and looked at him. She was shocked by +this interruption, and seemed to wonder. + +“What time is it?”—the plaintive thin voice of the child, sinking back +unhappily into sleep, asked this last question. + +“Ten o’clock,” answered the mother more softly. Then she must have bent +down and kissed the children. + +Matthews beckoned to the men to come away. They put on their caps and +took up the stretcher. Stepping over the body, they tiptoed out of the +house. None of them spoke till they were far from the wakeful children. + +When Elizabeth came down she found her mother alone on the parlour +floor, leaning over the dead man, the tears dropping on him. + +“We must lay him out,” the wife said. She put on the kettle, then +returning knelt at the feet, and began to unfasten the knotted leather +laces. The room was clammy and dim with only one candle, so that she +had to bend her face almost to the floor. At last she got off the heavy +boots and put them away. + +“You must help me now,” she whispered to the old woman. Together they +stripped the man. + +When they arose, saw him lying in the naïve dignity of death, the women +stood arrested in fear and respect. For a few moments they remained +still, looking down, the old mother whimpering. Elizabeth felt +countermanded. She saw him, how utterly inviolable he lay in himself. +She had nothing to do with him. She could not accept it. Stooping, she +laid her hand on him, in claim. He was still warm, for the mine was hot +where he had died. His mother had his face between her hands, and was +murmuring incoherently. The old tears fell in succession as drops from +wet leaves; the mother was not weeping, merely her tears flowed. +Elizabeth embraced the body of her husband, with cheek and lips. She +seemed to be listening, inquiring, trying to get some connection. But +she could not. She was driven away. He was impregnable. + +She rose, went into the kitchen, where she poured warm water into a +bowl, brought soap and flannel and a soft towel. + +“I must wash him,” she said. + +Then the old mother rose stiffly, and watched Elizabeth as she +carefully washed his face, carefully brushing the big blond moustache +from his mouth with the flannel. She was afraid with a bottomless fear, +so she ministered to him. The old woman, jealous, said: + +“Let me wipe him!”—and she kneeled on the other side drying slowly as +Elizabeth washed, her big black bonnet sometimes brushing the dark head +of her daughter. They worked thus in silence for a long time. They +never forgot it was death, and the touch of the man’s dead body gave +them strange emotions, different in each of the women; a great dread +possessed them both, the mother felt the lie was given to her womb, she +was denied; the wife felt the utter isolation of the human soul, the +child within her was a weight apart from her. + +At last it was finished. He was a man of handsome body, and his face +showed no traces of drink. He was blonde, full-fleshed, with fine +limbs. But he was dead. + +“Bless him,” whispered his mother, looking always at his face, and +speaking out of sheer terror. “Dear lad—bless him!” She spoke in a +faint, sibilant ecstasy of fear and mother love. + +Elizabeth sank down again to the floor, and put her face against his +neck, and trembled and shuddered. But she had to draw away again. He +was dead, and her living flesh had no place against his. A great dread +and weariness held her: she was so unavailing. Her life was gone like +this. + +“White as milk he is, clear as a twelve-month baby, bless him, the +darling!” the old mother murmured to herself. “Not a mark on him, clear +and clean and white, beautiful as ever a child was made,” she murmured +with pride. Elizabeth kept her face hidden. + +“He went peaceful, Lizzie—peaceful as sleep. Isn’t he beautiful, the +lamb? Ay—he must ha’ made his peace, Lizzie. ’Appen he made it all +right, Lizzie, shut in there. He’d have time. He wouldn’t look like +this if he hadn’t made his peace. The lamb, the dear lamb. Eh, but he +had a hearty laugh. I loved to hear it. He had the heartiest laugh, +Lizzie, as a lad——” + +Elizabeth looked up. The man’s mouth was fallen back, slightly open +under the cover of the moustache. The eyes, half shut, did not show +glazed in the obscurity. Life with its smoky burning gone from him, had +left him apart and utterly alien to her. And she knew what a stranger +he was to her. In her womb was ice of fear, because of this separate +stranger with whom she had been living as one flesh. Was this what it +all meant—utter, intact separateness, obscured by heat of living? In +dread she turned her face away. The fact was too deadly. There had been +nothing between them, and yet they had come together, exchanging their +nakedness repeatedly. Each time he had taken her, they had been two +isolated beings, far apart as now. He was no more responsible than she. +The child was like ice in her womb. For as she looked at the dead man, +her mind, cold and detached, said clearly: “Who am I? What have I been +doing? I have been fighting a husband who did not exist. _He_ existed +all the time. What wrong have I done? What was that I have been living +with? There lies the reality, this man.”—And her soul died in her for +fear: she knew she had never seen him, he had never seen her, they had +met in the dark and had fought in the dark, not knowing whom they met +nor whom they fought. And now she saw, and turned silent in seeing. For +she had been wrong. She had said he was something he was not; she had +felt familiar with him. Whereas he was apart all the while, living as +she never lived, feeling as she never felt. + +In fear and shame she looked at his naked body, that she had known +falsely. And he was the father of her children. Her soul was torn from +her body and stood apart. She looked at his naked body and was ashamed, +as if she had denied it. After all, it was itself. It seemed awful to +her. She looked at his face, and she turned her own face to the wall. +For his look was other than hers, his way was not her way. She had +denied him what he was—she saw it now. She had refused him as +himself.—And this had been her life, and his life.—She was grateful to +death, which restored the truth. And she knew she was not dead. + +And all the while her heart was bursting with grief and pity for him. +What had he suffered? What stretch of horror for this helpless man! She +was rigid with agony. She had not been able to help him. He had been +cruelly injured, this naked man, this other being, and she could make +no reparation. There were the children—but the children belonged to +life. This dead man had nothing to do with them. He and she were only +channels through which life had flowed to issue in the children. She +was a mother—but how awful she knew it now to have been a wife. And he, +dead now, how awful he must have felt it to be a husband. She felt that +in the next world he would be a stranger to her. If they met there, in +the beyond, they would only be ashamed of what had been before. The +children had come, for some mysterious reason, out of both of them. But +the children did not unite them. Now he was dead, she knew how +eternally he was apart from her, how eternally he had nothing more to +do with her. She saw this episode of her life closed. They had denied +each other in life. Now he had withdrawn. An anguish came over her. It +was finished then: it had become hopeless between them long before he +died. Yet he had been her husband. But how little! + +“Have you got his shirt, ’Lizabeth?” + +Elizabeth turned without answering, though she strove to weep and +behave as her mother-in-law expected. But she could not, she was +silenced. She went into the kitchen and returned with the garment. + +“It is aired,” she said, grasping the cotton shirt here and there to +try. She was almost ashamed to handle him; what right had she or anyone +to lay hands on him; but her touch was humble on his body. It was hard +work to clothe him. He was so heavy and inert. A terrible dread gripped +her all the while: that he could be so heavy and utterly inert, +unresponsive, apart. The horror of the distance between them was almost +too much for her—it was so infinite a gap she must look across. + +At last it was finished. They covered him with a sheet and left him +lying, with his face bound. And she fastened the door of the little +parlour, lest the children should see what was lying there. Then, with +peace sunk heavy on her heart, she went about making tidy the kitchen. +She knew she submitted to life, which was her immediate master. But +from death, her ultimate master, she winced with fear and shame. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER AND OTHER STORIES *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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H. Lawrence</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Prussian Officer and Other Stories</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: D. H. Lawrence</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 31, 2007 [eBook #22480]<br /> +[Most recently updated: September 17, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER AND OTHER STORIES ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="cover " /> +</div> + +<h1>THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER</h1> + +<h4><i>and Other Stories</i></h4> + +<h2 class="no-break">by D. H. Lawrence</h2> + +<h4>LONDON<br/> +DUCKWORTH & CO,<br/> +3 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN<br/><br/> +Published December 1914</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">The Prussian Officer </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">The Thorn in the Flesh </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">Daughters of the Vicar </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">A Fragment of Stained Glass</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">The Shades of Spring</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">Second Best</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">The Shadow in the Rose Garden</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">Goose Fair </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">The White Stocking </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">A Sick Collier</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">The Christening </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">Odour of Chrysanthemums</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>The Prussian Officer</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +They had marched more than thirty kilometres since dawn, along the white, hot +road where occasional thickets of trees threw a moment of shade, then out into +the glare again. On either hand, the valley, wide and shallow, glittered with +heat; dark green patches of rye, pale young corn, fallow and meadow and black +pine woods spread in a dull, hot diagram under a glistening sky. But right in +front the mountains ranged across, pale blue and very still, snow gleaming +gently out of the deep atmosphere. And towards the mountains, on and on, the +regiment marched between the rye fields and the meadows, between the scraggy +fruit trees set regularly on either side the high road. The burnished, dark +green rye threw on a suffocating heat, the mountains drew gradually nearer and +more distinct. While the feet of the soldiers grew hotter, sweat ran through +their hair under their helmets, and their knapsacks could burn no more in +contact with their shoulders, but seemed instead to give off a cold, prickly +sensation. +</p> + +<p> +He walked on and on in silence, staring at the mountains ahead, that rose sheer +out of the land, and stood fold behind fold, half earth, half heaven, the +heaven, the banner with slits of soft snow, in the pale, bluish peaks. +</p> + +<p> +He could now walk almost without pain. At the start, he had determined not to +limp. It had made him sick to take the first steps, and during the first mile +or so, he had compressed his breath, and the cold drops of sweat had stood on +his forehead. But he had walked it off. What were they after all but bruises! +He had looked at them, as he was getting up: deep bruises on the backs of his +thighs. And since he had made his first step in the morning, he had been +conscious of them, till now he had a tight, hot place in his chest, with +suppressing the pain, and holding himself in. There seemed no air when he +breathed. But he walked almost lightly. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain’s hand had trembled at taking his coffee at dawn: his orderly +saw it again. And he saw the fine figure of the Captain wheeling on horseback +at the farm-house ahead, a handsome figure in pale blue uniform with facings of +scarlet, and the metal gleaming on the black helmet and the sword-scabbard, and +dark streaks of sweat coming on the silky bay horse. The orderly felt he was +connected with that figure moving so suddenly on horseback: he followed it like +a shadow, mute and inevitable and damned by it. And the officer was always +aware of the tramp of the company behind, the march of his orderly among the +men. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain was a tall man of about forty, grey at the temples. He had a +handsome, finely knit figure, and was one of the best horsemen in the West. His +orderly, having to rub him down, admired the amazing riding-muscles of his +loins. +</p> + +<p> +For the rest, the orderly scarcely noticed the officer any more than he noticed +himself. It was rarely he saw his master’s face: he did not look at it. +The Captain had reddish-brown, stilt hair, that he wore short upon his skull. +His moustache was also cut short and bristly over a full, brutal mouth. His +face was rather rugged, the cheeks thin. Perhaps the man was the more handsome +for the deep lines in his face, the irritable tension of his brow, which gave +him the look of a man who fights with life. His fair eyebrows stood bushy over +light blue eyes that were always flashing with cold fire. +</p> + +<p> +He was a Prussian aristocrat, haughty and overbearing. But his mother had been +a Polish Countess. Having made too many gambling debts when he was young, he +had ruined his prospects in the Army, and remained an infantry captain. He had +never married: his position did not allow of it, and no woman had ever moved +him to it. His time he spent riding—occasionally he rode one of his own +horses at the races—and at the officers’ club. Now and then he took +himself a mistress. But after such an event, he returned to duty with his brow +still more tense, his eyes still more hostile and irritable. With the men, +however, he was merely impersonal, though a devil when roused; so that, on the +whole, they feared him, but had no great aversion from him. They accepted him +as the inevitable. +</p> + +<p> +To his orderly he was at first cold and just and indifferent: he did not fuss +over trifles. So that his servant knew practically nothing about him, except +just what orders he would give, and how he wanted them obeyed. That was quite +simple. Then the change gradually came. +</p> + +<p> +The orderly was a youth of about twenty-two, of medium height, and well built. +He had strong, heavy limbs, was swarthy, with a soft, black, young moustache. +There was something altogether warm and young about him. He had firmly marked +eyebrows over dark, expressionless eyes, that seemed never to have thought, +only to have received life direct through his senses, and acted straight from +instinct. +</p> + +<p> +Gradually the officer had become aware of his servant’s young, vigorous, +unconscious presence about him. He could not get away from the sense of the +youth’s person, while he was in attendance. It was like a warm flame upon +the older man’s tense, rigid body, that had become almost unliving, +fixed. There was something so free and self-contained about him, and something +in the young fellow’s movement, that made the officer aware of him. And +this irritated the Prussian. He did not choose to be touched into life by his +servant. He might easily have changed his man, but he did not. He now very +rarely looked direct at his orderly, but kept his face averted, as if to avoid +seeing him. And yet as the young soldier moved unthinking about the apartment, +the elder watched him, and would notice the movement of his strong young +shoulders under the blue cloth, the bend of his neck. And it irritated him. To +see the soldier’s young, brown, shapely peasant’s hand grasp the +loaf or the wine-bottle sent a flash of hate or of anger through the elder +man’s blood. It was not that the youth was clumsy: it was rather the +blind, instinctive sureness of movement of an unhampered young animal that +irritated the officer to such a degree. +</p> + +<p> +Once, when a bottle of wine had gone over, and the red gushed out on to the +tablecloth, the officer had started up with an oath, and his eyes, bluey like +fire, had held those of the confused youth for a moment. It was a shock for the +young soldier. He felt something sink deeper, deeper into his soul, where +nothing had ever gone before. It left him rather blank and wondering. Some of +his natural completeness in himself was gone, a little uneasiness took its +place. And from that time an undiscovered feeling had held between the two men. +</p> + +<p> +Henceforward the orderly was afraid of really meeting his master. His +subconsciousness remembered those steely blue eyes and the harsh brows, and did +not intend to meet them again. So he always stared past his master, and avoided +him. Also, in a little anxiety, he waited for the three months to have gone, +when his time would be up. He began to feel a constraint in the Captain’s +presence, and the soldier even more than the officer wanted to be left alone, +in his neutrality as servant. +</p> + +<p> +He had served the Captain for more than a year, and knew his duty. This he +performed easily, as if it were natural to him. The officer and his commands he +took for granted, as he took the sun and the rain, and he served as a matter of +course. It did not implicate him personally. +</p> + +<p> +But now if he were going to be forced into a personal interchange with his +master he would be like a wild thing caught, he felt he must get away. +</p> + +<p> +But the influence of the young soldier’s being had penetrated through the +officer’s stiffened discipline, and perturbed the man in him. He, +however, was a gentleman, with long, fine hands and cultivated movements, and +was not going to allow such a thing as the stirring of his innate self. He was +a man of passionate temper, who had always kept himself suppressed. +Occasionally there had been a duel, an outburst before the soldiers. He knew +himself to be always on the point of breaking out. But he kept himself hard to +the idea of the Service. Whereas the young soldier seemed to live out his warm, +full nature, to give it off in his very movements, which had a certain zest, +such as wild animals have in free movement. And this irritated the officer more +and more. +</p> + +<p> +In spite of himself, the Captain could not regain his neutrality of feeling +towards his orderly. Nor could he leave the man alone. In spite of himself, he +watched him, gave him sharp orders, tried to take up as much of his time as +possible. Sometimes he flew into a rage with the young soldier, and bullied +him. Then the orderly shut himself off, as it were out of earshot, and waited, +with sullen, flushed face, for the end of the noise. The words never pierced to +his intelligence, he made himself, protectively, impervious to the feelings of +his master. +</p> + +<p> +He had a scar on his left thumb, a deep seam going across the knuckle. The +officer had long suffered from it, and wanted to do something to it. Still it +was there, ugly and brutal on the young, brown hand. At last the +Captain’s reserve gave way. One day, as the orderly was smoothing out the +tablecloth, the officer pinned down his thumb with a pencil, asking, +</p> + +<p> +“How did you come by that?” +</p> + +<p> +The young man winced and drew back at attention. +</p> + +<p> +“A wood axe, Herr Hauptmann,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +The officer waited for further explanation. None came. The orderly went about +his duties. The elder man was sullenly angry. His servant avoided him. And the +next day he had to use all his willpower to avoid seeing the scarred thumb. He +wanted to get hold of it and—— A hot flame ran in his blood. +</p> + +<p> +He knew his servant would soon be free, and would be glad. As yet, the soldier +had held himself off from the elder man. The Captain grew madly irritable. He +could not rest when the soldier was away, and when he was present, he glared at +him with tormented eyes. He hated those fine, black brows over the unmeaning, +dark eyes, he was infuriated by the free movement of the handsome limbs, which +no military discipline could make stiff. And he became harsh and cruelly +bullying, using contempt and satire. The young soldier only grew more mute and +expressionless. +</p> + +<p> +What cattle were you bred by, that you can’t keep straight eyes? Look me +in the eyes when I speak to you. +</p> + +<p> +And the soldier turned his dark eyes to the other’s face, but there was +no sight in them: he stared with the slightest possible cast, holding back his +sight, perceiving the blue of his master’s eyes, but receiving no look +from them. And the elder man went pale, and his reddish eyebrows twitched. He +gave his order, barrenly. +</p> + +<p> +Once he flung a heavy military glove into the young soldier’s face. Then +he had the satisfaction of seeing the black eyes flare up into his own, like a +blaze when straw is thrown on a fire. And he had laughed with a little tremor +and a sneer. +</p> + +<p> +But there were only two months more. The youth instinctively tried to keep +himself intact: he tried to serve the officer as if the latter were an abstract +authority and not a man. All his instinct was to avoid personal contact, even +definite hate. But in spite of himself the hate grew, responsive to the +officer’s passion. However, he put it in the background. When he had left +the Army he could dare acknowledge it. By nature he was active, and had many +friends. He thought what amazing good fellows they were. But, without knowing +it, he was alone. Now this solitariness was intensified. It would carry him +through his term. But the officer seemed to be going irritably insane, and the +youth was deeply frightened. +</p> + +<p> +The soldier had a sweetheart, a girl from the mountains, independent and +primitive. The two walked together, rather silently. He went with her, not to +talk, but to have his arm round her, and for the physical contact. This eased +him, made it easier for him to ignore the Captain; for he could rest with her +held fast against his chest. And she, in some unspoken fashion, was there for +him. They loved each other. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain perceived it, and was mad with irritation. He kept the young man +engaged all the evenings long, and took pleasure in the dark look that came on +his face. Occasionally, the eyes of the two men met, those of the younger +sullen and dark, doggedly unalterable, those of the elder sneering with +restless contempt. +</p> + +<p> +The officer tried hard not to admit the passion that had got hold of him. He +would not know that his feeling for his orderly was anything but that of a man +incensed by his stupid, perverse servant. So, keeping quite justified and +conventional in his consciousness, he let the other thing run on. His nerves, +however, were suffering. At last he slung the end of a belt in his +servant’s face. When he saw the youth start back, the pain-tears in his +eyes and the blood on his mouth, he had felt at once a thrill of deep pleasure +and of shame. +</p> + +<p> +But this, he acknowledged to himself, was a thing he had never done before. The +fellow was too exasperating. His own nerves must be going to pieces. He went +away for some days with a woman. +</p> + +<p> +It was a mockery of pleasure. He simply did not want the woman. But he stayed +on for his time. At the end of it, he came back in an agony of irritation, +torment, and misery. He rode all the evening, then came straight in to supper. +His orderly was out. The officer sat with his long, fine hands lying on the +table, perfectly still, and all his blood seemed to be corroding. +</p> + +<p> +At last his servant entered. He watched the strong, easy young figure, the fine +eyebrows, the thick black hair. In a week’s time the youth had got back +his old well-being. The hands of the officer twitched and seemed to be full of +mad flame. The young man stood at attention, unmoving, shut on. +</p> + +<p> +The meal went in silence. But the orderly seemed eager. He made a clatter with +the dishes. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you in a hurry?” asked the officer, watching the intent, warm +face of his servant. The other did not reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you answer my question?” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” replied the orderly, standing with his pile of deep +Army plates. The Captain waited, looked at him, then asked again: +</p> + +<p> +“Are you in a hurry? +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” came the answer, that sent a flash through the +listener. +</p> + +<p> +“For what?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was going out, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I want you this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a moment’s hesitation. The officer had a curious stiffness of +countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” replied the servant, in his throat. +</p> + +<p> +“I want you tomorrow evening also—in fact, you may consider your +evenings occupied, unless I give you leave.” +</p> + +<p> +The mouth with the young moustache set close. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” answered the orderly, loosening his lips for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +He again turned to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“And why have you a piece of pencil in your ear?” +</p> + +<p> +The orderly hesitated, then continued on his way without answering. He set the +plates in a pile outside the door, took the stump of pencil from his ear, and +put it in his pocket. He had been copying a verse for his sweetheart’s +birthday card. He returned to finish clearing the table. The officer’s +eyes were dancing, he had a little, eager smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Why have you a piece of pencil in your ear?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +The orderly took his hands full of dishes. His master was standing near the +great green stove, a little smile on his face, his chin thrust forward. When +the young soldier saw him his heart suddenly ran hot. He felt blind. Instead of +answering, he turned dazedly to the door. As he was crouching to set down the +dishes, he was pitched forward by a kick from behind. The pots went in a stream +down the stairs, he clung to the pillar of the banisters. And as he was rising +he was kicked heavily again, and again, so that he clung sickly to the post for +some moments. His master had gone swiftly into the room and closed the door. +The maid-servant downstairs looked up the staircase and made a mocking face at +the crockery disaster. +</p> + +<p> +The officer’s heart was plunging. He poured himself a glass of wine, part +of which he spilled on the floor, and gulped the remainder, leaning against the +cool, green stove. He heard his man collecting the dishes from the stairs. +Pale, as if intoxicated, he waited. The servant entered again. The +Captain’s heart gave a pang, as of pleasure, seeing the young fellow +bewildered and uncertain on his feet, with pain. +</p> + +<p> +“Schöner!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The soldier was a little slower in coming to attention. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +The youth stood before him, with pathetic young moustache, and fine eyebrows +very distinct on his forehead of dark marble. +</p> + +<p> +“I asked you a question.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +The officer’s tone bit like acid. +</p> + +<p> +“Why had you a pencil in your ear?” +</p> + +<p> +Again the servant’s heart ran hot, and he could not breathe. With dark, +strained eyes, he looked at the officer, as if fascinated. And he stood there +sturdily planted, unconscious. The withering smile came into the +Captain’s eyes, and he lifted his foot. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I forgot it—sir,” panted the soldier, his dark eyes +fixed on the other man’s dancing blue ones. +</p> + +<p> +“What was it doing there?” +</p> + +<p> +He saw the young man’s breast heaving as he made an effort for words. +</p> + +<p> +“I had been writing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Writing what?” +</p> + +<p> +Again the soldier looked him up and down. The officer could hear him panting. +The smile came into the blue eyes. The soldier worked his dry throat, but could +not speak. Suddenly the smile lit like a name on the officer’s face, and +a kick came heavily against the orderly’s thigh. The youth moved a pace +sideways. His face went dead, with two black, staring eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said the officer. +</p> + +<p> +The orderly’s mouth had gone dry, and his tongue rubbed in it as on dry +brown-paper. He worked his throat. The officer raised his foot. The servant +went stiff. +</p> + +<p> +“Some poetry, sir,” came the crackling, unrecognizable sound of his +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Poetry, what poetry?” asked the Captain, with a sickly smile. +</p> + +<p> +Again there was the working in the throat. The Captain’s heart had +suddenly gone down heavily, and he stood sick and tired. +</p> + +<p> +“For my girl, sir,” he heard the dry, inhuman sound. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he said, turning away. “Clear the table.” +</p> + +<p> +“Click!” went the soldier’s throat; then again, +“click!” and then the half-articulate: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +The young soldier was gone, looking old, and walking heavily. +</p> + +<p> +The officer, left alone, held himself rigid, to prevent himself from thinking. +His instinct warned him that he must not think. Deep inside him was the intense +gratification of his passion, still working powerfully. Then there was a +counter-action, a horrible breaking down of something inside him, a whole agony +of reaction. He stood there for an hour motionless, a chaos of sensations, but +rigid with a will to keep blank his consciousness, to prevent his mind +grasping. And he held himself so until the worst of the stress had passed, when +he began to drink, drank himself to an intoxication, till he slept obliterated. +When he woke in the morning he was shaken to the base of his nature. But he had +fought off the realization of what he had done. He had prevented his mind from +taking it in, had suppressed it along with his instincts, and the conscious man +had nothing to do with it. He felt only as after a bout of intoxication, weak, +but the affair itself all dim and not to be recovered. Of the drunkenness of +his passion he successfully refused remembrance. And when his orderly appeared +with coffee, the officer assumed the same self he had had the morning before. +He refused the event of the past night—denied it had ever been—and +was successful in his denial. He had not done any such thing—not he +himself. Whatever there might be lay at the door of a stupid, insubordinate +servant. +</p> + +<p> +The orderly had gone about in a stupor all the evening. He drank some beer +because he was parched, but not much, the alcohol made his feeling come back, +and he could not bear it. He was dulled, as if nine-tenths of the ordinary man +in him were inert. He crawled about disfigured. Still, when he thought of the +kicks, he went sick, and when he thought of the threat of more kicking, in the +room afterwards, his heart went hot and faint, and he panted, remembering the +one that had come. He had been forced to say, “For my girl.” He was +much too done even to want to cry. His mouth hung slightly open, like an +idiot’s. He felt vacant, and wasted. So, he wandered at his work, +painfully, and very slowly and clumsily, fumbling blindly with the brushes, and +finding it difficult, when he sat down, to summon the energy to move again. His +limbs, his jaw, were slack and nerveless. But he was very tired. He got to bed +at last, and slept inert, relaxed, in a sleep that was rather stupor than +slumber, a dead night of stupefaction shot through with gleams of anguish. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning were the manœuvres. But he woke even before the bugle sounded. +The painful ache in his chest, the dryness of his throat, the awful steady +feeling of misery made his eyes come awake and dreary at once. He knew, without +thinking, what had happened. And he knew that the day had come again, when he +must go on with his round. The last bit of darkness was being pushed out of the +room. He would have to move his inert body and go on. He was so young, and had +known so little trouble, that he was bewildered. He only wished it would stay +night, so that he could lie still, covered up by the darkness. And yet nothing +would prevent the day from coming, nothing would save him from having to get up +and saddle the Captain’s horse, and make the Captain’s coffee. It +was there, inevitable. And then, he thought, it was impossible. Yet they would +not leave him free. He must go and take the coffee to the Captain. He was too +stunned to understand it. He only knew it was inevitable—inevitable +however long he lay inert. +</p> + +<p> +At last, after heaving at himself, for he seemed to be a mass of inertia, he +got up. But he had to force every one of his movements from behind, with his +will. He felt lost, and dazed, and helpless. Then he clutched hold of the bed, +the pain was so keen. And looking at his thighs, he saw the darker bruises on +his swarthy flesh and he knew that, if he pressed one of his fingers on one of +the bruises, he should faint. But he did not want to faint—he did not +want anybody to know. No one should ever know. It was between him and the +Captain. There were only the two people in the world now—himself and the +Captain. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly, economically, he got dressed and forced himself to walk. Everything was +obscure, except just what he had his hands on. But he managed to get through +his work. The very pain revived his dull senses. The worst remained yet. He +took the tray and went up to the Captain’s room. The officer, pale and +heavy, sat at the table. The orderly, as he saluted, felt himself put out of +existence. He stood still for a moment submitting to his own nullification, +then he gathered himself, seemed to regain himself, and then the Captain began +to grow vague, unreal, and the younger soldier’s heart beat up. He clung +to this situation—that the Captain did not exist—so that he himself +might live. But when he saw his officer’s hand tremble as he took the +coffee, he felt everything falling shattered. And he went away, feeling as if +he himself were coming to pieces, disintegrated. And when the Captain was there +on horseback, giving orders, while he himself stood, with rifle and knapsack, +sick with pain, he felt as if he must shut his eyes—as if he must shut +his eyes on everything. It was only the long agony of marching with a parched +throat that filled him with one single, sleep-heavy intention: to save himself. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +He was getting used even to his parched throat. That the snowy peaks were +radiant among the sky, that the whity-green glacier-river twisted through its +pale shoals, in the valley below, seemed almost supernatural. But he was going +mad with fever and thirst. He plodded on uncomplaining. He did not want to +speak, not to anybody. There were two gulls, like flakes of water and snow, +over the river. The scent of green rye soaked in sunshine came like a sickness. +And the march continued, monotonously, almost like a bad sleep. +</p> + +<p> +At the next farm-house, which stood low and broad near the high road, tubs of +water had been put out. The soldiers clustered round to drink. They took off +their helmets, and the steam mounted from their wet hair. The Captain sat on +horseback, watching. He needed to see his orderly. His helmet threw a dark +shadow over his light, fierce eyes, but his moustache and mouth and chin were +distinct in the sunshine. The orderly must move under the presence of the +figure of the horseman. It was not that he was afraid, or cowed. It was as if +he was disembowelled, made empty, like an empty shell. He felt himself as +nothing, a shadow creeping under the sunshine. And, thirsty as he was, he could +scarcely drink, feeling the Captain near him. He would not take off his helmet +to wipe his wet hair. He wanted to stay in shadow, not to be forced into +consciousness. Starting, he saw the light heel of the officer prick the belly +of the horse; the Captain cantered away, and he himself could relapse into +vacancy. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing, however, could give him back his living place in the hot, bright +morning. He felt like a gap among it all. Whereas the Captain was prouder, +overriding. A hot flash went through the young servant’s body. The +Captain was firmer and prouder with life, he himself was empty as a shadow. +Again the flash went through him, dazing him out. But his heart ran a little +firmer. +</p> + +<p> +The company turned up the hill, to make a loop for the return. Below, from +among the trees, the farm-bell clanged. He saw the labourers, mowing barefoot +at the thick grass, leave off their work and go downhill, their scythes hanging +over their shoulders, like long, bright claws curving down behind them. They +seemed like dream-people, as if they had no relation to himself. He felt as in +a blackish dream: as if all the other things were there and had form, but he +himself was only a consciousness, a gap that could think and perceive. +</p> + +<p> +The soldiers were tramping silently up the glaring hillside. Gradually his head +began to revolve, slowly, rhythmically. Sometimes it was dark before his eyes, +as if he saw this world through a smoked glass, frail shadows and unreal. It +gave him a pain in his head to walk. +</p> + +<p> +The air was too scented, it gave no breath. All the lush green-stuff seemed to +be issuing its sap, till the air was deathly, sickly with the smell of +greenness. There was the perfume of clover, like pure honey and bees. Then +there grew a faint acrid tang—they were near the beeches; and then a +queer clattering noise, and a suffocating, hideous smell; they were passing a +flock of sheep, a shepherd in a black smock, holding his crook. Why should the +sheep huddle together under this fierce sun. He felt that the shepherd would +not see him, though he could see the shepherd. +</p> + +<p> +At last there was the halt. They stacked rifles in a conical stack, put down +their kit in a scattered circle around it, and dispersed a little, sitting on a +small knoll high on the hillside. The chatter began. The soldiers were steaming +with heat, but were lively. He sat still, seeing the blue mountains rising upon +the land, twenty kilometres away. There was a blue fold in the ranges, then out +of that, at the foot, the broad, pale bed of the river, stretches of +whity-green water between pinkish-grey shoals among the dark pine woods. There +it was, spread out a long way off. And it seemed to come downhill, the river. +There was a raft being steered, a mile away. It was a strange country. Nearer, +a red-roofed, broad farm with white base and square dots of windows crouched +beside the wall of beech foliage on the wood’s edge. There were long +strips of rye and clover and pale green corn. And just at his feet, below the +knoll, was a darkish bog, where globe flowers stood breathless still on their +slim stalks. And some of the pale gold bubbles were burst, and a broken +fragment hung in the air. He thought he was going to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly something moved into this coloured mirage before his eyes. The +Captain, a small, light-blue and scarlet figure, was trotting evenly between +the strips of corn, along the level brow of the hill. And the man making +flag-signals was coming on. Proud and sure moved the horseman’s figure, +the quick, bright thing, in which was concentrated all the light of this +morning, which for the rest lay a fragile, shining shadow. Submissive, +apathetic, the young soldier sat and stared. But as the horse slowed to a walk, +coming up the last steep path, the great flash flared over the body and soul of +the orderly. He sat waiting. The back of his head felt as if it were weighted +with a heavy piece of fire. He did not want to eat. His hands trembled slightly +as he moved them. Meanwhile the officer on horseback was approaching slowly and +proudly. The tension grew in the orderly’s soul. Then again, seeing the +Captain ease himself on the saddle, the flash blazed through him. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain looked at the patch of light blue and scarlet, and dark heads, +scattered closely on the hillside. It pleased him. The command pleased him. And +he was feeling proud. His orderly was among them in common subjection. The +officer rose a little on his stirrups to look. The young soldier sat with +averted, dumb face. The Captain relaxed on his seat. His slim-legged, beautiful +horse, brown as a beech nut, walked proudly uphill. The Captain passed into the +zone of the company’s atmosphere: a hot smell of men, of sweat, of +leather. He knew it very well. After a word with the lieutenant, he went a few +paces higher, and sat there, a dominant figure, his sweat-marked horse swishing +its tail, while he looked down on his men, on his orderly, a nonentity among +the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +The young soldier’s heart was like fire in his chest, and he breathed +with difficulty. The officer, looking downhill, saw three of the young +soldiers, two pails of water between them, staggering across a sunny green +field. A table had been set up under a tree, and there the slim lieutenant +stood, importantly busy. Then the Captain summoned himself to an act of +courage. He called his orderly. +</p> + +<p> +The name leapt into the young soldier’s throat as he heard the command, +and he rose blindly stifled. He saluted, standing below the officer. He did not +look up. But there was the flicker in the Captain’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Go to the inn and fetch me....” the officer gave his commands. +“Quick!” he added. +</p> + +<p> +At the last word, the heart of the servant leapt with a flash, and he felt the +strength come over his body. But he turned in mechanical obedience, and set on +at a heavy run downhill, looking almost like a bear, his trousers bagging over +his military boots. And the officer watched this blind, plunging run all the +way. +</p> + +<p> +But it was only the outside of the orderly’s body that was obeying so +humbly and mechanically. Inside had gradually accumulated a core into which all +the energy of that young life was compact and concentrated. He executed his +commission, and plodded quickly back uphill. There was a pain in his head, as +he walked, that made him twist his features unknowingly. But hard there in the +centre of his chest was himself, himself, firm, and not to be plucked to +pieces. +</p> + +<p> +The captain had gone up into the wood. The orderly plodded through the hot, +powerfully smelling zone of the company’s atmosphere. He had a curious +mass of energy inside him now. The Captain was less real than himself. He +approached the green entrance to the wood. There, in the half-shade, he saw the +horse standing, the sunshine and the tuckering shadow of leaves dancing over +his brown body. There was a clearing where timber had lately been felled. Here, +in the gold-green shade beside the brilliant cup of sunshine, stood two +figures, blue and pink, the bits of pink showing out plainly. The Captain was +talking to his lieutenant. +</p> + +<p> +The orderly stood on the edge of the bright clearing, where great trunks of +trees, stripped and glistening, lay stretched like naked, brown-skinned bodies. +Chips of wood littered the trampled floor, like splashed light, and the bases +of the felled trees stood here and there, with their raw, level tops. Beyond +was the brilliant, sunlit green of a beech. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will ride forward,” the orderly heard his Captain say. The +lieutenant saluted and strode away. He himself went forward. A hot flash passed +through his belly, as he tramped towards his officer. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain watched the rather heavy figure of the young soldier stumble +forward, and his veins, too, ran hot. This was to be man to man between them. +He yielded before the solid, stumbling figure with bent head. The orderly +stooped and put the food on a level-sawn tree-base. The Captain watched the +glistening, sun-inflamed, naked hands. He wanted to speak to the young soldier, +but could not. The servant propped a bottle against his thigh, pressed open the +cork, and poured out the beer into the mug. He kept his head bent. The Captain +accepted the mug. +</p> + +<p> +“Hot!” he said, as if amiably. +</p> + +<p> +The flame sprang out of the orderly’s heart, nearly suffocating him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” he replied, between shut teeth. +</p> + +<p> +And he heard the sound of the Captain’s drinking, and he clenched his +fists, such a strong torment came into his wrists. Then came the faint clang of +the closing of the pot-lid. He looked up. The Captain was watching him. He +glanced swiftly away. Then he saw the officer stoop and take a piece of bread +from the tree-base. Again the flash of flame went through the young soldier, +seeing the stiff body stoop beneath him, and his hands jerked. He looked away. +He could feel the officer was nervous. The bread fell as it was being broken +The officer ate the other piece. The two men stood tense and still, the master +laboriously chewing his bread, the servant staring with averted face, his fist +clenched. +</p> + +<p> +Then the young soldier started. The officer had pressed open the lid of the mug +again. The orderly watched the lid of the mug, and the white hand that clenched +the handle, as if he were fascinated. It was raised. The youth followed it with +his eyes. And then he saw the thin, strong throat of the elder man moving up +and down as he drank, the strong jaw working. And the instinct which had been +jerking at the young man’s wrists suddenly jerked free. He jumped, +feeling as if it were rent in two by a strong flame. +</p> + +<p> +The spur of the officer caught in a tree-root, he went down backwards with a +crash, the middle of his back thudding sickeningly against a sharp-edged +tree-base, the pot flying away. And in a second the orderly, with serious, +earnest young face, and under-lip between his teeth, had got his knee in the +officer’s chest and was pressing the chin backward over the farther edge +of the tree-stump, pressing, with all his heart behind in a passion of relief, +the tension of his wrists exquisite with relief. And with the base of his palms +he shoved at the chin, with all his might. And it was pleasant, too, to have +that chin, that hard jaw already slightly rough with beard, in his hands. He +did not relax one hair’s breadth, but, all the force of all his blood +exulting in his thrust, he shoved back the head of the other man, till there +was a little cluck and a crunching sensation. Then he felt as if his head went +to vapour. Heavy convulsions shook the body of the officer, frightening and +horrifying the young soldier. Yet it pleased him, too, to repress them. It +pleased him to keep his hands pressing back the chin, to feel the chest of the +other man yield in expiration to the weight of his strong, young knees, to feel +the hard twitchings of the prostrate body jerking his own whole frame, which +was pressed down on it. +</p> + +<p> +But it went still. He could look into the nostrils of the other man, the eyes +he could scarcely see. How curiously the mouth was pushed out, exaggerating the +full lips, and the moustache bristling up from them. Then, with a start, he +noticed the nostrils gradually filled with blood. The red brimmed, hesitated, +ran over, and went in a thin trickle down the face to the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +It shocked and distressed him. Slowly, he got up. The body twitched and +sprawled there, inert. He stood and looked at it in silence. It was a pity it +was broken. It represented more than the thing which had kicked and bullied +him. He was afraid to look at the eyes. They were hideous now, only the whites +showing, and the blood running to them. The face of the orderly was drawn with +horror at the sight. Well, it was so. In his heart he was satisfied. He had +hated the face of the Captain. It was extinguished now. There was a heavy +relief in the orderly’s soul. That was as it should be. But he could not +bear to see the long, military body lying broken over the tree-base, the fine +fingers crisped. He wanted to hide it away. +</p> + +<p> +Quickly, busily, he gathered it up and pushed it under the felled tree-trunks, +which rested their beautiful, smooth length either end on logs. The face was +horrible with blood. He covered it with the helmet. Then he pushed the limbs +straight and decent, and brushed the dead leaves off the fine cloth of the +uniform. So, it lay quite still in the shadow under there. A little strip of +sunshine ran along the breast, from a chink between the logs. The orderly sat +by it for a few moments. Here his own life also ended. +</p> + +<p> +Then, through his daze, he heard the lieutenant, in a loud voice, explaining to +the men outside the wood, that they were to suppose the bridge on the river +below was held by the enemy. Now they were to march to the attack in such and +such a manner. The lieutenant had no gift of expression. The orderly, listening +from habit, got muddled. And when the lieutenant began it all again he ceased +to hear. He knew he must go. He stood up. It surprised him that the leaves were +glittering in the sun, and the chips of wood reflecting white from the ground. +For him a change had come over the world. But for the rest it had not—all +seemed the same. Only he had left it. And he could not go back. It was his duty +to return with the beer-pot and the bottle. He could not. He had left all that. +The lieutenant was still hoarsely explaining. He must go, or they would, +overtake him. And he could not bear contact with anyone now. +</p> + +<p> +He drew his fingers over his eyes, trying to find out where he was. Then he +turned away. He saw the horse standing in the path. He went up to it and +mounted. It hurt him to sit in the saddle. The pain of keeping his seat +occupied him as they cantered through the wood. He would not have minded +anything, but he could not get away from the sense of being divided from the +others. The path led out of the trees. On the edge of the wood he pulled up and +stood watching. There in the spacious sunshine of the valley soldiers were +moving in a little swarm. Every now and then, a man harrowing on a strip of +fallow shouted to his oxen, at the turn. The village and the white-towered +church was small in the sunshine. And he no longer belonged to it—he sat +there, beyond, like a man outside in the dark. He had gone out from everyday +life into the unknown, and he could not, he even did not want to go back. +</p> + +<p> +Turning from the sun-blazing valley, he rode deep into the wood. Tree-trunks, +like people standing grey and still, took no notice as he went. A doe, herself +a moving bit of sunshine and shadow, went running through the flecked shade. +There were bright green rents in the foliage. Then it was all pine wood, dark +and cool. And he was sick with pain, he had an intolerable great pulse in his +head, and he was sick. He had never been ill in his life, he felt lost, quite +dazed with all this. +</p> + +<p> +Trying to get down from the horse, he fell, astonished at the pain and his lack +of balance. The horse shifted uneasily. He jerked its bridle and sent it +cantering jerkily away. It was his last connection with the rest of things. +</p> + +<p> +But he only wanted to lie down and not be disturbed. Stumbling through the +trees, he came on a quiet place where beeches and pine trees grew on a slope. +Immediately he had lain down and closed his eyes, his consciousness went racing +on without him. A big pulse of sickness beat in him as if it throbbed through +the whole earth. He was burning with dry heat. But he was too busy, too +tearingly active in the incoherent race of delirium to observe. +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +He came to with a start. His mouth was dry and hard, his heart beat heavily, +but he had not the energy to get up. His heart beat heavily. Where was +he?—the barracks—at home? There was something knocking. And, making +an effort, he looked round—trees, and litter of greenery, and reddish, +night, still pieces of sunshine on the floor. He did not believe he was +himself, he did not believe what he saw. Something was knocking. He made a +struggle towards consciousness, but relapsed. Then he struggled again. And +gradually his surroundings fell into relationship with himself. He knew, and a +great pang of fear went through his heart. Somebody was knocking. He could see +the heavy, black rags of a fir tree overhead. Then everything went black. Yet +he did not believe he had closed his eyes. He had not. Out of the blackness +sight slowly emerged again. And someone was knocking. Quickly, he saw the +blood-disgfigured face of his Captain, which he hated. And he held himself +still with horror. Yet, deep inside him, he knew that it was so, the Captain +should be dead. But the physical delirium got hold of him. Someone was +knocking. He lay perfectly still, as if dead, with fear. And he went +unconscious. +</p> + +<p> +When he opened his eyes again, he started, seeing something creeping swiftly up +a tree-trunk. It was a little bird. And the bird was whistling overhead. +Tap-tap-tap—it was the small, quick bird rapping the tree-trunk with its +beak, as if its head were a little round hammer. He watched it curiously. It +shifted sharply, in its creeping fashion. Then, like a mouse, it slid down the +bare trunk. Its swift creeping sent a flash of revulsion through him. He raised +his head. It felt a great weight. Then, the little bird ran out of the shadow +across a still patch of sunshine, its little head bobbing swiftly, its white +legs twinkling brightly for a moment. How neat it was in its build, so compact, +with pieces of white on its wings. There were several of them. They were so +pretty—but they crept like swift, erratic mice, running here and there +among the beech-mast. +</p> + +<p> +He lay down again exhausted, and his consciousness lapsed. He had a horror of +the little creeping birds. All his blood seemed to be darting and creeping in +his head. And yet he could not move. +</p> + +<p> +He came to with a further ache of exhaustion. There was the pain in his head, +and the horrible sickness, and his inability to move. He had never been ill in +his life. He did not know where he was or what he was. Probably he had got +sunstroke. Or what else?—he had silenced the Captain for ever—some +time ago—oh, a long time ago. There had been blood on his face, and his +eyes had turned upwards. It was all right, somehow. It was peace. But now he +had got beyond himself. He had never been here before. Was it life, or not +life? He was by himself. They were in a big, bright place, those others, and he +was outside. The town, all the country, a big bright place of light: and he was +outside, here, in the darkened open beyond, where each thing existed alone. But +they would all have to come out there sometime, those others. Little, and left +behind him, they all were. There had been father and mother and sweetheart. +What did they all matter? This was the open land. +</p> + +<p> +He sat up. Something scuffled. It was a little, brown squirrel running in +lovely, undulating bounds over the floor, its red tail completing the +undulation of its body—and then, as it sat up, furling and unfurling. He +watched it, pleased. It ran on friskily, enjoying itself. It flew wildly at +another squirrel, and they were chasing each other, and making little scolding, +chattering noises. The soldier wanted to speak to them. But only a hoarse sound +came out of his throat. The squirrels burst away—they flew up the trees. +And then he saw the one peeping round at him, half-way up a tree-trunk. A start +of fear went through him, though, in so far as he was conscious, he was amused. +It still stayed, its little, keen face staring at him halfway up the +tree-trunk, its little ears pricked up, its clawey little hands clinging to the +bark, its white breast reared. He started from it in panic. +</p> + +<p> +Struggling to his feet, he lurched away. He went on walking, walking, looking +for something for a drink. His brain felt hot and inflamed for want of water. +He stumbled on. Then he did not know anything. He went unconscious as he +walked. Yet he stumbled on, his mouth open. +</p> + +<p> +When, to his dumb wonder, he opened his eyes on the world again, he no longer +tried to remember what it was. There was thick, golden light behind +golden-green glitterings, and tall, grey-purple shafts, and darknesses further +off, surrounding him, growing deeper. He was conscious of a sense of arrival. +He was amid the reality, on the real, dark bottom. But there was the thirst +burning in his brain. He felt lighter, not so heavy. He supposed it was +newness. +</p> + +<p> +The air was muttering with thunder. He thought he was walking wonderfully +swiftly and was coming straight to relief—or was it to water? +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he stood still with fear. There was a tremendous flare of gold, +immense—just a few dark trunks like bars between him and it. All the +young level wheat was burnished gold glaring on its silky green. A woman, +full-skirted, a black cloth on her head for head-dress, was passing like a +block of shadow through the glistening, green corn, into the full glare. There +was a farm, too, pale blue in shadow, and the timber black. And there was a +church spire, nearly fused away in the gold. The woman moved on, away from him. +He had no language with which to speak to her. She was the bright, solid +unreality. She would make a noise of words that would confuse him, and her eyes +would look at him without seeing him. She was crossing there to the other side. +He stood against a tree. +</p> + +<p> +When at last he turned, looking down the long, bare grove whose flat bed was +already filling dark, he saw the mountains in a wonder-light, not far away, and +radiant. Behind the soft, grey ridge of the nearest range the further mountains +stood golden and pale grey, the snow all radiant like pure, soft gold. So +still, gleaming in the sky, fashioned pure out of the ore of the sky, they +shone in their silence. He stood and looked at them, his face illuminated. And +like the golden, lustrous gleaming of the snow he felt his own thirst bright in +him. He stood and gazed, leaning against a tree. And then everything slid away +into space. +</p> + +<p> +During the night the lightning fluttered perpetually, making the whole sky +white. He must have walked again. The world hung livid round him for moments, +fields a level sheen of grey-green light, trees in dark bulk, and the range of +clouds black across a white sky. Then the darkness fell like a shutter, and the +night was whole. A faint mutter of a half-revealed world, that could not quite +leap out of the darkness!—Then there again stood a sweep of pallor for +the land, dark shapes looming, a range of clouds hanging overhead. The world +was a ghostly shadow, thrown for a moment upon the pure darkness, which +returned ever whole and complete. +</p> + +<p> +And the mere delirium of sickness and fever went on inside him—his brain +opening and shutting like the night—then sometimes convulsions of terror +from something with great eyes that stared round a tree—then the long +agony of the march, and the sun decomposing his blood—then the pang of +hate for the Captain, followed, by a pang of tenderness and ease. But +everything was distorted, born of an ache and resolving into an ache. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning he came definitely awake. Then his brain flamed with the sole +horror of thirstiness! The sun was on his face, the dew was steaming from his +wet clothes. Like one possessed, he got up. There, straight in front of him, +blue and cool and tender, the mountains ranged across the pale edge of the +morning sky. He wanted them—he wanted them alone—he wanted to leave +himself and be identified with them. They did not move, they were still and +soft, with white, gentle markings of snow. He stood still, mad with suffering, +his hands crisping and clutching. Then he was twisting in a paroxysm on the +grass. +</p> + +<p> +He lay still, in a kind of dream of anguish. His thirst seemed to have +separated itself from him, and to stand apart, a single demand. Then the pain +he felt was another single self. Then there was the clog of his body, another +separate thing. He was divided among all kinds of separate beings. There was +some strange, agonized connection between them, but they were drawing further +apart. Then they would all split. The sun, drilling down on him, was drilling +through the bond. Then they would all fall, fall through the everlasting lapse +of space. Then again, his consciousness reasserted itself. He roused on to his +elbow and stared at the gleaming mountains. There they ranked, all still and +wonderful between earth and heaven. He stared till his eyes went black, and the +mountains, as they stood in their beauty, so clean and cool, seemed to have it, +that which was lost in him. +</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p> +When the soldiers found him, three hours later, he was lying with his face over +his arm, his black hair giving off heat under the sun. But he was still alive. +Seeing the open, black mouth the young soldiers dropped him in horror. +</p> + +<p> +He died in the hospital at night, without having seen again. +</p> + +<p> +The doctors saw the bruises on his legs, behind, and were silent. +</p> + +<p> +The bodies of the two men lay together, side by side, in the mortuary, the one +white and slender, but laid rigidly at rest, the other looking as if every +moment it must rouse into life again, so young and unused, from a slumber. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>The Thorn in the Flesh</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +A wind was running, so that occasionally the poplars whitened as if a flame +flew up them. The sky was broken and blue among moving clouds. Patches of +sunshine lay on the level fields, and shadows on the rye and the vineyards. In +the distance, very blue, the cathedral bristled against the sky, and the houses +of the city of Metz clustered vaguely below, like a hill. +</p> + +<p> +Among the fields by the lime trees stood the barracks, upon bare, dry ground, a +collection of round-roofed huts of corrugated iron, where the soldiers’ +nasturtiums climbed brilliantly. There was a tract of vegetable garden at the +side, with the soldiers’ yellowish lettuces in rows, and at the back the +big, hard drilling-yard surrounded by a wire fence. +</p> + +<p> +At this time in the afternoon, the huts were deserted, all the beds pushed up, +the soldiers were lounging about under the lime trees waiting for the call to +drill. Bachmann sat on a bench in the shade that smelled sickly with blossom. +Pale green, wrecked lime flowers were scattered on the ground. He was writing +his weekly post card to his mother. He was a fair, long, limber youth, good +looking. He sat very still indeed, trying to write his post card. His blue +uniform, sagging on him as he sat bent over the card, disfigured his youthful +shape. His sunburnt hand waited motionless for the words to come. “Dear +mother”—was all he had written. Then he scribbled mechanically: +“Many thanks for your letter with what you sent. Everything is all right +with me. We are just off to drill on the fortifications——” +Here he broke off and sat suspended, oblivious of everything, held in some +definite suspense. He looked again at the card. But he could write no more. Out +of the knot of his consciousness no word would come. He signed himself, and +looked up, as a man looks to see if anyone has noticed him in his privacy. +</p> + +<p> +There was a self-conscious strain in his blue eyes, and a pallor about his +mouth, where the young, fair moustache glistened. He was almost girlish in his +good looks and his grace. But he had something of military consciousness, as if +he believed in the discipline for himself, and found satisfaction in delivering +himself to his duty. There was also a trace of youthful swagger and +dare-devilry about his mouth and his limber body, but this was in suppression +now. +</p> + +<p> +He put the post card in the pocket of his tunic, and went to join a group of +his comrades who were lounging in the shade, laughing and talking grossly. +Today he was out of it. He only stood near to them for the warmth of the +association. In his own consciousness something held him down. +</p> + +<p> +Presently they were summoned to ranks. The sergeant came out to take command. +He was a strongly built, rather heavy man of forty. His head was thrust +forward, sunk a little between his powerful shoulders, and the strong jaw was +pushed out aggressively. But the eyes were smouldering, the face hung slack and +sodden with drink. +</p> + +<p> +He gave his orders in brutal, barking shouts, and the little company moved +forward, out of the wire-fenced yard to the open road, marching rhythmically, +raising the dust. Bachmann, one of the inner file of four deep, marched in the +airless ranks, half suffocated with heat and dust and enclosure. Through the +moving of his comrades’ bodies, he could see the small vines dusty by the +roadside, the poppies among the tares fluttering and blown to pieces, the +distant spaces of sky and fields all free with air and sunshine. But he was +bound in a very dark enclosure of anxiety within himself. +</p> + +<p> +He marched with his usual ease, being healthy and well adjusted. But his body +went on by itself. His spirit was clenched apart. And ever the few soldiers +drew nearer and nearer to the town, ever the consciousness of the youth became +more gripped and separate, his body worked by a kind of mechanical +intelligence, a mere presence of mind. +</p> + +<p> +They diverged from the high road and passed in single file down a path among +trees. All was silent and green and mysterious, with shadow of foliage and +long, green, undisturbed grass. Then they came out in the sunshine on a moat of +water, which wound silently between the long, flowery grass, at the foot of the +earthworks, that rose in front in terraces walled smooth on the face, but all +soft with long grass at the top. Marguerite daisies and lady’s-slipper +glimmered white and gold in the lush grass, preserved here in the intense peace +of the fortifications. Thickets of trees stood round about. Occasionally a puff +of mysterious wind made the flowers and the long grass that crested the +earthworks above bow and shake as with signals of oncoming alarm. +</p> + +<p> +The group of soldiers stood at the end of the moat, in their light blue and +scarlet uniforms, very bright. The sergeant was giving them instructions, and +his shout came sharp and alarming in the intense, untouched stillness of the +place. They listened, finding it difficult to make the effort of understanding. +</p> + +<p> +Then it was over, and the men were moving to make preparations. On the other +side of the moat the ramparts rose smooth and clear in the sun, sloping +slightly back. Along the summit grass grew and tall daisies stood ledged high, +like magic, against the dark green of the tree-tops behind. The noise of the +town, the running of tram-cars, was heard distinctly, but it seemed not to +penetrate this still place. +</p> + +<p> +The water of the moat was motionless. In silence the practice began. One of the +soldiers took a scaling ladder, and passing along the narrow ledge at the foot +of the earthworks, with the water of the moat just behind him, tried to get a +fixture on the slightly sloping wall-face. There he stood, small and isolated, +at the foot of the wall, trying to get his ladder settled. At last it held, and +the clumsy, groping figure in the baggy blue uniform began to clamber up. The +rest of the soldiers stood and watched. Occasionally the sergeant barked a +command. Slowly the clumsy blue figure clambered higher up the wall-face. +Bachmann stood with his bowels turned to water. The figure of the climbing +soldier scrambled out on to the terrace up above, and moved, blue and distinct, +among the bright green grass. The officer shouted from below. The soldier +tramped along, fixed the ladder in another spot, and carefully lowered himself +on to the rungs. Bachmann watched the blind foot groping in space for the +ladder, and he felt the world fall away beneath him. The figure of the soldier +clung cringing against the face of the wall, cleaving, groping downwards like +some unsure insect working its way lower and lower, fearing every movement. At +last, sweating and with a strained face, the figure had landed safely and +turned to the group of soldiers. But still it had a stiffness and a blank, +mechanical look, was something less than human. +</p> + +<p> +Bachmann stood there heavy and condemned, waiting for his own turn and +betrayal. Some of the men went up easily enough, and without fear. That only +showed it could be done lightly, and made Bachmann’s case more bitter. If +only he could do it lightly, like that. +</p> + +<p> +His turn came. He knew intuitively that nobody knew his condition. The officer +just saw him as a mechanical thing. He tried to keep it up, to carry it through +on the face of things. His inside gripped tight, as yet under control, he took +the ladder and went along under the wall. He placed his ladder with quick +success, and wild, quivering hope possessed him. Then blindly he began to +climb. But the ladder was not very firm, and at every hitch a great, sick, +melting feeling took hold of him. He clung on fast. If only he could keep that +grip on himself, he would get through. He knew this, in agony. What he could +not understand was the blind gush of white-hot fear, that came with great force +whenever the ladder swerved, and which almost melted his belly and all his +joints, and left him powerless. If once it melted all his joints and his belly, +he was done. He clung desperately to himself. He knew the fear, he knew what it +did when it came, he knew he had only to keep a firm hold. He knew all this. +Yet, when the ladder swerved, and his foot missed, there was the great blast of +fear blowing on his heart and bowels, and he was melting weaker and weaker, in +a horror of fear and lack of control, melting to fall. +</p> + +<p> +Yet he groped slowly higher and higher, always staring upwards with desperate +face, and always conscious of the space below. But all of him, body and soul, +was growing hot to fusion point. He would have to let go for very +relief’s sake. Suddenly his heart began to lurch. It gave a great, sickly +swoop, rose, and again plunged in a swoop of horror. He lay against the wall +inert as if dead, inert, at peace, save for one deep core of anxiety, which +knew that it was <i>not</i> all over, that he was still high in space against +the wall. But the chief effort of will was gone. +</p> + +<p> +There came into his consciousness a small, foreign sensation. He woke up a +little. What was it? Then slowly it penetrated him. His water had run down his +leg. He lay there, clinging, still with shame, half conscious of the echo of +the sergeant’s voice thundering from below. He waited, in depths of shame +beginning to recover himself. He had been shamed so deeply. Then he could go +on, for his fear for himself was conquered. His shame was known and published. +He must go on. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly he began to grope for the rung above, when a great shock shook through +him. His wrists were grasped from above, he was being hauled out of himself up, +up to the safe ground. Like a sack he was dragged over the edge of the +earthworks by the large hands, and landed there on his knees, grovelling in the +grass to recover command of himself, to rise up on his feet. +</p> + +<p> +Shame, blind, deep shame and ignominy overthrew his spirit and left it +writhing. He stood there shrunk over himself, trying to obliterate himself. +</p> + +<p> +Then the presence of the officer who had hauled him up made itself felt upon +him. He heard the panting of the elder man, and then the voice came down on his +veins like a fierce whip. He shrank in tension of shame. +</p> + +<p> +“Put up your head—eyes front,” shouted the enraged sergeant, +and mechanically the soldier obeyed the command, forced to look into the eyes +of the sergeant. The brutal, hanging face of the officer violated the youth. He +hardened himself with all his might from seeing it. The tearing noise of the +sergeant’s voice continued to lacerate his body. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he set back his head, rigid, and his heart leapt to burst. The face +had suddenly thrust itself close, all distorted and showing the teeth, the eyes +smouldering into him. The breath of the barking words was on his nose and +mouth. He stepped aside in revulsion. With a scream the face was upon him +again. He raised his arm, involuntarily, in self-defence. A shock of horror +went through him, as he felt his forearm hit the face of the officer a brutal +blow. The latter staggered, swerved back, and with a curious cry, reeled +backwards over the ramparts, his hands clutching the air. There was a second of +silence, then a crash to water. +</p> + +<p> +Bachmann, rigid, looked out of his inner silence upon the scene. Soldiers were +running. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better clear,” said one young, excited voice to him. +And with immediate instinctive decision he started to walk away from the spot. +He went down the tree-hidden path to the high road where the trams ran to and +from the town. In his heart was a sense of vindication, of escape. He was +leaving it all, the military world, the shame. He was walking away from it. +</p> + +<p> +Officers on horseback rode sauntering down the street, soldiers passed along +the pavement. Coming to the bridge, Bachmann crossed over to the town that +heaped before him, rising from the flat, picturesque French houses down below +at the water’s edge, up a jumble of roofs and chasms of streets, to the +lovely dark cathedral with its myriad pinnacles making points at the sky. +</p> + +<p> +He felt for the moment quite at peace, relieved from a great strain. So he +turned along by the river to the public gardens. Beautiful were the heaped, +purple lilac trees upon the green grass, and wonderful the walls of the +horse-chestnut trees, lighted like an altar with white flowers on every ledge. +Officers went by, elegant and all coloured, women and girls sauntered in the +chequered shade. Beautiful it was, he walked in a vision, free. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +But where was he going? He began to come out of his trance of delight and +liberty. Deep within him he felt the steady burning of shame in the flesh. As +yet he could not bear to think of it. But there it was, submerged beneath his +attention, the raw, steady-burning shame. +</p> + +<p> +It behoved him to be intelligent. As yet he dared not remember what he had +done. He only knew the need to get away, away from everything he had been in +contact with. +</p> + +<p> +But how? A great pang of fear went through him. He could not bear his shamed +flesh to be put again between the hands of authority. Already the hands had +been laid upon him, brutally upon his nakedness, ripping open his shame and +making him maimed, crippled in his own control. +</p> + +<p> +Fear became an anguish. Almost blindly he was turning in the direction of the +barracks. He could not take the responsibility of himself. He must give himself +up to someone. Then his heart, obstinate in hope, became obsessed with the idea +of his sweetheart. He would make himself her responsibility. +</p> + +<p> +Blenching as he took courage, he mounted the small, quick-hurrying tram that +ran out of the town in the direction of the barracks. He sat motionless and +composed, static. +</p> + +<p> +He got out at the terminus and went down the road. A wind was still running. He +could hear the faint whisper of the rye, and the stronger swish as a sudden +gust was upon it. No one was about. Feeling detached and impersonal, he went +down a field-path between the low vines. Many little vine trees rose up in +spires, holding out tender pink shoots, waving their tendrils. He saw them +distinctly and wondered over them. In a field a little way off, men and women +were taking up the hay. The bullock-waggon stood by on the path, the men in +their blue shirts, the women with white cloths over their heads carried hay in +their arms to the cart, all brilliant and distinct upon the shorn, glowing +green acres. He felt himself looking out of darkness on to the glamorous, +brilliant beauty of the world around him, outside him. +</p> + +<p> +The Baron’s house, where Emilie was maidservant, stood square and mellow +among trees and garden and fields. It was an old French grange. The barracks +was quite near. Bachmann walked, drawn by a single purpose, towards the +courtyard. He entered the spacious, shadowy, sun-swept place. The dog, seeing a +soldier, only jumped and whined for greeting. The pump stood peacefully in a +corner, under a lime tree, in the shade. +</p> + +<p> +The kitchen door was open. He hesitated, then walked in, speaking shyly and +smiling involuntarily. The two women started, but with pleasure. Emilie was +preparing the tray for afternoon coffee. She stood beyond the table, drawn up, +startled, and challenging, and glad. She had the proud, timid eyes of some wild +animal, some proud animal. Her black hair was closely banded, her grey eyes +watched steadily. She wore a peasant dress of blue cotton sprigged with little +red roses, that buttoned tight over her strong maiden breasts. +</p> + +<p> +At the table sat another young woman, the nursery governess, who was picking +cherries from a huge heap, and dropping them into a bowl. She was young, +pretty, freckled. +</p> + +<p> +“Good day!” she said pleasantly. “The unexpected.” +</p> + +<p> +Emilie did not speak. The flush came in her dark cheek. She still stood +watching, between fear and a desire to escape, and on the other hand joy that +kept her in his presence. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, bashful and strained, while the eyes of the two +women were upon him. “I’ve got myself in a mess this time.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” asked the nursery governess, dropping her hands in her lap. +Emilie stood rigid. +</p> + +<p> +Bachmann could not raise his head. He looked sideways at the glistening, ruddy +cherries. He could not recover the normal world. +</p> + +<p> +“I knocked Sergeant Huber over the fortifications down into the +moat,” he said. “It was an accident—but——” +</p> + +<p> +And he grasped at the cherries, and began to eat them, unknowing, hearing only +Emilie’s little exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“You knocked him over the fortifications!” echoed Fräulein Hesse in +horror. “How?” +</p> + +<p> +Spitting the cherry-stones into his hand, mechanically, absorbedly, he told +them. +</p> + +<p> +“Ach!” exclaimed Emilie sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“And how did you get here?” asked Fräulein Hesse. +</p> + +<p> +“I ran off,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +There was a dead silence. He stood, putting himself at the mercy of the women. +There came a hissing from the stove, and a stronger smell of coffee. Emilie +turned swiftly away. He saw her flat, straight back and her strong loins, as +she bent over the stove. +</p> + +<p> +“But what are you going to do?” said Fräulein Hesse, aghast. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” he said, grasping at more cherries. He had +come to an end. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better go to the barracks,” she said. +“We’ll get the Herr Baron to come and see about it.” +</p> + +<p> +Emilie was swiftly and quietly preparing the tray. She picked it up, and stood +with the glittering china and silver before her, impassive, waiting for his +reply. Bachmann remained with his head dropped, pale and obstinate. He could +not bear to go back. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going to try to get into France,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but they’ll catch you,” said Fräulein Hesse. +</p> + +<p> +Emilie watched with steady, watchful grey eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I can have a try, if I could hide till tonight,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Both women knew what he wanted. And they all knew it was no good. Emilie picked +up the tray, and went out. Bachmann stood with his head dropped. Within himself +he felt the dross of shame and incapacity. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d never get away,” said the governess. +</p> + +<p> +“I can try,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Today he could not put himself between the hands of the military. Let them do +as they liked with him tomorrow, if he escaped today. +</p> + +<p> +They were silent. He ate cherries. The colour flushed bright into the cheek of +the young governess. +</p> + +<p> +Emilie returned to prepare another tray. +</p> + +<p> +“He could hide in your room,” the governess said to her. +</p> + +<p> +The girl drew herself away. She could not bear the intrusion. +</p> + +<p> +“That is all I can think of that is safe from the children,” said +Fräulein Hesse. +</p> + +<p> +Emilie gave no answer. Bachmann stood waiting for the two women. Emilie did not +want the close contact with him. +</p> + +<p> +“You could sleep with me,” Fräulein Hesse said to her. +</p> + +<p> +Emilie lifted her eyes and looked at the young man, direct, clear, reserving +herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want that?” she asked, her strong virginity proof against +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—yes——” he said uncertainly, destroyed by +shame. +</p> + +<p> +She put back her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she murmured to herself. +</p> + +<p> +Quickly she filled the tray, and went out. +</p> + +<p> +“But you can’t walk over the frontier in a night,” said +Fräulein Hesse. +</p> + +<p> +“I can cycle,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Emilie returned, a restraint, a neutrality, in her bearing. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see if it’s all right,” said the governess. +</p> + +<p> +In a moment or two Bachmann was following Emilie through the square hall, where +hung large maps on the walls. He noticed a child’s blue coat with brass +buttons on the peg, and it reminded him of Emilie walking holding the hand of +the youngest child, whilst he watched, sitting under the lime tree. Already +this was a long way off. That was a sort of freedom he had lost, changed for a +new, immediate anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +They went quickly, fearfully up the stairs and down a long corridor. Emilie +opened her door, and he entered, ashamed, into her room. +</p> + +<p> +“I must go down,” she murmured, and she departed, closing the door +softly. +</p> + +<p> +It was a small, bare, neat room. There was a little dish for holy-water, a +picture of the Sacred Heart, a crucifix, and a <i>prie-Dieu</i>. The small bed +lay white and untouched, the wash-hand bowl of red earth stood on a bare table, +there was a little mirror and a small chest of drawers. That was all. +</p> + +<p> +Feeling safe, in sanctuary, he went to the window, looking over the courtyard +at the shimmering, afternoon country. He was going to leave this land, this +life. Already he was in the unknown. +</p> + +<p> +He drew away into the room. The curious simplicity and severity of the little +Roman Catholic bedroom was foreign but restoring to him. He looked at the +crucifix. It was a long, lean, peasant Christ carved by a peasant in the Black +Forest. For the first time in his life, Bachmann saw the figure as a human +thing. It represented a man hanging there in helpless torture. He stared at it, +closely, as if for new knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +Within his own flesh burned and smouldered the restless shame. He could not +gather himself together. There was a gap in his soul. The shame within him +seemed to displace his strength and his manhood. +</p> + +<p> +He sat down on his chair. The shame, the roused feeling of exposure acted on +his brain, made him heavy, unutterably heavy. +</p> + +<p> +Mechanically, his wits all gone, he took off his boots, his belt, his tunic, +put them aside, and lay down, heavy, and fell into a kind of drugged sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Emilie came in a little while, and looked at him. But he was sunk in sleep. She +saw him lying there inert, and terribly still, and she was afraid. His shirt +was unfastened at the throat. She saw his pure white flesh, very clean and +beautiful. And he slept inert. His legs, in the blue uniform trousers, his feet +in the coarse stockings, lay foreign on her bed. She went away. +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +She was uneasy, perturbed to her last fibre. She wanted to remain clear, with +no touch on her. A wild instinct made her shrink away from any hands which +might be laid on her. +</p> + +<p> +She was a foundling, probably of some gipsy race, brought up in a Roman +Catholic Rescue Home. A naïve, paganly religious being, she was attached to the +Baroness, with whom she had served for seven years, since she was fourteen. +</p> + +<p> +She came into contact with no one, unless it were with Ida Hesse, the +governess. Ida was a calculating, good-natured, not very straightforward flirt. +She was the daughter of a poor country doctor. Having gradually come into +connection with Emilie, more an alliance than an attachment, she put no +distinction of grade between the two of them. They worked together, sang +together, walked together, and went together to the rooms of Franz Brand, +Ida’s sweetheart. There the three talked and laughed together, or the +women listened to Franz, who was a forester, playing on his violin. +</p> + +<p> +In all this alliance there was no personal intimacy between the young women. +Emilie was naturally secluded in herself, of a reserved, native race. Ida used +her as a kind of weight to balance her own flighty movement. But the quick, +shifty governess, occupied always in her dealings with admirers, did all she +could to move the violent nature of Emilie towards some connection with men. +</p> + +<p> +But the dark girl, primitive yet sensitive to a high degree, was fiercely +virgin. Her blood flamed with rage when the common soldiers made the long, +sucking, kissing noise behind her as she passed. She hated them for their +almost jeering offers. She was well protected by the Baroness. +</p> + +<p> +And her contempt of the common men in general was ineffable. But she loved the +Baroness, and she revered the Baron, and she was at her ease when she was doing +something for the service of a gentleman. Her whole nature was at peace in the +service of real masters or mistresses. For her, a gentleman had some mystic +quality that left her free and proud in service. The common soldiers were +brutes, merely nothing. Her desire was to serve. +</p> + +<p> +She held herself aloof. When, on Sunday afternoon, she had looked through the +windows of the Reichshalle in passing, and had seen the soldiers dancing with +the common girls, a cold revulsion and anger had possessed her. She could not +bear to see the soldiers taking off their belts and pulling open their tunics, +dancing with their shirts showing through the open, sagging tunic, their +movements gross, their faces transfigured and sweaty, their coarse hands +holding their coarse girls under the arm-pits, drawing the female up to their +breasts. She hated to see them clutched breast to breast, the legs of the men +moving grossly in the dance. +</p> + +<p> +At evening, when she had been in the garden, and heard on the other side of the +hedge the sexual inarticulate cries of the girls in the embraces of the +soldiers, her anger had been too much for her, and she had cried, loud and +cold: +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing there, in the hedge?” +</p> + +<p> +She would have had them whipped. +</p> + +<p> +But Bachmann was not quite a common soldier. Fräulein Hesse had found out about +him, and had drawn him and Emilie together. For he was a handsome, blond youth, +erect and walking with a kind of pride, unconscious yet clear. Moreover, he +came of a rich farming stock, rich for many generations. His father was dead, +his mother controlled the moneys for the time being. But if Bachmann wanted a +hundred pounds at any moment, he could have them. By trade he, with one of his +brothers, was a waggon-builder. The family had the farming, smithy, and +waggon-building of their village. They worked because that was the form of life +they knew. If they had chosen, they could have lived independent upon their +means. +</p> + +<p> +In this way, he was a gentleman in sensibility, though his intellect was not +developed. He could afford to pay freely for things. He had, moreover, his +native, fine breeding. Emilie wavered uncertainly before him. So he became her +sweetheart, and she hungered after him. But she was virgin, and shy, and needed +to be in subjection, because she was primitive and had no grasp on civilized +forms of living, nor on civilized purposes. +</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p> +At six o’clock came the inquiry of the soldiers: Had anything been seen +of Bachmann? Fräulein Hesse answered, pleased to be playing a rôle: +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’ve not seen him since Sunday—have you, Emilie?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I haven’t seen him,” said Emilie, and her awkwardness +was construed as bashfulness. Ida Hesse, stimulated, asked questions, and +played her part. +</p> + +<p> +“But it hasn’t killed Sergeant Huber?” she cried in +consternation. +</p> + +<p> +“No. He fell into the water. But it gave him a bad shock, and smashed his +foot on the side of the moat. He’s in hospital. It’s a bad look-out +for Bachmann.” +</p> + +<p> +Emilie, implicated and captive, stood looking on. She was no longer free, +working with all this regulated system which she could not understand and which +was almost god-like to her. She was put out of her place. Bachmann was in her +room, she was no longer the faithful in service serving with religious surety. +</p> + +<p> +Her situation was intolerable to her. All evening long the burden was upon her, +she could not live. The children must be fed and put to sleep. The Baron and +Baroness were going out, she must give them light refreshment. The man-servant +was coming in to supper after returning with the carriage. And all the while +she had the insupportable feeling of being out of the order, self-responsible, +bewildered. The control of her life should come from those above her, and she +should move within that control. But now she was out of it, uncontrolled and +troubled. More than that, the man, the lover, Bachmann, who was he, what was +he? He alone of all men contained for her the unknown quantity which terrified +her beyond her service. Oh, she had wanted him as a distant sweetheart, not +close, like this, casting her out of her world. +</p> + +<p> +When the Baron and Baroness had departed, and the young man-servant had gone +out to enjoy himself, she went upstairs to Bachmann. He had wakened up, and sat +dimly in the room. Out in the open he heard the soldiers, his comrades, singing +the sentimental songs of the nightfall, the drone of the concertina rising in +accompaniment. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Wenn ich zu mei...nem Kinde geh’...<br/> +In seinem Au...g die Mutter seh’...” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +But he himself was removed from it now. Only the sentimental cry of young, +unsatisfied desire in the soldiers’ singing penetrated his blood and +stirred him subtly. He let his head hang; he had become gradually roused: and +he waited in concentration, in another world. +</p> + +<p> +The moment she entered the room where the man sat alone, waiting intensely, the +thrill passed through her, she died in terror, and after the death, a great +flame gushed up, obliterating her. He sat in trousers and shirt on the side of +the bed. He looked up as she came in, and she shrank from his face. She could +not bear it. Yet she entered near to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want anything to eat?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, and as she stood in the twilight of the room +with him, he could only hear his heart beat heavily. He saw her apron just +level with his face. She stood silent, a little distance off, as if she would +be there for ever. He suffered. +</p> + +<p> +As if in a spell she waited, standing motionless and looming there, he sat +rather crouching on the side of the bed. A second will in him was powerful and +dominating. She drew gradually nearer to him, coming up slowly, as if +unconscious. His heart beat up swiftly. He was going to move. +</p> + +<p> +As she came quite close, almost invisibly he lifted his arms and put them round +her waist, drawing her with his will and desire. He buried his face into her +apron, into the terrible softness of her belly. And he was a flame of passion +intense about her. He had forgotten. Shame and memory were gone in a whole, +furious flame of passion. +</p> + +<p> +She was quite helpless. Her hands leapt, fluttered, and closed over his head, +pressing it deeper into her belly, vibrating as she did so. And his arms +tightened on her, his hands spread over her loins, warm as flame on her +loveliness. It was intense anguish of bliss for her, and she lost +consciousness. +</p> + +<p> +When she recovered, she lay translated in the peace of satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +It was what she had had no inkling of, never known could be. She was strong +with eternal gratitude. And he was there with her. Instinctively with an +instinct of reverence and gratitude, her arms tightened in a little embrace +upon him who held her thoroughly embraced. +</p> + +<p> +And he was restored and completed, close to her. That little, twitching, +momentary clasp of acknowledgment that she gave him in her satisfaction, roused +his pride unconquerable. They loved each other, and all was whole. She loved +him, he had taken her, she was given to him. It was right. He was given to her, +and they were one, complete. +</p> + +<p> +Warm, with a glow in their hearts and faces, they rose again, modest, but +transfigured with happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“I will get you something to eat,” she said, and in joy and +security of service again, she left him, making a curious little homage of +departure. He sat on the side of the bed, escaped, liberated, wondering, and +happy. +</p> + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p> +Soon she came again with the tray, followed by Fräulein Hesse. The two women +watched him eat, watched the pride and wonder of his being, as he sat there +blond and naïf again. Emilie felt rich and complete. Ida was a lesser thing +than herself. +</p> + +<p> +“And what are you going to do?” asked Fräulein Hesse, jealous. +</p> + +<p> +“I must get away,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +But words had no meaning for him. What did it matter? He had the inner +satisfaction and liberty. +</p> + +<p> +“But you’ll want a bicycle,” said Ida Hesse. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Emilie sat silent, removed and yet with him, connected with him in passion. She +looked from this talk of bicycles and escape. +</p> + +<p> +They discussed plans. But in two of them was the one will, that Bachmann should +stay with Emilie. Ida Hesse was an outsider. +</p> + +<p> +It was arranged, however, that Ida’s lover should put out his bicycle, +leave it at the hut where he sometimes watched. Bachmann should fetch it in the +night, and ride into France. The hearts of all three beat hot in suspense, +driven to thought. They sat in a fire of agitation. +</p> + +<p> +Then Bachmann would get away to America, and Emilie would come and join him. +They would be in a fine land then. The tale burned up again. +</p> + +<p> +Emilie and Ida had to go round to Franz Brand’s lodging. They departed +with slight leave-taking. Bachmann sat in the dark, hearing the bugle for +retreat sound out of the night. Then he remembered his post card to his mother. +He slipped out after Emilie, gave it her to post. His manner was careless and +victorious, hers shining and trustful. He slipped back to shelter. +</p> + +<p> +There he sat on the side of the bed, thinking. Again he went over the events of +the afternoon, remembering his own anguish of apprehension because he had known +he could not climb the wall without fainting with fear. Still, a flush of shame +came alight in him at the memory. But he said to himself: “What does it +matter?—I can’t help it, well then I can’t. If I go up a +height, I get absolutely weak, and can’t help myself.” Again memory +came over him, and a gush of shame, like fire. But he sat and endured it. It +had to be endured, admitted, and accepted. “I’m not a coward, for +all that,” he continued. “I’m not afraid of danger. If +I’m made that way, that heights melt me and make me let go my +water”—it was torture for him to pluck at this +truth—“if I’m made like that, I shall have to abide by it, +that’s all. It isn’t all of me.” He thought of Emilie, and +was satisfied. “What I am, I am; and let it be enough,” he thought. +</p> + +<p> +Having accepted his own defect, he sat thinking, waiting for Emilie, to tell +her. She came at length, saying that Franz could not arrange about his bicycle +this night. It was broken. Bachmann would have to stay over another day. +</p> + +<p> +They were both happy. Emilie, confused before Ida, who was excited and +prurient, came again to the young man. She was stiff and dignified with an +agony of unusedness. But he took her between his hands, and uncovered her, and +enjoyed almost like madness her helpless, virgin body that suffered so +strongly, and that took its joy so deeply. While the moisture of torment and +modesty was still in her eyes, she clasped him closer, and closer, to the +victory and the deep satisfaction of both of them. And they slept together, he +in repose still satisfied and peaceful, and she lying close in her static +reality. +</p> + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p> +In the morning, when the bugle sounded from the barracks they rose and looked +out of the window. She loved his body that was proud and blond and able to take +command. And he loved her body that was soft and eternal. They looked at the +faint grey vapour of summer steaming off from the greenness and ripeness of the +fields. There was no town anywhere, their look ended in the haze of the summer +morning. Their bodies rested together, their minds tranquil. Then a little +anxiety stirred in both of them from the sound of the bugle. She was called +back to her old position, to realize the world of authority she did not +understand but had wanted to serve. But this call died away again from her. She +had all. +</p> + +<p> +She went downstairs to her work, curiously changed. She was in a new world of +her own, that she had never even imagined, and which was the land of promise +for all that. In this she moved and had her being. And she extended it to her +duties. She was curiously happy and absorbed. She had not to strive out of +herself to do her work. The doing came from within her without call or command. +It was a delicious outflow, like sunshine, the activity that flowed from her +and put her tasks to rights. +</p> + +<p> +Bachmann sat busily thinking. He would have to get all his plans ready. He must +write to his mother, and she must send him money to Paris. He would go to +Paris, and from thence, quickly, to America. It had to be done. He must make +all preparations. The dangerous part was the getting into France. He thrilled +in anticipation. During the day he would need a time-table of the trains going +to Paris—he would need to think. It gave him delicious pleasure, using +all his wits. It seemed such an adventure. +</p> + +<p> +This one day, and he would escape then into freedom. What an agony of need he +had for absolute, imperious freedom. He had won to his own being, in himself +and Emilie, he had drawn the stigma from his shame, he was beginning to be +himself. And now he wanted madly to be free to go on. A home, his work, and +absolute freedom to move and to be, in her, with her, this was his passionate +desire. He thought in a kind of ecstasy, living an hour of painful intensity. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he heard voices, and a tramping of feet. His heart gave a great leap, +then went still. He was taken. He had known all along. A complete silence +filled his body and soul, a silence like death, a suspension of life and sound. +He stood motionless in the bedroom, in perfect suspension. +</p> + +<p> +Emilie was busy passing swiftly about the kitchen preparing the +children’s breakfasts when she heard the tramp of feet and the voice of +the Baron. The latter had come in from the garden, and was wearing an old green +linen suit. He was a man of middle stature, quick, finely made, and of +whimsical charm. His right hand had been shot in the Franco-Prussian war, and +now, as always when he was much agitated, he shook it down at his side, as if +it hurt. He was talking rapidly to a young, stiff Ober-leutnant. Two private +soldiers stood bearishly in the doorway. +</p> + +<p> +Emilie, shocked out of herself, stood pale and erect, recoiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if you think so, we can look,” the Baron was hastily and +irascibly saying. +</p> + +<p> +“Emilie,” he said, turning to the girl, “did you put a post +card to the mother of this Bachmann in the box last evening?” +</p> + +<p> +Emilie stood erect and did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” said the Baron sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Herr Baron,” replied Emilie, neutral. +</p> + +<p> +The Baron’s wounded hand shook rapidly in exasperation. The lieutenant +drew himself up still more stiffly. He was right. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you know anything of the fellow?” asked the Baron, looking +at her with his blazing, greyish-golden eyes. The girl looked back at him +steadily, dumb, but her whole soul naked before him. For two seconds he looked +at her in silence. Then in silence, ashamed and furious, he turned away. +</p> + +<p> +“Go up!” he said, with his fierce, peremptory command, to the young +officer. +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant gave his order, in military cold confidence, to the soldiers. +They all tramped across the hall. Emilie stood motionless, her life suspended. +</p> + +<p> +The Baron marched swiftly upstairs and down the corridor, the lieutenant and +the common soldiers followed. The Baron flung open the door of Emilie’s +room and looked at Bachmann, who stood watching, standing in shirt and trousers +beside the bed, fronting the door. He was perfectly still. His eyes met the +furious, blazing look of the Baron. The latter shook his wounded hand, and then +went still. He looked into the eyes of the soldier, steadily. He saw the same +naked soul exposed, as if he looked really into the <i>man</i>. And the man was +helpless, the more helpless for his singular nakedness. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” he exclaimed impatiently, turning to the approaching +lieutenant. +</p> + +<p> +The latter appeared in the doorway. Quickly his eyes travelled over the +bare-footed youth. He recognized him as his object. He gave the brief command +to dress. +</p> + +<p> +Bachmann turned round for his clothes. He was very still, silent in himself. He +was in an abstract, motionless world. That the two gentlemen and the two +soldiers stood watching him, he scarcely realized. They could not see him. +</p> + +<p> +Soon he was ready. He stood at attention. But only the shell of his body was at +attention. A curious silence, a blankness, like something eternal, possessed +him. He remained true to himself. +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant gave the order to march. The little procession went down the +stairs with careful, respectful tread, and passed through the hall to the +kitchen. There Emilie stood with her face uplifted, motionless and +expressionless. Bachmann did not look at her. They knew each other. They were +themselves. Then the little file of men passed out into the courtyard. +</p> + +<p> +The Baron stood in the doorway watching the four figures in uniform pass +through the chequered shadow under the lime trees. Bachmann was walking +neutralized, as if he were not there. The lieutenant went brittle and long, the +two soldiers lumbered beside. They passed out into the sunny morning, growing +smaller, going towards the barracks. +</p> + +<p> +The Baron turned into the kitchen. Emilie was cutting bread. +</p> + +<p> +“So he stayed the night here?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The girl looked at him, scarcely seeing. She was too much herself. The Baron +saw the dark, naked soul of her body in her unseeing eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“What were you going to do?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He was going to America,” she replied, in a still voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Pah! You should have sent him straight back,” fired the Baron. +</p> + +<p> +Emilie stood at his bidding, untouched. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s done for now,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +But he could not bear the dark, deep nakedness of her eyes, that scarcely +changed under this suffering. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing but a fool,” he repeated, going away in agitation, and +preparing himself for what he could do. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>Daughters of the Vicar</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +Mr Lindley was first vicar of Aldecross. The cottages of this tiny hamlet had +nestled in peace since their beginning, and the country folk had crossed the +lanes and farm-lands, two or three miles, to the parish church at Greymeed, on +the bright Sunday mornings. +</p> + +<p> +But when the pits were sunk, blank rows of dwellings started up beside the high +roads, and a new population, skimmed from the floating scum of workmen, was +filled in, the cottages and the country people almost obliterated. +</p> + +<p> +To suit the convenience of these new collier-inhabitants, a church must be +built at Aldecross. There was not too much money. And so the little building +crouched like a humped stone-and-mortar mouse, with two little turrets at the +west corners for ears, in the fields near the cottages and the apple trees, as +far as possible from the dwellings down the high road. It had an uncertain, +timid look about it. And so they planted big-leaved ivy, to hide its shrinking +newness. So that now the little church stands buried in its greenery, stranded +and sleeping among the fields, while the brick houses elbow nearer and nearer, +threatening to crush it down. It is already obsolete. +</p> + +<p> +The Reverend Ernest Lindley, aged twenty-seven, and newly married, came from +his curacy in Suffolk to take charge of his church. He was just an ordinary +young man, who had been to Cambridge and taken orders. His wife was a +self-assured young woman, daughter of a Cambridgeshire rector. Her father had +spent the whole of his thousand a year, so that Mrs Lindley had nothing of her +own. Thus the young married people came to Aldecross to live on a stipend of +about a hundred and twenty pounds, and to keep up a superior position. +</p> + +<p> +They were not very well received by the new, raw, disaffected population of +colliers. Being accustomed to farm labourers, Mr Lindley had considered himself +as belonging indisputably to the upper or ordering classes. He had to be humble +to the county families, but still, he was of their kind, whilst the common +people were something different. He had no doubts of himself. +</p> + +<p> +He found, however, that the collier population refused to accept this +arrangement. They had no use for him in their lives, and they told him so, +callously. The women merely said, “they were throng,” or else, +“Oh, it’s no good you coming here, we’re Chapel.” The +men were quite good-humoured so long as he did not touch them too nigh, they +were cheerfully contemptuous of him, with a preconceived contempt he was +powerless against. +</p> + +<p> +At last, passing from indignation to silent resentment, even, if he dared have +acknowledged it, to conscious hatred of the majority of his flock, and +unconscious hatred of himself, he confined his activities to a narrow round of +cottages, and he had to submit. He had no particular character, having always +depended on his position in society to give him position among men. Now he was +so poor, he had no social standing even among the common vulgar tradespeople of +the district, and he had not the nature nor the wish to make his society +agreeable to them, nor the strength to impose himself where he would have liked +to be recognized. He dragged on, pale and miserable and neutral. +</p> + +<p> +At first his wife raged with mortification. She took on airs and used a high +hand. But her income was too small, the wrestling with tradesmen’s bills +was too pitiful, she only met with general, callous ridicule when she tried to +be impressive. +</p> + +<p> +Wounded to the quick of her pride, she found herself isolated in an +indifferent, callous population. She raged indoors and out. But soon she +learned that she must pay too heavily for her outdoor rages, and then she only +raged within the walls of the rectory. There her feeling was so strong, that +she frightened herself. She saw herself hating her husband, and she knew that, +unless she were careful, she would smash her form of life and bring catastrophe +upon him and upon herself. So in very fear, she went quiet. She hid, bitter and +beaten by fear, behind the only shelter she had in the world, her gloomy, poor +parsonage. +</p> + +<p> +Children were born one every year; almost mechanically, she continued to +perform her maternal duty, which was forced upon her. Gradually, broken by the +suppressing of her violent anger and misery and disgust, she became an invalid +and took to her couch. +</p> + +<p> +The children grew up healthy, but unwarmed and rather rigid. Their father and +mother educated them at home, made them very proud and very genteel, put them +definitely and cruelly in the upper classes, apart from the vulgar around them. +So they lived quite isolated. They were good-looking, and had that curiously +clean, semi-transparent look of the genteel, isolated poor. +</p> + +<p> +Gradually Mr and Mrs Lindley lost all hold on life, and spent their hours, +weeks and years merely haggling to make ends meet, and bitterly repressing and +pruning their children into gentility, urging them to ambition, weighting them +with duty. On Sunday morning the whole family, except the mother, went down the +lane to church, the long-legged girls in skimpy frocks, the boys in black coats +and long, grey, unfitting trousers. They passed by their father’s +parishioners with mute, clear faces, childish mouths closed in pride that was +like a doom to them, and childish eyes already unseeing. Miss Mary, the eldest, +was the leader. She was a long, slim thing with a fine profile and a proud, +pure look of submission to a high fate. Miss Louisa, the second, was short and +plump and obstinate-looking. She had more enemies than ideals. She looked after +the lesser children, Miss Mary after the elder. The collier children watched +this pale, distinguished procession of the vicar’s family pass mutely by, +and they were impressed by the air of gentility and distance, they made mock of +the trousers of the small sons, they felt inferior in themselves, and hate +stirred their hearts. +</p> + +<p> +In her time, Miss Mary received as governess a few little daughters of +tradesmen; Miss Louisa managed the house and went among her father’s +church-goers, giving lessons on the piano to the colliers’ daughters at +thirteen shillings for twenty-six lessons. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +One winter morning, when his daughter Mary was about twenty years old, Mr +Lindley, a thin, unobtrusive figure in his black overcoat and his wideawake, +went down into Aldecross with a packet of white papers under his arm. He was +delivering the parish almanacs. +</p> + +<p> +A rather pale, neutral man of middle age, he waited while the train thumped +over the level-crossing, going up to the pit which rattled busily just along +the line. A wooden-legged man hobbled to open the gate, Mr Lindley passed on. +Just at his left hand, below the road and the railway, was the red roof of a +cottage, showing through the bare twigs of apple trees. Mr Lindley passed round +the low wall, and descended the worn steps that led from the highway down to +the cottage which crouched darkly and quietly away below the rumble of passing +trains and the clank of coal-carts in a quiet little under-world of its own. +Snowdrops with tight-shut buds were hanging very still under the bare currant +bushes. +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman was just going to knock when he heard a clinking noise, and +turning saw through the open door of a black shed just behind him an elderly +woman in a black lace cap stooping among reddish big cans, pouring a very +bright liquid into a tundish. There was a smell of paraffin. The woman put down +her can, took the tundish and laid it on a shelf, then rose with a tin bottle. +Her eyes met those of the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, is it you, Mr Lin’ley!” she said, in a complaining tone. +“Go in.” +</p> + +<p> +The minister entered the house. In the hot kitchen sat a big, elderly man with +a great grey beard, taking snuff. He grunted in a deep, muttering voice, +telling the minister to sit down, and then took no more notice of him, but +stared vacantly into the fire. Mr Lindley waited. +</p> + +<p> +The woman came in, the ribbons of her black lace cap, or bonnet, hanging on her +shawl. She was of medium stature, everything about her was tidy. She went up a +step out of the kitchen, carrying the paraffin tin. Feet were heard entering +the room up the step. It was a little haberdashery shop, with parcels on the +shelves of the walls, a big, old-fashioned sewing machine with tailor’s +work lying round it, in the open space. The woman went behind the counter, gave +the child who had entered the paraffin bottle, and took from her a jug. +</p> + +<p> +“My mother says shall yer put it down,” said the child, and she was +gone. The woman wrote in a book, then came into the kitchen with her jug. The +husband, a very large man, rose and brought more coal to the already hot fire. +He moved slowly and sluggishly. Already he was going dead; being a tailor, his +large form had become an encumbrance to him. In his youth he had been a great +dancer and boxer. Now he was taciturn, and inert. The minister had nothing to +say, so he sought for his phrases. But John Durant took no notice, existing +silent and dull. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Durant spread the cloth. Her husband poured himself beer into a mug, and +began to smoke and drink. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you have some?” he growled through his beard at the +clergyman, looking slowly from the man to the jug, capable of this one idea. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you,” replied Mr Lindley, though he would have liked +some beer. He must set the example in a drinking parish. +</p> + +<p> +“We need a drop to keep us going,” said Mrs Durant. +</p> + +<p> +She had rather a complaining manner. The clergyman sat on uncomfortably while +she laid the table for the half-past ten lunch. Her husband drew up to eat. She +remained in her little round armchair by the fire. +</p> + +<p> +She was a woman who would have liked to be easy in her life, but to whose lot +had fallen a rough and turbulent family, and a slothful husband who did not +care what became of himself or anybody. So, her rather good-looking square face +was peevish, she had that air of having been compelled all her life to serve +unwillingly, and to control where she did not want to control. There was about +her, too, that masterful <i>aplomb</i> of a woman who has brought up and ruled +her sons: but even them she had ruled unwillingly. She had enjoyed managing her +little haberdashery-shop, riding in the carrier’s cart to Nottingham, +going through the big warehouses to buy her goods. But the fret of managing her +sons she did not like. Only she loved her youngest boy, because he was her +last, and she saw herself free. +</p> + +<p> +This was one of the houses the clergyman visited occasionally. Mrs Durant, as +part of her regulation, had brought up all her sons in the Church. Not that she +had any religion. Only, it was what she was used to. Mr Durant was without +religion. He read the fervently evangelical <i>Life of John Wesley</i> with a +curious pleasure, getting from it a satisfaction as from the warmth of the +fire, or a glass of brandy. But he cared no more about John Wesley, in fact, +than about John Milton, of whom he had never heard. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Durant took her chair to the table. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t feel like eating,” she sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Why—aren’t you well?” asked the clergyman, +patronizing. +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t that,” she sighed. She sat with shut, straight +mouth. “I don’t know what’s going to become of us.” +</p> + +<p> +But the clergyman had ground himself down so long, that he could not easily +sympathize. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you any trouble?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, have I any trouble!” cried the elderly woman. “I shall +end my days in the workhouse.” +</p> + +<p> +The minister waited unmoved. What could she know of poverty, in her little +house of plenty! +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And the one lad as I wanted to keep by me——” she +lamented. +</p> + +<p> +The minister listened without sympathy, quite neutral. +</p> + +<p> +“And the lad as would have been a support to my old age! What is going to +become of us?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman, justly, did not believe in the cry of poverty, but wondered what +had become of the son. +</p> + +<p> +“Has anything happened to Alfred?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve got word he’s gone for a Queen’s sailor,” +she said sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“He has joined the Navy!” exclaimed Mr Lindley. “I think he +could scarcely have done better—to serve his Queen and country on the +sea....” +</p> + +<p> +“He is wanted to serve <i>me</i>,” she cried. “And I wanted +my lad at home.” +</p> + +<p> +Alfred was her baby, her last, whom she had allowed herself the luxury of +spoiling. +</p> + +<p> +“You will miss him,” said Mr Lindley, “that is certain. But +this is no regrettable step for him to have taken—on the contrary.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s easy for you to say, Mr Lindley,” she replied tartly. +“Do you think I want my lad climbing ropes at another man’s +bidding, like a monkey——?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no <i>dishonour</i>, surely, in serving in the Navy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dishonour this dishonour that,” cried the angry old woman. +“He goes and makes a slave of himself, and he’ll rue it.” +</p> + +<p> +Her angry, scornful impatience nettled the clergyman and silenced him for some +moments. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not see,” he retorted at last, white at the gills and +inadequate, “that the Queen’s service is any more to be called +slavery than working in a mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“At home he was at home, and his own master. <i>I</i> know he’ll +find a difference.” +</p> + +<p> +“It may be the making of him,” said the clergyman. “It will +take him away from bad companionship and drink.” +</p> + +<p> +Some of the Durants’ sons were notorious drinkers, and Alfred was not +quite steady. +</p> + +<p> +“And why indeed shouldn’t he have his glass?” cried the +mother. “He picks no man’s pocket to pay for it!” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman stiffened at what he thought was an allusion to his own +profession, and his unpaid bills. +</p> + +<p> +“With all due consideration, I am glad to hear he has joined the +Navy,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Me with my old age coming on, and his father working very little! +I’d thank you to be glad about something else besides that, Mr +Lindley.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman began to cry. Her husband, quite impassive, finished his lunch of +meat-pie, and drank some beer. Then he turned to the fire, as if there were no +one in the room but himself. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall respect all men who serve God and their country on the sea, Mrs +Durant,” said the clergyman stubbornly. +</p> + +<p> +“That is very well, when they’re not your sons who are doing the +dirty work. It makes a difference,” she replied tartly. +</p> + +<p> +“I should be proud if one of my sons were to enter the Navy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay—well—we’re not all of us made +alike——” +</p> + +<p> +The minister rose. He put down a large folded paper. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve brought the almanac,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Durant unfolded it. +</p> + +<p> +“I do like a bit of colour in things,” she said, petulantly. +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman did not reply. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s that envelope for the organist’s +fund——” said the old woman, and rising, she took the thing +from the mantelpiece, went into the shop, and returned sealing it up. +</p> + +<p> +“Which is all I can afford,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lindley took his departure, in his pocket the envelope containing Mrs +Durant’s offering for Miss Louisa’s services. He went from door to +door delivering the almanacs, in dull routine. Jaded with the monotony of the +business, and with the repeated effort of greeting half-known people, he felt +barren and rather irritable. At last he returned home. +</p> + +<p> +In the dining-room was a small fire. Mrs Lindley, growing very stout, lay on +her couch. The vicar carved the cold mutton; Miss Louisa, short and plump and +rather flushed, came in from the kitchen; Miss Mary, dark, with a beautiful +white brow and grey eyes, served the vegetables; the children chattered a +little, but not exuberantly. The very air seemed starved. +</p> + +<p> +“I went to the Durants,” said the vicar, as he served out small +portions of mutton; “it appears Alfred has run away to join the +Navy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do him good,” came the rough voice of the invalid. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Louisa, attending to the youngest child, looked up in protest. +</p> + +<p> +“Why has he done that?” asked Mary’s low, musical voice. +</p> + +<p> +“He wanted some excitement, I suppose,” said the vicar. +“Shall we say grace?” +</p> + +<p> +The children were arranged, all bent their heads, grace was pronounced, at the +last word every face was being raised to go on with the interesting subject. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s just done the right thing, for once,” came the rather +deep voice of the mother; “save him from becoming a drunken sot, like the +rest of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re not <i>all</i> drunken, mama,” said Miss Louisa, +stubbornly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no fault of their upbringing if they’re not. Walter +Durant is a standing disgrace.” +</p> + +<p> +“As I told Mrs Durant,” said the vicar, eating hungrily, “it +is the best thing he could have done. It will take him away from temptation +during the most dangerous years of his life—how old is +he—nineteen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty,” said Miss Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty!” repeated the vicar. “It will give him wholesome +discipline and set before him some sort of standard of duty and +honour—nothing could have been better for him. But——” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall miss him from the choir,” said Miss Louisa, as if taking +opposite sides to her parents. +</p> + +<p> +“That is as it may be,” said the vicar. “I prefer to know he +is safe in the Navy, than running the risk of getting into bad ways +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was he getting into bad ways?” asked the stubborn Miss Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“You know, Louisa, he wasn’t quite what he used to be,” said +Miss Mary gently and steadily. Miss Louisa shut her rather heavy jaw sulkily. +She wanted to deny it, but she knew it was true. +</p> + +<p> +For her he had been a laughing, warm lad, with something kindly and something +rich about him. He had made her feel warm. It seemed the days would be colder +since he had gone. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite the best thing he could do,” said the mother with emphasis. +</p> + +<p> +“I think so,” said the vicar. “But his mother was almost +abusive because I suggested it.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke in an injured tone. +</p> + +<p> +“What does she care for her children’s welfare?” said the +invalid. “Their wages is all her concern.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose she wanted him at home with her,” said Miss Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she did—at the expense of his learning to be a drunkard like +the rest of them,” retorted her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“George Durant doesn’t drink,” defended her daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Because he got burned so badly when he was nineteen—in the +pit—and that frightened him. The Navy is a better remedy than that, at +least.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” said the vicar. “Certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +And to this Miss Louisa agreed. Yet she could not but feel angry that he had +gone away for so many years. She herself was only nineteen. +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +It happened when Miss Mary was twenty-three years old, that Mr Lindley was very +ill. The family was exceedingly poor at the time, such a lot of money was +needed, so little was forthcoming. Neither Miss Mary nor Miss Louisa had +suitors. What chance had they? They met no eligible young men in Aldecross. And +what they earned was a mere drop in a void. The girls’ hearts were +chilled and hardened with fear of this perpetual, cold penury, this narrow +struggle, this horrible nothingness of their lives. +</p> + +<p> +A clergyman had to be found for the church work. It so happened the son of an +old friend of Mr Lindley’s was waiting three months before taking up his +duties. He would come and officiate, for nothing. The young clergyman was +keenly expected. He was not more than twenty-seven, a Master of Arts of Oxford, +had written his thesis on Roman Law. He came of an old Cambridgeshire family, +had some private means, was going to take a church in Northamptonshire with a +good stipend, and was not married. Mrs Lindley incurred new debts, and scarcely +regretted her husband’s illness. +</p> + +<p> +But when Mr Massy came, there was a shock of disappointment in the house. They +had expected a young man with a pipe and a deep voice, but with better manners +than Sidney, the eldest of the Lindleys. There arrived instead a small, chétif +man, scarcely larger than a boy of twelve, spectacled, timid in the extreme, +without a word to utter at first; yet with a certain inhuman self-sureness. +</p> + +<p> +“What a little abortion!” was Mrs Lindley’s exclamation to +herself on first seeing him, in his buttoned-up clerical coat. And for the +first time for many days, she was profoundly thankful to God that all her +children were decent specimens. +</p> + +<p> +He had not normal powers of perception. They soon saw that he lacked the full +range of human feelings, but had rather a strong, philosophical mind, from +which he lived. His body was almost unthinkable, in intellect he was something +definite. The conversation at once took a balanced, abstract tone when he +participated. There was no spontaneous exclamation, no violent assertion or +expression of personal conviction, but all cold, reasonable assertion. This was +very hard on Mrs Lindley. The little man would look at her, after one of her +pronouncements, and then give, in his thin voice, his own calculated version, +so that she felt as if she were tumbling into thin air through a hole in the +flimsy floor on which their conversation stood. It was she who felt a fool. +Soon she was reduced to a hardy silence. +</p> + +<p> +Still, at the back of her mind, she remembered that he was an unattached +gentleman, who would shortly have an income altogether of six or seven hundred +a year. What did the man matter, if there were pecuniary ease! The man was a +trifle thrown in. After twenty-two years her sentimentality was ground away, +and only the millstone of poverty mattered to her. So she supported the little +man as a representative of a decent income. +</p> + +<p> +His most irritating habit was that of a sneering little giggle, all on his own, +which came when he perceived or related some illogical absurdity on the part of +another person. It was the only form of humour he had. Stupidity in thinking +seemed to him exquisitely funny. But any novel was unintelligibly meaningless +and dull, and to an Irish sort of humour he listened curiously, examining it +like mathematics, or else simply not hearing. In normal human relationship he +was not there. Quite unable to take part in simple everyday talk, he padded +silently round the house, or sat in the dining-room looking nervously from side +to side, always apart in a cold, rarefied little world of his own. Sometimes he +made an ironic remark, that did not seem humanly relevant, or he gave his +little laugh, like a sneer. He had to defend himself and his own insufficiency. +And he answered questions grudgingly, with a yes or no, because he did not see +their import and was nervous. It seemed to Miss Louisa he scarcely +distinguished one person from another, but that he liked to be near her, or to +Miss Mary, for some sort of contact which stimulated him unknown. +</p> + +<p> +Apart from all this, he was the most admirable workman. He was unremittingly +shy, but perfect in his sense of duty: as far as he could conceive +Christianity, he was a perfect Christian. Nothing that he realized he could do +for anyone did he leave undone, although he was so incapable of coming into +contact with another being, that he could not proffer help. Now he attended +assiduously to the sick man, investigated all the affairs of the parish or the +church which Mr Lindley had in control, straightened out accounts, made lists +of the sick and needy, padded round with help and to see what he could do. He +heard of Mrs Lindley’s anxiety about her sons, and began to investigate +means of sending them to Cambridge. His kindness almost frightened Miss Mary. +She honoured it so, and yet she shrank from it. For, in it all Mr Massy seemed +to have no sense of any person, any human being whom he was helping: he only +realized a kind of mathematical working out, solving of given situations, a +calculated well-doing. And it was as if he had accepted the Christian tenets as +axioms. His religion consisted in what his scrupulous, abstract mind approved +of. +</p> + +<p> +Seeing his acts, Miss Mary must respect and honour him. In consequence she must +serve him. To this she had to force herself, shuddering and yet desirous, but +he did not perceive it. She accompanied him on his visiting in the parish, and +whilst she was cold with admiration for him, often she was touched with pity +for the little padding figure with bent shoulders, buttoned up to the chin in +his overcoat. She was a handsome, calm girl, tall, with a beautiful repose. Her +clothes were poor, and she wore a black silk scarf, having no furs. But she was +a lady. As the people saw her walking down Aldecross beside Mr Massy, they +said: +</p> + +<p> +“My word, Miss Mary’s got a catch. Did ever you see such a sickly +little shrimp!” +</p> + +<p> +She knew they were talking so, and it made her heart grow hot against them, and +she drew herself as it were protectively towards the little man beside her. At +any rate, she could see and give honour to his genuine goodness. +</p> + +<p> +He could not walk fast, or far. +</p> + +<p> +“You have not been well?” she asked, in her dignified way. +</p> + +<p> +“I have an internal trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +He was not aware of her slight shudder. There was silence, whilst she bowed to +recover her composure, to resume her gentle manner towards him. +</p> + +<p> +He was fond of Miss Mary. She had made it a rule of hospitality that he should +always be escorted by herself or by her sister on his visits in the parish, +which were not many. But some mornings she was engaged. Then Miss Louisa took +her place. It was no good Miss Louisa’s trying to adopt to Mr Massy an +attitude of queenly service. She was unable to regard him save with aversion. +When she saw him from behind, thin and bent-shouldered, looking like a sickly +lad of thirteen, she disliked him exceedingly, and felt a desire to put him out +of existence. And yet a deeper justice in Mary made Louisa humble before her +sister. +</p> + +<p> +They were going to see Mr Durant, who was paralysed and not expected to live. +Miss Louisa was crudely ashamed at being admitted to the cottage in company +with the little clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Durant was, however, much quieter in the face of her real trouble. +</p> + +<p> +“How is Mr Durant?” asked Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“He is no different—and we don’t expect him to be,” was +the reply. The little clergyman stood looking on. +</p> + +<p> +They went upstairs. The three stood for some time looking at the bed, at the +grey head of the old man on the pillow, the grey beard over the sheet. Miss +Louisa was shocked and afraid. +</p> + +<p> +“It is so dreadful,” she said, with a shudder. +</p> + +<p> +“It is how I always thought it would be,” replied Mrs Durant. +</p> + +<p> +Then Miss Louisa was afraid of her. The two women were uneasy, waiting for Mr +Massy to say something. He stood, small and bent, too nervous to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Has he any understanding?” he asked at length. +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe,” said Mrs Durant. “Can you hear, John?” she +asked loudly. The dull blue eye of the inert man looked at her feebly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he understands,” said Mrs Durant to Mr Massy. Except for the +dull look in his eyes, the sick man lay as if dead. The three stood in silence. +Miss Louisa was obstinate but heavy-hearted under the load of unlivingness. It +was Mr Massy who kept her there in discipline. His non-human will dominated +them all. +</p> + +<p> +Then they heard a sound below, a man’s footsteps, and a man’s voice +called subduedly: +</p> + +<p> +“Are you upstairs, mother?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Durant started and moved to the door. But already a quick, firm step was +running up the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m a bit early, mother,” a troubled voice said, and on the +landing they saw the form of the sailor. His mother came and clung to him. She +was suddenly aware that she needed something to hold on to. He put his arms +round her, and bent over her, kissing her. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s not gone, mother?” he asked anxiously, struggling to +control his voice. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Louisa looked away from the mother and son who stood together in the gloom +on the landing. She could not bear it that she and Mr Massy should be there. +The latter stood nervously, as if ill at ease before the emotion that was +running. He was a witness, nervous, unwilling, but dispassionate. To Miss +Louisa’s hot heart it seemed all, all wrong that they should be there. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Durant entered the bedroom, her face wet. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s Miss Louisa and the vicar,” she said, out of voice +and quavering. +</p> + +<p> +Her son, red-faced and slender, drew himself up to salute. But Miss Louisa held +out her hand. Then she saw his hazel eyes recognize her for a moment, and his +small white teeth showed in a glimpse of the greeting she used to love. She was +covered with confusion. He went round to the bed; his boots clicked on the +plaster floor, he bowed his head with dignity. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you, dad?” he said, laying his hand on the sheet, +faltering. But the old man stared fixedly and unseeing. The son stood perfectly +still for a few minutes, then slowly recoiled. Miss Louisa saw the fine outline +of his breast, under the sailor’s blue blouse, as his chest began to +heave. +</p> + +<p> +“He doesn’t know me,” he said, turning to his mother. He +gradually went white. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my boy!” cried the mother, pitiful, lifting her face. And +suddenly she put her face against his shoulder, he was stooping down to her, +holding her against him, and she cried aloud for a moment or two. Miss Louisa +saw his sides heaving, and heard the sharp hiss of his breath. She turned away, +tears streaming down her face. The father lay inert upon the white bed, Mr +Massy looked queer and obliterated, so little now that the sailor with his +sunburned skin was in the room. He stood waiting. Miss Louisa wanted to die, +she wanted to have done. She dared not turn round again to look. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I offer a prayer?” came the frail voice of the clergyman, +and all kneeled down. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Louisa was frightened of the inert man upon the bed. Then she felt a flash +of fear of Mr Massy, hearing his thin, detached voice. And then, calmed, she +looked up. On the far side of the bed were the heads of the mother and son, the +one in the black lace cap, with the small white nape of the neck beneath, the +other, with brown, sun-scorched hair too close and wiry to allow of a parting, +and neck tanned firm, bowed as if unwillingly. The great grey beard of the old +man did not move, the prayer continued. Mr Massy prayed with a pure lucidity, +that they all might conform to the higher Will. He was like something that +dominated the bowed heads, something dispassionate that governed them +inexorably. Miss Louisa was afraid of him. And she was bound, during the course +of the prayer, to have a little reverence for him. It was like a foretaste of +inexorable, cold death, a taste of pure justice. +</p> + +<p> +That evening she talked to Mary of the visit. Her heart, her veins were +possessed by the thought of Alfred Durant as he held his mother in his arms; +then the break in his voice, as she remembered it again and again, was like a +flame through her; and she wanted to see his face more distinctly in her mind, +ruddy with the sun, and his golden-brown eyes, kind and careless, strained now +with a natural fear, the fine nose tanned hard by the sun, the mouth that could +not help smiling at her. And it went through her with pride, to think of his +figure, a straight, fine jet of life. +</p> + +<p> +“He is a handsome lad,” said she to Miss Mary, as if he had not +been a year older than herself. Underneath was the deeper dread, almost hatred, +of the inhuman being of Mr Massy. She felt she must protect herself and Alfred +from him. +</p> + +<p> +“When I felt Mr Massy there,” she said, “I almost hated him. +What right had he to be there!” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely he had all right,” said Miss Mary after a pause. “He +is <i>really</i> a Christian.” +</p> + +<p> +“He seems to me nearly an imbecile,” said Miss Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Mary, quiet and beautiful, was silent for a moment: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” she said. “Not <i>imbecile</i>——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well then—he reminds me of a six months’ child—or a +five months’ child—as if he didn’t have time to get developed +enough before he was born.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Miss Mary, slowly. “There is something lacking. +But there is something wonderful in him: and he is really +<i>good</i>——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Miss Louisa, “it doesn’t seem right that he +should be. What right has <i>that</i> to be called goodness!” +</p> + +<p> +“But it <i>is</i> goodness,” persisted Mary. Then she added, with a +laugh: “And come, you wouldn’t deny that as well.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a doggedness in her voice. She went about very quietly. In her soul, +she knew what was going to happen. She knew that Mr Massy was stronger than +she, and that she must submit to what he was. Her physical self was prouder, +stronger than he, her physical self disliked and despised him. But she was in +the grip of his moral, mental being. And she felt the days allotted out to her. +And her family watched. +</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p> +A few days after, old Mr Durant died. Miss Louisa saw Alfred once more, but he +was stiff before her now, treating her not like a person, but as if she were +some sort of will in command and he a separate, distinct will waiting in front +of her. She had never felt such utter steel-plate separation from anyone. It +puzzled her and frightened her. What had become of him? And she hated the +military discipline—she was antagonistic to it. Now he was not himself. +He was the will which obeys set over against the will which commands. She +hesitated over accepting this. He had put himself out of her range. He had +ranked himself inferior, subordinate to her. And that was how he would get away +from her, that was how he would avoid all connection with her: by fronting her +impersonally from the opposite camp, by taking up the abstract position of an +inferior. +</p> + +<p> +She went brooding steadily and sullenly over this, brooding and brooding. Her +fierce, obstinate heart could not give way. It clung to its own rights. +Sometimes she dismissed him. Why should he, inferior, trouble her? +</p> + +<p> +Then she relapsed to him, and almost hated him. It was his way of getting out +of it. She felt the cowardice of it, his calmly placing her in a superior +class, and placing himself inaccessibly apart, in an inferior, as if she, the +sensient woman who was fond of him, did not count. But she was not going to +submit. Dogged in her heart she held on to him. +</p> + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p> +In six months’ time Miss Mary had married Mr Massy. There had been no +love-making, nobody had made any remark. But everybody was tense and callous +with expectation. When one day Mr Massy asked for Mary’s hand, Mr Lindley +started and trembled from the thin, abstract voice of the little man. Mr Massy +was very nervous, but so curiously absolute. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be very glad,” said the vicar, “but of course the +decision lies with Mary herself.” And his still feeble hand shook as he +moved a Bible on his desk. +</p> + +<p> +The small man, keeping fixedly to his idea, padded out of the room to find Miss +Mary. He sat a long time by her, while she made some conversation, before he +had readiness to speak. She was afraid of what was coming, and sat stiff in +apprehension. She felt as if her body would rise and fling him aside. But her +spirit quivered and waited. Almost in expectation she waited, almost wanting +him. And then she knew he would speak. +</p> + +<p> +“I have already asked Mr Lindley,” said the clergyman, while +suddenly she looked with aversion at his little knees, “if he would +consent to my proposal.” He was aware of his own disadvantage, but his +will was set. +</p> + +<p> +She went cold as she sat, and impervious, almost as if she had become stone. He +waited a moment nervously. He would not persuade her. He himself never even +heard persuasion, but pursued his own course. He looked at her, sure of +himself, unsure of her, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Will you become my wife, Mary?” +</p> + +<p> +Still her heart was hard and cold. She sat proudly. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to speak to mama first,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” replied Mr Massy. And in a moment he padded away. +</p> + +<p> +Mary went to her mother. She was cold and reserved. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Massy has asked me to marry him, mama,” she said. Mrs Lindley +went on staring at her book. She was cramped in her feeling. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and what did you say?” +</p> + +<p> +They were both keeping calm and cold. +</p> + +<p> +“I said I would speak to you before answering him.” +</p> + +<p> +This was equivalent to a question. Mrs Lindley did not want to reply to it. She +shifted her heavy form irritably on the couch. Miss Mary sat calm and straight, +with closed mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Your father thinks it would not be a bad match,” said the mother, +as if casually. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing more was said. Everybody remained cold and shut-off. Miss Mary did not +speak to Miss Louisa, the Reverend Ernest Lindley kept out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +At evening Miss Mary accepted Mr Massy. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will marry you,” she said, with even a little movement of +tenderness towards him. He was embarrassed, but satisfied. She could see him +making some movement towards her, could feel the male in him, something cold +and triumphant, asserting itself. She sat rigid, and waited. +</p> + +<p> +When Miss Louisa knew, she was silent with bitter anger against everybody, even +against Mary. She felt her faith wounded. Did the real things to her not matter +after all? She wanted to get away. She thought of Mr Massy. He had some curious +power, some unanswerable right. He was a will that they could not +controvert.—Suddenly a flush started in her. If he had come to her she +would have flipped him out of the room. He was never going to touch <i>her</i>. +And she was glad. She was glad that her blood would rise and exterminate the +little man, if he came too near to her, no matter how her judgment was +paralysed by him, no matter how he moved in abstract goodness. She thought she +was perverse to be glad, but glad she was. “I would just flip him out of +the room,” she said, and she derived great satisfaction from the open +statement. Nevertheless, perhaps she ought still to feel that Mary, on her +plane, was a higher being than herself. But then Mary was Mary, and she was +Louisa, and that also was inalterable. +</p> + +<p> +Mary, in marrying him, tried to become a pure reason such as he was, without +feeling or impulse. She shut herself up, she shut herself rigid against the +agonies of shame and the terror of violation which came at first. She +<i>would</i> not feel, and she <i>would</i> not feel. She was a pure will +acquiescing to him. She elected a certain kind of fate. She would be good and +purely just, she would live in a higher freedom than she had ever known, she +would be free of mundane care, she was a pure will towards right. She had sold +herself, but she had a new freedom. She had got rid of her body. She had sold a +lower thing, her body, for a higher thing, her freedom from material things. +She considered that she paid for all she got from her husband. So, in a kind of +independence, she moved proud and free. She had paid with her body: that was +henceforward out of consideration. She was glad to be rid of it. She had bought +her position in the world—that henceforth was taken for granted. There +remained only the direction of her activity towards charity and high-minded +living. +</p> + +<p> +She could scarcely bear other people to be present with her and her husband. +Her private life was her shame. But then, she could keep it hidden. She lived +almost isolated in the rectory of the tiny village miles from the railway. She +suffered as if it were an insult to her own flesh, seeing the repulsion which +some people felt for her husband, or the special manner they had of treating +him, as if he were a “case”. But most people were uneasy before +him, which restored her pride. +</p> + +<p> +If she had let herself, she would have hated him, hated his padding round the +house, his thin voice devoid of human understanding, his bent little shoulders +and rather incomplete face that reminded her of an abortion. But rigorously she +kept to her position. She took care of him and was just to him. There was also +a deep craven fear of him, something slave-like. +</p> + +<p> +There was not much fault to be found with his behaviour. He was scrupulously +just and kind according to his lights. But the male in him was cold and +self-complete, and utterly domineering. Weak, insufficient little thing as he +was, she had not expected this of him. It was something in the bargain she had +not understood. It made her hold her head, to keep still. She knew, vaguely, +that she was murdering herself. After all, her body was not quite so easy to +get rid of. And this manner of disposing of it—ah, sometimes she felt she +must rise and bring about death, lift her hand for utter denial of everything, +by a general destruction. +</p> + +<p> +He was almost unaware of the conditions about him. He did not fuss in the +domestic way, she did as she liked in the house. Indeed, she was a great deal +free of him. He would sit obliterated for hours. He was kind, and almost +anxiously considerate. But when he considered he was right, his will was just +blindly male, like a cold machine. And on most points he was logically right, +or he had with him the right of the creed they both accepted. It was so. There +was nothing for her to go against. +</p> + +<p> +Then she found herself with child, and felt for the first time horror, afraid +before God and man. This also she had to go through—it was the right. +When the child arrived, it was a bonny, healthy lad. Her heart hurt in her +body, as she took the baby between her hands. The flesh that was trampled and +silent in her must speak again in the boy. After all, she had to live—it +was not so simple after all. Nothing was finished completely. She looked and +looked at the baby, and almost hated it, and suffered an anguish of love for +it. She hated it because it made her live again in the flesh, when she +<i>could</i> not live in the flesh, she could not. She wanted to trample her +flesh down, down, extinct, to live in the mind. And now there was this child. +It was too cruel, too racking. For she must love the child. Her purpose was +broken in two again. She had to become amorphous, purposeless, without real +being. As a mother, she was a fragmentary, ignoble thing. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Massy, blind to everything else in the way of human feeling, became obsessed +by the idea of his child. When it arrived, suddenly it filled the whole world +of feeling for him. It was his obsession, his terror was for its safety and +well-being. It was something new, as if he himself had been born a naked +infant, conscious of his own exposure, and full of apprehension. He who had +never been aware of anyone else, all his life, now was aware of nothing but the +child. Not that he ever played with it, or kissed it, or tended it. He did +nothing for it. But it dominated him, it filled, and at the same time emptied +his mind. The world was all baby for him. +</p> + +<p> +This his wife must also bear, his question: “What is the reason that he +cries?”—his reminder, at the first sound: “Mary, that is the +child,”—his restlessness if the feeding-time were five minutes +past. She had bargained for this—now she must stand by her bargain. +</p> + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p> +Miss Louisa, at home in the dingy vicarage, had suffered a great deal over her +sister’s wedding. Having once begun to cry out against it, during the +engagement, she had been silenced by Mary’s quiet: “I don’t +agree with you about him, Louisa, I <i>want</i> to marry him.” Then Miss +Louisa had been angry deep in her heart, and therefore silent. This dangerous +state started the change in her. Her own revulsion made her recoil from the +hitherto undoubted Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d beg the streets barefoot first,” said Miss Louisa, +thinking of Mr Massy. +</p> + +<p> +But evidently Mary could perform a different heroism. So she, Louisa the +practical, suddenly felt that Mary, her ideal, was questionable after all. How +could she be pure—one cannot be dirty in act and spiritual in being. +Louisa distrusted Mary’s high spirituality. It was no longer genuine for +her. And if Mary were spiritual and misguided, why did not her father protect +her? Because of the money. He disliked the whole affair, but he backed away, +because of the money. And the mother frankly did not care: her daughters could +do as they liked. Her mother’s pronouncement: +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever happens to <i>him</i>, Mary is safe for life,”—so +evidently and shallowly a calculation, incensed Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d rather be safe in the workhouse,” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Your father will see to that,” replied her mother brutally. This +speech, in its indirectness, so injured Miss Louisa that she hated her mother +deep, deep in her heart, and almost hated herself. It was a long time resolving +itself out, this hate. But it worked and worked, and at last the young woman +said: +</p> + +<p> +“They are wrong—they are all wrong. They have ground out their +souls for what isn’t worth anything, and there isn’t a grain of +love in them anywhere. And I <i>will</i> have love. They want us to deny it. +They’ve never found it, so they want to say it doesn’t exist. But I +<i>will</i> have it. I <i>will</i> love—it is my birthright. I will love +the man I marry—that is all I care about.” +</p> + +<p> +So Miss Louisa stood isolated from everybody. She and Mary had parted over Mr +Massy. In Louisa’s eyes, Mary was degraded, married to Mr Massy. She +could not bear to think of her lofty, spiritual sister degraded in the body +like this. Mary was wrong, wrong, wrong: she was not superior, she was flawed, +incomplete. The two sisters stood apart. They still loved each other, they +would love each other as long as they lived. But they had parted ways. A new +solitariness came over the obstinate Louisa, and her heavy jaw set stubbornly. +She was going on her own way. But which way? She was quite alone, with a blank +world before her. How could she be said to have any way? Yet she had her fixed +will to love, to have the man she loved. +</p> + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p> +When her boy was three years old, Mary had another baby, a girl. The three +years had gone by monotonously. They might have been an eternity, they might +have been brief as a sleep. She did not know. Only, there was always a weight +on top of her, something that pressed down her life. The only thing that had +happened was that Mr Massy had had an operation. He was always exceedingly +fragile. His wife had soon learned to attend to him mechanically, as part of +her duty. +</p> + +<p> +But this third year, after the baby girl had been born, Mary felt oppressed and +depressed. Christmas drew near: the gloomy, unleavened Christmas of the +rectory, where all the days were of the same dark fabric. And Mary was afraid. +It was as if the darkness were coming upon her. +</p> + +<p> +“Edward, I should like to go home for Christmas,” she said, and a +certain terror filled her as she spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“But you can’t leave baby,” said her husband, blinking. +</p> + +<p> +“We can all go.” +</p> + +<p> +He thought, and stared in his collective fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you wish to go?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I need a change. A change would do me good, and it would be good +for the milk.” +</p> + +<p> +He heard the will in his wife’s voice, and was at a loss. Her language +was unintelligible to him. And while she was breeding, either about to have a +child, or nursing, he regarded her as a special sort of being. +</p> + +<p> +“Wouldn’t it hurt baby to take her by the train?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied the mother, “why should it?” +</p> + +<p> +They went. When they were in the train, it began to snow. From the window of +his first-class carriage the little clergyman watched the big flakes sweep by, +like a blind drawn across the country. He was obsessed by thought of the baby, +and afraid of the draughts of the carriage. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit right in the corner,” he said to his wife, “and hold +baby close back.” +</p> + +<p> +She moved at his bidding, and stared out of the window. His eternal presence +was like an iron weight on her brain. But she was going partially to escape for +a few days. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit on the other side, Jack,” said the father. “It is less +draughty. Come to this window.” +</p> + +<p> +He watched the boy in anxiety. But his children were the only beings in the +world who took not the slightest notice of him. +</p> + +<p> +“Look, mother, look!” cried the boy. “They fly right in my +face”—he meant the snowflakes. +</p> + +<p> +“Come into this corner,” repeated his father, out of another world. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s jumped on this one’s back, mother, an’ +they’re riding to the bottom!” cried the boy, jumping with glee. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him to come on this side,” the little man bade his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Jack, kneel on this cushion,” said the mother, putting her white +hand on the place. +</p> + +<p> +The boy slid over in silence to the place she indicated, waited still for a +moment, then almost deliberately, stridently cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Look at all those in the corner, mother, making a heap,” and he +pointed to the cluster of snowflakes with finger pressed dramatically on the +pane, and he turned to his mother a bit ostentatiously. +</p> + +<p> +“All in a heap!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He had seen her face, and had her response, and he was somewhat assured. +Vaguely uneasy, he was reassured if he could win her attention. +</p> + +<p> +They arrived at the vicarage at half-past two, not having had lunch. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you, Edward?” said Mr Lindley, trying on his side to be +fatherly. But he was always in a false position with his son-in-law, frustrated +before him, therefore, as much as possible, he shut his eyes and ears to him. +The vicar was looking thin and pale and ill-nourished. He had gone quite grey. +He was, however, still haughty; but, since the growing-up of his children, it +was a brittle haughtiness, that might break at any moment and leave the vicar +only an impoverished, pitiable figure. Mrs Lindley took all the notice of her +daughter, and of the children. She ignored her son-in-law. Miss Louisa was +clucking and laughing and rejoicing over the baby. Mr Massy stood aside, a +bent, persistent little figure. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh a pretty!—a little pretty! oh a cold little pretty come in a +railway-train!” Miss Louisa was cooing to the infant, crouching on the +hearthrug opening the white woollen wraps and exposing the child to the +fireglow. +</p> + +<p> +“Mary,” said the little clergyman, “I think it would be +better to give baby a warm bath; she may take a cold.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is not necessary,” said the mother, coming and closing +her hand judiciously over the rosy feet and hands of the mite. “She is +not chilly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit,” cried Miss Louisa. “She’s not caught +cold.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go and bring her flannels,” said Mr Massy, with one +idea. +</p> + +<p> +“I can bath her in the kitchen then,” said Mary, in an altered, +cold tone. +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t, the girl is scrubbing there,” said Miss Louisa. +“Besides, she doesn’t want a bath at this time of day.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’d better have one,” said Mary, quietly, out of +submission. Miss Louisa’s gorge rose, and she was silent. When the little +man padded down with the flannels on his arm, Mrs Lindley asked: +</p> + +<p> +“Hadn’t <i>you</i> better take a hot bath, Edward?” +</p> + +<p> +But the sarcasm was lost on the little clergyman. He was absorbed in the +preparations round the baby. +</p> + +<p> +The room was dull and threadbare, and the snow outside seemed fairy-like by +comparison, so white on the lawn and tufted on the bushes. Indoors the heavy +pictures hung obscurely on the walls, everything was dingy with gloom. +</p> + +<p> +Except in the fireglow, where they had laid the bath on the hearth. Mrs Massy, +her black hair always smoothly coiled and queenly, kneeled by the bath, wearing +a rubber apron, and holding the kicking child. Her husband stood holding the +towels and the flannels to warm. Louisa, too cross to share in the joy of the +baby’s bath, was laying the table. The boy was hanging on the door-knob, +wrestling with it to get out. His father looked round. +</p> + +<p> +“Come away from the door, Jack,” he said, ineffectually. Jack +tugged harder at the knob as if he did not hear. Mr Massy blinked at him. +</p> + +<p> +“He must come away from the door, Mary,” he said. “There will +be a draught if it is opened.” +</p> + +<p> +“Jack, come away from the door, dear,” said the mother, dexterously +turning the shiny wet baby on to her towelled knee, then glancing round: +“Go and tell Auntie Louisa about the train.” +</p> + +<p> +Louisa, also afraid to open the door, was watching the scene on the hearth. Mr +Massy stood holding the baby’s flannel, as if assisting at some +ceremonial. If everybody had not been subduedly angry, it would have been +ridiculous. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to see out of the window,” Jack said. His father turned +hastily. +</p> + +<p> +“Do <i>you</i> mind lifting him on to a chair, Louisa,” said Mary +hastily. The father was too delicate. +</p> + +<p> +When the baby was flannelled, Mr Massy went upstairs and returned with four +pillows, which he set in the fender to warm. Then he stood watching the mother +feed her child, obsessed by the idea of his infant. +</p> + +<p> +Louisa went on with her preparations for the meal. She could not have told why +she was so sullenly angry. Mrs Lindley, as usual, lay silently watching. +</p> + +<p> +Mary carried her child upstairs, followed by her husband with the pillows. +After a while he came down again. +</p> + +<p> +“What is Mary doing? Why doesn’t she come down to eat?” asked +Mrs Lindley. +</p> + +<p> +“She is staying with baby. The room is rather cold. I will ask the girl +to put in a fire.” He was going absorbedly to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“But Mary has had nothing to eat. It is <i>she</i> who will catch +cold,” said the mother, exasperated. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Massy seemed as if he did not hear. Yet he looked at his mother-in-law, and +answered: +</p> + +<p> +“I will take her something.” +</p> + +<p> +He went out. Mrs Lindley shifted on her couch with anger. Miss Louisa glowered. +But no one said anything, because of the money that came to the vicarage from +Mr Massy. +</p> + +<p> +Louisa went upstairs. Her sister was sitting by the bed, reading a scrap of +paper. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come down and eat?” the younger asked. +</p> + +<p> +“In a moment or two,” Mary replied, in a quiet, reserved voice, +that forbade anyone to approach her. +</p> + +<p> +It was this that made Miss Louisa most furious. She went downstairs, and +announced to her mother: +</p> + +<p> +“I am going out. I may not be home to tea.” +</p> + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p> +No one remarked on her exit. She put on her fur hat, that the village people +knew so well, and the old Norfolk jacket. Louisa was short and plump and plain. +She had her mother’s heavy jaw, her father’s proud brow, and her +own grey, brooding eyes that were very beautiful when she smiled. It was true, +as the people said, that she looked sulky. Her chief attraction was her +glistening, heavy, deep-blond hair, which shone and gleamed with a richness +that was not entirely foreign to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Where am I going?” she said to herself, when she got outside in +the snow. She did not hesitate, however, but by mechanical walking found +herself descending the hill towards Old Aldecross. In the valley that was black +with trees, the colliery breathed in stertorous pants, sending out high conical +columns of steam that remained upright, whiter than the snow on the hills, yet +shadowy, in the dead air. Louisa would not acknowledge to herself whither she +was making her way, till she came to the railway crossing. Then the bunches of +snow in the twigs of the apple tree that leaned towards the fence told her she +must go and see Mrs Durant. The tree was in Mrs Durant’s garden. +</p> + +<p> +Alfred was now at home again, living with his mother in the cottage below the +road. From the highway hedge, by the railway crossing, the snowy garden sheered +down steeply, like the side of a hole, then dropped straight in a wall. In this +depth the house was snug, its chimney just level with the road. Miss Louisa +descended the stone stairs, and stood below in the little backyard, in the +dimness and the semi-secrecy. A big tree leaned overhead, above the paraffin +hut. Louisa felt secure from all the world down there. She knocked at the open +door, then looked round. The tongue of garden narrowing in from the quarry bed +was white with snow: she thought of the thick fringes of snowdrops it would +show beneath the currant bushes in a month’s time. The ragged fringe of +pinks hanging over the garden brim behind her was whitened now with +snow-flakes, that in summer held white blossom to Louisa’s face. It was +pleasant, she thought, to gather flowers that stooped to one’s face from +above. +</p> + +<p> +She knocked again. Peeping in, she saw the scarlet glow of the kitchen, red +firelight falling on the brick floor and on the bright chintz cushions. It was +alive and bright as a peep-show. She crossed the scullery, where still an +almanac hung. There was no one about. “Mrs Durant,” called Louisa +softly, “Mrs Durant.” +</p> + +<p> +She went up the brick step into the front room, that still had its little shop +counter and its bundles of goods, and she called from the stair-foot. Then she +knew Mrs Durant was out. +</p> + +<p> +She went into the yard to follow the old woman’s footsteps up the garden +path. +</p> + +<p> +She emerged from the bushes and raspberry canes. There was the whole quarry +bed, a wide garden white and dimmed, brindled with dark bushes, lying half +submerged. On the left, overhead, the little colliery train rumbled by. Right +away at the back was a mass of trees. +</p> + +<p> +Louisa followed the open path, looking from right to left, and then she gave a +cry of concern. The old woman was sitting rocking slightly among the ragged +snowy cabbages. Louisa ran to her, found her whimpering with little, +involuntary cries. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever have you done?” cried Louisa, kneeling in the snow. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve—I’ve—I was pulling a brussel-sprout +stalk—and—oh-h!—something tore inside me. I’ve had a +pain,” the old woman wept from shock and suffering, gasping between her +whimpers—“I’ve had a pain there—a long time—and +now—oh—oh!” She panted, pressed her hand on her side, leaned +as if she would faint, looking yellow against the snow. Louisa supported her. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think you could walk now?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” gasped the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +Louisa helped her to her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Get the cabbage—I want it for Alfred’s dinner,” panted +Mrs Durant. Louisa picked up the stalk of brussel-sprouts, and with difficulty +got the old woman indoors. She gave her brandy, laid her on the couch, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going to send for a doctor—wait just a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +The young woman ran up the steps to the public-house a few yards away. The +landlady was astonished to see Miss Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you send for a doctor at once to Mrs Durant,” she said, with +some of her father in her commanding tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Is something the matter?” fluttered the landlady in concern. +</p> + +<p> +Louisa, glancing out up the road, saw the grocer’s cart driving to +Eastwood. She ran and stopped the man, and told him. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Durant lay on the sofa, her face turned away, when the young woman came +back. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me put you to bed,” Louisa said. Mrs Durant did not resist. +</p> + +<p> +Louisa knew the ways of the working people. In the bottom drawer of the dresser +she found dusters and flannels. With the old pit-flannel she snatched out the +oven shelves, wrapped them up, and put them in the bed. From the son’s +bed she took a blanket, and, running down, set it before the fire. Having +undressed the little old woman, Louisa carried her upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll drop me, you’ll drop me!” cried Mrs Durant. +</p> + +<p> +Louisa did not answer, but bore her burden quickly. She could not light a fire, +because there was no fire-place in the bedroom. And the floor was plaster. So +she fetched the lamp, and stood it lighted in one corner. +</p> + +<p> +“It will air the room,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” moaned the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +Louisa ran with more hot flannels, replacing those from the oven shelves. Then +she made a bran-bag and laid it on the woman’s side. There was a big lump +on the side of the abdomen. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve felt it coming a long time,” moaned the old lady, when +the pain was easier, “but I’ve not said anything; I didn’t +want to upset our Alfred.” +</p> + +<p> +Louisa did not see why “our Alfred” should be spared. +</p> + +<p> +“What time is it?” came the plaintive voice. +</p> + +<p> +“A quarter to four.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” wailed the old lady, “he’ll be here in half an +hour, and no dinner ready for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me do it?” said Louisa, gently. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s that cabbage—and you’ll find the meat in the +pantry—and there’s an apple pie you can hot up. But <i>don’t +you</i> do it——!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who will, then?” asked Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” moaned the sick woman, unable to consider. +</p> + +<p> +Louisa did it. The doctor came and gave serious examination. He looked very +grave. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, doctor?” asked the old lady, looking up at him with +old, pathetic eyes in which already hope was dead. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you’ve torn the skin in which a tumour hangs,” he +replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” she murmured, and she turned away. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, she may die any minute—and it <i>may</i> be swaled +away,” said the old doctor to Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +The young woman went upstairs again. +</p> + +<p> +“He says the lump may be swaled away, and you may get quite well +again,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” murmured the old lady. It did not deceive her. Presently she +asked: +</p> + +<p> +“Is there a good fire?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so,” answered Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll want a good fire,” the mother said. Louisa attended to +it. +</p> + +<p> +Since the death of Durant, the widow had come to church occasionally, and +Louisa had been friendly to her. In the girl’s heart the purpose was +fixed. No man had affected her as Alfred Durant had done, and to that she kept. +In her heart, she adhered to him. A natural sympathy existed between her and +his rather hard, materialistic mother. +</p> + +<p> +Alfred was the most lovable of the old woman’s sons. He had grown up like +the rest, however, headstrong and blind to everything but his own will. Like +the other boys, he had insisted on going into the pit as soon as he left +school, because that was the only way speedily to become a man, level with all +the other men. This was a great chagrin to his mother, who would have liked to +have this last of her sons a gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +But still he remained constant to her. His feeling for her was deep and +unexpressed. He noticed when she was tired, or when she had a new cap. And he +bought little things for her occasionally. She was not wise enough to see how +much he lived by her. +</p> + +<p> +At the bottom he did not satisfy her, he did not seem manly enough. He liked to +read books occasionally, and better still he liked to play the piccolo. It +amused her to see his head nod over the instrument as he made an effort to get +the right note. It made her fond of him, with tenderness, almost pity, but not +with respect. She wanted a man to be fixed, going his own way without knowledge +of women. Whereas she knew Alfred depended on her. He sang in the choir because +he liked singing. In the summer he worked in the garden, attended to the fowls +and pigs. He kept pigeons. He played on Saturday in the cricket or football +team. But to her he did not seem the man, the independent man her other boys +had been. He was her baby—and whilst she loved him for it, she was a +little bit contemptuous of him. +</p> + +<p> +There grew up a little hostility between them. Then he began to drink, as the +others had done; but not in their blind, oblivious way. He was a little +self-conscious over it. She saw this, and she pitied it in him. She loved him +most, but she was not satisfied with him because he was not free of her. He +could not quite go his own way. +</p> + +<p> +Then at twenty he ran away and served his time in the Navy. This made a man of +him. He had hated it bitterly, the service, the subordination. For years he +fought with himself under the military discipline, for his own self-respect, +struggling through blind anger and shame and a cramping sense of inferiority. +Out of humiliation and self-hatred, he rose into a sort of inner freedom. And +his love for his mother, whom he idealised, remained the fact of hope and of +belief. +</p> + +<p> +He came home again, nearly thirty years old, but naïve and inexperienced as a +boy, only with a silence about him that was new: a sort of dumb humility before +life, a fear of living. He was almost quite chaste. A strong sensitiveness had +kept him from women. Sexual talk was all very well among men, but somehow it +had no application to living women. There were two things for him, the +<i>idea</i> of women, with which he sometimes debauched himself, and real +women, before whom he felt a deep uneasiness, and a need to draw away. He +shrank and defended himself from the approach of any woman. And then he felt +ashamed. In his innermost soul he felt he was not a man, he was less than the +normal man. In Genoa he went with an under officer to a drinking house where +the cheaper sort of girl came in to look for lovers. He sat there with his +glass, the girls looked at him, but they never came to him. He knew that if +they did come he could only pay for food and drink for them, because he felt a +pity for them, and was anxious lest they lacked good necessities. He could not +have gone with one of them: he knew it, and was ashamed, looking with curious +envy at the swaggering, easy-passionate Italian whose body went to a woman by +instinctive impersonal attraction. They were men, he was not a man. He sat +feeling short, feeling like a leper. And he went away imagining sexual scenes +between himself and a woman, walking wrapt in this indulgence. But when the +ready woman presented herself, the very fact that she was a palpable woman made +it impossible for him to touch her. And this incapacity was like a core of +rottenness in him. +</p> + +<p> +So several times he went, drunk, with his companions, to the licensed +prostitute houses abroad. But the sordid insignificance of the experience +appalled him. It had not been anything really: it meant nothing. He felt as if +he were, not physically, but spiritually impotent: not actually impotent, but +intrinsically so. +</p> + +<p> +He came home with this secret, never changing burden of his unknown, unbestowed +self torturing him. His navy training left him in perfect physical condition. +He was sensible of, and proud of his body. He bathed and used dumb-bells, and +kept himself fit. He played cricket and football. He read books and began to +hold fixed ideas which he got from the Fabians. He played his piccolo, and was +considered an expert. But at the bottom of his soul was always this canker of +shame and incompleteness: he was miserable beneath all his healthy +cheerfulness, he was uneasy and felt despicable among all his confidence and +superiority of ideas. He would have changed with any mere brute, just to be +free of himself, to be free of this shame of self-consciousness. He saw some +collier lurching straight forward without misgiving, pursuing his own +satisfactions, and he envied him. Anything, he would have given anything for +this spontaneity and this blind stupidity which went to its own satisfaction +direct. +</p> + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p> +He was not unhappy in the pit. He was admired by the men, and well enough +liked. It was only he himself who felt the difference between himself and the +others. He seemed to hide his own stigma. But he was never sure that the others +did not really despise him for a ninny, as being less a man than they were. +Only he pretended to be more manly, and was surprised by the ease with which +they were deceived. And, being naturally cheerful, he was happy at his work. He +was sure of himself there. Naked to the waist, hot and grimy with labour, they +squatted on their heels for a few minutes and talked, seeing each other dimly +by the light of the safety lamps, while the black coal rose jutting round them, +and the props of wood stood like little pillars in the low, black, very dark +temple. Then the pony came and the gang-lad with a message from Number 7, or +with a bottle of water from the horse-trough or some news of the world above. +The day passed pleasantly enough. There was an ease, a go-as-you-please about +the day underground, a delightful camaraderie of men shut off alone from the +rest of the world, in a dangerous place, and a variety of labour, holing, +loading, timbering, and a glamour of mystery and adventure in the atmosphere, +that made the pit not unattractive to him when he had again got over his +anguish of desire for the open air and the sea. +</p> + +<p> +This day there was much to do and Durant was not in humour to talk. He went on +working in silence through the afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“Loose-all” came, and they tramped to the bottom. The whitewashed +underground office shone brightly. Men were putting out their lamps. They sat +in dozens round the bottom of the shaft, down which black, heavy drops of water +fell continuously into the sump. The electric lights shone away down the main +underground road. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it raining?” asked Durant. +</p> + +<p> +“Snowing,” said an old man, and the younger was pleased. He liked +to go up when it was snowing. +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll just come right for Christmas,” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” replied Durant. +</p> + +<p> +“A green Christmas, a fat churchyard,” said the other +sententiously. +</p> + +<p> +Durant laughed, showing his small, rather pointed teeth. +</p> + +<p> +The cage came down, a dozen men lined on. Durant noticed tufts of snow on the +perforated, arched roof of the chain, and he was pleased. +</p> + +<p> +He wondered how it liked its excursion underground. But already it was getting +soppy with black water. +</p> + +<p> +He liked things about him. There was a little smile on his face. But underlying +it was the curious consciousness he felt in himself. +</p> + +<p> +The upper world came almost with a flash, because of the glimmer of snow. +Hurrying along the bank, giving up his lamp at the office, he smiled to feel +the open about him again, all glimmering round him with snow. The hills on +either side were pale blue in the dusk, and the hedges looked savage and dark. +The snow was trampled between the railway lines. But far ahead, beyond the +black figures of miners moving home, it became smooth again, spreading right up +to the dark wall of the coppice. +</p> + +<p> +To the west there was a pinkness, and a big star hovered half revealed. Below, +the lights of the pit came out crisp and yellow among the darkness of the +buildings, and the lights of Old Aldecross twinkled in rows down the bluish +twilight. +</p> + +<p> +Durant walked glad with life among the miners, who were all talking animatedly +because of the snow. He liked their company, he liked the white dusky world. It +gave him a little thrill to stop at the garden gate and see the light of home +down below, shining on the silent blue snow. +</p> + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p> +By the big gate of the railway, in the fence, was a little gate, that he kept +locked. As he unfastened it, he watched the kitchen light that shone on to the +bushes and the snow outside. It was a candle burning till night set in, he +thought to himself. He slid down the steep path to the level below. He liked +making the first marks in the smooth snow. Then he came through the bushes to +the house. The two women heard his heavy boots ring outside on the scraper, and +his voice as he opened the door: +</p> + +<p> +“How much worth of oil do you reckon to save by that candle, +mother?” He liked a good light from the lamp. +</p> + +<p> +He had just put down his bottle and snap-bag and was hanging his coat behind +the scullery door, when Miss Louisa came upon him. He was startled, but he +smiled. +</p> + +<p> +His eyes began to laugh—then his face went suddenly straight, and he was +afraid. +</p> + +<p> +“Your mother’s had an accident,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“How?” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“In the garden,” she answered. He hesitated with his coat in his +hands. Then he hung it up and turned to the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she in bed?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Miss Louisa, who found it hard to deceive him. He was +silent. He went into the kitchen, sat down heavily in his father’s old +chair, and began to pull off his boots. His head was small, rather finely +shapen. His brown hair, close and crisp, would look jolly whatever happened. He +wore heavy moleskin trousers that gave off the stale, exhausted scent of the +pit. Having put on his slippers, he carried his boots into the scullery. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he asked, afraid. +</p> + +<p> +“Something internal,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +He went upstairs. His mother kept herself calm for his coming. Louisa felt his +tread shake the plaster floor of the bedroom above. +</p> + +<p> +“What have you done?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s nothing, my lad,” said the old woman, rather hard. +“It’s nothing. You needn’t fret, my boy, it’s nothing +more the matter with me than I had yesterday, or last week. The doctor said +I’d done nothing serious.” +</p> + +<p> +“What were you doing?” asked her son. +</p> + +<p> +“I was pulling up a cabbage, and I suppose I pulled too hard; for, +oh—there was such a pain——” +</p> + +<p> +Her son looked at her quickly. She hardened herself. +</p> + +<p> +“But who doesn’t have a sudden pain sometimes, my boy. We all +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what’s it done?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she said, “but I don’t suppose +it’s anything.” +</p> + +<p> +The big lamp in the corner was screened with a dark green, so that he could +scarcely see her face. He was strung tight with apprehension and many emotions. +Then his brow knitted. +</p> + +<p> +“What did you go pulling your inside out at cabbages for,” he +asked, “and the ground frozen? You’d go on dragging and dragging, +if you killed yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Somebody’s got to get them,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t do yourself harm.” +</p> + +<p> +But they had reached futility. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Louisa could hear plainly downstairs. Her heart sank. It seemed so +hopeless between them. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure it’s nothing much, mother?” he asked, +appealing, after a little silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, it’s nothing,” said the old woman, rather bitter. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want you to—to—to be badly—you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go an’ get your dinner,” she said. She knew she was going to +die: moreover, the pain was torture just then. “They’re only +cosseting me up a bit because I’m an old woman. Miss Louisa’s +<i>very</i> good—and she’ll have got your dinner ready, so +you’d better go and eat it.” +</p> + +<p> +He felt stupid and ashamed. His mother put him off. He had to turn away. The +pain burned in his bowels. He went downstairs. The mother was glad he was gone, +so that she could moan with pain. +</p> + +<p> +He had resumed the old habit of eating before he washed himself. Miss Louisa +served his dinner. It was strange and exciting to her. She was strung up tense, +trying to understand him and his mother. She watched him as he sat. He was +turned away from his food, looking in the fire. Her soul watched him, trying to +see what he was. His black face and arms were uncouth, he was foreign. His face +was masked black with coal-dust. She could not see him, she could not even know +him. The brown eyebrows, the steady eyes, the coarse, small moustache above the +closed mouth—these were the only familiar indications. What was he, as he +sat there in his pit-dirt? She could not see him, and it hurt her. +</p> + +<p> +She ran upstairs, presently coming down with the flannels and the bran-bag, to +heat them, because the pain was on again. +</p> + +<p> +He was half-way through his dinner. He put down the fork, suddenly nauseated. +</p> + +<p> +“They will soothe the wrench,” she said. He watched, useless and +left out. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she bad?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I think she is,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +It was useless for him to stir or comment. Louisa was busy. She went upstairs. +The poor old woman was in a white, cold sweat of pain. Louisa’s face was +sullen with suffering as she went about to relieve her. Then she sat and +waited. The pain passed gradually, the old woman sank into a state of coma. +Louisa still sat silent by the bed. She heard the sound of water downstairs. +Then came the voice of the old mother, faint but unrelaxing: +</p> + +<p> +“Alfred’s washing himself—he’ll want his back +washing——” +</p> + +<p> +Louisa listened anxiously, wondering what the sick woman wanted. +</p> + +<p> +“He can’t bear if his back isn’t washed——” +the old woman persisted, in a cruel attention to his needs. Louisa rose and +wiped the sweat from the yellowish brow. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go down,” she said soothingly. +</p> + +<p> +“If you would,” murmured the sick woman. +</p> + +<p> +Louisa waited a moment. Mrs Durant closed her eyes, having discharged her duty. +The young woman went downstairs. Herself, or the man, what did they matter? +Only the suffering woman must be considered. +</p> + +<p> +Alfred was kneeling on the hearthrug, stripped to the waist, washing himself in +a large panchion of earthenware. He did so every evening, when he had eaten his +dinner; his brothers had done so before him. But Miss Louisa was strange in the +house. +</p> + +<p> +He was mechanically rubbing the white lather on his head, with a repeated, +unconscious movement, his hand every now and then passing over his neck. Louisa +watched. She had to brace herself to this also. He bent his head into the +water, washed it free of soap, and pressed the water out of his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Your mother said you would want your back washing,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Curious how it hurt her to take part in their fixed routine of life! Louisa +felt the almost repulsive intimacy being forced upon her. It was all so common, +so like herding. She lost her own distinctness. +</p> + +<p> +He ducked his face round, looking up at her in what was a very comical way. She +had to harden herself. +</p> + +<p> +“How funny he looks with his face upside down,” she thought. After +all, there was a difference between her and the common people. The water in +which his arms were plunged was quite black, the soap-froth was darkish. She +could scarcely conceive him as human. Mechanically, under the influence of +habit, he groped in the black water, fished out soap and flannel, and handed +them backward to Louisa. Then he remained rigid and submissive, his two arms +thrust straight in the panchion, supporting the weight of his shoulders. His +skin was beautifully white and unblemished, of an opaque, solid whiteness. +Gradually Louisa saw it: this also was what he was. It fascinated her. Her +feeling of separateness passed away: she ceased to draw back from contact with +him and his mother. There was this living centre. Her heart ran hot. She had +reached some goal in this beautiful, clear, male body. She loved him in a +white, impersonal heat. But the sun-burnt, reddish neck and ears: they were +more personal, more curious. A tenderness rose in her, she loved even his queer +ears. A person—an intimate being he was to her. She put down the towel +and went upstairs again, troubled in her heart. She had only seen one human +being in her life—and that was Mary. All the rest were strangers. Now her +soul was going to open, she was going to see another. She felt strange and +pregnant. +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll be more comfortable,” murmured the sick woman +abstractedly, as Louisa entered the room. The latter did not answer. Her own +heart was heavy with its own responsibility. Mrs Durant lay silent awhile, then +she murmured plaintively: +</p> + +<p> +“You mustn’t mind, Miss Louisa.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I?” replied Louisa, deeply moved. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s what we’re used to,” said the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +And Louisa felt herself excluded again from their life. She sat in pain, with +the tears of disappointment distilling her heart. Was that all? +</p> + +<p> +Alfred came upstairs. He was clean, and in his shirt-sleeves. He looked a +workman now. Louisa felt that she and he were foreigners, moving in different +lives. It dulled her again. Oh, if she could only find some fixed relations, +something sure and abiding. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you feel?” he said to his mother. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a bit better,” she replied wearily, impersonally. This +strange putting herself aside, this abstracting herself and answering him only +what she thought good for him to hear, made the relations between mother and +son poignant and cramping to Miss Louisa. It made the man so ineffectual, so +nothing. Louisa groped as if she had lost him. The mother was real and +positive—he was not very actual. It puzzled and chilled the young woman. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d better fetch Mrs Harrison?” he said, waiting for his +mother to decide. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose we shall have to have somebody,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Louisa stood by, afraid to interfere in their business. They did not +include her in their lives, they felt she had nothing to do with them, except +as a help from outside. She was quite external to them. She felt hurt and +powerless against this unconscious difference. But something patient and +unyielding in her made her say: +</p> + +<p> +“I will stay and do the nursing: you can’t be left.” +</p> + +<p> +The other two were shy, and at a loss for an answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Wes’ll manage to get somebody,” said the old woman wearily. +She did not care very much what happened, now. +</p> + +<p> +“I will stay until tomorrow, in any case,” said Louisa. “Then +we can see.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure you’ve no right to trouble yourself,” moaned +the old woman. But she must leave herself in any hands. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Louisa felt glad that she was admitted, even in an official capacity. She +wanted to share their lives. At home they would need her, now Mary had come. +But they must manage without her. +</p> + +<p> +“I must write a note to the vicarage,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Alfred Durant looked at her inquiringly, for her service. He had always that +intelligent readiness to serve, since he had been in the Navy. But there was a +simple independence in his willingness, which she loved. She felt nevertheless +it was hard to get at him. He was so deferential, quick to take the slightest +suggestion of an order from her, implicitly, that she could not get at the man +in him. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her very keenly. She noticed his eyes were golden brown, with a +very small pupil, the kind of eyes that can see a long way off. He stood alert, +at military attention. His face was still rather weather-reddened. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want pen and paper?” he asked, with deferential suggestion +to a superior, which was more difficult for her than reserve. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, please,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He turned and went downstairs. He seemed to her so self-contained, so utterly +sure in his movement. How was she to approach him? For he would take not one +step towards her. He would only put himself entirely and impersonally at her +service, glad to serve her, but keeping himself quite removed from her. She +could see he felt real joy in doing anything for her, but any recognition would +confuse him and hurt him. Strange it was to her, to have a man going about the +house in his shirt-sleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his throat bare, waiting +on her. He moved well, as if he had plenty of life to spare. She was attracted +by his completeness. And yet, when all was ready, and there was nothing more +for him to do, she quivered, meeting his questioning look. +</p> + +<p> +As she sat writing, he placed another candle near her. The rather dense light +fell in two places on the overfoldings of her hair till it glistened heavy and +bright, like a dense golden plumage folded up. Then the nape of her neck was +very white, with fine down and pointed wisps of gold. He watched it as it were +a vision, losing himself. She was all that was beyond him, of revelation and +exquisiteness. All that was ideal and beyond him, she was that—and he was +lost to himself in looking at her. She had no connection with him. He did not +approach her. She was there like a wonderful distance. But it was a treat, +having her in the house. Even with this anguish for his mother tightening about +him, he was sensible of the wonder of living this evening. The candles +glistened on her hair, and seemed to fascinate him. He felt a little awe of +her, and a sense of uplifting, that he and she and his mother should be +together for a time, in the strange, unknown atmosphere. And, when he got out +of the house, he was afraid. He saw the stars above ringing with fine +brightness, the snow beneath just visible, and a new night was gathering round +him. He was afraid almost with obliteration. What was this new night ringing +about him, and what was he? He could not recognize himself nor any of his +surroundings. He was afraid to think of his mother. And yet his chest was +conscious of her, and of what was happening to her. He could not escape from +her, she carried him with her into an unformed, unknown chaos. +</p> + +<h3>XI</h3> + +<p> +He went up the road in an agony, not knowing what it was all about, but feeling +as if a red-hot iron were gripped round his chest. Without thinking, he shook +two or three tears on to the snow. Yet in his mind he did not believe his +mother would die. He was in the grip of some greater consciousness. As he sat +in the hall of the vicarage, waiting whilst Mary put things for Louisa into a +bag, he wondered why he had been so upset. He felt abashed and humbled by the +big house, he felt again as if he were one of the rank and file. When Miss Mary +spoke to him, he almost saluted. +</p> + +<p> +“An honest man,” thought Mary. And the patronage was applied as +salve to her own sickness. She had station, so she could patronize: it was +almost all that was left to her. But she could not have lived without having a +certain position. She could never have trusted herself outside a definite +place, nor respected herself except as a woman of superior class. +</p> + +<p> +As Alfred came to the latch-gate, he felt the grief at his heart again, and saw +the new heavens. He stood a moment looking northward to the Plough climbing up +the night, and at the far glimmer of snow in distant fields. Then his grief +came on like physical pain. He held tight to the gate, biting his mouth, +whispering “Mother!” It was a fierce, cutting, physical pain of +grief, that came on in bouts, as his mother’s pain came on in bouts, and +was so acute he could scarcely keep erect. He did not know where it came from, +the pain, nor why. It had nothing to do with his thoughts. Almost it had +nothing to do with him. Only it gripped him and he must submit. The whole tide +of his soul, gathering in its unknown towards this expansion into death, +carried him with it helplessly, all the fritter of his thought and +consciousness caught up as nothing, the heave passing on towards its breaking, +taking him further than he had ever been. When the young man had regained +himself, he went indoors, and there he was almost gay. It seemed to excite him. +He felt in high spirits: he made whimsical fun of things. He sat on one side of +his mother’s bed, Louisa on the other, and a certain gaiety seized them +all. But the night and the dread was coming on. +</p> + +<p> +Alfred kissed his mother and went to bed. When he was half undressed the +knowledge of his mother came upon him, and the suffering seized him in its grip +like two hands, in agony. He lay on the bed screwed up tight. It lasted so +long, and exhausted him so much, that he fell asleep, without having the energy +to get up and finish undressing. He awoke after midnight to find himself stone +cold. He undressed and got into bed, and was soon asleep again. +</p> + +<p> +At a quarter to six he woke, and instantly remembered. Having pulled on his +trousers and lighted a candle, he went into his mother’s room. He put his +hand before the candle flame so that no light fell on the bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother!” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +There was a hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +“Should I go to work?” +</p> + +<p> +He waited, his heart was beating heavily. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I’d go, my lad.” +</p> + +<p> +His heart went down in a kind of despair. +</p> + +<p> +“You want me to?” +</p> + +<p> +He let his hand down from the candle flame. The light fell on the bed. There he +saw Louisa lying looking up at him. Her eyes were upon him. She quickly shut +her eyes and half buried her face in the pillow, her back turned to him. He saw +the rough hair like bright vapour about her round head, and the two plaits +flung coiled among the bedclothes. It gave him a shock. He stood almost +himself, determined. Louisa cowered down. He looked, and met his mother’s +eyes. Then he gave way again, and ceased to be sure, ceased to be himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, go to work, my boy,” said the mother. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” replied he, kissing her. His heart was down at +despair, and bitter. He went away. +</p> + +<p> +“Alfred!” cried his mother faintly. +</p> + +<p> +He came back with beating heart. +</p> + +<p> +“What, mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll always do what’s right, Alfred?” the mother +asked, beside herself in terror now he was leaving her. He was too terrified +and bewildered to know what she meant. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She turned her cheek to him. He kissed her, then went away, in bitter despair. +He went to work. +</p> + +<h3>XII</h3> + +<p> +By midday his mother was dead. The word met him at the pit-mouth. As he had +known, inwardly, it was not a shock to him, and yet he trembled. He went home +quite calmly, feeling only heavy in his breathing. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Louisa was still at the house. She had seen to everything possible. Very +succinctly, she informed him of what he needed to know. But there was one point +of anxiety for her. +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>did</i> half expect it—it’s not come as a blow to +you?” she asked, looking up at him. Her eyes were dark and calm and +searching. She too felt lost. He was so dark and inchoate. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose—yes,” he said stupidly. He looked aside, unable to +endure her eyes on him. +</p> + +<p> +“I could not bear to think you might not have guessed,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +He felt it a great strain to have her near him at this time. He wanted to be +alone. As soon as the relatives began to arrive, Louisa departed and came no +more. While everything was arranging, and a crowd was in the house, whilst he +had business to settle, he went well enough, with only those uncontrollable +paroxysms of grief. For the rest, he was superficial. By himself, he endured +the fierce, almost insane bursts of grief which passed again and left him calm, +almost clear, just wondering. He had not known before that everything could +break down, that he himself could break down, and all be a great chaos, very +vast and wonderful. It seemed as if life in him had burst its bounds, and he +was lost in a great, bewildering flood, immense and unpeopled. He himself was +broken and spilled out amid it all. He could only breathe panting in silence. +Then the anguish came on again. +</p> + +<p> +When all the people had gone from the Quarry Cottage, leaving the young man +alone with an elderly housekeeper, then the long trial began. The snow had +thawed and frozen, a fresh fall had whitened the grey, this then began to thaw. +The world was a place of loose grey slosh. Alfred had nothing to do in the +evenings. He was a man whose life had been filled up with small activities. +Without knowing it, he had been centralized, polarized in his mother. It was +she who had kept him. Even now, when the old housekeeper had left him, he might +still have gone on in his old way. But the force and balance of his life was +lacking. He sat pretending to read, all the time holding his fists clenched, +and holding himself in, enduring he did not know what. He walked the black and +sodden miles of field-paths, till he was tired out: but all this was only +running away from whence he must return. At work he was all right. If it had +been summer he might have escaped by working in the garden till bedtime. But +now, there was no escape, no relief, no help. He, perhaps, was made for action +rather than for understanding; for doing than for being. He was shocked out of +his activities, like a swimmer who forgets to swim. +</p> + +<p> +For a week, he had the force to endure this suffocation and struggle, then he +began to get exhausted, and knew it must come out. The instinct of +self-preservation became strongest. But there was the question: Where was he to +go? The public-house really meant nothing to him, it was no good going there. +He began to think of emigration. In another country he would be all right. He +wrote to the emigration offices. +</p> + +<p> +On the Sunday after the funeral, when all the Durant people had attended +church, Alfred had seen Miss Louisa, impassive and reserved, sitting with Miss +Mary, who was proud and very distant, and with the other Lindleys, who were +people removed. Alfred saw them as people remote. He did not think about it. +They had nothing to do with his life. After service Louisa had come to him and +shaken hands. +</p> + +<p> +“My sister would like you to come to supper one evening, if you would be +so good.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at Miss Mary, who bowed. Out of kindness, Mary had proposed this to +Louisa, disapproving of herself even as she did so. But she did not examine +herself closely. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Durant awkwardly, “I’ll come if you want +me.” But he vaguely felt that it was misplaced. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll come tomorrow evening, then, about half-past six.” +</p> + +<p> +He went. Miss Louisa was very kind to him. There could be no music, because of +the babies. He sat with his fists clenched on his thighs, very quiet and +unmoved, lapsing, among all those people, into a kind of muse or daze. There +was nothing between him and them. They knew it as well as he. But he remained +very steady in himself, and the evening passed slowly. Mrs Lindley called him +“young man”. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you sit here, young man?” +</p> + +<p> +He sat there. One name was as good as another. What had they to do with him? +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lindley kept a special tone for him, kind, indulgent, but patronizing. +Durant took it all without criticism or offence, just submitting. But he did +not want to eat—that troubled him, to have to eat in their presence. He +knew he was out of place. But it was his duty to stay yet awhile. He answered +precisely, in monosyllables. +</p> + +<p> +When he left he winced with confusion. He was glad it was finished. He got away +as quickly as possible. And he wanted still more intensely to go right away, to +Canada. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Louisa suffered in her soul, indignant with all of them, with him too, but +quite unable to say why she was indignant. +</p> + +<h3>XIII</h3> + +<p> +Two evenings after, Louisa tapped at the door of the Quarry Cottage, at +half-pas six. He had finished dinner, the woman had washed up and gone away, +but still he sat in his pit dirt. He was going later to the New Inn. He had +begun to go there because he must go somewhere. The mere contact with other men +was necessary to him, the noise, the warmth, the forgetful flight of the hours. +But still he did not move. He sat alone in the empty house till it began to +grow on him like something unnatural. +</p> + +<p> +He was in his pit dirt when he opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been wanting to call—I thought I would,” she said, +and she went to the sofa. He wondered why she wouldn’t use his +mother’s round armchair. Yet something stirred in him, like anger, when +the housekeeper placed herself in it. +</p> + +<p> +“I ought to have been washed by now,” he said, glancing at the +clock, which was adorned with butterflies and cherries, and the name of +“T. Brooks, Mansfield.” He laid his black hands along his mottled +dirty arms. Louisa looked at him. There was the reserve, and the simple +neutrality towards her, which she dreaded in him. It made it impossible for her +to approach him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid,” she said, “that I wasn’t kind in asking +you to supper.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not used to it,” he said, smiling with his mouth, +showing the interspaced white teeth. His eyes, however, were steady and +unseeing. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not <i>that</i>,” she said hastily. Her repose was +exquisite and her dark grey eyes rich with understanding. He felt afraid of her +as she sat there, as he began to grow conscious of her. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you get on alone?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +He glanced away to the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh——” he answered, shifting uneasily, not finishing +his answer. +</p> + +<p> +Her face settled heavily. +</p> + +<p> +“How close it is in this room. You have such immense fires. I will take +off my coat,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He watched her take off her hat and coat. She wore a cream cashmir blouse +embroidered with gold silk. It seemed to him a very fine garment, fitting her +throat and wrists close. It gave him a feeling of pleasure and cleanness and +relief from himself. +</p> + +<p> +“What were you thinking about, that you didn’t get washed?” +she asked, half intimately. He laughed, turning aside his head. The whites of +his eyes showed very distinct in his black face. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said, “I couldn’t tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to keep this house on?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +He stirred in his chair, under the question. +</p> + +<p> +“I hardly know,” he said. “I’m very likely going to +Canada.” +</p> + +<p> +Her spirit became very quiet and attentive. +</p> + +<p> +“What for?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +Again he shifted restlessly on his seat. +</p> + +<p> +“Well”—he said slowly—“to try the life.” +</p> + +<p> +“But which life?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s various things—farming or lumbering or mining. I +don’t mind much what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“And is that what you want?” +</p> + +<p> +He did not think in these times, so he could not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” he said, “till I’ve tried.” +</p> + +<p> +She saw him drawing away from her for ever. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you sorry to leave this house and garden?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” he answered reluctantly. “I suppose our +Fred would come in—that’s what he’s wanting.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t want to settle down?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +He was leaning forward on the arms of his chair. He turned to her. Her face was +pale and set. It looked heavy and impassive, her hair shone richer as she grew +white. She was to him something steady and immovable and eternal presented to +him. His heart was hot in an anguish of suspense. Sharp twitches of fear and +pain were in his limbs. He turned his whole body away from her. The silence was +unendurable. He could not bear her to sit there any more. It made his heart go +hot and stifled in his breast. +</p> + +<p> +“Were you going out tonight?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Only to the New Inn,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Again there was silence. +</p> + +<p> +She reached for her hat. Nothing else was suggested to her. She <i>had</i> to +go. He sat waiting for her to be gone, for relief. And she knew that if she +went out of that house as she was, she went out a failure. Yet she continued to +pin on her hat; in a moment she would have to go. Something was carrying her. +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly a sharp pang, like lightning, seared her from head to foot, and +she was beyond herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want me to go?” she asked, controlled, yet speaking out of +a fiery anguish, as if the words were spoken from her without her intervention. +</p> + +<p> +He went white under his dirt. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” he asked, turning to her in fear, compelled. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want me to go?” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” he asked again. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I wanted to stay with you,” she said, suffocated, with her +lungs full of fire. +</p> + +<p> +His face worked, he hung forward a little, suspended, staring straight into her +eyes, in torment, in an agony of chaos, unable to collect himself. And as if +turned to stone, she looked back into his eyes. Their souls were exposed bare +for a few moments. It was agony. They could not bear it. He dropped his head, +whilst his body jerked with little sharp twitchings. +</p> + +<p> +She turned away for her coat. Her soul had gone dead in her. Her hands +trembled, but she could not feel any more. She drew on her coat. There was a +cruel suspense in the room. The moment had come for her to go. He lifted his +head. His eyes were like agate, expressionless, save for the black points of +torture. They held her, she had no will, no life any more. She felt broken. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you want me?” she said helplessly. +</p> + +<p> +A spasm of torture crossed his eyes, which held her fixed. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I——” he began, but he could not speak. +Something drew him from his chair to her. She stood motionless, spellbound, +like a creature given up as prey. He put his hand tentatively, uncertainly, on +her arm. The expression of his face was strange and inhuman. She stood utterly +motionless. Then clumsily he put his arms round her, and took her, cruelly, +blindly, straining her till she nearly lost consciousness, till he himself had +almost fallen. +</p> + +<p> +Then, gradually, as he held her gripped, and his brain reeled round, and he +felt himself falling, falling from himself, and whilst she, yielded up, swooned +to a kind of death of herself, a moment of utter darkness came over him, and +they began to wake up again as if from a long sleep. He was himself. +</p> + +<p> +After a while his arms slackened, she loosened herself a little, and put her +arms round him, as he held her. So they held each other close, and hid each +against the other for assurance, helpless in speech. And it was ever her hands +that trembled more closely upon him, drawing him nearer into her, with love. +</p> + +<p> +And at last she drew back her face and looked up at him, her eyes wet, and +shining with light. His heart, which saw, was silent with fear. He was with +her. She saw his face all sombre and inscrutable, and he seemed eternal to her. +And all the echo of pain came back into the rarity of bliss, and all her tears +came up. +</p> + +<p> +“I love you,” she said, her lips drawn and sobbing. He put down his +head against her, unable to hear her, unable to bear the sudden coming of the +peace and passion that almost broke his heart. They stood together in silence +whilst the thing moved away a little. +</p> + +<p> +At last she wanted to see him. She looked up. His eyes were strange and +glowing, with a tiny black pupil. Strange, they were, and powerful over her. +And his mouth came to hers, and slowly her eyelids closed, as his mouth sought +hers closer and closer, and took possession of her. +</p> + +<p> +They were silent for a long time, too much mixed up with passion and grief and +death to do anything but hold each other in pain and kiss with long, hurting +kisses wherein fear was transfused into desire. At last she disengaged herself. +He felt as if his heart were hurt, but glad, and he scarcely dared look at her. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad,” she said also. +</p> + +<p> +He held her hands in passionate gratitude and desire. He had not yet the +presence of mind to say anything. He was dazed with relief. +</p> + +<p> +“I ought to go,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her. He could not grasp the thought of her going, he knew he could +never be separated from her any more. Yet he dared not assert himself. He held +her hands tight. +</p> + +<p> +“Your face is black,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yours is a bit smudged,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +They were afraid of each other, afraid to talk. He could only keep her near to +him. After a while she wanted to wash her face. He brought her some warm water, +standing by and watching her. There was something he wanted to say, that he +dared not. He watched her wiping her face, and making tidy her hair. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ll see your blouse is dirty,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at her sleeves and laughed for joy. +</p> + +<p> +He was sharp with pride. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall you do?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“How?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He was awkward at a reply. +</p> + +<p> +“About me,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want me to do?” she laughed. +</p> + +<p> +He put his hand out slowly to her. What did it matter! +</p> + +<p> +“But make yourself clean,” she said. +</p> + +<h3>XIV</h3> + +<p> +As they went up the hill, the night seemed dense with the unknown. They kept +close together, feeling as if the darkness were alive and full of knowledge, +all around them. In silence they walked up the hill. At first the street lamps +went their way. Several people passed them. He was more shy than she, and would +have let her go had she loosened in the least. But she held firm. +</p> + +<p> +Then they came into the true darkness, between the fields. They did not want to +speak, feeling closer together in silence. So they arrived at the Vicarage +gate. They stood under the naked horse-chestnut tree. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you didn’t have to go,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed a quick little laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Come tomorrow,” she said, in a low tone, “and ask +father.” +</p> + +<p> +She felt his hand close on hers. +</p> + +<p> +She gave the same sorrowful little laugh of sympathy. Then she kissed him, +sending him home. +</p> + +<p> +At home, the old grief came on in another paroxysm, obliterating Louisa, +obliterating even his mother for whom the stress was raging like a burst of +fever in a wound. But something was sound in his heart. +</p> + +<h3>XV</h3> + +<p> +The next evening he dressed to go to the vicarage, feeling it was to be done, +not imagining what it would be like. He would not take this seriously. He was +sure of Louisa, and this marriage was like fate to him. It filled him also with +a blessed feeling of fatality. He was not responsible, neither had her people +anything really to do with it. +</p> + +<p> +They ushered him into the little study, which was fireless. By and by the vicar +came in. His voice was cold and hostile as he said: +</p> + +<p> +“What can I do for you, young man?” +</p> + +<p> +He knew already, without asking. +</p> + +<p> +Durant looked up at him, again like a sailor before a superior. He had the +subordinate manner. Yet his spirit was clear. +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted, Mr Lindley——” he began respectfully, then +all the colour suddenly left his face. It seemed now a violation to say what he +had to say. What was he doing there? But he stood on, because it had to be +done. He held firmly to his own independence and self-respect. He must not be +indecisive. He must put himself aside: the matter was bigger than just his +personal self. He must not feel. This was his highest duty. +</p> + +<p> +“You wanted——” said the vicar. +</p> + +<p> +Durant’s mouth was dry, but he answered with steadiness: +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Louisa—Louisa—promised to marry me——” +</p> + +<p> +“You asked Miss Louisa if she would marry +you—yes——” corrected the vicar. Durant reflected he had +not asked her this: +</p> + +<p> +“If she would marry me, sir. I hope you—don’t mind.” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled. He was a good-looking man, and the vicar could not help seeing it. +</p> + +<p> +“And my daughter was willing to marry you?” said Mr Lindley. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Durant seriously. It was pain to him, nevertheless. He +felt the natural hostility between himself and the elder man. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you come this way?” said the vicar. He led into the +dining-room, where were Mary, Louisa, and Mrs Lindley. Mr Massy sat in a corner +with a lamp. +</p> + +<p> +“This young man has come on your account, Louisa?” said Mr Lindley. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Louisa, her eyes on Durant, who stood erect, in +discipline. He dared not look at her, but he was aware of her. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t want to marry a collier, you little fool,” cried +Mrs Lindley harshly. She lay obese and helpless upon the couch, swathed in a +loose, dove-grey gown. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, hush, mother,” cried Mary, with quiet intensity and pride. +</p> + +<p> +“What means have you to support a wife?” demanded the vicar’s +wife roughly. +</p> + +<p> +“I!” Durant replied, starting. “I think I can earn +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and how much?” came the rough voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Seven and six a day,” replied the young man. +</p> + +<p> +“And will it get to be any more?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so.” +</p> + +<p> +“And are you going to live in that poky little house?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so,” said Durant, “if it’s all right.” +</p> + +<p> +He took small offence, only was upset, because they would not think him good +enough. He knew that, in their sense, he was not. +</p> + +<p> +“Then she’s a fool, I tell you, if she marries you,” cried +the mother roughly, casting her decision. +</p> + +<p> +“After all, mama, it is Louisa’s affair,” said Mary +distinctly, “and we must remember——” +</p> + +<p> +“As she makes her bed, she must lie—but she’ll repent +it,” interrupted Mrs Lindley. +</p> + +<p> +“And after all,” said Mr Lindley, “Louisa cannot quite hold +herself free to act entirely without consideration for her family.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want, papa?” asked Louisa sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that if you marry this man, it will make my position very +difficult for me, particularly if you stay in this parish. If you were moving +quite away, it would be simpler. But living here in a collier’s cottage, +under my nose, as it were—it would be almost unseemly. I have my position +to maintain, and a position which may not be taken lightly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come over here, young man,” cried the mother, in her rough voice, +“and let us look at you.” +</p> + +<p> +Durant, flushing, went over and stood—not quite at attention, so that he +did not know what to do with his hands. Miss Louisa was angry to see him +standing there, obedient and acquiescent. He ought to show himself a man. +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you take her away and live out of sight?” said the +mother. “You’d both of you be better off.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we can go away,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to?” asked Miss Mary clearly. +</p> + +<p> +He faced round. Mary looked very stately and impressive. He flushed. +</p> + +<p> +“I do if it’s going to be a trouble to anybody,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“For yourself, you would rather stay?” said Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s my home,” he said, “and that’s the house I +was born in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then”—Mary turned clearly to her parents, “I really +don’t see how you can make the conditions, papa. He has his own rights, +and if Louisa wants to marry him——” +</p> + +<p> +“Louisa, Louisa!” cried the father impatiently. “I cannot +understand why Louisa should not behave in the normal way. I cannot see why she +should only think of herself, and leave her family out of count. The thing is +enough in itself, and she ought to try to ameliorate it as much as possible. +And if——” +</p> + +<p> +“But I love the man, papa,” said Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“And I hope you love your parents, and I hope you want to spare them as +much of the—the loss of prestige, as possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“We <i>can</i> go away to live,” said Louisa, her face breaking to +tears. At last she was really hurt. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, easily,” Durant replied hastily, pale, distressed. +</p> + +<p> +There was dead silence in the room. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it would really be better,” murmured the vicar, mollified. +</p> + +<p> +“Very likely it would,” said the rough-voiced invalid. +</p> + +<p> +“Though I think we ought to apologize for asking such a thing,” +said Mary haughtily. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Durant. “It will be best all round.” He was +glad there was no more bother. +</p> + +<p> +“And shall we put up the banns here or go to the registrar?” he +asked clearly, like a challenge. +</p> + +<p> +“We will go to the registrar,” replied Louisa decidedly. +</p> + +<p> +Again there was a dead silence in the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you will have your own way, you must go your own way,” +said the mother emphatically. +</p> + +<p> +All the time Mr Massy had sat obscure and unnoticed in a corner of the room. At +this juncture he got up, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“There is baby, Mary.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary rose and went out of the room, stately; her little husband padded after +her. Durant watched the fragile, small man go, wondering. +</p> + +<p> +“And where,” asked the vicar, almost genial, “do you think +you will go when you are married?” +</p> + +<p> +Durant started. +</p> + +<p> +“I was thinking of emigrating,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“To Canada? or where?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think to Canada.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that would be very good.” +</p> + +<p> +Again there was a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“We shan’t see much of you then, as a son-in-law,” said the +mother, roughly but amicably. +</p> + +<p> +“Not much,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Then he took his leave. Louisa went with him to the gate. She stood before him +in distress. +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t mind them, will you?” she said humbly. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind them, if they don’t mind me!” he said. +Then he stooped and kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us be married soon,” she murmured, in tears. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he said. “I’ll go tomorrow to +Barford.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>A Fragment of Stained Glass</h2> + +<p> +Beauvale is, or was, the largest parish in England. It is thinly populated, +only just netting the stragglers from shoals of houses in three large mining +villages. For the rest, it holds a great tract of woodland, fragment of old +Sherwood, a few hills of pasture and arable land, three collieries, and, +finally, the ruins of a Cistercian abbey. These ruins lie in a still rich +meadow at the foot of the last fall of woodland, through whose oaks shines a +blue of hyacinths, like water, in Maytime. Of the abbey, there remains only the +east wall of the chancel standing, a wild thick mass of ivy weighting one +shoulder, while pigeons perch in the tracery of the lofty window. This is the +window in question. +</p> + +<p> +The vicar of Beauvale is a bachelor of forty-two years. Quite early in life +some illness caused a slight paralysis of his right side, so that he drags a +little, and so that the right corner of his mouth is twisted up into his cheek +with a constant grimace, unhidden by a heavy moustache. There is something +pathetic about this twist on the vicar’s countenance: his eyes are so +shrewd and sad. It would be hard to get near to Mr Colbran. Indeed, now, his +soul had some of the twist of his face, so that, when he is not ironical, he is +satiric. Yet a man of more complete tolerance and generosity scarcely exists. +Let the boors mock him, he merely smiles on the other side, and there is no +malice in his eyes, only a quiet expression of waiting till they have finished. +His people do not like him, yet none could bring forth an accusation against +him, save, that “You never can tell when he’s having you.” +</p> + +<p> +I dined the other evening with the vicar in his study. The room scandalizes the +neighbourhood because of the statuary which adorns it: a Laocoön and other +classic copies, with bronze and silver Italian Renaissance work. For the rest, +it is all dark and tawny. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Colbran is an archæologist. He does not take himself seriously, however, in +his hobby, so that nobody knows the worth of his opinions on the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“Here you are,” he said to me after dinner, “I’ve found +another paragraph for my great work.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t I told you I was compiling a Bible of the English +people—the Bible of their hearts—their exclamations in presence of +the unknown? I’ve found a fragment at home, a jump at God from +Beauvale.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” I asked, startled. +</p> + +<p> +The vicar closed his eyes whilst looking at me. +</p> + +<p> +“Only on parchment,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Then, slowly, he reached for a yellow book, and read, translating as he went: +</p> + +<p> +“Then, while we chanted, came a crackling at the window, at the great +east window, where hung our Lord on the Cross. It was a malicious covetous +Devil wrathed by us, rended the lovely image of the glass. We saw the iron +clutches of the fiend pick the window, and a face flaming red like fire in a +basket did glower down on us. Our hearts melted away, our legs broke, we +thought to die. The breath of the wretch filled the chapel. +</p> + +<p> +“But our dear Saint, etc., etc., came hastening down heaven to defend us. +The fiend began to groan and bray—he was daunted and beat off. +</p> + +<p> +“When the sun uprose, and it was morning, some went out in dread upon the +thin snow. There the figure of our Saint was broken and thrown down, whilst in +the window was a wicked hole as from the Holy Wounds the Blessed Blood was run +out at the touch of the Fiend, and on the snow was the Blood, sparkling like +gold. Some gathered it up for the joy of this House....” +</p> + +<p> +“Interesting,” I said. “Where’s it from?” +</p> + +<p> +“Beauvale records—fifteenth century.” +</p> + +<p> +“Beauvale Abbey,” I said; “they were only very few, the +monks. What frightened them, I wonder.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder,” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Somebody climbed up,” I supposed, “and attempted to get +in.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” he exclaimed, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what do you think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty much the same,” he replied. “I glossed it out for my +book.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your great work? Tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +He put a shade over the lamp so that the room was almost in darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I more than a voice?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I can see your hand,” I replied. He moved entirely from the circle +of light. Then his voice began, sing-song, sardonic: +</p> + +<p> +“I was a serf in Rollestoun’s Newthorpe Manor, master of the +stables I was. One day a horse bit me as I was grooming him. He was an old +enemy of mine. I fetched him a blow across the nose. Then, when he got a +chance, he lashed out at me and caught me a gash over the mouth. I snatched at +a hatchet and cut his head. He yelled, fiend as he was, and strained for me +with all his teeth bare. I brought him down. +</p> + +<p> +“For killing him they flogged me till they thought I was dead. I was +sturdy, because we horse-serfs got plenty to eat. I was sturdy, but they +flogged me till I did not move. The next night I set fire to the stables, and +the stables set fire to the house. I watched and saw the red flame rise and +look out of the window, I saw the folk running, each for himself, master no +more than one of a frightened party. It was freezing, but the heat made me +sweat. I saw them all turn again to watch, all rimmed with red. They cried, all +of them when the roof went in, when the sparks splashed up at rebound. They +cried then like dogs at the bagpipes howling. Master cursed me, till I laughed +as I lay under a bush quite near. +</p> + +<p> +“As the fire went down I got frightened. I ran for the woods, with fire +blazing in my eyes and crackling in my ears. For hours I was all fire. Then I +went to sleep under the bracken. When I woke it was evening. I had no mantle, +was frozen stiff. I was afraid to move, lest all the sores of my back should be +broken like thin ice. I lay still until I could bear my hunger no longer. I +moved then to get used to the pain of movement, when I began to hunt for food. +There was nothing to be found but hips. +</p> + +<p> +“After wandering about till I was faint I dropped again in the bracken. +The boughs above me creaked with frost. I started and looked round. The +branches were like hair among the starlight. My heart stood still. Again there +was a creak, creak, and suddenly a whoop, that whistled in fading. I fell down +in the bracken like dead wood. Yet, by the peculiar whistling sound at the end, +I knew it was only the ice bending or tightening in the frost. I was in the +woods above the lake, only two miles from the Manor. And yet, when the lake +whooped hollowly again, I clutched the frozen soil, every one of my muscles as +stiff as the stiff earth. So all the night long I dare not move my face, but +pressed it flat down, and taut I lay as if pegged down and braced. +</p> + +<p> +“When morning came still I did not move, I lay still in a dream. By +afternoon my ache was such it enlivened me. I cried, rocking my breath in the +ache of moving. Then again I became fierce. I beat my hands on the rough bark +to hurt them, so that I should not ache so much. In such a rage I was I swung +my limbs to torture till I fell sick with pain. Yet I fought the hurt, fought +it and fought by twisting and flinging myself, until it was overcome. Then the +evening began to draw on. All day the sun had not loosened the frost. I felt +the sky chill again towards afternoon. Then I knew the night was coming, and, +remembering the great space I had just come through, horrible so that it seemed +to have made me another man, I fled across the wood. +</p> + +<p> +“But in my running I came upon the oak where hanged five bodies. There +they must hang, bar-stiff, night after night. It was a terror worse than any. +Turning, blundering through the forest, I came out where the trees thinned, +where only hawthorns, ragged and shaggy, went down to the lake’s edge. +</p> + +<p> +“The sky across was red, the ice on the water glistened as if it were +warm. A few wild geese sat out like stones on the sheet of ice. I thought of +Martha. She was the daughter of the miller at the upper end of the lake. Her +hair was red like beech leaves in a wind. When I had gone often to the mill +with the horses she had brought me food. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I thought,’ said I to her, ‘’twas a squirrel +sat on your shoulder. ’Tis your hair fallen loose.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘They call me the fox,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Would I were your dog,’ said I. She would bring me bacon +and good bread, when I called at the mill with the horses. The thought of cakes +of bread and of bacon made me reel as if drunk. I had torn at the rabbit holes, +I had chewed wood all day. In such a dimness was my head that I felt neither +the soreness of my wounds nor the cuts of thorns on my knees, but stumbled +towards the mill, almost past fear of man and death, panting with fear of the +darkness that crept behind me from trunk to trunk. +</p> + +<p> +“Coming to the gap in the wood, below which lay the pond, I heard no +sound. Always I knew the place filled with the buzz of water, but now it was +silent. In fear of this stillness I ran forward, forgetting myself, forgetting +the frost. The wood seemed to pursue me. I fell, just in time, down by a shed +wherein were housed the few wintry pigs. The miller came riding in on his +horse, and the barking of dogs was for him. I heard him curse the day, curse +his servant, curse me, whom he had been out to hunt, in his rage of wasted +labour, curse all. As I lay I heard inside the shed a sucking. Then I knew that +the sow was there, and that the most of her sucking pigs would be already +killed for tomorrow’s Christmas. The miller, from forethought to have +young at that time, made profit by his sucking pigs that were sold for the +mid-winter feast. +</p> + +<p> +“When in a moment all was silent in the dusk, I broke the bar and came +into the shed. The sow grunted, but did not come forth to discover me. By and +by I crept in towards her warmth. She had but three young left, which now +angered her, she being too full of milk. Every now and again she slashed at +them and they squealed. Busy as she was with them, I in the darkness advanced +towards her. I trembled so that scarce dared I trust myself near her, for long +dared not put my naked face towards her. Shuddering with hunger and fear, I at +last fed of her, guarding my face with my arm. Her own full young tumbled +squealing against me, but she, feeling her ease, lay grunting. At last I, too, +lay drunk, swooning. +</p> + +<p> +“I was roused by the shouting of the miller. He, angered by his daughter +who wept, abused her, driving her from the house to feed the swine. She came, +bowing under a yoke, to the door of the shed. Finding the pin broken she stood +afraid, then, as the sow grunted, she came cautiously in. I took her with my +arm, my hand over her mouth. As she struggled against my breast my heart began +to beat loudly. At last she knew it was I. I clasped her. She hung in my arms, +turning away her face, so that I kissed her throat. The tears blinded my eyes, +I know not why, unless it were the hurt of my mouth, wounded by the horse, was +keen. +</p> + +<p> +“‘They will kill you,’ she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“‘No,’ I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“And she wept softly. She took my head in her arms and kissed me, wetting +me with her tears, brushing me with her keen hair, warming me through. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I will not go away from here,’ I said. ‘Bring me a +knife, and I will defend myself.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No,’ she wept. ‘Ah, no!’ +</p> + +<p> +“When she went I lay down, pressing my chest where she had rested on the +earth, lest being alone were worse emptiness than hunger. +</p> + +<p> +“Later she came again. I saw her bend in the doorway, a lanthorn hanging +in front. As she peered under the redness of her falling hair, I was afraid of +her. But she came with food. We sat together in the dull light. Sometimes still +I shivered and my throat would not swallow. +</p> + +<p> +“‘If,’ said I, ‘I eat all this you have brought me, I +shall sleep till somebody finds me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Then she took away the rest of the meat. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why,’ said I, ‘should I not eat?’ She looked at +me in tears of fear. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What?’ I said, but still she had no answer. I kissed her, +and the hurt of my wounded mouth angered me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Now there is my blood,’ said I, ‘on your +mouth.’ Wiping her smooth hand over her lips, she looked thereat, then at +me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Leave me,’ I said, ‘I am tired.’ She rose to +leave me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But bring a knife,’ I said. Then she held the lanthorn near +my face, looking as at a picture. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You look to me,’ she said, ‘like a stirk that is +roped for the axe. Your eyes are dark, but they are wide open.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Then I will sleep,’ said I, ‘but will not wake too +late.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Do not stay here,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I will not sleep in the wood,’ I answered, and it was my +heart that spoke, ‘for I am afraid. I had better be afraid of the voice +of man and dogs, than the sounds in the woods. Bring me a knife, and in the +morning I will go. Alone will I not go now.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘The searchers will take you,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Bring me a knife,’ I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ah, go,’ she wept. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Not now—I will not——’ +</p> + +<p> +“With that she lifted the lanthorn, lit up her own face and mine. Her +blue eyes dried of tears. Then I took her to myself, knowing she was mine. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I will come again,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +“She went, and I folded my arms, lay down and slept. +</p> + +<p> +“When I woke, she was rocking me wildly to rouse me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I dreamed,’ said I, ‘that a great heap, as if it were +a hill, lay on me and above me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“She put a cloak over me, gave me a hunting-knife and a wallet of food, +and other things I did not note. Then under her own cloak she hid the lanthorn. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Let us go,’ she said, and blindly I followed her. +</p> + +<p> +“When I came out into the cold someone touched my face and my hair. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ha!’ I cried, ‘who now——?’ Then she +swiftly clung to me, hushed me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Someone has touched me,’ I said aloud, still dazed with +sleep. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh hush!’ she wept. ‘’Tis snowing.’ The +dogs within the house began to bark. She fled forward, I after her. Coming to +the ford of the stream she ran swiftly over, but I broke through the ice. Then +I knew where I was. Snowflakes, fine and rapid, were biting at my face. In the +wood there was no wind nor snow. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Listen,’ said I to her, ‘listen, for I am locked up +with sleep.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I hear roaring overhead,’ she answered. ‘I hear in +the trees like great bats squeaking.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Give me your hand,’ said I. +</p> + +<p> +“We heard many noises as we passed. Once as there uprose a whiteness +before us, she cried aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Nay,’ said I, ‘do not untie thy hand from +mine,’ and soon we were crossing fallen snow. But ever and again she +started back from fear. +</p> + +<p> +“‘When you draw back my arm,’ I said, angry, ‘you +loosen a weal on my shoulder.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Thereafter she ran by my side, like a fawn beside its mother. +</p> + +<p> +“‘We will cross the valley and gain the stream,’ I said. +‘That will lead us on its ice as on a path deep into the forest. There we +can join the outlaws. The wolves are driven from this part. They have followed +the driven deer.’ +</p> + +<p> +“We came directly on a large gleam that shaped itself up among flying +grains of snow. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ah!’ she cried, and she stood amazed. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I thought we had gone through the bounds into faery realm, and I +was no more a man. How did I know what eyes were gleaming at me between the +snow, what cunning spirits in the draughts of air? So I waited for what would +happen, and I forgot her, that she was there. Only I could feel the spirits +whirling and blowing about me. +</p> + +<p> +“Whereupon she clung upon me, kissing me lavishly, and, were dogs or men +or demons come upon us at that moment, she had let us be stricken down, nor +heeded not. So we moved forward to the shadow that shone in colours upon the +passing snow. We found ourselves under a door of light which shed its colours +mixed with snow. This Martha had never seen, nor I, this door open for a red +and brave issuing like fires. We wondered. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is faery,’ she said, and after a while, ‘Could one +catch such—— Ah, no!’ +</p> + +<p> +“Through the snow shone bunches of red and blue. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Could one have such a little light like a red flower—only a +little, like a rose-berry scarlet on one’s breast!—then one were +singled out as Our Lady.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I flung off my cloak and my burden to climb up the face of the shadow. +Standing on rims of stone, then in pockets of snow, I reached upward. My hand +was red and blue, but I could not take the stuff. Like colour of a moth’s +wing it was on my hand, it flew on the increasing snow. I stood higher on the +head of a frozen man, reached higher my hand. Then I felt the bright stuff +cold. I could not pluck it off. Down below she cried to me to come again to +her. I felt a rib that yielded, I struck at it with my knife. There came a gap +in the redness. Looking through I saw below as it were white stunted angels, +with sad faces lifted in fear. Two faces they had each, and round rings of +hair. I was afraid. I grasped the shining red, I pulled. Then the cold man +under me sank, so I fell as if broken on to the snow. +</p> + +<p> +“Soon I was risen again, and we were running downwards towards the +stream. We felt ourselves eased when the smooth road of ice was beneath us. For +a while it was resting, to travel thus evenly. But the wind blew round us, the +snow hung upon us, we leaned us this way and that, towards the storm. I drew +her along, for she came as a bird that stems lifting and swaying against the +wind. By and by the snow came smaller, there was not wind in the wood. Then I +felt nor labour, nor cold. Only I knew the darkness drifted by on either side, +that overhead was a lane of paleness where a moon fled us before. Still, I can +feel the moon fleeing from me, can feel the trees passing round me in slow +dizzy reel, can feel the hurt of my shoulder and my straight arm torn with +holding her. I was following the moon and the stream, for I knew where the +water peeped from its burrow in the ground there were shelters of the outlaw. +But she fell, without sound or sign. +</p> + +<p> +“I gathered her up and climbed the bank. There all round me hissed the +larchwood, dry beneath, and laced with its dry-fretted cords. For a little way +I carried her into the trees. Then I laid her down till I cut flat hairy +boughs. I put her in my bosom on this dry bed, so we swooned together through +the night. I laced her round and covered her with myself, so she lay like a nut +within its shell. +</p> + +<p> +“Again, when morning came, it was pain of cold that woke me. I groaned, +but my heart was warm as I saw the heap of red hair in my arms. As I looked at +her, her eyes opened into mine. She smiled—from out of her smile came +fear. As if in a trap she pressed back her head. +</p> + +<p> +“‘We have no flint,’ said I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes—in the wallet, flint and steel and tinder box,’ +she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“‘God yield you blessing,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“In a place a little open I kindled a fire of larch boughs. She was +afraid of me, hovering near, yet never crossing a space. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Come,’ said I, ‘let us eat this food.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Your face,’ she said, ‘is smeared with blood.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I opened out my cloak. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But come,’ said I, ‘you are frosted with cold.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I took a handful of snow in my hand, wiping my face with it, which then +I dried on my cloak. +</p> + +<p> +“‘My face is no longer painted with blood, you are no longer afraid +of me. Come here then, sit by me while we eat.’ +</p> + +<p> +“But as I cut the cold bread for her, she clasped me suddenly, kissing +me. She fell before me, clasped my knees to her breast, weeping. She laid her +face down to my feet, so that her hair spread like a fire before me. I wondered +at the woman. ‘Nay,’ I cried. At that she lifted her face to me +from below. ‘Nay,’ I cried, feeling my tears fall. With her head on +my breast, my own tears rose from their source, wetting my cheek and her hair, +which was wet with the rain of my eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I remembered and took from my bosom the coloured light of that +night before. I saw it was black and rough. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ah,’ said I, ‘this is magic.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘The black stone!’ she wondered. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is the red light of the night before,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is magic,’ she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Shall I throw it?’ said I, lifting the stone, ‘shall +I throw it away, for fear?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘It shines!’ she cried, looking up. ‘It shines like +the eye of a creature at night, the eye of a wolf in the doorway.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘’Tis magic,’ I said, ‘let me throw it from +us.’ But nay, she held my arm. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is red and shining,’ she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is a bloodstone,’ I answered. ‘It will hurt us, we +shall die in blood.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘But give it to me,’ she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is red of blood,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ah, give it to me,’ she called. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is my blood,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Give it,’ she commanded, low. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is my life-stone,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Give it me,’ she pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I gave it her. She held it up, she smiled, she smiled in my face, +lifting her arms to me. I took her with my mouth, her mouth, her white throat. +Nor she ever shrank, but trembled with happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“What woke us, when the woods were filling again with shadow, when the +fire was out, when we opened our eyes and looked up as if drowned, into the +light which stood bright and thick on the tree-tops, what woke us was the sound +of wolves....” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +“Nay,” said the vicar, suddenly rising, “they lived happily +ever after.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” I said. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>The Shades of Spring</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +It was a mile nearer through the wood. Mechanically, Syson turned up by the +forge and lifted the field-gate. The blacksmith and his mate stood still, +watching the trespasser. But Syson looked too much a gentleman to be accosted. +They let him go in silence across the small field to the wood. +</p> + +<p> +There was not the least difference between this morning and those of the bright +springs, six or eight years back. White and sandy-gold fowls still scratched +round the gate, littering the earth and the field with feathers and +scratched-up rubbish. Between the two thick holly bushes in the wood-hedge was +the hidden gap, whose fence one climbed to get into the wood; the bars were +scored just the same by the keeper’s boots. He was back in the eternal. +</p> + +<p> +Syson was extraordinarily glad. Like an uneasy spirit he had returned to the +country of his past, and he found it waiting for him, unaltered. The hazel +still spread glad little hands downwards, the bluebells here were still wan and +few, among the lush grass and in shade of the bushes. +</p> + +<p> +The path through the wood, on the very brow of a slope, ran winding easily for +a time. All around were twiggy oaks, just issuing their gold, and floor spaces +diapered with woodruff, with patches of dog-mercury and tufts of hyacinth. Two +fallen trees still lay across the track. Syson jolted down a steep, rough +slope, and came again upon the open land, this time looking north as through a +great window in the wood. He stayed to gaze over the level fields of the +hill-top, at the village which strewed the bare upland as if it had tumbled off +the passing waggons of industry, and been forsaken. There was a stiff, modern, +grey little church, and blocks and rows of red dwellings lying at random; at +the back, the twinkling headstocks of the pit, and the looming pit-hill. All +was naked and out-of-doors, not a tree! It was quite unaltered. +</p> + +<p> +Syson turned, satisfied, to follow the path that sheered downhill into the +wood. He was curiously elated, feeling himself back in an enduring vision. He +started. A keeper was standing a few yards in front, barring the way. +</p> + +<p> +“Where might you be going this road, sir?” asked the man. The tone +of his question had a challenging twang. Syson looked at the fellow with an +impersonal, observant gaze. It was a young man of four or five and twenty, +ruddy and well favoured. His dark blue eyes now stared aggressively at the +intruder. His black moustache, very thick, was cropped short over a small, +rather soft mouth. In every other respect the fellow was manly and +good-looking. He stood just above middle height; the strong forward thrust of +his chest, and the perfect ease of his erect, self-sufficient body, gave one +the feeling that he was taut with animal life, like the thick jet of a fountain +balanced in itself. He stood with the butt of his gun on the ground, looking +uncertainly and questioningly at Syson. The dark, restless eyes of the +trespasser, examining the man and penetrating into him without heeding his +office, troubled the keeper and made him flush. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Naylor? Have you got his job?” Syson asked. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not from the House, are you?” inquired the keeper. It +could not be, since everyone was away. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’m not from the House,” the other replied. It seemed to +amuse him. +</p> + +<p> +“Then might I ask where you were making for?” said the keeper, +nettled. +</p> + +<p> +“Where I am making for?” Syson repeated. “I am going to +Willey-Water Farm.” +</p> + +<p> +“This isn’t the road.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so. Down this path, past the well, and out by the white +gate.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that’s not the public road.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose not. I used to come so often, in Naylor’s time, I had +forgotten. Where is he, by the way?” +</p> + +<p> +“Crippled with rheumatism,” the keeper answered reluctantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he?” Syson exclaimed in pain. +</p> + +<p> +“And who might you be?” asked the keeper, with a new intonation. +</p> + +<p> +“John Adderley Syson; I used to live in Cordy Lane.” +</p> + +<p> +“Used to court Hilda Millership?” +</p> + +<p> +Syson’s eyes opened with a pained smile. He nodded. There was an awkward +silence. +</p> + +<p> +“And you—who are you?” asked Syson. +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur Pilbeam—Naylor’s my uncle,” said the other. +</p> + +<p> +“You live here in Nuttall?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m lodgin’ at my uncle’s—at +Naylor’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see!” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you say you was goin’ down to Willey-Water?” asked the +keeper. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause of some moments, before the keeper blurted: +“<i>I’m</i> courtin’ Hilda Millership.” +</p> + +<p> +The young fellow looked at the intruder with a stubborn defiance, almost +pathetic. Syson opened new eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you?” he said, astonished. The keeper flushed dark. +</p> + +<p> +“She and me are keeping company,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t know!” said Syson. The other man waited +uncomfortably. +</p> + +<p> +“What, is the thing settled?” asked the intruder. +</p> + +<p> +“How, settled?” retorted the other sulkily. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to get married soon, and all that?” +</p> + +<p> +The keeper stared in silence for some moments, impotent. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so,” he said, full of resentment. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” Syson watched closely. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m married myself,” he added, after a time. +</p> + +<p> +“You are?” said the other incredulously. +</p> + +<p> +Syson laughed in his brilliant, unhappy way. +</p> + +<p> +“This last fifteen months,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The keeper gazed at him with wide, wondering eyes, apparently thinking back, +and trying to make things out. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, didn’t you know?” asked Syson. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I didn’t,” said the other sulkily. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah well!” said Syson, “I will go on. I suppose I may.” +The keeper stood in silent opposition. The two men hesitated in the open, +grassy space, set around with small sheaves of sturdy bluebells; a little open +platform on the brow of the hill. Syson took a few indecisive steps forward, +then stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, how beautiful!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +He had come in full view of the downslope. The wide path ran from his feet like +a river, and it was full of bluebells, save for a green winding thread down the +centre, where the keeper walked. Like a stream the path opened into azure +shallows at the levels, and there were pools of bluebells, with still the green +thread winding through, like a thin current of ice-water through blue lakes. +And from under the twig-purple of the bushes swam the shadowed blue, as if the +flowers lay in flood water over the woodland. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, isn’t it lovely!” Syson exclaimed; this was his past, +the country he had abandoned, and it hurt him to see it so beautiful. +Wood-pigeons cooed overhead, and the air was full of the brightness of birds +singing. +</p> + +<p> +“If you’re married, what do you keep writing to her for, and +sending her poetry books and things?” asked the keeper. Syson stared at +him, taken aback and humiliated. Then he began to smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “I did not know about you....” +</p> + +<p> +Again the keeper flushed darkly. +</p> + +<p> +“But if you are married——” he charged. +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” answered the other cynically. +</p> + +<p> +Then, looking down the blue, beautiful path, Syson felt his own humiliation. +“What right <i>have</i> I to hang on to her?” he thought, bitterly +self-contemptuous. +</p> + +<p> +“She knows I’m married and all that,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But you keep sending her books,” challenged the keeper. +</p> + +<p> +Syson, silenced, looked at the other man quizzically, half pitying. Then he +turned. +</p> + +<p> +“Good day,” he said, and was gone. Now, everything irritated him: +the two sallows, one all gold and perfume and murmur, one silver-green and +bristly, reminded him, that here he had taught her about pollination. What a +fool he was! What god-forsaken folly it all was! +</p> + +<p> +“Ah well,” he said to himself; “the poor devil seems to have +a grudge against me. I’ll do my best for him.” He grinned to +himself, in a very bad temper. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +The farm was less than a hundred yards from the wood’s edge. The wall of +trees formed the fourth side to the open quadrangle. The house faced the wood. +With tangled emotions, Syson noted the plum blossom falling on the profuse, +coloured primroses, which he himself had brought here and set. How they had +increased! There were thick tufts of scarlet, and pink, and pale purple +primroses under the plum trees. He saw somebody glance at him through the +kitchen window, heard men’s voices. +</p> + +<p> +The door opened suddenly: very womanly she had grown! He felt himself going +pale. +</p> + +<p> +“You?—Addy!” she exclaimed, and stood motionless. +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” called the farmer’s voice. Men’s low voices +answered. Those low voices, curious and almost jeering, roused the tormented +spirit in the visitor. Smiling brilliantly at her, he waited. +</p> + +<p> +“Myself—why not?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The flush burned very deep on her cheek and throat. +</p> + +<p> +“We are just finishing dinner,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will stay outside.” He made a motion to show that he would +sit on the red earthenware pipkin that stood near the door among the daffodils, +and contained the drinking water. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, come in,” she said hurriedly. He followed her. In the +doorway, he glanced swiftly over the family, and bowed. Everyone was confused. +The farmer, his wife, and the four sons sat at the coarsely laid dinner-table, +the men with arms bare to the elbows. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry I come at lunch-time,” said Syson. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, Addy!” said the farmer, assuming the old form of address, +but his tone cold. “How are you?” +</p> + +<p> +And he shook hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you have a bit?” he invited the young visitor, but taking +for granted the offer would be refused. He assumed that Syson was become too +refined to eat so roughly. The young man winced at the imputation. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you had any dinner?” asked the daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Syson. “It is too early. I shall be back at +half-past one.” +</p> + +<p> +“You call it lunch, don’t you?” asked the eldest son, almost +ironical. He had once been an intimate friend of this young man. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll give Addy something when we’ve finished,” said +the mother, an invalid, deprecating. +</p> + +<p> +“No—don’t trouble. I don’t want to give you any +trouble,” said Syson. +</p> + +<p> +“You could allus live on fresh air an’ scenery,” laughed the +youngest son, a lad of nineteen. +</p> + +<p> +Syson went round the buildings, and into the orchard at the back of the house, +where daffodils all along the hedgerow swung like yellow, ruffled birds on +their perches. He loved the place extraordinarily, the hills ranging round, +with bear-skin woods covering their giant shoulders, and small red farms like +brooches clasping their garments; the blue streak of water in the valley, the +bareness of the home pasture, the sound of myriad-threaded bird-singing, which +went mostly unheard. To his last day, he would dream of this place, when he +felt the sun on his face, or saw the small handfuls of snow between the winter +twigs, or smelt the coming of spring. +</p> + +<p> +Hilda was very womanly. In her presence he felt constrained. She was +twenty-nine, as he was, but she seemed to him much older. He felt foolish, +almost unreal, beside her. She was so static. As he was fingering some shed +plum blossom on a low bough, she came to the back door to shake the tablecloth. +Fowls raced from the stackyard, birds rustled from the trees. Her dark hair was +gathered up in a coil like a crown on her head. She was very straight, distant +in her bearing. As she folded the cloth, she looked away over the hills. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Syson returned indoors. She had prepared eggs and curd cheese, stewed +gooseberries and cream. +</p> + +<p> +“Since you will dine tonight,” she said, “I have only given +you a light lunch.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is awfully nice,” he said. “You keep a real idyllic +atmosphere—your belt of straw and ivy buds.” +</p> + +<p> +Still they hurt each other. +</p> + +<p> +He was uneasy before her. Her brief, sure speech, her distant bearing, were +unfamiliar to him. He admired again her grey-black eyebrows, and her lashes. +Their eyes met. He saw, in the beautiful grey and black of her glance, tears +and a strange light, and at the back of all, calm acceptance of herself, and +triumph over him. +</p> + +<p> +He felt himself shrinking. With an effort he kept up the ironic manner. +</p> + +<p> +She sent him into the parlour while she washed the dishes. The long low room +was refurnished from the Abbey sale, with chairs upholstered in claret-coloured +rep, many years old, and an oval table of polished walnut, and another piano, +handsome, though still antique. In spite of the strangeness, he was pleased. +Opening a high cupboard let into the thickness of the wall, he found it full of +his books, his old lesson-books, and volumes of verse he had sent her, English +and German. The daffodils in the white window-bottoms shone across the room, he +could almost feel their rays. The old glamour caught him again. His youthful +water-colours on the wall no longer made him grin; he remembered how fervently +he had tried to paint for her, twelve years before. +</p> + +<p> +She entered, wiping a dish, and he saw again the bright, kernel-white beauty of +her arms. +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite splendid here,” he said, and their eyes met. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you like it?” she asked. It was the old, low, husky tone of +intimacy. He felt a quick change beginning in his blood. It was the old, +delicious sublimation, the thinning, almost the vaporizing of himself, as if +his spirit were to be liberated. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” he nodded, smiling at her like a boy again. She bowed her +head. +</p> + +<p> +“This was the countess’s chair,” she said in low tones. +“I found her scissors down here between the padding.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you? Where are they?” +</p> + +<p> +Quickly, with a lilt in her movement, she fetched her work-basket, and together +they examined the long-shanked old scissors. +</p> + +<p> +“What a ballad of dead ladies!” he said, laughing, as he fitted his +fingers into the round loops of the countess’s scissors. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew you could use them,” she said, with certainty. He looked at +his fingers, and at the scissors. She meant his fingers were fine enough for +the small-looped scissors. +</p> + +<p> +“That is something to be said for me,” he laughed, putting the +scissors aside. She turned to the window. He noticed the fine, fair down on her +cheek and her upper lip, and her soft, white neck, like the throat of a nettle +flower, and her fore-arms, bright as newly blanched kernels. He was looking at +her with new eyes, and she was a different person to him. He did not know her. +But he could regard her objectively now. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we go out awhile?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” he answered. But the predominant emotion, that troubled the +excitement and perplexity of his heart, was fear, fear of that which he saw. +There was about her the same manner, the same intonation in her voice, now as +then, but she was not what he had known her to be. He knew quite well what she +had been for him. And gradually he was realizing that she was something quite +other, and always had been. +</p> + +<p> +She put no covering on her head, merely took off her apron, saying, “We +will go by the larches.” As they passed the old orchard, she called him +in to show him a blue-tit’s nest in one of the apple trees, and a +sycock’s in the hedge. He rather wondered at her surety, at a certain +hardness like arrogance hidden under her humility. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at the apple buds,” she said, and he then perceived myriads +of little scarlet balls among the drooping boughs. Watching his face, her eyes +went hard. She saw the scales were fallen from him, and at last he was going to +see her as she was. It was the thing she had most dreaded in the past, and most +needed, for her soul’s sake. Now he was going to see her as she was. He +would not love her, and he would know he never could have loved her. The old +illusion gone, they were strangers, crude and entire. But he would give her her +due—she would have her due from him. +</p> + +<p> +She was brilliant as he had not known her. She showed him nests: a jenny +wren’s in a low bush. +</p> + +<p> +“See this jinty’s!” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +He was surprised to hear her use the local name. She reached carefully through +the thorns, and put her fingers in the nest’s round door. +</p> + +<p> +“Five!” she said. “Tiny little things.” +</p> + +<p> +She showed him nests of robins, and chaffinches, and linnets, and buntings; of +a wagtail beside the water. +</p> + +<p> +“And if we go down, nearer the lake, I will show you a +kingfisher’s....” +</p> + +<p> +“Among the young fir trees,” she said, “there’s a +throstle’s or a blackie’s on nearly every bough, every ledge. The +first day, when I had seen them all, I felt as if I mustn’t go in the +wood. It seemed a city of birds: and in the morning, hearing them all, I +thought of the noisy early markets. I was afraid to go in my own wood.” +</p> + +<p> +She was using the language they had both of them invented. Now it was all her +own. He had done with it. She did not mind his silence, but was always +dominant, letting him see her wood. As they came along a marshy path where +forget-me-nots were opening in a rich blue drift: “We know all the birds, +but there are many flowers we can’t find out,” she said. It was +half an appeal to him, who had known the names of things. +</p> + +<p> +She looked dreamily across to the open fields that slept in the sun. +</p> + +<p> +“I have a lover as well, you know,” she said, with assurance, yet +dropping again almost into the intimate tone. +</p> + +<p> +This woke in him the spirit to fight her. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I met him. He is good-looking—also in Arcady.” +</p> + +<p> +Without answering, she turned into a dark path that led up-hill, where the +trees and undergrowth were very thick. +</p> + +<p> +“They did well,” she said at length, “to have various altars +to various gods, in old days.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah yes!” he agreed. “To whom is the new one?” +</p> + +<p> +“There are no old ones,” she said. “I was always looking for +this.” +</p> + +<p> +“And whose is it?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she said, looking full at him. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very glad, for your sake,” he said, “that you are +satisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye—but the man doesn’t matter so much,” she said. +There was a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” he exclaimed, astonished, yet recognizing her as her real +self. +</p> + +<p> +“It is one’s self that matters,” she said. “Whether one +is being one’s own self and serving one’s own God.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence, during which he pondered. The path was almost flowerless, +gloomy. At the side, his heels sank into soft clay. +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +“I,” she said, very slowly, “I was married the same night as +you.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Not legally, of course,” she replied. +“But—actually.” +</p> + +<p> +“To the keeper?” he said, not knowing what else to say. +</p> + +<p> +She turned to him. +</p> + +<p> +“You thought I could not?” she said. But the flush was deep in her +cheek and throat, for all her assurance. +</p> + +<p> +Still he would not say anything. +</p> + +<p> +“You see”—she was making an effort to +explain—”<i>I</i> had to understand also.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what does it amount to, this <i>understanding</i>?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“A very great deal—does it not to you?” she replied. +“One is free.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you are not disappointed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Far from it!” Her tone was deep and sincere. +</p> + +<p> +“You love him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I love him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +This silenced her for a while. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, among his things, I love him,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +His conceit would not let him be silent. +</p> + +<p> +“It needs this setting?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It does,” she cried. “You were always making me to be not +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“But is it a matter of surroundings?” he said. He had considered +her all spirit. +</p> + +<p> +“I am like a plant,” she replied. “I can only grow in my own +soil.” +</p> + +<p> +They came to a place where the undergrowth shrank away, leaving a bare, brown +space, pillared with the brick-red and purplish trunks of pine trees. On the +fringe, hung the sombre green of elder trees, with flat flowers in bud, and +below were bright, unfurling pennons of fern. In the midst of the bare space +stood a keeper’s log hut. Pheasant-coops were lying about, some occupied +by a clucking hen, some empty. +</p> + +<p> +Hilda walked over the brown pine-needles to the hut, took a key from among the +eaves, and opened the door. It was a bare wooden place with a carpenter’s +bench and form, carpenter’s tools, an axe, snares, traps, some skins +pegged down, everything in order. Hilda closed the door. Syson examined the +weird flat coats of wild animals, that were pegged down to be cured. She turned +some knotch in the side wall, and disclosed a second, small apartment. +</p> + +<p> +“How romantic!” said Syson. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. He is very curious—he has some of a wild animal’s +cunning—in a nice sense—and he is inventive, and +thoughtful—but not beyond a certain point.” +</p> + +<p> +She pulled back a dark green curtain. The apartment was occupied almost +entirely by a large couch of heather and bracken, on which was spread an ample +rabbit-skin rug. On the floor were patchwork rugs of cat-skin, and a red +calf-skin, while hanging from the wall were other furs. Hilda took down one, +which she put on. It was a cloak of rabbit-skin and of white fur, with a hood, +apparently of the skins of stoats. She laughed at Syson from out of this +barbaric mantle, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—! I congratulate you on your man,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“And look!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +In a little jar on a shelf were some sprays, frail and white, of the first +honeysuckle. +</p> + +<p> +“They will scent the place at night,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He looked round curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Where does he come short, then?” he asked. She gazed at him for a +few moments. Then, turning aside: +</p> + +<p> +“The stars aren’t the same with him,” she said. “You +could make them flash and quiver, and the forget-me-nots come up at me like +phosphorescence. You could make things <i>wonderful</i>. I have found it +out—it is true. But I have them all for myself, now.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“After all, stars and forget-me-nots are only luxuries. You ought to make +poetry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” she assented. “But I have them all now.” +</p> + +<p> +Again he laughed bitterly at her. +</p> + +<p> +She turned swiftly. He was leaning against the small window of the tiny, +obscure room, and was watching her, who stood in the doorway, still cloaked in +her mantle. His cap was removed, so she saw his face and head distinctly in the +dim room. His black, straight, glossy hair was brushed clean back from his +brow. His black eyes were watching her, and his face, that was clear and cream, +and perfectly smooth, was flickering. +</p> + +<p> +“We are very different,” she said bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +Again he laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I see you disapprove of me,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I disapprove of what you have become,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You think we might”—he glanced at the hut—“have +been like this—you and I?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“You! no; never! You plucked a thing and looked at it till you had found +out all you wanted to know about it, then you threw it away,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I?” he asked. “And could your way never have been my +way? I suppose not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should it?” she said. “I am a separate being.” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely two people sometimes go the same way,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You took me away from myself,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He knew he had mistaken her, had taken her for something she was not. That was +his fault, not hers. +</p> + +<p> +“And did you always know?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No—you never let me know. You bullied me. I couldn’t help +myself. I was glad when you left me, really.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know you were,” he said. But his face went paler, almost deathly +luminous. +</p> + +<p> +“Yet,” he said, “it was you who sent me the way I have +gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“I!” she exclaimed, in pride. +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>would</i> have me take the Grammar School scholarship—and +you would have me foster poor little Botell’s fervent attachment to me, +till he couldn’t live without me—and because Botell was rich and +influential. You triumphed in the wine-merchant’s offer to send me to +Cambridge, to befriend his only child. You wanted me to rise in the world. And +all the time you were sending me away from you—every new success of mine +put a separation between us, and more for you than for me. You never wanted to +come with me: you wanted just to send me to see what it was like. I believe you +even wanted me to marry a lady. You wanted to triumph over society in +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I am responsible,” she said, with sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +“I distinguished myself to satisfy you,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she cried, “you always wanted change, change, like a +child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well! And I am a success, and I know it, and I do some good work. +But—I thought you were different. What right have you to a man?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want?” she said, looking at him with wide, fearful +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +He looked back at her, his eyes pointed, like weapons. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, nothing,” he laughed shortly. +</p> + +<p> +There was a rattling at the outer latch, and the keeper entered. The woman +glanced round, but remained standing, fur-cloaked, in the inner doorway. Syson +did not move. +</p> + +<p> +The other man entered, saw, and turned away without speaking. The two also were +silent. +</p> + +<p> +Pilbeam attended to his skins. +</p> + +<p> +“I must go,” said Syson. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I give you ‘To our vast and varying fortunes.’” +He lifted his hand in pledge. +</p> + +<p> +“‘To our vast and varying fortunes,’” she answered +gravely, and speaking in cold tones. +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The keeper pretended not to hear. Syson, watching keenly, began to smile. The +woman drew herself up. +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur!” she said again, with a curious upward inflection, which +warned the two men that her soul was trembling on a dangerous crisis. +</p> + +<p> +The keeper slowly put down his tool and came to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted to introduce you,” she said, trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve met him a’ready,” said the keeper. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you? It is Addy, Mr Syson, whom you know about.—This is +Arthur, Mr Pilbeam,” she added, turning to Syson. The latter held out his +hand to the keeper, and they shook hands in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad to have met you,” said Syson. “We drop our +correspondence, Hilda?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why need we?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +The two men stood at a loss. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Is</i> there no need?” said Syson. +</p> + +<p> +Still she was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“It is as you will,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +They went all three together down the gloomy path. +</p> + +<p> +“‘<i>Qu’il était bleu, le ciel, et grand +l’espoir</i>,’” quoted Syson, not knowing what to say. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” she said. “Besides, <i>we</i> can’t +walk in <i>our</i> wild oats—we never sowed any.” +</p> + +<p> +Syson looked at her. He was startled to see his young love, his nun, his +Botticelli angel, so revealed. It was he who had been the fool. He and she were +more separate than any two strangers could be. She only wanted to keep up a +correspondence with him—and he, of course, wanted it kept up, so that he +could write to her, like Dante to some Beatrice who had never existed save in +the man’s own brain. +</p> + +<p> +At the bottom of the path she left him. He went along with the keeper, towards +the open, towards the gate that closed on the wood. The two men walked almost +like friends. They did not broach the subject of their thoughts. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Instead of going straight to the high-road gate, Syson went along the +wood’s edge, where the brook spread out in a little bog, and under the +alder trees, among the reeds, great yellow stools and bosses of marigolds +shone. Threads of brown water trickled by, touched with gold from the flowers. +Suddenly there was a blue flash in the air, as a kingfisher passed. +</p> + +<p> +Syson was extraordinarily moved. He climbed the bank to the gorse bushes, whose +sparks of blossom had not yet gathered into a flame. Lying on the dry brown +turf, he discovered sprigs of tiny purple milkwort and pink spots of lousewort. +What a wonderful world it was—marvellous, for ever new. He felt as if it +were underground, like the fields of monotone hell, notwithstanding. Inside his +breast was a pain like a wound. He remembered the poem of William Morris, where +in the Chapel of Lyonesse a knight lay wounded, with the truncheon of a spear +deep in his breast, lying always as dead, yet did not die, while day after day +the coloured sunlight dipped from the painted window across the chancel, and +passed away. He knew now it never had been true, that which was between him and +her, not for a moment. The truth had stood apart all the time. +</p> + +<p> +Syson turned over. The air was full of the sound of larks, as if the sunshine +above were condensing and falling in a shower. Amid this bright sound, voices +sounded small and distinct. +</p> + +<p> +“But if he’s married, an’ quite willing to drop it off, what +has ter against it?” said the man’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to talk about it now. I want to be alone.” +</p> + +<p> +Syson looked through the bushes. Hilda was standing in the wood, near the gate. +The man was in the field, loitering by the hedge, and playing with the bees as +they settled on the white bramble flowers. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a while, in which Syson imagined her will among the +brightness of the larks. Suddenly the keeper exclaimed “Ah!” and +swore. He was gripping at the sleeve of his coat, near the shoulder. Then he +pulled off his jacket, threw it on the ground, and absorbedly rolled up his +shirt sleeve right to the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he said vindictively, as he picked out the bee and flung it +away. He twisted his fine, bright arm, peering awkwardly over his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” asked Hilda. +</p> + +<p> +“A bee—crawled up my sleeve,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here to me,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The keeper went to her, like a sulky boy. She took his arm in her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Here it is—and the sting left in—poor bee!” +</p> + +<p> +She picked out the sting, put her mouth to his arm, and sucked away the drop of +poison. As she looked at the red mark her mouth had made, and at his arm, she +said, laughing: +</p> + +<p> +“That is the reddest kiss you will ever have.” +</p> + +<p> +When Syson next looked up, at the sound of voices, he saw in the shadow the +keeper with his mouth on the throat of his beloved, whose head was thrown back, +and whose hair had fallen, so that one rough rope of dark brown hair hung +across his bare arm. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” the woman answered. “I am not upset because he’s +gone. You won’t understand....” +</p> + +<p> +Syson could not distinguish what the man said. Hilda replied, clear and +distinct: +</p> + +<p> +“You know I love you. He has gone quite out of my life—don’t +trouble about him....” He kissed her, murmuring. She laughed hollowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, indulgent. “We will be married, we will be +married. But not just yet.” He spoke to her again. Syson heard nothing +for a time. Then she said: +</p> + +<p> +“You must go home, now, dear—you will get no sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +Again was heard the murmur of the keeper’s voice, troubled by fear and +passion. +</p> + +<p> +“But why should we be married at once?” she said. “What more +would you have, by being married? It is most beautiful as it is.” +</p> + +<p> +At last he pulled on his coat and departed. She stood at the gate, not watching +him, but looking over the sunny country. +</p> + +<p> +When at last she had gone, Syson also departed, going back to town. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>Second Best</h2> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m tired!” Frances exclaimed petulantly, and in the +same instant she dropped down on the turf, near the hedge-bottom. Anne stood a +moment surprised, then, accustomed to the vagaries of her beloved Frances, +said: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and aren’t you always likely to be tired, after travelling +that blessed long way from Liverpool yesterday?” and she plumped down +beside her sister. Anne was a wise young body of fourteen, very buxom, brimming +with common sense. Frances was much older, about twenty-three, and whimsical, +spasmodic. She was the beauty and the clever child of the family. She plucked +the goose-grass buttons from her dress in a nervous, desperate fashion. Her +beautiful profile, looped above with black hair, warm with the +dusky-and-scarlet complexion of a pear, was calm as a mask, her thin brown hand +plucked nervously. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not the journey,” she said, objecting to Anne’s +obtuseness. Anne looked inquiringly at her darling. The young girl, in her +self-confident, practical way, proceeded to reckon up this whimsical creature. +But suddenly she found herself full in the eyes of Frances; felt two dark, +hectic eyes flaring challenge at her, and she shrank away. Frances was peculiar +for these great, exposed looks, which disconcerted people by their violence and +their suddenness. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s a matter, poor old duck?” asked Anne, as she folded +the slight, wilful form of her sister in her arms. Frances laughed shakily, and +nestled down for comfort on the budding breasts of the strong girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m only a bit tired,” she murmured, on the point of +tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, of course you are, what do you expect?” soothed Anne. It was +a joke to Frances that Anne should play elder, almost mother to her. But then, +Anne was in her unvexed teens; men were like big dogs to her: while Frances, at +twenty-three, suffered a good deal. +</p> + +<p> +The country was intensely morning-still. On the common everything shone beside +its shadow, and the hillside gave off heat in silence. The brown turf seemed in +a low state of combustion, the leaves of the oaks were scorched brown. Among +the blackish foliage in the distance shone the small red and orange of the +village. +</p> + +<p> +The willows in the brook-course at the foot of the common suddenly shook with a +dazzling effect like diamonds. It was a puff of wind. Anne resumed her normal +position. She spread her knees, and put in her lap a handful of hazel nuts, +whity-green leafy things, whose one cheek was tanned between brown and pink. +These she began to crack and eat. Frances, with bowed head, mused bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, you know Tom Smedley?” began the young girl, as she pulled a +tight kernel out of its shell. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so,” replied Frances sarcastically. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he gave me a wild rabbit what he’d caught, to keep with my +tame one—and it’s living.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a good thing,” said Frances, very detached and +ironic. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it <i>is!</i> He reckoned he’d take me to Ollerton Feast, +but he never did. Look here, he took a servant from the rectory; I saw +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“So he ought,” said Frances. +</p> + +<p> +“No, he oughtn’t! and I told him so. And I told him I should tell +you—an’ I have done.” +</p> + +<p> +Click and snap went a nut between her teeth. She sorted out the kernel, and +chewed complacently. +</p> + +<p> +“It doesn’t make much difference,” said Frances. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’appen it doesn’t; but I was mad with him all the +same.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I was; he’s no right to go with a servant.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a perfect right,” persisted Frances, very just and +cold. +</p> + +<p> +“No, he hasn’t, when he’d said he’d take me.” +</p> + +<p> +Frances burst into a laugh of amusement and relief. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no; I’d forgot that,” she said, adding, “And what +did he say when you promised to tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“He laughed and said, ‘he won’t fret her fat over +that.’” +</p> + +<p> +“And she won’t,” sniffed Frances. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence. The common, with its sere, blonde-headed thistles, its heaps +of silent bramble, its brown-husked gorse in the glare of sunshine, seemed +visionary. Across the brook began the immense pattern of agriculture, white +chequering of barley stubble, brown squares of wheat, khaki patches of pasture, +red stripes of fallow, with the woodland and the tiny village dark like +ornaments, leading away to the distance, right to the hills, where the +check-pattern grew smaller and smaller, till, in the blackish haze of heat, far +off, only the tiny white squares of barley stubble showed distinct. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, I say, here’s a rabbit hole!” cried Anne suddenly. +“Should we watch if one comes out? You won’t have to fidget, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +The two girls sat perfectly still. Frances watched certain objects in her +surroundings: they had a peculiar, unfriendly look about them: the weight of +greenish elderberries on their purpling stalks; the twinkling of the yellowing +crab-apples that clustered high up in the hedge, against the sky: the +exhausted, limp leaves of the primroses lying flat in the hedge-bottom: all +looked strange to her. Then her eyes caught a movement. A mole was moving +silently over the warm, red soil, nosing, shuffling hither and thither, flat, +and dark as a shadow, shifting about, and as suddenly brisk, and as silent, +like a very ghost of <i>joie de vivre</i>. Frances started, from habit was +about to call on Anne to kill the little pest. But, today, her lethargy of +unhappiness was too much for her. She watched the little brute paddling, +snuffing, touching things to discover them, running in blindness, delighted to +ecstasy by the sunlight and the hot, strange things that caressed its belly and +its nose. She felt a keen pity for the little creature. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, our Fran, look there! It’s a mole.” +</p> + +<p> +Anne was on her feet, standing watching the dark, unconscious beast. Frances +frowned with anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +“It doesn’t run off, does it?” said the young girl softly. +Then she stealthily approached the creature. The mole paddled fumblingly away. +In an instant Anne put her foot upon it, not too heavily. Frances could see the +struggling, swimming movement of the little pink hands of the brute, the +twisting and twitching of its pointed nose, as it wrestled under the sole of +the boot. +</p> + +<p> +“It <i>does</i> wriggle!” said the bonny girl, knitting her brows +in a frown at the eerie sensation. Then she bent down to look at her trap. +Frances could now see, beyond the edge of the boot-sole, the heaving of the +velvet shoulders, the pitiful turning of the sightless face, the frantic rowing +of the flat, pink hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Kill the thing,” she said, turning away her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—I’m not,” laughed Anne, shrinking. “You can, +if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>don’t</i> like,” said Frances, with quiet intensity. +</p> + +<p> +After several dabbling attempts, Anne succeeded in picking up the little animal +by the scruff of its neck. It threw back its head, flung its long blind snout +from side to side, the mouth open in a peculiar oblong, with tiny pinkish teeth +at the edge. The blind, frantic mouth gaped and writhed. The body, heavy and +clumsy, hung scarcely moving. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it a snappy little thing,” observed Anne twisting to +avoid the teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do with it?” asked Frances sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s got to be killed—look at the damage they do. I +s’ll take it home and let dadda or somebody kill it. I’m not going +to let it go.” +</p> + +<p> +She swaddled the creature clumsily in her pocket-handkerchief and sat down +beside her sister. There was an interval of silence, during which Anne combated +the efforts of the mole. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve not had much to say about Jimmy this time. Did you see him +often in Liverpool?” Anne asked suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Once or twice,” replied Frances, giving no sign of how the +question troubled her. +</p> + +<p> +“And aren’t you sweet on him any more, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think I’m not, seeing that he’s engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Engaged? Jimmy Barrass! Well, of all things! I never thought +<i>he’d</i> get engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not, he’s as much right as anybody else?” snapped +Frances. +</p> + +<p> +Anne was fumbling with the mole. +</p> + +<p> +“’Appen so,” she said at length; “but I never thought +Jimmy would, though.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” snapped Frances. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> don’t know—this blessed mole, it’ll not keep +still!—who’s he got engaged to?” +</p> + +<p> +“How should I know?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you’d ask him; you’ve known him long enough. I +s’d think he thought he’d get engaged now he’s a Doctor of +Chemistry.” +</p> + +<p> +Frances laughed in spite of herself. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that got to do with it?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure it’s got a lot. He’ll want to feel +<i>somebody</i> now, so he’s got engaged. Hey, stop it; go in!” +</p> + +<p> +But at this juncture the mole almost succeeded in wriggling clear. It wrestled +and twisted frantically, waved its pointed blind head, its mouth standing open +like a little shaft, its big, wrinkled hands spread out. +</p> + +<p> +“Go in with you!” urged Anne, poking the little creature with her +forefinger, trying to get it back into the handkerchief. Suddenly the mouth +turned like a spark on her finger. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she cried, “he’s bit me.” +</p> + +<p> +She dropped him to the floor. Dazed, the blind creature fumbled round. Frances +felt like shrieking. She expected him to dart away in a flash, like a mouse, +and there he remained groping; she wanted to cry to him to be gone. Anne, in a +sudden decision of wrath, caught up her sister’s walking-cane. With one +blow the mole was dead. Frances was startled and shocked. One moment the little +wretch was fussing in the heat, and the next it lay like a little bag, inert +and black—not a struggle, scarce a quiver. +</p> + +<p> +“It is dead!” Frances said breathlessly. Anne took her finger from +her mouth, looked at the tiny pinpricks, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he is, and I’m glad. They’re vicious little nuisances, +moles are.” +</p> + +<p> +With which her wrath vanished. She picked up the dead animal. +</p> + +<p> +“Hasn’t it got a beautiful skin,” she mused, stroking the fur +with her forefinger, then with her cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“Mind,” said Frances sharply. “You’ll have the blood on +your skirt!” +</p> + +<p> +One ruby drop of blood hung on the small snout, ready to fall. Anne shook it +off on to some harebells. Frances suddenly became calm; in that moment, +grown-up. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose they have to be killed,” she said, and a certain rather +dreary indifference succeeded to her grief. The twinkling crab-apples, the +glitter of brilliant willows now seemed to her trifling, scarcely worth the +notice. Something had died in her, so that things lost their poignancy. She was +calm, indifference overlying her quiet sadness. Rising, she walked down to the +brook course. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, wait for me,” cried Anne, coming tumbling after. +</p> + +<p> +Frances stood on the bridge, looking at the red mud trodden into pockets by the +feet of cattle. There was not a drain of water left, but everything smelled +green, succulent. Why did she care so little for Anne, who was so fond of her? +she asked herself. Why did she care so little for anyone? She did not know, but +she felt a rather stubborn pride in her isolation and indifference. +</p> + +<p> +They entered a field where stooks of barley stood in rows, the straight, blonde +tresses of the corn streaming on to the ground. The stubble was bleached by the +intense summer, so that the expanse glared white. The next field was sweet and +soft with a second crop of seeds; thin, straggling clover whose little pink +knobs rested prettily in the dark green. The scent was faint and sickly. The +girls came up in single file, Frances leading. +</p> + +<p> +Near the gate a young man was mowing with the scythe some fodder for the +afternoon feed of the cattle. As he saw the girls he left off working and +waited in an aimless kind of way. Frances was dressed in white muslin, and she +walked with dignity, detached and forgetful. Her lack of agitation, her simple, +unheeding advance made him nervous. She had loved the far-off Jimmy for five +years, having had in return his half-measures. This man only affected her +slightly. +</p> + +<p> +Tom was of medium stature, energetic in build. His smooth, fair-skinned face +was burned red, not brown, by the sun, and this ruddiness enhanced his +appearance of good humour and easiness. Being a year older than Frances, he +would have courted her long ago had she been so inclined. As it was, he had +gone his uneventful way amiably, chatting with many a girl, but remaining +unattached, free of trouble for the most part. Only he knew he wanted a woman. +He hitched his trousers just a trifle self-consciously as the girls approached. +Frances was a rare, delicate kind of being, whom he realized with a queer and +delicious stimulation in his veins. She gave him a slight sense of suffocation. +Somehow, this morning, she affected him more than usual. She was dressed in +white. He, however, being matter-of-fact in his mind, did not realize. His +feeling had never become conscious, purposive. +</p> + +<p> +Frances knew what she was about. Tom was ready to love her as soon as she would +show him. Now that she could not have Jimmy, she did not poignantly care. +Still, she would have something. If she could not have the best—Jimmy, +whom she knew to be something of a snob—she would have the second best, +Tom. She advanced rather indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +“You are back, then!” said Tom. She marked the touch of uncertainty +in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she laughed, “I’m still in Liverpool,” and +the undertone of intimacy made him burn. +</p> + +<p> +“This isn’t you, then?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Her heart leapt up in approval. She looked in his eyes, and for a second was +with him. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what do you think?” she laughed. +</p> + +<p> +He lifted his hat from his head with a distracted little gesture. She liked +him, his quaint ways, his humour, his ignorance, and his slow masculinity. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, look here, Tom Smedley,” broke in Anne. +</p> + +<p> +“A moudiwarp! Did you find it dead?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, it bit me,” said Anne. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, aye! An’ that got your rag out, did it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it didn’t!” Anne scolded sharply. “Such +language!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what’s up wi’ it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t bear you to talk broad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +He glanced at Frances. +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t nice,” Frances said. She did not care, really. The +vulgar speech jarred on her as a rule; Jimmy was a gentleman. But Tom’s +manner of speech did not matter to her. +</p> + +<p> +“I like you to talk <i>nicely</i>,” she added. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you,” he replied, tilting his hat, stirred. +</p> + +<p> +“And generally you <i>do</i>, you know,” she smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“I s’ll have to have a try,” he said, rather tensely gallant. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” she asked brightly. +</p> + +<p> +“To talk nice to you,” he said. Frances coloured furiously, bent +her head for a moment, then laughed gaily, as if she liked this clumsy hint. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh now, you mind what you’re saying,” cried Anne, giving the +young man an admonitory pat. +</p> + +<p> +“You wouldn’t have to give yon mole many knocks like that,” +he teased, relieved to get on safe ground, rubbing his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“No indeed, it died in one blow,” said Frances, with a flippancy +that was hateful to her. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not so good at knockin’ ’em?” he said, +turning to her. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, if I’m cross,” she said decisively. +</p> + +<p> +“No?” he replied, with alert attentiveness. +</p> + +<p> +“I could,” she added, harder, “if it was necessary.” +</p> + +<p> +He was slow to feel her difference. +</p> + +<p> +“And don’t you consider it <i>is</i> necessary?” he asked, +with misgiving. +</p> + +<p> +“W—ell—is it?” she said, looking at him steadily, +coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“I reckon it is,” he replied, looking away, but standing stubborn. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“But it isn’t necessary for <i>me</i>,” she said, with slight +contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s quite true,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed in a shaky fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I know it is</i>,” she said; and there was an awkward pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, would you <i>like</i> me to kill moles then?” she asked +tentatively, after a while. +</p> + +<p> +“They do us a lot of damage,” he said, standing firm on his own +ground, angered. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll see the next time I come across one,” she +promised, defiantly. Their eyes met, and she sank before him, her pride +troubled. He felt uneasy and triumphant and baffled, as if fate had gripped +him. She smiled as she departed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Anne, as the sisters went through the wheat stubble; +“I don’t know what you two’s been jawing about, I’m +sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you?” laughed Frances significantly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t. But, at any rate, Tom Smedley’s a good deal +better to my thinking than Jimmy, so there—and nicer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps he is,” said Frances coldly. +</p> + +<p> +And the next day, after a secret, persistent hunt, she found another mole +playing in the heat. She killed it, and in the evening, when Tom came to the +gate to smoke his pipe after supper, she took him the dead creature. +</p> + +<p> +“Here you are then!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you catch it?” he replied, taking the velvet corpse into his +fingers and examining it minutely. This was to hide his trepidation. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you think I couldn’t?” she asked, her face very near +his. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I didn’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed in his face, a strange little laugh that caught her breath, all +agitation, and tears, and recklessness of desire. He looked frightened and +upset. She put her hand to his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you go out wi’ me?” he asked, in a difficult, troubled +tone. +</p> + +<p> +She turned her face away, with a shaky laugh. The blood came up in him, strong, +overmastering. He resisted it. But it drove him down, and he was carried away. +Seeing the winsome, frail nape of her neck, fierce love came upon him for her, +and tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +“We s’ll ’ave to tell your mother,” he said. And he +stood, suffering, resisting his passion for her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she replied, in a dead voice. But there was a thrill of +pleasure in this death. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>The Shadow in the Rose Garden</h2> + +<p> +A rather small young man sat by the window of a pretty seaside cottage trying +to persuade himself that he was reading the newspaper. It was about half-past +eight in the morning. Outside, the glory roses hung in the morning sunshine +like little bowls of fire tipped up. The young man looked at the table, then at +the clock, then at his own big silver watch. An expression of stiff endurance +came on to his face. Then he rose and reflected on the oil-paintings that hung +on the walls of the room, giving careful but hostile attention to “The +Stag at Bay”. He tried the lid of the piano, and found it locked. He +caught sight of his own face in a little mirror, pulled his brown moustache, +and an alert interest sprang into his eyes. He was not ill-favoured. He twisted +his moustache. His figure was rather small, but alert and vigorous. As he +turned from the mirror a look of self-commiseration mingled with his +appreciation of his own physiognomy. +</p> + +<p> +In a state of self-suppression, he went through into the garden. His jacket, +however, did not look dejected. It was new, and had a smart and self-confident +air, sitting upon a confident body. He contemplated the Tree of Heaven that +flourished by the lawn, then sauntered on to the next plant. There was more +promise in a crooked apple tree covered with brown-red fruit. Glancing round, +he broke off an apple and, with his back to the house, took a clean, sharp +bite. To his surprise the fruit was sweet. He took another. Then again he +turned to survey the bedroom windows overlooking the garden. He started, seeing +a woman’s figure; but it was only his wife. She was gazing across to the +sea, apparently ignorant of him. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment or two he looked at her, watching her. She was a good-looking +woman, who seemed older than he, rather pale, but healthy, her face yearning. +Her rich auburn hair was heaped in folds on her forehead. She looked apart from +him and his world, gazing away to the sea. It irked her husband that she should +continue abstracted and in ignorance of him; he pulled poppy fruits and threw +them at the window. She started, glanced at him with a wild smile, and looked +away again. Then almost immediately she left the window. He went indoors to +meet her. She had a fine carriage, very proud, and wore a dress of soft white +muslin. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been waiting long enough,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“For me or for breakfast?” she said lightly. “You know we +said nine o’clock. I should have thought you could have slept after the +journey.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know I’m always up at five, and I couldn’t stop in bed +after six. You might as well be in pit as in bed, on a morning like +this.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t have thought the pit would occur to you, here.” +</p> + +<p> +She moved about examining the room, looking at the ornaments under glass +covers. He, planted on the hearthrug, watched her rather uneasily, and +grudgingly indulgent. She shrugged her shoulders at the apartment. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” she said, taking his arm, “let us go into the garden +till Mrs Coates brings the tray.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope she’ll be quick,” he said, pulling his moustache. She +gave a short laugh, and leaned on his arm as they went. He had lighted a pipe. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Coates entered the room as they went down the steps. The delightful, erect +old lady hastened to the window for a good view of her visitors. Her china-blue +eyes were bright as she watched the young couple go down the path, he walking +in an easy, confident fashion, with his wife, on his arm. The landlady began +talking to herself in a soft, Yorkshire accent. +</p> + +<p> +“Just of a height they are. She wouldn’t ha’ married a man +less than herself in stature, I think, though he’s not her equal +otherwise.” Here her granddaughter came in, setting a tray on the table. +The girl went to the old woman’s side. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s been eating the apples, gran’,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Has he, my pet? Well, if he’s happy, why not?” +</p> + +<p> +Outside, the young, well-favoured man listened with impatience to the chink of +the teacups. At last, with a sigh of relief, the couple came in to breakfast. +After he had eaten for some time, he rested a moment and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think it’s any better place than Bridlington?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do,” she said, “infinitely! Besides, I am at home +here—it’s not like a strange seaside place to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long were you here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Two years.” +</p> + +<p> +He ate reflectively. +</p> + +<p> +“I should ha’ thought you’d rather go to a fresh +place,” he said at length. +</p> + +<p> +She sat very silent, and then, delicately, put out a feeler. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she said. “Do you think I shan’t enjoy +myself?” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed comfortably, putting the marmalade thick on his bread. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She again took no notice of him. +</p> + +<p> +“But don’t say anything about it in the village, Frank,” she +said casually. “Don’t say who I am, or that I used to live here. +There’s nobody I want to meet, particularly, and we should never feel +free if they knew me again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you come, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why?’ Can’t you understand why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not if you don’t want to know anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“I came to see the place, not the people.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not say any more. +</p> + +<p> +“Women,” she said, “are different from men. I don’t +know why I wanted to come—but I did.” +</p> + +<p> +She helped him to another cup of coffee, solicitously. +</p> + +<p> +“Only,” she resumed, “don’t talk about me in the +village.” She laughed shakily. “I don’t want my past brought +up against me, you know.” And she moved the crumbs on the cloth with her +finger-tip. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her as he drank his coffee; he sucked his moustache, and putting +down his cup, said phlegmatically: +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll bet you’ve had a lot of past.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked with a little guiltiness, that flattered him, down at the +tablecloth. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, caressive, “you won’t give me away, +who I am, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, comforting, laughing, “I won’t give you +away.” +</p> + +<p> +He was pleased. +</p> + +<p> +She remained silent. After a moment or two she lifted her head, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got to arrange with Mrs Coates, and do various things. So +you’d better go out by yourself this morning—and we’ll be in +to dinner at one.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you can’t be arranging with Mrs Coates all morning,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well—then I’ve some letters to write, and I must get +that mark out of my skirt. I’ve got plenty of little things to do this +morning. You’d better go out by yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +He perceived that she wanted to be rid of him, so that when she went upstairs, +he took his hat and lounged out on to the cliffs, suppressedly angry. +</p> + +<p> +Presently she too came out. She wore a hat with roses, and a long lace scarf +hung over her white dress. Rather nervously, she put up her sunshade, and her +face was half-hidden in its coloured shadow. She went along the narrow track of +flag-stones that were worn hollow by the feet of the fishermen. She seemed to +be avoiding her surroundings, as if she remained safe in the little obscurity +of her parasol. +</p> + +<p> +She passed the church, and went down the lane till she came to a high wall by +the wayside. Under this she went slowly, stopping at length by an open doorway, +which shone like a picture of light in the dark wall. There in the magic beyond +the doorway, patterns of shadow lay on the sunny court, on the blue and white +sea-pebbles of its paving, while a green lawn glowed beyond, where a bay tree +glittered at the edges. She tiptoed nervously into the courtyard, glancing at +the house that stood in shadow. The uncurtained windows looked black and +soulless, the kitchen door stood open. Irresolutely she took a step forward, +and again forward, leaning, yearning, towards the garden beyond. +</p> + +<p> +She had almost gained the corner of the house when a heavy step came crunching +through the trees. A gardener appeared before her. He held a wicker tray on +which were rolling great, dark red gooseberries, overripe. He moved slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“The garden isn’t open today,” he said quietly to the +attractive woman, who was poised for retreat. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment she was silent with surprise. How should it be public at all? +</p> + +<p> +“When is it open?” she asked, quick-witted. +</p> + +<p> +“The rector lets visitors in on Fridays and Tuesdays.” +</p> + +<p> +She stood still, reflecting. How strange to think of the rector opening his +garden to the public! +</p> + +<p> +“But everybody will be at church,” she said coaxingly to the man. +“There’ll be nobody here, will there?” +</p> + +<p> +He moved, and the big gooseberries rolled. +</p> + +<p> +“The rector lives at the new rectory,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The two stood still. He did not like to ask her to go. At last she turned to +him with a winning smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Might I have <i>one</i> peep at the roses?” she coaxed, with +pretty wilfulness. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t suppose it would matter,” he said, moving aside: +“you won’t stop long——” +</p> + +<p> +She went forward, forgetting the gardener in a moment. Her face became +strained, her movements eager. Glancing round, she saw all the windows giving +on to the lawn were curtainless and dark. The house had a sterile appearance, +as if it were still used, but not inhabited. A shadow seemed to go over her. +She went across the lawn towards the garden, through an arch of crimson +ramblers, a gate of colour. There beyond lay the soft blue sea with the bay, +misty with morning, and the farthest headland of black rock jutting dimly out +between blue and blue of the sky and water. Her face began to shine, +transfigured with pain and joy. At her feet the garden fell steeply, all a +confusion of flowers, and away below was the darkness of tree-tops covering the +beck. +</p> + +<p> +She turned to the garden that shone with sunny flowers around her. She knew the +little corner where was the seat beneath the yew tree. Then there was the +terrace where a great host of flowers shone, and from this, two paths went +down, one at each side of the garden. She closed her sunshade and walked slowly +among the many flowers. All round were rose bushes, big banks of roses, then +roses hanging and tumbling from pillars, or roses balanced on the standard +bushes. By the open earth were many other flowers. If she lifted her head, the +sea was upraised beyond, and the Cape. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly she went down one path, lingering, like one who has gone back into the +past. Suddenly she was touching some heavy crimson roses that were soft as +velvet, touching them thoughtfully, without knowing, as a mother sometimes +fondles the hand of her child. She leaned slightly forward to catch the scent. +Then she wandered on in abstraction. Sometimes a flame-coloured, scentless rose +would hold her arrested. She stood gazing at it as if she could not understand +it. Again the same softness of intimacy came over her, as she stood before a +tumbling heap of pink petals. Then she wondered over the white rose, that was +greenish, like ice, in the centre. So, slowly, like a white, pathetic +butterfly, she drifted down the path, coming at last to a tiny terrace all full +of roses. They seemed to fill the place, a sunny, gay throng. She was shy of +them, they were so many and so bright. They seemed to be conversing and +laughing. She felt herself in a strange crowd. It exhilarated her, carried her +out of herself. She flushed with excitement. The air was pure scent. +</p> + +<p> +Hastily, she went to a little seat among the white roses, and sat down. Her +scarlet sunshade made a hard blot of colour. She sat quite still, feeling her +own existence lapse. She was no more than a rose, a rose that could not quite +come into blossom, but remained tense. A little fly dropped on her knee, on her +white dress. She watched it, as if it had fallen on a rose. She was not +herself. +</p> + +<p> +Then she started cruelly as a shadow crossed her and a figure moved into her +sight. It was a man who had come in slippers, unheard. He wore a linen coat. +The morning was shattered, the spell vanished away. She was only afraid of +being questioned. He came forward. She rose. Then, seeing him, the strength +went from her and she sank on the seat again. +</p> + +<p> +He was a young man, military in appearance, growing slightly stout. His black +hair was brushed smooth and bright, his moustache was waxed. But there was +something rambling in his gait. She looked up, blanched to the lips, and saw +his eyes. They were black, and stared without seeing. They were not a +man’s eyes. He was coming towards her. +</p> + +<p> +He stared at her fixedly, made unconscious salute, and sat down beside her on +the seat. He moved on the bench, shifted his feet, saying, in a gentlemanly, +military voice: +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t disturb you—do I?” +</p> + +<p> +She was mute and helpless. He was scrupulously dressed in dark clothes and a +linen coat. She could not move. Seeing his hands, with the ring she knew so +well upon the little finger, she felt as if she were going dazed. The whole +world was deranged. She sat unavailing. For his hands, her symbols of +passionate love, filled her with horror as they rested now on his strong +thighs. +</p> + +<p> +“May I smoke?” he asked intimately, almost secretly, his hand going +to his pocket. +</p> + +<p> +She could not answer, but it did not matter, he was in another world. She +wondered, craving, if he recognized her—if he could recognize her. She +sat pale with anguish. But she had to go through it. +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t got any tobacco,” he said thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +But she paid no heed to his words, only she attended to him. Could he recognize +her, or was it all gone? She sat still in a frozen kind of suspense. +</p> + +<p> +“I smoke John Cotton,” he said, “and I must economize with +it, it is expensive. You know, I’m not very well off while these lawsuits +are going on.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, and her heart was cold, her soul kept rigid. +</p> + +<p> +He moved, made a loose salute, rose, and went away. She sat motionless. She +could see his shape, the shape she had loved, with all her passion: his +compact, soldier’s head, his fine figure now slackened. And it was not +he. It only filled her with horror too difficult to know. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he came again, his hand in his jacket pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mind if I smoke?” he said. “Perhaps I shall be able +to see things more clearly.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat down beside her again, filling a pipe. She watched his hands with the +fine strong fingers. They had always inclined to tremble slightly. It had +surprised her, long ago, in such a healthy man. Now they moved inaccurately, +and the tobacco hung raggedly out of the pipe. +</p> + +<p> +“I have legal business to attend to. Legal affairs are always so +uncertain. I tell my solicitor exactly, precisely what I want, but I can never +get it done.” +</p> + +<p> +She sat and heard him talking. But it was not he. Yet those were the hands she +had kissed, there were the glistening, strange black eyes that she had loved. +Yet it was not he. She sat motionless with horror and silence. He dropped his +tobacco pouch, and groped for it on the ground. Yet she must wait if he would +recognize her. Why could she not go! In a moment he rose. +</p> + +<p> +“I must go at once,” he said. “The owl is coming.” Then +he added confidentially: “His name isn’t really the owl, but I call +him that. I must go and see if he has come.” +</p> + +<p> +She rose too. He stood before her, uncertain. He was a handsome, soldierly +fellow, and a lunatic. Her eyes searched him, and searched him, to see if he +would recognize her, if she could discover him. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know me?” she asked, from the terror of her soul, +standing alone. +</p> + +<p> +He looked back at her quizzically. She had to bear his eyes. They gleamed on +her, but with no intelligence. He was drawing nearer to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do know you,” he said, fixed, intent, but mad, drawing his +face nearer hers. Her horror was too great. The powerful lunatic was coming too +near to her. +</p> + +<p> +A man approached, hastening. +</p> + +<p> +“The garden isn’t open this morning,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The deranged man stopped and looked at him. The keeper went to the seat and +picked up the tobacco pouch left lying there. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t leave your tobacco, sir,” he said, taking it to the +gentleman in the linen coat. +</p> + +<p> +“I was just asking this lady to stay to lunch,” the latter said +politely. “She is a friend of mine.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman turned and walked swiftly, blindly, between the sunny roses, out of +the garden, past the house with the blank, dark windows, through the +sea-pebbled courtyard to the street. Hastening and blind, she went forward +without hesitating, not knowing whither. Directly she came to the house she +went upstairs, took off her hat, and sat down on the bed. It was as if some +membrane had been torn in two in her, so that she was not an entity that could +think and feel. She sat staring across at the window, where an ivy spray waved +slowly up and down in the sea wind. There was some of the uncanny luminousness +of the sunlit sea in the air. She sat perfectly still, without any being. She +only felt she might be sick, and it might be blood that was loose in her torn +entrails. She sat perfectly still and passive. +</p> + +<p> +After a time she heard the hard tread of her husband on the floor below, and, +without herself changing, she registered his movement. She heard his rather +disconsolate footsteps go out again, then his voice speaking, answering, +growing cheery, and his solid tread drawing near. +</p> + +<p> +He entered, ruddy, rather pleased, an air of complacency about his alert +figure. She moved stiffly. He faltered in his approach. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter?” he asked a tinge of impatience in his +voice. “Aren’t you feeling well?” +</p> + +<p> +This was torture to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +His brown eyes became puzzled and angry. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +He took a few strides, and stood obstinately, looking out of the window. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you run up against anybody?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody who knows me,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +His hands began to twitch. It exasperated him, that she was no more sensible of +him than if he did not exist. Turning on her at length, driven, he asked: +</p> + +<p> +“Something has upset you hasn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, why?” she said neutral. He did not exist for her, except as an +irritant. +</p> + +<p> +His anger rose, filling the veins in his throat. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems like it,” he said, making an effort not to show his +anger, because there seemed no reason for it. He went away downstairs. She sat +still on the bed, and with the residue of feeling left to her, she disliked him +because he tormented her. The time went by. She could smell the dinner being +served, the smoke of her husband’s pipe from the garden. But she could +not move. She had no being. There was a tinkle of the bell. She heard him come +indoors. And then he mounted the stairs again. At every step her heart grew +tight in her. He opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Dinner is on the table,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +It was difficult for her to endure his presence, for he would interfere with +her. She could not recover her life. She rose stiffly and went down. She could +neither eat nor talk during the meal. She sat absent, torn, without any being +of her own. He tried to go on as if nothing were the matter. But at last he +became silent with fury. As soon as it was possible, she went upstairs again, +and locked the bedroom door. She must be alone. He went with his pipe into the +garden. All his suppressed anger against her who held herself superior to him +filled and blackened his heart. Though he had not known it, yet he had never +really won her, she had never loved him. She had taken him on sufference. This +had foiled him. He was only a labouring electrician in the mine, she was +superior to him. He had always given way to her. But all the while, the injury +and ignominy had been working in his soul because she did not hold him +seriously. And now all his rage came up against her. +</p> + +<p> +He turned and went indoors. The third time, she heard him mounting the stairs. +Her heart stood still. He turned the catch and pushed the door—it was +locked. He tried it again, harder. Her heart was standing still. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you fastened the door?” he asked quietly, because of the +landlady. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Wait a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +She rose and turned the lock, afraid he would burst it. She felt hatred towards +him, because he did not leave her free. He entered, his pipe between his teeth, +and she returned to her old position on the bed. He closed the door and stood +with his back to it. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter?” he asked determinedly. +</p> + +<p> +She was sick with him. She could not look at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you leave me alone?” she replied, averting her face +from him. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her quickly, fully, wincing with ignominy. Then he seemed to +consider for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s something up with you, isn’t there?” he asked +definitely. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, “but that’s no reason why you should +torment me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t torment you. What’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should you know?” she cried, in hate and desperation. +</p> + +<p> +Something snapped. He started and caught his pipe as it fell from his mouth. +Then he pushed forward the bitten-off mouth-piece with his tongue, took it from +off his lips, and looked at it. Then he put out his pipe, and brushed the ash +from his waistcoat. After which he raised his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to know,” he said. His face was greyish pale, and set +uglily. +</p> + +<p> +Neither looked at the other. She knew he was fired now. His heart was pounding +heavily. She hated him, but she could not withstand him. Suddenly she lifted +her head and turned on him. +</p> + +<p> +“What right have you to know?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her. She felt a pang of surprise for his tortured eyes and his +fixed face. But her heart hardened swiftly. She had never loved him. She did +not love him now. +</p> + +<p> +But suddenly she lifted her head again swiftly, like a thing that tries to get +free. She wanted to be free of it. It was not him so much, but it, something +she had put on herself, that bound her so horribly. And having put the bond on +herself, it was hardest to take it off. But now she hated everything and felt +destructive. He stood with his back to the door, fixed, as if he would oppose +her eternally, till she was extinguished. She looked at him. Her eyes were cold +and hostile. His workman’s hands spread on the panels of the door behind +him. +</p> + +<p> +“You know I used to live here?” she began, in a hard voice, as if +wilfully to wound him. He braced himself against her, and nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I was companion to Miss Birch of Torril Hall—she and the +rector were friends, and Archie was the rector’s son.” There was a +pause. He listened without knowing what was happening. He stared at his wife. +She was squatted in her white dress on the bed, carefully folding and +refolding the hem of her skirt. Her voice was full of hostility. +</p> + +<p> +“He was an officer—a sub-lieutenant—then he quarrelled with +his colonel and came out of the army. At any rate”—she plucked at +her skirt hem, her husband stood motionless, watching her movements which +filled his veins with madness—“he was awfully fond of me, and I was +of him—awfully.” +</p> + +<p> +“How old was he?” asked the husband. +</p> + +<p> +“When—when I first knew him? Or when he went +away?——” +</p> + +<p> +“When you first knew him.” +</p> + +<p> +“When I first knew him, he was twenty-six—now—he’s +thirty-one—nearly thirty-two—because I’m twenty-nine, and he +is nearly three years older——” +</p> + +<p> +She lifted her head and looked at the opposite wall. +</p> + +<p> +“And what then?” said her husband. +</p> + +<p> +She hardened herself, and said callously: +</p> + +<p> +“We were as good as engaged for nearly a year, though nobody +knew—at least—they talked—but—it wasn’t open. +Then he went away——” +</p> + +<p> +“He chucked you?” said the husband brutally, wanting to hurt her +into contact with himself. Her heart rose wildly with rage. Then +“Yes”, she said, to anger him. He shifted from one foot to the +other, giving a “Ph!” of rage. There was silence for a time. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” she resumed, her pain giving a mocking note to her words, +“he suddenly went out to fight in Africa, and almost the very day I first +met you, I heard from Miss Birch he’d got sunstroke—and two months +after, that he was dead——” +</p> + +<p> +“That was before you took on with me?” said the husband. +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer. Neither spoke for a time. He had not understood. His eyes +were contracted uglily. +</p> + +<p> +“So you’ve been looking at your old courting places!” he +said. “That was what you wanted to go out by yourself for this +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Still she did not answer him anything. He went away from the door to the +window. He stood with his hands behind him, his back to her. She looked at him. +His hands seemed gross to her, the back of his head paltry. +</p> + +<p> +At length, almost against his will, he turned round, asking: +</p> + +<p> +“How long were you carrying on with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” she replied coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean how long were you carrying on with him?” +</p> + +<p> +She lifted her head, averting her face from him. She refused to answer. Then +she said: +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what you mean, by carrying on. I loved him from the +first days I met him—two months after I went to stay with Miss +Birch.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you reckon he loved you?” he jeered. +</p> + +<p> +“I know he did.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know, if he’d have no more to do with you?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a long silence of hate and suffering. +</p> + +<p> +“And how far did it go between you?” he asked at length, in a +frightened, stiff voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I hate your not-straightforward questions,” she cried, beside +herself with his baiting. “We loved each other, and we <i>were</i> +lovers—we were. I don’t care what <i>you</i> think: what have you +got to do with it? We were lovers before ever I knew you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Lovers—lovers,” he said, white with fury. “You mean +you had your fling with an army man, and then came to me to marry you when +you’d done——” +</p> + +<p> +She sat swallowing her bitterness. There was a long pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to say you used to go—the whole hogger?” he +asked, still incredulous. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what else do you think I mean?” she cried brutally. +</p> + +<p> +He shrank, and became white, impersonal. There was a long, paralysed silence. +He seemed to have gone small. +</p> + +<p> +“You never thought to tell me all this before I married you,” he +said, with bitter irony, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“You never asked me,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I never thought there was any need.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, you <i>should</i> think.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood with expressionless, almost childlike set face, revolving many +thoughts, whilst his heart was mad with anguish. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she added: +</p> + +<p> +“And I saw him today,” she said. “He is not dead, he’s +mad.” +</p> + +<p> +Her husband looked at her, startled. +</p> + +<p> +“Mad!’ he said involuntarily. +</p> + +<p> +“A lunatic,” she said. It almost cost her her reason to utter the +word. There was a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Did he know you?” asked the husband in a small voice. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He stood and looked at her. At last he had learned the width of the breach +between them. She still squatted on the bed. He could not go near her. It would +be violation to each of them to be brought into contact with the other. The +thing must work itself out. They were both shocked so much, they were +impersonal, and no longer hated each other. After some minutes he left her and +went out. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>Goose Fair</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +Through the gloom of evening, and the flare of torches of the night before the +fair, through the still fogs of the succeeding dawn came paddling the weary +geese, lifting their poor feet that had been dipped in tar for shoes, and +trailing them along the cobble-stones into the town. Last of all, in the +afternoon, a country girl drove in her dozen birds, disconsolate because she +was so late. She was a heavily built girl, fair, with regular features, and yet +unprepossessing. She needed chiselling down, her contours were brutal. Perhaps +it was weariness that hung her eyelids a little lower than was pleasant. When +she spoke to her clumsily lagging birds it was in a snarling nasal tone. One of +the silly things sat down in the gutter and refused to move. It looked very +ridiculous, but also rather pitiful, squat there with its head up, refusing to +be urged on by the ungentle toe of the girl. The latter swore heavily, then +picked up the great complaining bird, and fronting her road stubbornly, drove +on the lamentable eleven. +</p> + +<p> +No one had noticed her. This afternoon the women were not sitting chatting on +their doorsteps, seaming up the cotton hose, or swiftly passing through their +fingers the piled white lace; and in the high dark houses the song of the +hosiery frames was hushed: “Shackety-boom, Shackety-shackety-boom, +Z—zzz!” As she dragged up Hollow Stone, people returned from the +fair chaffed her and asked her what o’clock it was. She did not reply, +her look was sullen. The Lace Market was quiet as the Sabbath: even the great +brass plates on the doors were dull with neglect. There seemed an afternoon +atmosphere of raw discontent. The girl stopped a moment before the dismal +prospect of one of the great warehouses that had been gutted with fire. She +looked at the lean, threatening walls, and watched her white flock waddling in +reckless misery below, and she would have laughed out loud had the wall fallen +flat upon them and relieved her of them. But the wall did not fall, so she +crossed the road, and walking on the safe side, hurried after her charge. Her +look was even more sullen. She remembered the state of trade—Trade, the +invidious enemy; Trade, which thrust out its hand and shut the factory doors, +and pulled the stockingers off their seats, and left the web half-finished on +the frame; Trade, which mysteriously choked up the sources of the rivulets of +wealth, and blacker and more secret than a pestilence, starved the town. +Through this morose atmosphere of bad trade, in the afternoon of the first day +of the fair, the girl strode down to the Poultry with eleven sound geese and +one lame one to sell. +</p> + +<p> +The Frenchmen were at the bottom of it! So everybody said, though nobody quite +knew how. At any rate, they had gone to war with the Prussians and got beaten, +and trade was ruined in Nottingham! +</p> + +<p> +A little fog rose up, and the twilight gathered around. Then they flared abroad +their torches in the fair, insulting the night. The girl still sat in the +Poultry, and her weary geese unsold on the stones, illuminated by the hissing +lamp of a man who sold rabbits and pigeons and such-like assorted live-stock. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +In another part of the town, near Sneinton Church, another girl came to the +door to look at the night. She was tall and slender, dressed with the severe +accuracy which marks the girl of superior culture. Her hair was arranged with +simplicity about the long, pale, cleanly cut face. She leaned forward very +slightly to glance down the street, listening. She very carefully preserved the +appearance of having come quite casually to the door, yet she lingered and +lingered and stood very still to listen when she heard a footstep, but when it +proved to be only a common man, she drew herself up proudly and looked with a +small smile over his head. He hesitated to glance into the open hall, lighted +so spaciously with a scarlet-shaded lamp, and at the slim girl in brown silk +lifted up before the light. But she, she looked over his head. He passed on. +</p> + +<p> +Presently she started and hung in suspense. Somebody was crossing the road. She +ran down the steps in a pretty welcome, not effuse, saying in quick, but +accurately articulated words: “Will! I began to think you’d gone to +the fair. I came out to listen to it. I felt almost sure you’d gone. +You’re coming in, aren’t you?” She waited a moment anxiously. +“We expect you to dinner, you know,” she added wistfully. +</p> + +<p> +The man, who had a short face and spoke with his lip curling up on one side, in +a drawling speech with ironically exaggerated intonation, replied after a short +hesitation: +</p> + +<p> +“I’m awfully sorry, I am, straight, Lois. It’s a shame. +I’ve got to go round to the biz. Man proposes—the devil +disposes.” He turned aside with irony in the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“But surely, Will!” remonstrated the girl, keenly disappointed. +</p> + +<p> +“Fact, Lois!—I feel wild about it myself. But I’ve got to go +down to the works. They may be getting a bit warm down there, you +know”—he jerked his head in the direction of the fair. “If +the Lambs get frisky!—they’re a bit off about the work, and +they’d just be in their element if they could set a lighted match to +something——” +</p> + +<p> +“Will, you don’t think——!” exclaimed the girl, +laying her hand on his arm in the true fashion of romance, and looking up at +him earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“Dad’s not sure,” he replied, looking down at her with +gravity. They remained in this attitude for a moment, then he said: +</p> + +<p> +“I might stop a bit. It’s all right for an hour, I should +think.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him earnestly, then said in tones of deep disappointment and of +fortitude: “No, Will, you must go. You’d better +go——” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a shame!” he murmured, standing a moment at a loose +end. Then, glancing down the street to see he was alone, he put his arm round +her waist and said in a difficult voice: “How goes it?” +</p> + +<p> +She let him keep her for a moment, then he kissed her as if afraid of what he +was doing. They were both uncomfortable. +</p> + +<p> +“Well——!” he said at length. +</p> + +<p> +“Good night!” she said, setting him free to go. +</p> + +<p> +He hung a moment near her, as if ashamed. Then “Good night,” he +answered, and he broke away. She listened to his footsteps in the night, before +composing herself to turn indoors. +</p> + +<p> +“Helloa!” said her father, glancing over his paper as she entered +the dining-room. “What’s up, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, nothing,” she replied, in her calm tones. “Will +won’t be here to dinner tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, gone to the fair?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! What’s got him then?” +</p> + +<p> +Lois looked at her father, and answered: +</p> + +<p> +“He’s gone down to the factory. They are afraid of the +hands.” +</p> + +<p> +Her father looked at her closely. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, aye!” he answered, undecided, and they sat down to dinner. +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +Lois retired very early. She had a fire in her bedroom. She drew the curtains +and stood holding aside a heavy fold, looking out at the night. She could see +only the nothingness of the fog; not even the glare of the fair was evident, +though the noise clamoured small in the distance. In front of everything she +could see her own faint image. She crossed to the dressing-table, and there +leaned her face to the mirror, and looked at herself. She looked a long time, +then she rose, changed her dress for a dressing-jacket, and took up <i>Sesame +and Lilies.</i> +</p> + +<p> +Late in the night she was roused from sleep by a bustle in the house. She sat +up and heard a hurrying to and fro and the sound of anxious voices. She put on +her dressing-gown and went out to her mother’s room. Seeing her mother at +the head of the stairs, she said in her quick, clean voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, what it it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, child, don’t ask me! Go to bed, dear, do! I shall surely be +worried out of my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, what is it?” Lois was sharp and emphatic. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope your father won’t go. Now I do hope your father won’t +go. He’s got a cold as it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, tell me what is it?” Lois took her mother’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s Selby’s. I should have thought you would have heard the +fire-engine, and Jack isn’t in yet. I hope we’re safe!” Lois +returned to her bedroom and dressed. She coiled her plaited hair, and having +put on a cloak, left the house. +</p> + +<p> +She hurried along under the fog-dripping trees towards the meaner part of the +town. When she got near, she saw a glare in the fog, and closed her lips tight. +She hastened on till she was in the crowd. With peaked, noble face she watched +the fire. Then she looked a little wildly over the fire-reddened faces in the +crowd, and catching sight of her father, hurried to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Dadda—is he safe? Is Will safe——?” +</p> + +<p> +“Safe, aye, why not? You’ve no business here. Here, here’s +Sampson, he’ll take you home. I’ve enough to bother me; +there’s my own place to watch. Go home now, I can’t do with you +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen Will?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Go home—Sampson, just take Miss Lois home—now!” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t really know where he is—father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Go home now—I don’t want you here——” her +father ordered peremptorily. +</p> + +<p> +The tears sprang to Lois’ eyes. She looked at the fire and the tears were +quickly dried by fear. The flames roared and struggled upward. The great wonder +of the fire made her forget even her indignation at her father’s light +treatment of herself and of her lover. There was a crashing and bursting of +timber, as the first floor fell in a mass into the blazing gulf, splashing the +fire in all directions, to the terror of the crowd. She saw the steel of the +machines growing white-hot and twisting like flaming letters. Piece after piece +of the flooring gave way, and the machines dropped in red ruin as the wooden +framework burned out. The air became unbreathable; the fog was swallowed up; +sparks went rushing up as if they would burn the dark heavens; sometimes cards +of lace went whirling into the gulf of the sky, waving with wings of fire. It +was dangerous to stand near this great cup of roaring destruction. +</p> + +<p> +Sampson, the grey old manager of Buxton and Co’s, led her away as soon as +she would turn her face to listen to him. He was a stout, irritable man. He +elbowed his way roughly through the crowd, and Lois followed him, her head +high, her lips closed. He led her for some distance without speaking, then at +last, unable to contain his garrulous irritability, he broke out: +</p> + +<p> +“What do they expect? What can they expect? They can’t expect to +stand a bad time. They spring up like mushrooms as big as a house-side, but +there’s no stability in ’em. I remember William Selby when +he’d run on my errands. Yes, there’s some as can make much out of +little, and there’s some as can make much out of nothing, but they find +it won’t last. William Selby’s sprung up in a day, and he’ll +vanish in a night. You can’t trust to luck alone. Maybe he thinks +it’s a lucky thing this fire has come when things are looking black. But +you can’t get out of it as easy as that. There’s been a few too +many of ’em. No, indeed, a fire’s the last thing I should hope to +come to—the very last!” +</p> + +<p> +Lois hurried and hurried, so that she brought the old manager panting in +distress up the steps of her home. She could not bear to hear him talking so. +They could get no one to open the door for some time. When at last Lois ran +upstairs, she found her mother dressed, but all unbuttoned again, lying back in +the chair in her daughter’s room, suffering from palpitation of the +heart, with <i>Sesame and Lilies</i> crushed beneath her. Lois administered +brandy, and her decisive words and movements helped largely to bring the good +lady to a state of recovery sufficient to allow of her returning to her own +bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +Then Lois locked the door. She glanced at her fire-darkened face, and taking +the flattened Ruskin out of the chair, sat down and wept. After a while she +calmed herself, rose, and sponged her face. Then once more on that fatal night +she prepared for rest. Instead, however, or retiring, she pulled a silk quilt +from her disordered bed and wrapping it round her, sat miserably to think. It +was two o’clock in the morning. +</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p> +The fire was sunk to cold ashes in the grate, and the grey morning was creeping +through the half-opened curtains like a thing ashamed, when Lois awoke. It was +painful to move her head: her neck was cramped. The girl awoke in full +recollection. She sighed, roused herself and pulled the quilt closer about her. +For a little while she sat and mused. A pale, tragic resignation fixed her face +like a mask. She remembered her father’s irritable answer to her question +concerning her lover’s safety—“Safe, aye—why +not?” She knew that he suspected the factory of having been purposely set +on fire. But then, he had never liked Will. And yet—and +yet—Lois’ heart was heavy as lead. She felt her lover was guilty. +And she felt she must hide her secret of his last communication to her. She saw +herself being cross-examined—“When did you last see this +man?” But she would hide what he had said about watching at the works. +How dreary it was—and how dreadful. Her life was ruined now, and nothing +mattered any more. She must only behave with dignity, and submit to her own +obliteration. For even if Will were never accused, she knew in her heart he was +guilty. She knew it was over between them. +</p> + +<p> +It was dawn among the yellow fog outside, and Lois, as she moved mechanically +about her toilet, vaguely felt that all her days would arrive slowly struggling +through a bleak fog. She felt an intense longing at this uncanny hour to slough +the body’s trammelled weariness and to issue at once into the new bright +warmth of the far Dawn where a lover waited transfigured; it is so easy and +pleasant in imagination to step out of the chill grey dampness of another +terrestrial daybreak, straight into the sunshine of the eternal morning! And +who can escape his hour? So Lois performed the meaningless routine of her +toilet, which at last she made meaningful when she took her black dress, and +fastened a black jet brooch at her throat. +</p> + +<p> +Then she went downstairs and found her father eating a mutton chop. She quickly +approached and kissed him on the forehead. Then she retreated to the other end +of the table. Her father looked tired, even haggard. +</p> + +<p> +“You are early,” he said, after a while. Lois did not reply. Her +father continued to eat for a few moments, then he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Have a chop—here’s one! Ring for a hot plate. Eh, what? Why +not?” +</p> + +<p> +Lois was insulted, but she gave no sign. She sat down and took a cup of coffee, +making no pretence to eat. Her father was absorbed, and had forgotten her. +</p> + +<p> +“Our Jack’s not come home yet,” he said at last. +</p> + +<p> +Lois stirred faintly. “Hasn’t he?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” There was silence for a time. Lois was frightened. Had +something happened also to her brother? This fear was closer and more irksome. +</p> + +<p> +“Selby’s was cleaned out, gutted. We had a near shave of +it——” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no loss, Dadda?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing to mention.” After another silence, her father said: +</p> + +<p> +“I’d rather be myself than William Selby. Of course it may merely +be bad luck—you don’t know. But whatever it was, I wouldn’t +like to add one to the list of fires just now. Selby was at the +‘George’ when it broke out—I don’t know where the lad +was——!” +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” broke in Lois, “why do you talk like that? Why do +you talk as if Will had done it?” She ended suddenly. Her father looked +at her pale, mute face. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t talk as if Will had done it,” he said. “I +don’t even think it.” +</p> + +<p> +Feeling she was going to cry, Lois rose and left the room. Her father sighed, +and leaning his elbows on his knees, whistled faintly into the fire. He was not +thinking about her. +</p> + +<p> +Lois went down to the kitchen and asked Lucy, the parlour-maid, to go out with +her. She somehow shrank from going alone, lest people should stare at her +overmuch: and she felt an overpowering impulse to go to the scene of the +tragedy, to judge for herself. +</p> + +<p> +The churches were chiming half-past eight when the young lady and the maid set +off down the street. Nearer the fair, swarthy, thin-legged men were pushing +barrels of water towards the market-place, and the gipsy women, with hard +brows, and dressed in tight velvet bodices, hurried along the pavement with +jugs of milk, and great brass water ewers and loaves and breakfast parcels. +People were just getting up, and in the poorer streets was a continual splash +of tea-leaves, flung out on to the cobble-stones. A teapot came crashing down +from an upper story just behind Lois, and she, starting round and looking up, +thought that the trembling, drink-bleared man at the upper window, who was +stupidly staring after his pot, had had designs on her life; and she went on +her way shuddering at the grim tragedy of life. +</p> + +<p> +In the dull October morning the ruined factory was black and ghastly. The +window-frames were all jagged, and the walls stood gaunt. Inside was a tangle +of twisted <i>débris</i>, the iron, in parts red with bright rust, looking +still hot; the charred wood was black and satiny; from dishevelled heaps, +sodden with water, a faint smoke rose dimly. Lois stood and looked. If he had +done that! He might even be dead there, burned to ash and lost for ever. It was +almost soothing to feel so. He would be safe in the eternity which now she must +hope in. +</p> + +<p> +At her side the pretty, sympathetic maid chatted plaintively. Suddenly, from +one of her lapses into silence, she exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +“Why if there isn’t Mr Jack!” +</p> + +<p> +Lois turned suddenly and saw her brother and her lover approaching her. Both +looked soiled, untidy and wan. Will had a black eye, some ten hours old, well +coloured. Lois turned very pale as they approached. They were looking gloomily +at the factory, and for a moment did not notice the girls. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be jiggered if there ain’t our Lois!” exclaimed +Jack, the reprobate, swearing under his breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, God!” exclaimed the other in disgust. +</p> + +<p> +“Jack, where have you been?” said Lois sharply, in keen pain, not +looking at her lover. Her sharp tone of suffering drove her lover to defend +himself with an affectation of comic recklessness. +</p> + +<p> +“In quod,” replied her brother, smiling sickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Jack!” cried his sister very sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Fact.” +</p> + +<p> +Will Selby shuffled on his feet and smiled, trying to turn away his face so +that she should not see his black eye. She glanced at him. He felt her +boundless anger and contempt, and with great courage he looked straight at her, +smiling ironically. Unfortunately his smile would not go over his swollen eye, +which remained grave and lurid. +</p> + +<p> +“Do I look pretty?” he inquired with a hateful twist of his lip. +</p> + +<p> +“Very!” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought I did,” he replied. And he turned to look at his +father’s ruined works, and he felt miserable and stubborn. The girl +standing there so clean and out of it all! Oh, God, he felt sick. He turned to +go home. +</p> + +<p> +The three went together, Lois silent in anger and resentment. Her brother was +tired and overstrung, but not suppressed. He chattered on blindly. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a lark we had! We met Bob Osborne and Freddy Mansell coming down +Poultry. There was a girl with some geese. She looked a tanger sitting there, +all like statues, her and the geese. It was Will who began it. He offered her +three-pence and asked her to begin the show. She called him a—she called +him something, and then somebody poked an old gander to stir him up, and +somebody squirted him in the eye. He upped and squawked and started off with +his neck out. Laugh! We nearly killed ourselves, keeping back those old birds +with squirts and teasers. Oh, Lum! Those old geese, oh, scrimmy, they +didn’t know where to turn, they fairly went off their dots, coming at us +right an’ left, and such a row—it was fun, you never knew! Then the +girl she got up and knocked somebody over the jaw, and we were right in for it. +Well, in the end, Billy here got hold of her round the +waist——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dry it up!” exclaimed Will bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +Jack looked at him, laughed mirthlessly, and continued: “An’ we +said we’d buy her birds. So we got hold of one goose +apiece—an’ they took some holding, I can tell you—and off we +set round the fair, Billy leading with the girl. The bloomin’ geese +squawked an’ pecked. Laugh—I thought I should a’ died. Well, +then we wanted the girl to have her birds back—and then she fired up. She +got some other chaps on her side, and there was a proper old row. The girl went +tooth and nail for Will there—she was dead set against him. She gave him +a black eye, by gum, and we went at it, I can tell you. It was a free fight, a +beauty, an’ we got run in. I don’t know what became of the +girl.” +</p> + +<p> +Lois surveyed the two men. There was no glimmer of a smile on her face, though +the maid behind her was sniggering. Will was very bitter. He glanced at his +sweetheart and at the ruined factory. +</p> + +<p> +“How’s dad taken it?” he asked, in a biting, almost humble +tone. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she replied coldly. “Father’s in +an awful way. I believe everybody thinks you set the place on fire.” +</p> + +<p> +Lois drew herself up. She had delivered her blow. She drew herself up in cold +condemnation and for a moment enjoyed her complete revenge. He was despicable, +abject in his dishevelled, disfigured, unwashed condition. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, well, they made a mistake for once,” he replied, with a curl +of the lip. +</p> + +<p> +Curiously enough, they walked side by side as if they belonged to each other. +She was his conscience-keeper. She was far from forgiving him, but she was +still farther from letting him go. And he walked at her side like a boy who had +to be punished before he can be exonerated. He submitted. But there was a +genuine bitter contempt in the curl of his lip. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>The White Stocking</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +“I’m getting up, Teddilinks,” said Mrs Whiston, and she +sprang out of bed briskly. +</p> + +<p> +“What the Hanover’s got you?” asked Whiston. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. Can’t I get up?” she replied animatedly. +</p> + +<p> +It was about seven o’clock, scarcely light yet in the cold bedroom. +Whiston lay still and looked at his wife. She was a pretty little thing, with +her fleecy, short black hair all tousled. He watched her as she dressed +quickly, flicking her small, delightful limbs, throwing her clothes about her. +Her slovenliness and untidiness did not trouble him. When she picked up the +edge of her petticoat, ripped off a torn string of white lace, and flung it on +the dressing-table, her careless abandon made his spirit glow. She stood before +the mirror and roughly scrambled together her profuse little mane of hair. He +watched the quickness and softness of her young shoulders, calmly, like a +husband, and appreciatively. +</p> + +<p> +“Rise up,” she cried, turning to him with a quick wave of her +arm—“and shine forth.” +</p> + +<p> +They had been married two years. But still, when she had gone out of the room, +he felt as if all his light and warmth were taken away, he became aware of the +raw, cold morning. So he rose himself, wondering casually what had roused her +so early. Usually she lay in bed as late as she could. +</p> + +<p> +Whiston fastened a belt round his loins and went downstairs in shirt and +trousers. He heard her singing in her snatchy fashion. The stairs creaked under +his weight. He passed down the narrow little passage, which she called a hall, +of the seven and sixpenny house which was his first home. +</p> + +<p> +He was a shapely young fellow of about twenty-eight, sleepy now and easy with +well-being. He heard the water drumming into the kettle, and she began to +whistle. He loved the quick way she dodged the supper cups under the tap to +wash them for breakfast. She looked an untidy minx, but she was quick and handy +enough. +</p> + +<p> +“Teddilinks,” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Light a fire, quick.” +</p> + +<p> +She wore an old, sack-like dressing-jacket of black silk pinned across her +breast. But one of the sleeves, coming unfastened, showed some delightful pink +upper-arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you sew your sleeve up?” he said, suffering from +the sight of the exposed soft flesh. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” she cried, peering round. “Nuisance,” she +said, seeing the gap, then with light fingers went on drying the cups. +</p> + +<p> +The kitchen was of fair size, but gloomy. Whiston poked out the dead ashes. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly a thud was heard at the door down the passage. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go,” cried Mrs Whiston, and she was gone down the hall. +</p> + +<p> +The postman was a ruddy-faced man who had been a soldier. He smiled broadly, +handing her some packages. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve not forgot you,” he said impudently. +</p> + +<p> +“No—lucky for them,” she said, with a toss of the head. But +she was interested only in her envelopes this morning. The postman waited +inquisitively, smiling in an ingratiating fashion. She slowly, abstractedly, as +if she did not know anyone was there, closed the door in his face, continuing +to look at the addresses on her letters. +</p> + +<p> +She tore open the thin envelope. There was a long, hideous, cartoon valentine. +She smiled briefly and dropped it on the floor. Struggling with the string of a +packet, she opened a white cardboard box, and there lay a white silk +handkerchief packed neatly under the paper lace of the box, and her initial, +worked in heliotrope, fully displayed. She smiled pleasantly, and gently put +the box aside. The third envelope contained another white +packet—apparently a cotton handkerchief neatly folded. She shook it out. +It was a long white stocking, but there was a little weight in the toe. +Quickly, she thrust down her arm, wriggling her fingers into the toe of the +stocking, and brought out a small box. She peeped inside the box, then hastily +opened a door on her left hand, and went into the little, cold sitting-room. +She had her lower lip caught earnestly between her teeth. +</p> + +<p> +With a little flash of triumph, she lifted a pair of pearl ear-rings from the +small box, and she went to the mirror. There, earnestly, she began to hook them +through her ears, looking at herself sideways in the glass. Curiously +concentrated and intent she seemed as she fingered the lobes of her ears, her +head bent on one side. +</p> + +<p> +Then the pearl ear-rings dangled under her rosy, small ears. She shook her head +sharply, to see the swing of the drops. They went chill against her neck, in +little, sharp touches. Then she stood still to look at herself, bridling her +head in the dignified fashion. Then she simpered at herself. Catching her own +eye, she could not help winking at herself and laughing. +</p> + +<p> +She turned to look at the box. There was a scrap of paper with this posy: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Pearls may be fair, but thou art fairer.<br/> +Wear these for me, and I’ll love the wearer.” +</p> + +<p> +She made a grimace and a grin. But she was drawn to the mirror again, to look +at her ear-rings. +</p> + +<p> +Whiston had made the fire burn, so he came to look for her. When she heard him, +she started round quickly, guiltily. She was watching him with intent blue eyes +when he appeared. +</p> + +<p> +He did not see much, in his morning-drowsy warmth. He gave her, as ever, a +feeling of warmth and slowness. His eyes were very blue, very kind, his manner +simple. +</p> + +<p> +“What ha’ you got?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Valentines,” she said briskly, ostentatiously turning to show him +the silk handkerchief. She thrust it under his nose. “Smell how +good,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s that from?” he replied, without smelling. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a valentine,” she cried. “How do I know who +it’s from?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll bet you know,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ted!—I don’t!” she cried, beginning to shake her head, +then stopping because of the ear-rings. +</p> + +<p> +He stood still a moment, displeased. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve no right to send you valentines, now,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ted!—Why not? You’re not jealous, are you? I haven’t +the least idea who it’s from. Look—there’s my +initial”—she pointed with an emphatic finger at the heliotrope +embroidery— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“E for Elsie,<br/> +Nice little gelsie,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +she sang. +</p> + +<p> +“Get out,” he said. “You know who it’s from.” +</p> + +<p> +“Truth, I don’t,” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +He looked round, and saw the white stocking lying on a chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this another?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, that’s a sample,” she said. “There’s only a +comic.” And she fetched in the long cartoon. +</p> + +<p> +He stretched it out and looked at it solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“Fools!” he said, and went out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +She flew upstairs and took off the ear-rings. When she returned, he was +crouched before the fire blowing the coals. The skin of his face was flushed, +and slightly pitted, as if he had had small-pox. But his neck was white and +smooth and goodly. She hung her arms round his neck as he crouched there, and +clung to him. He balanced on his toes. +</p> + +<p> +“This fire’s a slow-coach,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And who else is a slow-coach?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“One of us two, I know,” he said, and he rose carefully. She +remained clinging round his neck, so that she was lifted off her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!—swing me,” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +He lowered his head, and she hung in the air, swinging from his neck, laughing. +Then she slipped off. +</p> + +<p> +“The kettle is singing,” she sang, flying for the teapot. He bent +down again to blow the fire. The veins in his neck stood out, his shirt collar +seemed too tight. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Doctor Wyer,<br/> +Blow the fire,<br/> +Puff! puff! puff!” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +she sang, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +He smiled at her. +</p> + +<p> +She was so glad because of her pearl ear-rings. +</p> + +<p> +Over the breakfast she grew serious. He did not notice. She became portentous +in her gravity. Almost it penetrated through his steady good-humour to irritate +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Teddy!” she said at last. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you a lie,” she said, humbly tragic. +</p> + +<p> +His soul stirred uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh aye?” he said casually. +</p> + +<p> +She was not satisfied. He ought to be more moved. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He cut a piece of bread. +</p> + +<p> +“Was it a good one?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +She was piqued. Then she considered—<i>was</i> it a good one? Then she +laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, “it wasn’t up to much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he said easily, but with a steady strength of fondness for +her in his tone. “Get it out then.” +</p> + +<p> +It became a little more difficult. +</p> + +<p> +“You know that white stocking,” she said earnestly. “I told +you a lie. It wasn’t a sample. It was a valentine.” +</p> + +<p> +A little frown came on his brow. +</p> + +<p> +“Then what did you invent it as a sample for?” he said. But he knew +this weakness of hers. The touch of anger in his voice frightened her. +</p> + +<p> +“I was afraid you’d be cross,” she said pathetically. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll bet you were vastly afraid,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>was</i>, Teddy.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause. He was resolving one or two things in his mind. +</p> + +<p> +“And who sent it?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I can guess,” she said, “though there wasn’t a word +with it—except——” +</p> + +<p> +She ran to the sitting-room and returned with a slip of paper. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Pearls may be fair, but thou art fairer.<br/> +Wear these for me, and I’ll love the wearer.” +</p> + +<p> +He read it twice, then a dull red flush came on his face. +</p> + +<p> +“And <i>who</i> do you guess it is?” he asked, with a ringing of +anger in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I suspect it’s Sam Adams,” she said, with a little virtuous +indignation. +</p> + +<p> +Whiston was silent for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Fool!” he said. “An’ what’s it got to do with +pearls?—and how can he say ‘wear these for me’ when +there’s only one? He hasn’t got the brain to invent a proper +verse.” +</p> + +<p> +He screwed the sup of paper into a ball and flung it into the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose he thinks it’ll make a pair with the one last +year,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, did he send one then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I thought you’d be wild if you knew.” +</p> + +<p> +His jaw set rather sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he rose, and went to wash himself, rolling back his sleeves and +pulling open his shirt at the breast. It was as if his fine, clear-cut temples +and steady eyes were degraded by the lower, rather brutal part of his face. But +she loved it. As she whisked about, clearing the table, she loved the way in +which he stood washing himself. He was such a man. She liked to see his neck +glistening with water as he swilled it. It amused her and pleased her and +thrilled her. He was so sure, so permanent, he had her so utterly in his power. +It gave her a delightful, mischievous sense of liberty. Within his grasp, she +could dart about excitingly. +</p> + +<p> +He turned round to her, his face red from the cold water, his eyes fresh and +very blue. +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t been seeing anything of him, have you?” he asked +roughly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered, after a moment, as if caught guilty. “He +got into the tram with me, and he asked me to drink a coffee and a Benedictine +in the Royal.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got it off fine and glib,” he said sullenly. +“And did you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she replied, with the air of a traitor before the rack. +</p> + +<p> +The blood came up into his neck and face, he stood motionless, dangerous. +</p> + +<p> +“It was cold, and it was such fun to go into the Royal,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d go off with a nigger for a packet of chocolate,” he +said, in anger and contempt, and some bitterness. Queer how he drew away from +her, cut her off from him. +</p> + +<p> +“Ted—how beastly!” she cried. “You know quite +well——” She caught her lip, flushed, and the tears came to +her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +He turned away, to put on his necktie. She went about her work, making a queer +pathetic little mouth, down which occasionally dripped a tear. +</p> + +<p> +He was ready to go. With his hat jammed down on his head, and his overcoat +buttoned up to his chin, he came to kiss her. He would be miserable all the day +if he went without. She allowed herself to be kissed. Her cheek was wet under +his lips, and his heart burned. She hurt him so deeply. And she felt aggrieved, +and did not quite forgive him. +</p> + +<p> +In a moment she went upstairs to her ear-rings. Sweet they looked nestling in +the little drawer—sweet! She examined them with voluptuous pleasure, she +threaded them in her ears, she looked at herself, she posed and postured and +smiled, and looked sad and tragic and winning and appealing, all in turn before +the mirror. And she was happy, and very pretty. +</p> + +<p> +She wore her ear-rings all morning, in the house. She was self-conscious, and +quite brilliantly winsome, when the baker came, wondering if he would notice. +All the tradesmen left her door with a glow in them, feeling elated, and +unconsciously favouring the delightful little creature, though there had been +nothing to notice in her behaviour. +</p> + +<p> +She was stimulated all the day. She did not think about her husband. He was the +permanent basis from which she took these giddy little flights into nowhere. At +night, like chickens and curses, she would come home to him, to roost. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Whiston, a traveller and confidential support of a small firm, +hastened about his work, his heart all the while anxious for her, yearning for +surety, and kept tense by not getting it. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +She had been a warehouse girl in Adams’s lace factory before she was +married. Sam Adams was her employer. He was a bachelor of forty, growing stout, +a man well dressed and florid, with a large brown moustache and thin hair. From +the rest of his well-groomed, showy appearance, it was evident his baldness was +a chagrin to him. He had a good presence, and some Irish blood in his veins. +</p> + +<p> +His fondness for the girls, or the fondness of the girls for him, was +notorious. And Elsie, quick, pretty, almost witty little thing—she +<i>seemed</i> witty, although, when her sayings were repeated, they were +entirely trivial—she had a great attraction for him. He would come into +the warehouse dressed in a rather sporting reefer coat, of fawn colour, and +trousers of fine black-and-white check, a cap with a big peak and a scarlet +carnation in his button-hole, to impress her. She was only half impressed. He +was too loud for her good taste. Instinctively perceiving this, he sobered down +to navy blue. Then a well-built man, florid, with large brown whiskers, smart +navy blue suit, fashionable boots, and manly hat, he was the irreproachable. +Elsie was impressed. +</p> + +<p> +But meanwhile Whiston was courting her, and she made splendid little gestures, +before her bedroom mirror, of the constant-and-true sort. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“True, true till death——” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +That was her song. Whiston was made that way, so there was no need to take +thought for him. +</p> + +<p> +Every Christmas Sam Adams gave a party at his house, to which he invited his +superior work-people—not factory hands and labourers, but those above. He +was a generous man in his way, with a real warm feeling for giving pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +Two years ago Elsie had attended this Christmas-party for the last time. +Whiston had accompanied her. At that time he worked for Sam Adams. +</p> + +<p> +She had been very proud of herself, in her close-fitting, full-skirted dress of +blue silk. Whiston called for her. Then she tripped beside him, holding her +large cashmere shawl across her breast. He strode with long strides, his +trousers handsomely strapped under his boots, and her silk shoes bulging the +pockets of his full-skirted overcoat. +</p> + +<p> +They passed through the park gates, and her spirits rose. Above them the Castle +Rock loomed grandly in the night, the naked trees stood still and dark in the +frost, along the boulevard. +</p> + +<p> +They were rather late. Agitated with anticipation, in the cloak-room she gave +up her shawl, donned her silk shoes, and looked at herself in the mirror. The +loose bunches of curls on either side her face danced prettily, her mouth +smiled. +</p> + +<p> +She hung a moment in the door of the brilliantly lighted room. Many people were +moving within the blaze of lamps, under the crystal chandeliers, the full +skirts of the women balancing and floating, the side-whiskers and white cravats +of the men bowing above. Then she entered the light. +</p> + +<p> +In an instant Sam Adams was coming forward, lifting both his arms in boisterous +welcome. There was a constant red laugh on his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Come late, would you,” he shouted, “like royalty.” +</p> + +<p> +He seized her hands and led her forward. He opened his mouth wide when he +spoke, and the effect of the warm, dark opening behind the brown whiskers was +disturbing. But she was floating into the throng on his arm. He was very +gallant. +</p> + +<p> +“Now then,” he said, taking her card to write down the dances, +“I’ve got <i>carte blanche</i>, haven’t I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Whiston doesn’t dance,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a lucky man!” he said, scribbling his initials. “I was +born with an <i>amourette</i> in my mouth.” +</p> + +<p> +He wrote on, quietly. She blushed and laughed, not knowing what it meant. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what is that?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s you, even littler than you are, dressed in little +wings,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have to be pretty small to get in your mouth,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You think you’re too big, do you!” he said easily. +</p> + +<p> +He handed her her card, with a bow. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I’m set up, my darling, for this evening,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Then, quick, always at his ease, he looked over the room. She waited in front +of him. He was ready. Catching the eye of the band, he nodded. In a moment, the +music began. He seemed to relax, giving himself up. +</p> + +<p> +“Now then, Elsie,” he said, with a curious caress in his voice that +seemed to lap the outside of her body in a warm glow, delicious. She gave +herself to it. She liked it. +</p> + +<p> +He was an excellent dancer. He seemed to draw her close in to him by some male +warmth of attraction, so that she became all soft and pliant to him, flowing to +his form, whilst he united her with him and they lapsed along in one movement. +She was just carried in a kind of strong, warm flood, her feet moved of +themselves, and only the music threw her away from him, threw her back to him, +to his clasp, in his strong form moving against her, rhythmically, deliriously. +</p> + +<p> +When it was over, he was pleased and his eyes had a curious gleam which +thrilled her and yet had nothing to do with her. Yet it held her. He did not +speak to her. He only looked straight into her eyes with a curious, gleaming +look that disturbed her fearfully and deliriously. But also there was in his +look some of the automatic irony of the <i>roué</i>. It left her partly cold. +She was not carried away. +</p> + +<p> +She went, driven by an opposite, heavier impulse, to Whiston. He stood looking +gloomy, trying to admit that she had a perfect right to enjoy herself apart +from him. He received her with rather grudging kindliness. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you going to play whist?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” he said. “Directly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do wish you could dance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I can’t,” he said. “So you enjoy +yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I should enjoy it better if I could dance with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, you’re all right,” he said. “I’m not made +that way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you ought to be!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s my fault, not yours. You enjoy yourself,” he bade +her. Which she proceeded to do, a little bit irked. +</p> + +<p> +She went with anticipation to the arms of Sam Adams, when the time came to +dance with him. It <i>was</i> so gratifying, irrespective of the man. And she +felt a little grudge against Whiston, soon forgotten when her host was holding +her near to him, in a delicious embrace. And she watched his eyes, to meet the +gleam in them, which gratified her. +</p> + +<p> +She was getting warmed right through, the glow was penetrating into her, +driving away everything else. Only in her heart was a little tightness, like +conscience. +</p> + +<p> +When she got a chance, she escaped from the dancing-room to the card-room. +There, in a cloud of smoke, she found Whiston playing cribbage. Radiant, +roused, animated, she came up to him and greeted him. She was too strong, too +vibrant a note in the quiet room. He lifted his head, and a frown knitted his +gloomy forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you playing cribbage? Is it exciting? How are you getting on?” +she chattered. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her. None of these questions needed answering, and he did not feel +in touch with her. She turned to the cribbage-board. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you white or red?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s red,” replied the partner. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’re losing,” she said, still to Whiston. And she +lifted the red peg from the board. +“One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—Right +up there you ought to jump——” +</p> + +<p> +“Now put it back in its right place,” said Whiston. +</p> + +<p> +“Where was it?” she asked gaily, knowing her transgression. He took +the little red peg away from her and stuck it in its hole. +</p> + +<p> +The cards were shuffled. +</p> + +<p> +“What a shame you’re losing!” said Elsie. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better cut for him,” said the partner. +</p> + +<p> +She did so, hastily. The cards were dealt. She put her hand on his shoulder, +looking at his cards. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s good,” she cried, “isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer, but threw down two cards. It moved him more strongly than +was comfortable, to have her hand on his shoulder, her curls dangling and +touching his ears, whilst she was roused to another man. It made the blood +flame over him. +</p> + +<p> +At that moment Sam Adams appeared, florid and boisterous, intoxicated more with +himself, with the dancing, than with wine. In his eyes the curious, impersonal +light gleamed. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought I should find you here, Elsie,” he cried boisterously, a +disturbing, high note in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“What made you think so?” she replied, the mischief rousing in her. +</p> + +<p> +The florid, well-built man narrowed his eyes to a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I should never look for you among the ladies,” he said, with a +kind of intimate, animal call to her. He laughed, bowed, and offered her his +arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam, the music waits.” +</p> + +<p> +She went almost helplessly, carried along with him, unwilling, yet delighted. +</p> + +<p> +That dance was an intoxication to her. After the first few steps, she felt +herself slipping away from herself. She almost knew she was going, she did not +even want to go. Yet she must have chosen to go. She lay in the arm of the +steady, close man with whom she was dancing, and she seemed to swim away out of +contact with the room, into him. She had passed into another, denser element of +him, an essential privacy. The room was all vague around her, like an +atmosphere, like under sea, with a flow of ghostly, dumb movements. But she +herself was held real against her partner, and it seemed she was connected with +him, as if the movements of his body and limbs were her own movements, yet not +her own movements—and oh, delicious! He also was given up, oblivious, +concentrated, into the dance. His eye was unseeing. Only his large, voluptuous +body gave off a subtle activity. His fingers seemed to search into her flesh. +Every moment, and every moment, she felt she would give way utterly, and sink +molten: the fusion point was coming when she would fuse down into perfect +unconsciousness at his feet and knees. But he bore her round the room in the +dance, and he seemed to sustain all her body with his limbs, his body, and his +warmth seemed to come closer into her, nearer, till it would fuse right through +her, and she would be as liquid to him, as an intoxication only. +</p> + +<p> +It was exquisite. When it was over, she was dazed, and was scarcely breathing. +She stood with him in the middle of the room as if she were alone in a remote +place. He bent over her. She expected his lips on her bare shoulder, and +waited. Yet they were not alone, they were not alone. It was cruel. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas good, wasn’t it, my darling?” he said to her, +low and delighted. There was a strange impersonality about his low, exultant +call that appealed to her irresistibly. Yet why was she aware of some part shut +off in her? She pressed his arm, and he led her towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +She was not aware of what she was doing, only a little grain of resistant +trouble was in her. The man, possessed, yet with a superficial presence of +mind, made way to the dining-room, as if to give her refreshment, cunningly +working to his own escape with her. He was molten hot, filmed over with +presence of mind, and bottomed with cold disbelief. +</p> + +<p> +In the dining-room was Whiston, carrying coffee to the plain, neglected ladies. +Elsie saw him, but felt as if he could not see her. She was beyond his reach +and ken. A sort of fusion existed between her and the large man at her side. +She ate her custard, but an incomplete fusion all the while sustained and +contained her within the being of her employer. +</p> + +<p> +But she was growing cooler. Whiston came up. She looked at him, and saw him +with different eyes. She saw his slim, young man’s figure real and +enduring before her. That was he. But she was in the spell with the other man, +fused with him, and she could not be taken away. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you finished your cribbage?” she asked, with hasty evasion of +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he replied. “Aren’t you getting tired of +dancing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Not she,” said Adams heartily. “No girl with any spirit gets +tired of dancing.—Have something else, Elsie. Come—sherry. Have a +glass of sherry with us, Whiston.” +</p> + +<p> +Whilst they sipped the wine, Adams watched Whiston almost cunningly, to find +his advantage. +</p> + +<p> +“We’d better be getting back—there’s the music,” +he said. “See the women get something to eat, Whiston, will you, +there’s a good chap.” +</p> + +<p> +And he began to draw away. Elsie was drifting helplessly with him. But Whiston +put himself beside them, and went along with them. In silence they passed +through to the dancing-room. There Adams hesitated, and looked round the room. +It was as if he could not see. +</p> + +<p> +A man came hurrying forward, claiming Elsie, and Adams went to his other +partner. Whiston stood watching during the dance. She was conscious of him +standing there observant of her, like a ghost, or a judgment, or a guardian +angel. She was also conscious, much more intimately and impersonally, of the +body of the other man moving somewhere in the room. She still belonged to him, +but a feeling of distraction possessed her, and helplessness. Adams danced on, +adhering to Elsie, waiting his time, with the persistence of cynicism. +</p> + +<p> +The dance was over. Adams was detained. Elsie found herself beside Whiston. +There was something shapely about him as he sat, about his knees and his +distinct figure, that she clung to. It was as if he had enduring form. She put +her hand on his knee. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ever</i> so,” she replied, with a fervent, yet detached tone. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s going on for one o’clock,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it?” she answered. It meant nothing to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Should we be going?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She was silent. For the first time for an hour or more an inkling of her normal +consciousness returned. She resented it. +</p> + +<p> +“What for?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you might have had enough,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +A slight soberness came over her, an irritation at being frustrated of her +illusion. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve been here since nine,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +That was no answer, no reason. It conveyed nothing to her. She sat detached +from him. Across the room Sam Adams glanced at her. She sat there exposed for +him. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t want to be too free with Sam Adams,” said Whiston +cautiously, suffering. “You know what he is.” +</p> + +<p> +“How, free?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Why—you don’t want to have too much to do with him.” +</p> + +<p> +She sat silent. He was forcing her into consciousness of her position. But he +could not get hold of her feelings, to change them. She had a curious, perverse +desire that he should not. +</p> + +<p> +“I like him,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you find to like in him?” he said, with a hot heart. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know—but I like him,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +She was immutable. He sat feeling heavy and dulled with rage. He was not clear +as to what he felt. He sat there unliving whilst she danced. And she, +distracted, lost to herself between the opposing forces of the two men, +drifted. Between the dances, Whiston kept near to her. She was scarcely +conscious. She glanced repeatedly at her card, to see when she would dance +again with Adams, half in desire, half in dread. Sometimes she met his steady, +glaucous eye as she passed him in the dance. Sometimes she saw the steadiness +of his flank as he danced. And it was always as if she rested on his arm, were +borne along, upborne by him, away from herself. And always there was present +the other’s antagonism. She was divided. +</p> + +<p> +The time came for her to dance with Adams. Oh, the delicious closing of contact +with him, of his limbs touching her limbs, his arm supporting her. She seemed +to resolve. Whiston had not made himself real to her. He was only a heavy place +in her consciousness. +</p> + +<p> +But she breathed heavily, beginning to suffer from the closeness of strain. She +was nervous. Adams also was constrained. A tightness, a tension was coming over +them all. And he was exasperated, feeling something counteracting physical +magnetism, feeling a will stronger with her than his own, intervening in what +was becoming a vital necessity to him. +</p> + +<p> +Elsie was almost lost to her own control. As she went forward with him to take +her place at the dance, she stooped for her pocket-handkerchief. The music +sounded for quadrilles. Everybody was ready. Adams stood with his body near +her, exerting his attraction over her. He was tense and fighting. She stooped +for her pocket-handkerchief, and shook it as she rose. It shook out and fell +from her hand. With agony, she saw she had taken a white stocking instead of a +handkerchief. For a second it lay on the floor, a twist of white stocking. +Then, in an instant, Adams picked it up, with a little, surprised laugh of +triumph. +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll do for me,” he whispered—seeming to take +possession of her. And he stuffed the stocking in his trousers pocket, and +quickly offered her his handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +The dance began. She felt weak and faint, as if her will were turned to water. +A heavy sense of loss came over her. She could not help herself anymore. But it +was peace. +</p> + +<p> +When the dance was over, Adams yielded her up. Whiston came to her. +</p> + +<p> +“What was it as you dropped?” Whiston asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought it was my handkerchief—I’d taken a stocking by +mistake,” she said, detached and muted. +</p> + +<p> +“And he’s got it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he mean by that?” +</p> + +<p> +She lifted her shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to let him keep it?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t let him.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a long pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I to go and have it out with him?” he asked, his face flushed, +his blue eyes going hard with opposition. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, pale. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“No—I don’t want to say anything about it.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat exasperated and nonplussed. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll let him keep it, then?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +She sat silent and made no form of answer. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by it?” he said, dark with fury. And he started +up. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” she cried. “Ted!” And she caught hold of him, +sharply detaining him. +</p> + +<p> +It made him black with rage. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Then something about her mouth was pitiful to him. He did not understand, but +he felt she must have her reasons. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’m not stopping here,” he said. “Are you coming +with me?” +</p> + +<p> +She rose mutely, and they went out of the room. Adams had not noticed. +</p> + +<p> +In a few moments they were in the street. +</p> + +<p> +“What the hell do you mean?” he said, in a black fury. +</p> + +<p> +She went at his side, in silence, neutral. +</p> + +<p> +“That great hog, an’ all,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +Then they went a long time in silence through the frozen, deserted darkness of +the town. She felt she could not go indoors. They were drawing near her house. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to go home,” she suddenly cried in distress and +anguish. “I don’t want to go home.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to go home,” was all she could sob. +</p> + +<p> +He heard somebody coming. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we can walk a bit further,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She was silent again. They passed out of the town into the fields. He held her +by the arm—they could not speak. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s a-matter?” he asked at length, puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +She began to cry again. +</p> + +<p> +At last he took her in his arms, to soothe her. She sobbed by herself, almost +unaware of him. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me what’s a-matter, Elsie,” he said. “Tell me +what’s a-matter—my dear—tell me, then——” +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her wet face, and caressed her. She made no response. He was puzzled +and tender and miserable. +</p> + +<p> +At length she became quiet. Then he kissed her, and she put her arms round him, +and clung to him very tight, as if for fear and anguish. He held her in his +arms, wondering. +</p> + +<p> +“Ted!” she whispered, frantic. “Ted!” +</p> + +<p> +“What, my love?” he answered, becoming also afraid. +</p> + +<p> +“Be good to me,” she cried. “Don’t be cruel to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my pet,” he said, amazed and grieved. “Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, be good to me,” she sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +And he held her very safe, and his heart was white-hot with love for her. His +mind was amazed. He could only hold her against his chest that was white-hot +with love and belief in her. So she was restored at last. +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +She refused to go to her work at Adams’s any more. Her father had to +submit and she sent in her notice—she was not well. Sam Adams was +ironical. But he had a curious patience. He did not fight. +</p> + +<p> +In a few weeks, she and Whiston were married. She loved him with passion and +worship, a fierce little abandon of love that moved him to the depths of his +being, and gave him a permanent surety and sense of realness in himself. He did +not trouble about himself any more: he felt he was fulfilled and now he had +only the many things in the world to busy himself about. Whatever troubled him, +at the bottom was surety. He had found himself in this love. +</p> + +<p> +They spoke once or twice of the white stocking. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” Whiston exclaimed. “What does it matter?” +</p> + +<p> +He was impatient and angry, and could not bear to consider the matter. So it +was left unresolved. +</p> + +<p> +She was quite happy at first, carried away by her adoration of her husband. +Then gradually she got used to him. He always was the ground of her happiness, +but she got used to him, as to the air she breathed. He never got used to her +in the same way. +</p> + +<p> +Inside of marriage she found her liberty. She was rid of the responsibility of +herself. Her husband must look after that. She was free to get what she could +out of her time. +</p> + +<p> +So that, when, after some months, she met Sam Adams, she was not quite as +unkind to him as she might have been. With a young wife’s new and +exciting knowledge of men, she perceived he was in love with her, she knew he +had always kept an unsatisfied desire for her. And, sportive, she could not +help playing a little with this, though she cared not one jot for the man +himself. +</p> + +<p> +When Valentine’s day came, which was near the first anniversary of her +wedding day, there arrived a white stocking with a little amethyst brooch. +Luckily Whiston did not see it, so she said nothing of it to him. She had not +the faintest intention of having anything to do with Sam Adams, but once a +little brooch was in her possession, it was hers, and she did not trouble her +head for a moment how she had come by it. She kept it. +</p> + +<p> +Now she had the pearl ear-rings. They were a more valuable and a more +conspicuous present. She would have to ask her mother to give them to her, to +explain their presence. She made a little plan in her head. And she was +extraordinarily pleased. As for Sam Adams, even if he saw her wearing them, he +would not give her away. What fun, if he saw her wearing his ear-rings! She +would pretend she had inherited them from her grandmother, her mother’s +mother. She laughed to herself as she went down town in the afternoon, the +pretty drops dangling in front of her curls. But she saw no one of importance. +</p> + +<p> +Whiston came home tired and depressed. All day the male in him had been uneasy, +and this had fatigued him. She was curiously against him, inclined, as she +sometimes was nowadays, to make mock of him and jeer at him and cut him off. He +did not understand this, and it angered him deeply. She was uneasy before him. +</p> + +<p> +She knew he was in a state of suppressed irritation. The veins stood out on the +backs of his hands, his brow was drawn stiffly. Yet she could not help goading +him. +</p> + +<p> +“What did you do wi’ that white stocking?” he asked, out of a +gloomy silence, his voice strong and brutal. +</p> + +<p> +“I put it in a drawer—why?” she replied flippantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t you put it on the fire back?” he said harshly. +“What are you hoarding it up for?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not hoarding it up,” she said. “I’ve got a +pair.” +</p> + +<p> +He relapsed into gloomy silence. She, unable to move him, ran away upstairs, +leaving him smoking by the fire. Again she tried on the ear-rings. Then another +little inspiration came to her. She drew on the white stockings, both of them. +</p> + +<p> +Presently she came down in them. Her husband still sat immovable and glowering +by the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Look!” she said. “They’ll do beautifully.” +</p> + +<p> +And she picked up her skirts to her knees, and twisted round, looking at her +pretty legs in the neat stockings. +</p> + +<p> +He filled with unreasonable rage, and took the pipe from his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t they look nice?” she said. “One from last year +and one from this, they just do. Save you buying a pair.” +</p> + +<p> +And she looked over her shoulders at her pretty calves, and the dangling frills +of her knickers. +</p> + +<p> +“Put your skirts down and don’t make a fool of yourself,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Why a fool of myself?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +And she began to dance slowly round the room, kicking up her feet half +reckless, half jeering, in a ballet-dancer’s fashion. Almost fearfully, +yet in defiance, she kicked up her legs at him, singing as she did so. She +resented him. +</p> + +<p> +“You little fool, ha’ done with it,” he said. “And +you’ll backfire them stockings, I’m telling you.” He was +angry. His face flushed dark, he kept his head bent. She ceased to dance. +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t,” she said. “They’ll come in very +useful.” +</p> + +<p> +He lifted his head and watched her, with lighted, dangerous eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll put ’em on the fire back, I tell you,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +It was a war now. She bent forward, in a ballet-dancer’s fashion, and put +her tongue between her teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t backfire them stockings,” she sang, repeating his +words, “I shan’t, I shan’t, I shan’t.” +</p> + +<p> +And she danced round the room doing a high kick to the tune of her words. There +was a real biting indifference in her behaviour. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll see whether you will or not,” he said, +“trollops! You’d like Sam Adams to know you was wearing ’em, +wouldn’t you? That’s what would please you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’d like him to see how nicely they fit me, he might give me +some more then.” +</p> + +<p> +And she looked down at her pretty legs. +</p> + +<p> +He knew somehow that she <i>would</i> like Sam Adams to see how pretty her legs +looked in the white stockings. It made his anger go deep, almost to hatred. +</p> + +<p> +“Yer nasty trolley,” he cried. “Put yer petticoats down, and +stop being so foul-minded.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not foul-minded,” she said. “My legs are my own. +And why shouldn’t Sam Adams think they’re nice?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause. He watched her with eyes glittering to a point. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been havin’ owt to do with him?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve just spoken to him when I’ve seen him,” she said. +“He’s not as bad as you would make out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t he?” he cried, a certain wakefulness in his voice. +“Them who has anything to do wi’ him is too bad for me, I tell +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what are you frightened of him for?” she mocked. +</p> + +<p> +She was rousing all his uncontrollable anger. He sat glowering. Every one of +her sentences stirred him up like a red-hot iron. Soon it would be too much. +And she was afraid herself; but she was neither conquered nor convinced. +</p> + +<p> +A curious little grin of hate came on his face. He had a long score against +her. +</p> + +<p> +“What am I frightened of him for?” he repeated automatically. +“What am I frightened of him for? Why, for you, you stray-running little +bitch.” +</p> + +<p> +She flushed. The insult went deep into her, right home. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you’re so dull——” she said, lowering +her eyelids, and speaking coldly, haughtily. +</p> + +<p> +“If I’m so dull I’ll break your neck the first word you speak +to him,” he said, tense. +</p> + +<p> +“Pf!” she sneered. “Do you think I’m frightened of +you?” She spoke coldly, detached. +</p> + +<p> +She was frightened, for all that, white round the mouth. +</p> + +<p> +His heart was getting hotter. +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>will</i> be frightened of me, the next time you have anything to +do with him,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think <i>you’d</i> ever be told—ha!” +</p> + +<p> +Her jeering scorn made him go white-hot, molten. He knew he was incoherent, +scarcely responsible for what he might do. Slowly, unseeing, he rose and went +out of doors, stifled, moved to kill her. +</p> + +<p> +He stood leaning against the garden fence, unable either to see or hear. Below +him, far off, fumed the lights of the town. He stood still, unconscious with a +black storm of rage, his face lifted to the night. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, still unconscious of what he was doing, he went indoors again. She +stood, a small stubborn figure with tight-pressed lips and big, sullen, +childish eyes, watching him, white with fear. He went heavily across the floor +and dropped into his chair. +</p> + +<p> +There was a silence. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You’re</i> not going to tell me everything I shall do, and +everything I shan’t,” she broke out at last. +</p> + +<p> +He lifted his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you <i>this</i>,” he said, low and intense. “Have +anything to do with Sam Adams, and I’ll break your neck.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed, shrill and false. +</p> + +<p> +“How I hate your word ‘break your neck’,” she said, +with a grimace of the mouth. “It sounds so common and beastly. +Can’t you say something else——” +</p> + +<p> +There was a dead silence. +</p> + +<p> +“And besides,” she said, with a queer chirrup of mocking laughter, +“what do you know about anything? He sent me an amethyst brooch and a +pair of pearl ear-rings.” +</p> + +<p> +“He what?” said Whiston, in a suddenly normal voice. His eyes were +fixed on her. +</p> + +<p> +“Sent me a pair of pearl ear-rings, and an amethyst brooch,” she +repeated, mechanically, pale to the lips. +</p> + +<p> +And her big, black, childish eyes watched him, fascinated, held in her spell. +</p> + +<p> +He seemed to thrust his face and his eyes forward at her, as he rose slowly and +came to her. She watched transfixed in terror. Her throat made a small sound, +as she tried to scream. +</p> + +<p> +Then, quick as lightning, the back of his hand struck her with a crash across +the mouth, and she was flung back blinded against the wall. The shock shook a +queer sound out of her. And then she saw him still coming on, his eyes holding +her, his fist drawn back, advancing slowly. At any instant the blow might crash +into her. +</p> + +<p> +Mad with terror, she raised her hands with a queer clawing movement to cover +her eyes and her temples, opening her mouth in a dumb shriek. There was no +sound. But the sight of her slowly arrested him. He hung before her, looking at +her fixedly, as she stood crouched against the wall with open, bleeding mouth, +and wide-staring eyes, and two hands clawing over her temples. And his lust to +see her bleed, to break her and destroy her, rose from an old source against +her. It carried him. He wanted satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +But he had seen her standing there, a piteous, horrified thing, and he turned +his face aside in shame and nausea. He went and sat heavily in his chair, and a +curious ease, almost like sleep, came over his brain. +</p> + +<p> +She walked away from the wall towards the fire, dizzy, white to the lips, +mechanically wiping her small, bleeding mouth. He sat motionless. Then, +gradually, her breath began to hiss, she shook, and was sobbing silently, in +grief for herself. Without looking, he saw. It made his mad desire to destroy +her come back. +</p> + +<p> +At length he lifted his head. His eyes were glowing again, fixed on her. +</p> + +<p> +“And what did he give them you for?” he asked, in a steady, +unyielding voice. +</p> + +<p> +Her crying dried up in a second. She also was tense. +</p> + +<p> +“They came as valentines,” she replied, still not subjugated, even +if beaten. +</p> + +<p> +“When, today?” +</p> + +<p> +“The pearl ear-rings today—the amethyst brooch last year.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve had it a year?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +She felt that now nothing would prevent him if he rose to kill her. She could +not prevent him any more. She was yielded up to him. They both trembled in the +balance, unconscious. +</p> + +<p> +“What have you had to do with him?” he asked, in a barren voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve not had anything to do with him,” she quavered. +</p> + +<p> +“You just kept ’em because they were jewellery?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +A weariness came over him. What was the worth of speaking any more of it? He +did not care any more. He was dreary and sick. +</p> + +<p> +She began to cry again, but he took no notice. She kept wiping her mouth on her +handkerchief. He could see it, the blood-mark. It made him only more sick and +tired of the responsibility of it, the violence, the shame. +</p> + +<p> +When she began to move about again, he raised his head once more from his dead, +motionless position. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are the things?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“They are upstairs,” she quavered. She knew the passion had gone +down in him. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring them down,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t,” she wept, with rage. “You’re not going +to bully me and hit me like that on the mouth.” +</p> + +<p> +And she sobbed again. He looked at her in contempt and compassion and in rising +anger. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are they?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re in the little drawer under the looking-glass,” she +sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +He went slowly upstairs, struck a match, and found the trinkets. He brought +them downstairs in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“These?” he said, looking at them as they lay in his palm. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at them without answering. She was not interested in them any more. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at the little jewels. They were pretty. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s none of their fault,” he said to himself. +</p> + +<p> +And he searched round slowly, persistently, for a box. He tied the things up +and addressed them to Sam Adams. Then he went out in his slippers to post the +little package. +</p> + +<p> +When he came back she was still sitting crying. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better go to bed,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She paid no attention. He sat by the fire. She still cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sleeping down here,” he said. “Go you to +bed.” +</p> + +<p> +In a few moments she lifted her tear-stained, swollen face and looked at him +with eyes all forlorn and pathetic. A great flash of anguish went over his +body. He went over, slowly, and very gently took her in his hands. She let +herself be taken. Then as she lay against his shoulder, she sobbed aloud: +</p> + +<p> +“I never meant——” +</p> + +<p> +“My love—my little love——” he cried, in anguish +of spirit, holding her in his arms. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>A Sick Collier</h2> + +<p> +She was too good for him, everybody said. Yet still she did not regret marrying +him. He had come courting her when he was only nineteen, and she twenty. He was +in build what they call a tight little fellow; short, dark, with a warm colour, +and that upright set of the head and chest, that flaunting way in movement +recalling a mating bird, which denotes a body taut and compact with life. Being +a good worker he had earned decent money in the mine, and having a good home +had saved a little. +</p> + +<p> +She was a cook at “Uplands”, a tall, fair girl, very quiet. Having +seen her walk down the street, Horsepool had followed her from a distance. He +was taken with her, he did not drink, and he was not lazy. So, although he +seemed a bit simple, without much intelligence, but having a sort of physical +brightness, she considered, and accepted him. +</p> + +<p> +When they were married they went to live in Scargill Street, in a highly +respectable six-roomed house which they had furnished between them. The street +was built up the side of a long, steep hill. It was narrow and rather +tunnel-like. Nevertheless, the back looked out over the adjoining pasture, +across a wide valley of fields and woods, in the bottom of which the mine lay +snugly. +</p> + +<p> +He made himself gaffer in his own house. She was unacquainted with a +collier’s mode of life. They were married on a Saturday. On the Sunday +night he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Set th’ table for my breakfast, an’ put my pit-things afront +o’ th’ fire. I s’ll be gettin’ up at ha’ef +pas’ five. Tha nedna shift thysen not till when ter likes.” +</p> + +<p> +He showed her how to put a newspaper on the table for a cloth. When she +demurred: +</p> + +<p> +“I want none o’ your white cloths i’ th’ mornin’. +I like ter be able to slobber if I feel like it,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +He put before the fire his moleskin trousers, a clean singlet, or sleeveless +vest of thick flannel, a pair of stockings and his pit boots, arranging them +all to be warm and ready for morning. +</p> + +<p> +“Now tha sees. That wants doin’ ivery night.” +</p> + +<p> +Punctually at half past five he left her, without any form of leave-taking, +going downstairs in his shirt. +</p> + +<p> +When he arrived home at four o’clock in the afternoon his dinner was +ready to be dished up. She was startled when he came in, a short, sturdy +figure, with a face indescribably black and streaked. She stood before the fire +in her white blouse and white apron, a fair girl, the picture of beautiful +cleanliness. He “clommaxed” in, in his heavy boots. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, how ’as ter gone on?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I was ready for you to come home,” she replied tenderly. In his +black face the whites of his brown eyes flashed at her. +</p> + +<p> +“An’ I wor ready for comin’,” he said. He planked his +tin bottle and snap-bag on the dresser, took off his coat and scarf and +waistcoat, dragged his armchair nearer the fire and sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s ha’e a bit o’ dinner, then—I’m about +clammed,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you goin’ to wash yourself first?” +</p> + +<p> +“What am I to wesh mysen for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you can’t eat your dinner——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, strike a daisy, Missis! Dunna I eat my snap i’ th’ pit +wi’out weshin’?—forced to.” +</p> + +<p> +She served the dinner and sat opposite him. His small bullet head was quite +black, save for the whites of his eyes and his scarlet lips. It gave her a +queer sensation to see him open his red mouth and bare his white teeth as he +ate. His arms and hands were mottled black; his bare, strong neck got a little +fairer as it settled towards his shoulders, reassuring her. There was the faint +indescribable odour of the pit in the room, an odour of damp, exhausted air. +</p> + +<p> +“Why is your vest so black on the shoulders?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“My singlet? That’s wi’ th’ watter droppin’ on us +from th’ roof. This is a dry un as I put on afore I come up. They +ha’e gre’t clothes-’osses, an’ as we change us things, +we put ’em on theer ter dry.” +</p> + +<p> +When he washed himself, kneeling on the hearth-rug stripped to the waist, she +felt afraid of him again. He was so muscular, he seemed so intent on what he +was doing, so intensely himself, like a vigorous animal. And as he stood wiping +himself, with his naked breast towards her, she felt rather sick, seeing his +thick arms bulge their muscles. +</p> + +<p> +They were nevertheless very happy. He was at a great pitch of pride because of +her. The men in the pit might chaff him, they might try to entice him away, but +nothing could reduce his self-assured pride because of her, nothing could +unsettle his almost infantile satisfaction. In the evening he sat in his +armchair chattering to her, or listening as she read the newspaper to him. When +it was fine, he would go into the street, squat on his heels as colliers do, +with his back against the wall of his parlour, and call to the passers-by, in +greeting, one after another. If no one were passing, he was content just to +squat and smoke, having such a fund of sufficiency and satisfaction in his +heart. He was well married. +</p> + +<p> +They had not been wed a year when all Brent and Wellwood’s men came out +on strike. Willy was in the Union, so with a pinch they scrambled through. The +furniture was not all paid for, and other debts were incurred. She worried and +contrived, he left it to her. But he was a good husband; he gave her all he +had. +</p> + +<p> +The men were out fifteen weeks. They had been back just over a year when Willy +had an accident in the mine, tearing his bladder. At the pit head the doctor +talked of the hospital. Losing his head entirely, the young collier raved like +a madman, what with pain and fear of hospital. +</p> + +<p> +“Tha s’lt go whoam, Willy, tha s’lt go whoam,” the +deputy said. +</p> + +<p> +A lad warned the wife to have the bed ready. Without speaking or hesitating she +prepared. But when the ambulance came, and she heard him shout with pain at +being moved, she was afraid lest she should sink down. They carried him in. +</p> + +<p> +“Yo’ should ’a’ had a bed i’ th’ parlour, +Missis,” said the deputy, “then we shouldna ha’ had to hawkse +’im upstairs, an’ it ’ud ’a’ saved your +legs.” +</p> + +<p> +But it was too late now. They got him upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“They let me lie, Lucy,” he was crying, “they let me lie two +mortal hours on th’ sleck afore they took me outer th’ stall. +Th’ peen, Lucy, th’ peen; oh, Lucy, th’ peen, th’ +peen!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know th’ pain’s bad, Willy, I know. But you must try +an’ bear it a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tha munna carry on in that form, lad, thy missis’ll niver be able +ter stan’ it,” said the deputy. +</p> + +<p> +“I canna ’elp it, it’s th’ peen, it’s th’ +peen,” he cried again. He had never been ill in his life. When he had +smashed a finger he could look at the wound. But this pain came from inside, +and terrified him. At last he was soothed and exhausted. +</p> + +<p> +It was some time before she could undress him and wash him. He would let no +other woman do for him, having that savage modesty usual in such men. +</p> + +<p> +For six weeks he was in bed, suffering much pain. The doctors were not quite +sure what was the matter with him, and scarcely knew what to do. He could eat, +he did not lose flesh, nor strength, yet the pain continued, and he could +hardly walk at all. +</p> + +<p> +In the sixth week the men came out in the national strike. He would get up +quite early in the morning and sit by the window. On Wednesday, the second week +of the strike, he sat gazing out on the street as usual, a bullet-headed young +man, still vigorous-looking, but with a peculiar expression of hunted fear in +his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Lucy,” he called, “Lucy!” +</p> + +<p> +She, pale and worn, ran upstairs at his bidding. +</p> + +<p> +“Gi’e me a han’kercher,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you’ve got one,” she replied, coming near. +</p> + +<p> +“Tha nedna touch me,” he cried. Feeling his pocket, he produced a +white handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +“I non want a white un, gi’e me a red un,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“An’ if anybody comes to see you,” she answered, giving him a +red handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +“Besides,” she continued, “you needn’t ha’ +brought me upstairs for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I b’lieve th’ peen’s commin’ on again,” he +said, with a little horror in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t, you know, it isn’t,” she replied. “The +doctor says you imagine it’s there when it isn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Canna I feel what’s inside me?” he shouted. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a traction-engine coming downhill,” she said. +“That’ll scatter them. I’ll just go an’ finish your +pudding.” +</p> + +<p> +She left him. The traction-engine went by, shaking the houses. Then the street +was quiet, save for the men. A gang of youths from fifteen to twenty-five years +old were playing marbles in the middle of the road. Other little groups of men +were playing on the pavement. The street was gloomy. Willy could hear the +endless calling and shouting of men’s voices. +</p> + +<p> +“Tha’rt skinchin’!” +</p> + +<p> +“I arena!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come ’ere with that blood-alley.” +</p> + +<p> +“Swop us four for’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shonna, gie’s hold on’t.” +</p> + +<p> +He wanted to be out, he wanted to be playing marbles. The pain had weakened his +mind, so that he hardly knew any self-control. +</p> + +<p> +Presently another gang of men lounged up the street. It was pay morning. The +Union was paying the men in the Primitive Chapel. They were returning with +their half-sovereigns. +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry!” bawled a voice. “Sorry!” +</p> + +<p> +The word is a form of address, corruption probably of “Sirrah”. +Willy started almost out of his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry!” again bawled a great voice. “Art goin’ +wi’ me to see Notts play Villa?” +</p> + +<p> +Many of the marble players started up. +</p> + +<p> +“What time is it? There’s no treens, we s’ll ha’e ter +walk.” +</p> + +<p> +The street was alive with men. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s goin’ ter Nottingham ter see th’ match?” +shouted the same big voice. A very large, tipsy man, with his cap over his +eyes, was calling. +</p> + +<p> +“Com’ on—aye, com’ on!” came many voices. The +street was full of the shouting of men. They split up in excited cliques and +groups. +</p> + +<p> +“Play up, Notts!” the big man shouted. +</p> + +<p> +“Plee up, Notts!” shouted the youths and men. They were at kindling +pitch. It only needed a shout to rouse them. Of this the careful authorities +were aware. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m goin’, I’m goin’!” shouted the sick +man at his window. +</p> + +<p> +Lucy came running upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m goin’ ter see Notts play Villa on th’ Meadows +ground,” he declared. +</p> + +<p> +“You—<i>you</i> can’t go. There are no trains. You +can’t walk nine miles.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m goin’ ter see th’ match,” he declared, +rising. +</p> + +<p> +“You know you can’t. Sit down now an’ be quiet.” +</p> + +<p> +She put her hand on him. He shook it off. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave me alone, leave me alone. It’s thee as ma’es th’ +peen come, it’s thee. I’m goin’ ter Nottingham to see +th’ football match.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down—folks’ll hear you, and what will they think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come off’n me. Com’ off. It’s her, it’s her as +does it. Com’ off.” +</p> + +<p> +He seized hold of her. His little head was bristling with madness, and he was +strong as a lion. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Willy!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s ’er, it’s ’er. Kill her!” he shouted, +“kill her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Willy, folks’ll hear you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Th’ peen’s commin’ on again, I tell yer. I’ll +kill her for it.” +</p> + +<p> +He was completely out of his mind. She struggled with him to prevent his going +to the stairs. When she escaped from him, he was shouting and raving, she +beckoned to her neighbour, a girl of twenty-four, who was cleaning the window +across the road. +</p> + +<p> +Ethel Mellor was the daughter of a well-to-do check-weighman. She ran across in +fear to Mrs Horsepool. Hearing the man raving, people were running out in the +street and listening. Ethel hurried upstairs. Everything was clean and pretty +in the young home. +</p> + +<p> +Willy was staggering round the room, after the slowly retreating Lucy, +shouting: +</p> + +<p> +“Kill her! Kill her!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Horsepool!” cried Ethel, leaning against the bed, white as the +sheets, and trembling. “Whatever are you saying?” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell yer it’s ’er fault as th’ peen comes on—I +tell yer it is! Kill ’er—kill ’er!” +</p> + +<p> +“Kill Mrs Horsepool!” cried the trembling girl. “Why, +you’re ever so fond of her, you know you are.” +</p> + +<p> +“The peen—I ha’e such a lot o’ peen—I want to +kill ’er.” +</p> + +<p> +He was subsiding. When he sat down his wife collapsed in a chair, weeping +noiselessly. The tears ran down Ethel’s face. He sat staring out of the +window; then the old, hurt look came on his face. +</p> + +<p> +“What ’ave I been sayin’?” he asked, looking piteously +at his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Why!” said Ethel, “you’ve been carrying on something +awful, saying, ‘Kill her, kill her!’” +</p> + +<p> +“Have I, Lucy?” he faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t know what you was saying,” said his young wife +gently but coldly. +</p> + +<p> +His face puckered up. He bit his lip, then broke into tears, sobbing +uncontrollably, with his face to the window. +</p> + +<p> +There was no sound in the room but of three people crying bitterly, breath +caught in sobs. Suddenly Lucy put away her tears and went over to him. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t know what you was sayin’, Willy, I know you +didn’t. I knew you didn’t, all the time. It doesn’t matter, +Willy. Only don’t do it again.” +</p> + +<p> +In a little while, when they were calmer, she went downstairs with Ethel. +</p> + +<p> +“See if anybody is looking in the street,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Ethel went into the parlour and peeped through the curtains. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye!” she said. “You may back your life Lena an’ Mrs +Severn’ll be out gorping, and that clat-fartin’ Mrs Allsop.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I hope they haven’t heard anything! If it gets about as +he’s out of his mind, they’ll stop his compensation, I know they +will.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’d never stop his compensation for <i>that</i>,” +protested Ethel. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, they <i>have</i> been stopping some——” +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll not get about. I s’ll tell nobody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but if it does, whatever shall we do?...” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>The Christening</h2> + +<p> +The mistress of the British School stepped down from her school gate, and +instead of turning to the left as usual, she turned to the right. Two women who +were hastening home to scramble their husbands’ dinners together—it +was five minutes to four—stopped to look at her. They stood gazing after +her for a moment; then they glanced at each other with a woman’s little +grimace. +</p> + +<p> +To be sure, the retreating figure was ridiculous: small and thin, with a black +straw hat, and a rusty cashmere dress hanging full all round the skirt. For so +small and frail and rusty a creature to sail with slow, deliberate stride was +also absurd. Hilda Rowbotham was less than thirty, so it was not years that set +the measure of her pace; she had heart disease. Keeping her face, that was +small with sickness, but not uncomely, firmly lifted and fronting ahead, the +young woman sailed on past the market-place, like a black swan of mournful, +disreputable plumage. +</p> + +<p> +She turned into Berryman’s, the baker’s. The shop displayed bread +and cakes, sacks of flour and oatmeal, flitches of bacon, hams, lard and +sausages. The combination of scents was not unpleasing. Hilda Rowbotham stood +for some minutes nervously tapping and pushing a large knife that lay on the +counter, and looking at the tall, glittering brass scales. At last a morose man +with sandy whiskers came down the step from the house-place. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he asked, not apologizing for his delay. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you give me six-pennyworth of assorted cakes and pastries—and +put in some macaroons, please?” she asked, in remarkably rapid and +nervous speech. Her lips fluttered like two leaves in a wind, and her words +crowded and rushed like a flock of sheep at a gate. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve got no macaroons,” said the man churlishly. +</p> + +<p> +He had evidently caught that word. He stood waiting. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I can’t have any, Mr Berryman. Now I do feel disappointed. I +like those macaroons, you know, and it’s not often I treat myself. One +gets so tired of trying to spoil oneself, don’t you think? It’s +less profitable even than trying to spoil somebody else.” She laughed a +quick little nervous laugh, putting her hand to her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Then what’ll you have?” asked the man, without the ghost of +an answering smile. He evidently had not followed, so he looked more glum than +ever. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, anything you’ve got,” replied the schoolmistress, +flushing slightly. The man moved slowly about, dropping the cakes from various +dishes one by one into a paper bag. +</p> + +<p> +“How’s that sister o’ yours getting on?” he asked, as +if he were talking to the flour scoop. +</p> + +<p> +“Whom do you mean?” snapped the schoolmistress. +</p> + +<p> +“The youngest,” answered the stooping, pale-faced man, with a note +of sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +“Emma! Oh, she’s very well, thank you!” The schoolmistress +was very red, but she spoke with sharp, ironical defiance. The man grunted. +Then he handed her the bag and watched her out of the shop without bidding her +“Good afternoon”. +</p> + +<p> +She had the whole length of the main street to traverse, a half-mile of +slow-stepping torture, with shame flushing over her neck. But she carried her +white bag with an appearance of steadfast unconcern. When she turned into the +field she seemed to droop a little. The wide valley opened out from her, with +the far woods withdrawing into twilight, and away in the centre the great pit +streaming its white smoke and chuffing as the men were being turned up. A full, +rose-coloured moon, like a flamingo flying low under the far, dusky east, drew +out of the mist. It was beautiful, and it made her irritable sadness soften, +diffuse. +</p> + +<p> +Across the field, and she was at home. It was a new, substantial cottage, built +with unstinted hand, such a house as an old miner could build himself out of +his savings. In the rather small kitchen a woman of dark, saturnine complexion +sat nursing a baby in a long white gown; a young woman of heavy, brutal cast +stood at the table, cutting bread and butter. She had a downcast, humble mien +that sat unnaturally on her, and was strangely irritating. She did not look +round when her sister entered. Hilda put down the bag of cakes and left the +room, not having spoken to Emma, nor to the baby, not to Mrs Carlin, who had +come in to help for the afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +Almost immediately the father entered from the yard with a dustpan full of +coals. He was a large man, but he was going to pieces. As he passed through, he +gripped the door with his free hand to steady himself, but turning, he lurched +and swayed. He began putting the coals on the fire, piece by piece. One lump +fell from his hand and smashed on the white hearth. Emma Rowbotham looked +round, and began in a rough, loud voice of anger: “Look at you!” +Then she consciously moderated her tones. “I’ll sweep it up in a +minute—don’t you bother; you’ll only be going head first into +the fire.” +</p> + +<p> +Her father bent down nevertheless to clear up the mess he had made, saying, +articulating his words loosely and slavering in his speech: +</p> + +<p> +“The lousy bit of a thing, it slipped between my fingers like a +fish.” +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke he went tilting towards the fire. The dark-browed woman cried out: +he put his hand on the hot stove to save himself; Emma swung round and dragged +him off. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t I tell you!” she cried roughly. “Now, have you +burnt yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +She held tight hold of the big man, and pushed him into his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter?” cried a sharp voice from the other room. +The speaker appeared, a hard well-favoured woman of twenty-eight. “Emma, +don’t speak like that to father.” Then, in a tone not so cold, but +just as sharp: “Now, father, what have you been doing?” +</p> + +<p> +Emma withdrew to her table sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s nöwt,” said the old man, vainly protesting. +“It’s nöwt at a’. Get on wi’ what you’re +doin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid ’e’s burnt ’is ’and,” +said the black-browed woman, speaking of him with a kind of hard pity, as if he +were a cumbersome child. Bertha took the old man’s hand and looked at it, +making a quick tut-tutting noise of impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“Emma, get that zinc ointment—and some white rag,” she +commanded sharply. The younger sister put down her loaf with the knife in it, +and went. To a sensitive observer, this obedience was more intolerable than the +most hateful discord. The dark woman bent over the baby and made silent, gentle +movements of motherliness to it. The little one smiled and moved on her lap. It +continued to move and twist. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe this child’s hungry,” she said. “How long is +it since he had anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just afore dinner,” said Emma dully. +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious!” exclaimed Bertha. “You needn’t starve +the child now you’ve got it. Once every two hours it ought to be fed, as +I’ve told you; and now it’s three. Take him, poor little +mite—I’ll cut the bread.” She bent and looked at the bonny +baby. She could not help herself: she smiled, and pressed its cheek with her +finger, and nodded to it, making little noises. Then she turned and took the +loaf from her sister. The woman rose and gave the child to its mother. Emma +bent over the little sucking mite. She hated it when she looked at it, and saw +it as a symbol, but when she felt it, her love was like fire in her blood. +</p> + +<p> +“I should think ’e canna be comin’,” said the father +uneasily, looking up at the clock. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, father—the clock’s fast! It’s but half-past +four! Don’t fidget!” Bertha continued to cut the bread and butter. +</p> + +<p> +“Open a tin of pears,” she said to the woman, in a much milder +tone. Then she went into the next room. As soon as she was gone, the old man +said again: “I should ha’e thought he’d ’a’ been +’ere by now, if he means comin’.” +</p> + +<p> +Emma, engrossed, did not answer. The father had ceased to consider her, since +she had become humbled. +</p> + +<p> +“’E’ll come—’e’ll come!” assured the +stranger. +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes later Bertha hurried into the kitchen, taking off her apron. The +dog barked furiously. She opened the door, commanded the dog to silence, and +said: “He will be quiet now, Mr Kendal.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said a sonorous voice, and there was the sound of a +bicycle being propped against a wall. A clergyman entered, a big-boned, thin, +ugly man of nervous manner. He went straight to the father. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—how are you?” he asked musically, peering down on the +great frame of the miner, ruined by locomotor ataxy. +</p> + +<p> +His voice was full of gentleness, but he seemed as if he could not see +distinctly, could not get things clear. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you hurt your hand?” he said comfortingly, seeing the white +rag. +</p> + +<p> +“It wor nöwt but a pestered bit o’ coal as dropped, an’ I put +my hand on th’ hub. I thought tha worna commin’.” +</p> + +<p> +The familiar ‘tha’, and the reproach, were unconscious retaliation +on the old man’s part. The minister smiled, half wistfully, half +indulgently. He was full of vague tenderness. Then he turned to the young +mother, who flushed sullenly because her dishonoured breast was uncovered. +</p> + +<p> +“How are <i>you</i>?” he asked, very softly and gently, as if she +were ill and he were mindful of her. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m all right,” she replied, awkwardly taking his hand +without rising, hiding her face and the anger that rose in her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—yes”—he peered down at the baby, which sucked with +distended mouth upon the firm breast. “Yes, yes.” He seemed lost in +a dim musing. +</p> + +<p> +Coming to, he shook hands unseeingly with the woman. +</p> + +<p> +Presently they all went into the next room, the minister hesitating to help his +crippled old deacon. +</p> + +<p> +“I can go by myself, thank yer,” testily replied the father. +</p> + +<p> +Soon all were seated. Everybody was separated in feeling and isolated at table. +High tea was spread in the middle kitchen, a large, ugly room kept for special +occasions. +</p> + +<p> +Hilda appeared last, and the clumsy, raw-boned clergyman rose to meet her. He +was afraid of this family, the well-to-do old collier, and the brutal, +self-willed children. But Hilda was queen among them. She was the clever one, +and had been to college. She felt responsible for the keeping up of a high +standard of conduct in all the members of the family. There <i>was</i> a +difference between the Rowbothams and the common collier folk. Woodbine Cottage +was a superior house to most—and was built in pride by the old man. She, +Hilda, was a college-trained schoolmistress; she meant to keep up the prestige +of her house in spite of blows. +</p> + +<p> +She had put on a dress of green voile for this special occasion. But she was +very thin; her neck protruded painfully. The clergyman, however, greeted her +almost with reverence, and, with some assumption of dignity, she sat down +before the tray. At the far end of the table sat the broken, massive frame of +her father. Next to him was the youngest daughter, nursing the restless baby. +The minister sat between Hilda and Bertha, hulking his bony frame +uncomfortably. +</p> + +<p> +There was a great spread on the table, of tinned fruits and tinned salmon, ham +and cakes. Miss Rowbotham kept a keen eye on everything: she felt the +importance of the occasion. The young mother who had given rise to all this +solemnity ate in sulky discomfort, snatching sullen little smiles at her child, +smiles which came, in spite of her, when she felt its little limbs stirring +vigorously on her lap. Bertha, sharp and abrupt, was chiefly concerned with the +baby. She scorned her sister, and treated her like dirt. But the infant was a +streak of light to her. Miss Rowbotham concerned herself with the function and +the conversation. Her hands fluttered; she talked in little volleys exceedingly +nervous. Towards the end of the meal, there came a pause. The old man wiped his +mouth with his red handkerchief, then, his blue eyes going fixed and staring, +he began to speak, in a loose, slobbering fashion, charging his words at the +clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, mester—we’n axed you to come her ter christen this +childt, an’ you’n come, an’ I’m sure we’re very +thankful. I can’t see lettin’ the poor blessed childt miss +baptizing, an’ they aren’t for goin’ to church +wi’t—” He seemed to lapse into a muse. “So,” he +resumed, “we’v axed you to come here to do the job. I’m not +sayin’ as it’s not ’ard on us, it is. I’m +breakin’ up, an’ mother’s gone. I don’t like +leavin’ a girl o’ mine in a situation like ’ers is, but what +the Lord’s done, He’s done, an’ it’s no matter +murmuring.... There’s one thing to be thankful for, an’ we +<i>are</i> thankful for it: they never need know the want of bread.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Rowbotham, the lady of the family, sat very stiff and pained during this +discourse. She was sensitive to so many things that she was bewildered. She +felt her young sister’s shame, then a kind of swift protecting love for +the baby, a feeling that included the mother; she was at a loss before her +father’s religious sentiment, and she felt and resented bitterly the mark +upon the family, against which the common folk could lift their fingers. Still +she winced from the sound of her father’s words. It was a painful ordeal. +</p> + +<p> +“It is hard for you,” began the clergyman in his soft, lingering, +unworldly voice. “It is hard for you today, but the Lord gives comfort in +His time. A man child is born unto us, therefore let us rejoice and be glad. If +sin has entered in among us, let us purify out hearts before the +Lord....” +</p> + +<p> +He went on with his discourse. The young mother lifted the whimpering infant, +till its face was hid in her loose hair. She was hurt, and a little glowering +anger shone in her face. But nevertheless her fingers clasped the body of the +child beautifully. She was stupefied with anger against this emotion let loose +on her account. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Bertha rose and went to the little kitchen, returning with water in a +china bowl. She placed it there among the tea-things. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we’re all ready,” said the old man, and the clergyman +began to read the service. Miss Bertha was godmother, the two men godfathers. +The old man sat with bent head. The scene became impressive. At last Miss +Bertha took the child and put it in the arms of the clergyman. He, big and +ugly, shone with a kind of unreal love. He had never mixed with life, and women +were all unliving, Biblical things to him. When he asked for the name, the old +man lifted his head fiercely. “Joseph William, after me,” he said, +almost out of breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Joseph William, I baptize thee....” resounded the strange, full, +chanting voice of the clergyman. The baby was quite still. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us pray!” It came with relief to them all. They knelt before +their chairs, all but the young mother, who bent and hid herself over her baby. +The clergyman began his hesitating, struggling prayer. +</p> + +<p> +Just then heavy footsteps were heard coming up the path, ceasing at the window. +The young mother, glancing up, saw her brother, black in his pit dirt, grinning +in through the panes. His red mouth curved in a sneer; his fair hair shone +above his blackened skin. He caught the eye of his sister and grinned. Then his +black face disappeared. He had gone on into the kitchen. The girl with the +child sat still and anger filled her heart. She herself hated now the praying +clergyman and the whole emotional business; she hated her brother bitterly. In +anger and bondage she sat and listened. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly her father began to pray. His familiar, loud, rambling voice made her +shut herself up and become even insentient. Folks said his mind was weakening. +She believed it to be true, and kept herself always disconnected from him. +</p> + +<p> +“We ask Thee, Lord,” the old man cried, “to look after this +childt. Fatherless he is. But what does the earthly father matter before Thee? +The childt is Thine, he is Thy childt. Lord, what father has a man but Thee? +Lord, when a man says he is a father, he is wrong from the first word. For Thou +art the Father, Lord. Lord, take away from us the conceit that our children are +ours. Lord, Thou art Father of this childt as is fatherless here. O God, Thou +bring him up. For I have stood between Thee and my children; I’ve had +<i>my</i> way with them, Lord; I’ve stood between Thee and my children; +I’ve cut ’em off from Thee because they were mine. And +they’ve grown twisted, because of me. Who is their father, Lord, but +Thee? But I put myself in the way, they’ve been plants under a stone, +because of me. Lord, if it hadn’t been for me, they might ha’ been +trees in the sunshine. Let me own it, Lord, I’ve done ’em mischief. +It could ha’ been better if they’d never known no father. No man is +a father, Lord: only Thou art. They can never grow beyond Thee, but I hampered +them. Lift ’em up again, and undo what I’ve done to my children. +And let this young childt be like a willow tree beside the waters, with no +father but Thee, O God. Aye an’ I wish it had been so with my children, +that they’d had no father but Thee. For I’ve been like a stone upon +them, and they rise up and curse me in their wickedness. But let me go, +an’ lift Thou them up, Lord....” +</p> + +<p> +The minister, unaware of the feelings of a father, knelt in trouble, hearing +without understanding the special language of fatherhood. Miss Rowbotham alone +felt and understood a little. Her heart began to flutter; she was in pain. The +two younger daughters kneeled unhearing, stiffened and impervious. Bertha was +thinking of the baby; and the younger mother thought of the father of her +child, whom she hated. There was a clatter in the scullery. There the youngest +son made as much noise as he could, pouring out the water for his wash, +muttering in deep anger: +</p> + +<p> +“Blortin’, slaverin’ old fool!” +</p> + +<p> +And while the praying of his father continued, his heart was burning with rage. +On the table was a paper bag. He picked it up and read, “John +Berryman—Bread, Pastries, etc.” Then he grinned with a grimace. The +father of the baby was baker’s man at Berryman’s. The prayer went +on in the middle kitchen. Laurie Rowbotham gathered together the mouth of the +bag, inflated it, and burst it with his fist. There was a loud report. He +grinned to himself. But he writhed at the same time with shame and fear of his +father. +</p> + +<p> +The father broke off from his prayer; the party shuffled to their feet. The +young mother went into the scullery. +</p> + +<p> +“What art doin’, fool?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The collier youth tipped the baby under the chin, singing: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man,<br/> +Bake me a cake as fast as you can....” +</p> + +<p> +The mother snatched the child away. “Shut thy mouth,” she said, the +colour coming into her cheek. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Prick it and stick it and mark it with P,<br/> +And put it i’ th’ oven for baby an’ me....” +</p> + +<p> +He grinned, showing a grimy, and jeering and unpleasant red mouth and white +teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“I s’ll gi’e thee a dab ower th’ mouth,” said the +mother of the baby grimly. He began to sing again, and she struck out at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Now what’s to do?” said the father, staggering in. +</p> + +<p> +The youth began to sing again. His sister stood sullen and furious. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, does <i>that</i> upset you?” asked the eldest Miss Rowbotham, +sharply, of Emma the mother. “Good gracious, it hasn’t improved +your temper.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Bertha came in, and took the bonny baby. +</p> + +<p> +The father sat big and unheeding in his chair, his eyes vacant, his physique +wrecked. He let them do as they would, he fell to pieces. And yet some power, +involuntary, like a curse, remained in him. The very ruin of him was like a +lodestone that held them in its control. The wreck of him still dominated the +house, in his dissolution even he compelled their being. They had never lived; +his life, his will had always been upon them and contained them. They were only +half-individuals. +</p> + +<p> +The day after the christening he staggered in at the doorway declaring, in a +loud voice, with joy in life still: “The daisies light up the earth, they +clap their hands in multitudes, in praise of the morning.” And his +daughters shrank, sullen. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>Odour of Chrysanthemums</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +The small locomotive engine, Number 4, came clanking, stumbling down from +Selston with seven full waggons. It appeared round the corner with loud threats +of speed, but the colt that it startled from among the gorse, which still +flickered indistinctly in the raw afternoon, outdistanced it at a canter. A +woman, walking up the railway line to Underwood, drew back into the hedge, held +her basket aside, and watched the footplate of the engine advancing. The trucks +thumped heavily past, one by one, with slow inevitable movement, as she stood +insignificantly trapped between the jolting black waggons and the hedge; then +they curved away towards the coppice where the withered oak leaves dropped +noiselessly, while the birds, pulling at the scarlet hips beside the track, +made off into the dusk that had already crept into the spinney. In the open, +the smoke from the engine sank and cleaved to the rough grass. The fields were +dreary and forsaken, and in the marshy strip that led to the whimsey, a reedy +pit-pond, the fowls had already abandoned their run among the alders, to roost +in the tarred fowl-house. The pit-bank loomed up beyond the pond, flames like +red sores licking its ashy sides, in the afternoon’s stagnant light. Just +beyond rose the tapering chimneys and the clumsy black headstocks of Brinsley +Colliery. The two wheels were spinning fast up against the sky, and the +winding-engine rapped out its little spasms. The miners were being turned up. +</p> + +<p> +The engine whistled as it came into the wide bay of railway lines beside the +colliery, where rows of trucks stood in harbour. +</p> + +<p> +Miners, single, trailing and in groups, passed like shadows diverging home. At +the edge of the ribbed level of sidings squat a low cottage, three steps down +from the cinder track. A large bony vine clutched at the house, as if to claw +down the tiled roof. Round the bricked yard grew a few wintry primroses. +Beyond, the long garden sloped down to a bush-covered brook course. There were +some twiggy apple trees, winter-crack trees, and ragged cabbages. Beside the +path hung dishevelled pink chrysanthemums, like pink cloths hung on bushes. A +woman came stooping out of the felt-covered fowl-house, half-way down the +garden. She closed and padlocked the door, then drew herself erect, having +brushed some bits from her white apron. +</p> + +<p> +She was a tall woman of imperious mien, handsome, with definite black eyebrows. +Her smooth black hair was parted exactly. For a few moments she stood steadily +watching the miners as they passed along the railway: then she turned towards +the brook course. Her face was calm and set, her mouth was closed with +disillusionment. After a moment she called: +</p> + +<p> +“John!” There was no answer. She waited, and then said distinctly: +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here!” replied a child’s sulky voice from among the bushes. +The woman looked piercingly through the dusk. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you at that brook?” she asked sternly. +</p> + +<p> +For answer the child showed himself before the raspberry-canes that rose like +whips. He was a small, sturdy boy of five. He stood quite still, defiantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said the mother, conciliated. “I thought you were down +at that wet brook—and you remember what I told you——” +</p> + +<p> +The boy did not move or answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come on in,” she said more gently, “it’s getting +dark. There’s your grandfather’s engine coming down the +line!” +</p> + +<p> +The lad advanced slowly, with resentful, taciturn movement. He was dressed in +trousers and waistcoat of cloth that was too thick and hard for the size of the +garments. They were evidently cut down from a man’s clothes. +</p> + +<p> +As they went slowly towards the house he tore at the ragged wisps of +chrysanthemums and dropped the petals in handfuls along the path. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t do that—it does look nasty,” said his mother. He +refrained, and she, suddenly pitiful, broke off a twig with three or four wan +flowers and held them against her face. When mother and son reached the yard +her hand hesitated, and instead of laying the flower aside, she pushed it in +her apron-band. The mother and son stood at the foot of the three steps looking +across the bay of lines at the passing home of the miners. The trundle of the +small train was imminent. Suddenly the engine loomed past the house and came to +a stop opposite the gate. +</p> + +<p> +The engine-driver, a short man with round grey beard, leaned out of the cab +high above the woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got a cup of tea?” he said in a cheery, hearty fashion. +</p> + +<p> +It was her father. She went in, saying she would mash. Directly, she returned. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t come to see you on Sunday,” began the little +grey-bearded man. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t expect you,” said his daughter. +</p> + +<p> +The engine-driver winced; then, reassuming his cheery, airy manner, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, have you heard then? Well, and what do you +think——?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is soon enough,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +At her brief censure the little man made an impatient gesture, and said +coaxingly, yet with dangerous coldness: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what’s a man to do? It’s no sort of life for a man of +my years, to sit at my own hearth like a stranger. And if I’m going to +marry again it may as well be soon as late—what does it matter to +anybody?” +</p> + +<p> +The woman did not reply, but turned and went into the house. The man in the +engine-cab stood assertive, till she returned with a cup of tea and a piece of +bread and butter on a plate. She went up the steps and stood near the footplate +of the hissing engine. +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t ’a’ brought me bread an’ +butter,” said her father. “But a cup of tea”—he sipped +appreciatively—“it’s very nice.” He sipped for a moment +or two, then: “I hear as Walter’s got another bout on,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“When hasn’t he?” said the woman bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“I heered tell of him in the ‘Lord Nelson’ braggin’ as +he was going to spend that b—— afore he went: half a sovereign that +was.” +</p> + +<p> +“When?” asked the woman. +</p> + +<p> +“A’ Sat’day night—I know that’s true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very likely,” she laughed bitterly. “He gives me +twenty-three shillings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, it’s a nice thing, when a man can do nothing with his money +but make a beast of himself!” said the grey-whiskered man. The woman +turned her head away. Her father swallowed the last of his tea and handed her +the cup. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” he sighed, wiping his mouth. “It’s a settler, it +is——” +</p> + +<p> +He put his hand on the lever. The little engine strained and groaned, and the +train rumbled towards the crossing. The woman again looked across the metals. +Darkness was settling over the spaces of the railway and trucks: the miners, in +grey sombre groups, were still passing home. The winding-engine pulsed +hurriedly, with brief pauses. Elizabeth Bates looked at the dreary flow of men, +then she went indoors. Her husband did not come. +</p> + +<p> +The kitchen was small and full of firelight; red coals piled glowing up the +chimney mouth. All the life of the room seemed in the white, warm hearth and +the steel fender reflecting the red fire. The cloth was laid for tea; cups +glinted in the shadows. At the back, where the lowest stairs protruded into the +room, the boy sat struggling with a knife and a piece of whitewood. He was +almost hidden in the shadow. It was half-past four. They had but to await the +father’s coming to begin tea. As the mother watched her son’s +sullen little struggle with the wood, she saw herself in his silence and +pertinacity; she saw the father in her child’s indifference to all but +himself. She seemed to be occupied by her husband. He had probably gone past +his home, slunk past his own door, to drink before he came in, while his dinner +spoiled and wasted in waiting. She glanced at the clock, then took the potatoes +to strain them in the yard. The garden and fields beyond the brook were closed +in uncertain darkness. When she rose with the saucepan, leaving the drain +steaming into the night behind her, she saw the yellow lamps were lit along the +high road that went up the hill away beyond the space of the railway lines and +the field. +</p> + +<p> +Then again she watched the men trooping home, fewer now and fewer. +</p> + +<p> +Indoors the fire was sinking and the room was dark red. The woman put her +saucepan on the hob, and set a batter pudding near the mouth of the oven. Then +she stood unmoving. Directly, gratefully, came quick young steps to the door. +Someone hung on the latch a moment, then a little girl entered and began +pulling off her outdoor things, dragging a mass of curls, just ripening from +gold to brown, over her eyes with her hat. +</p> + +<p> +Her mother chid her for coming late from school, and said she would have to +keep her at home the dark winter days. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, mother, it’s hardly a bit dark yet. The lamp’s not +lighted, and my father’s not home.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, he isn’t. But it’s a quarter to five! Did you see +anything of him?” +</p> + +<p> +The child became serious. She looked at her mother with large, wistful blue +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“No, mother, I’ve never seen him. Why? Has he come up an’ +gone past, to Old Brinsley? He hasn’t, mother, ’cos I never saw +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’d watch that,” said the mother bitterly, +“he’d take care as you didn’t see him. But you may depend +upon it, he’s seated in the ‘Prince o’ Wales’. He +wouldn’t be this late.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl looked at her mother piteously. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s have our teas, mother, should we?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +The mother called John to table. She opened the door once more and looked out +across the darkness of the lines. All was deserted: she could not hear the +winding-engines. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” she said to herself, “he’s stopped to get +some ripping done.” +</p> + +<p> +They sat down to tea. John, at the end of the table near the door, was almost +lost in the darkness. Their faces were hidden from each other. The girl +crouched against the fender slowly moving a thick piece of bread before the +fire. The lad, his face a dusky mark on the shadow, sat watching her who was +transfigured in the red glow. +</p> + +<p> +“I do think it’s beautiful to look in the fire,” said the +child. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you?” said her mother. “Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s so red, and full of little caves—and it feels so nice, +and you can fair smell it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll want mending directly,” replied her mother, “and +then if your father comes he’ll carry on and say there never is a fire +when a man comes home sweating from the pit. A public-house is always warm +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence till the boy said complainingly: “Make haste, our +Annie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am doing! I can’t make the fire do it no faster, can +I?” +</p> + +<p> +“She keeps wafflin’ it about so’s to make ’er +slow,” grumbled the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t have such an evil imagination, child,” replied the +mother. +</p> + +<p> +Soon the room was busy in the darkness with the crisp sound of crunching. The +mother ate very little. She drank her tea determinedly, and sat thinking. When +she rose her anger was evident in the stern unbending of her head. She looked +at the pudding in the fender, and broke out: +</p> + +<p> +“It is a scandalous thing as a man can’t even come home to his +dinner! If it’s crozzled up to a cinder I don’t see why I should +care. Past his very door he goes to get to a public-house, and here I sit with +his dinner waiting for him——” +</p> + +<p> +She went out. As she dropped piece after piece of coal on the red fire, the +shadows fell on the walls, till the room was almost in total darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“I canna see,” grumbled the invisible John. In spite of herself, +the mother laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“You know the way to your mouth,” she said. She set the dustpan +outside the door. When she came again like a shadow on the hearth, the lad +repeated, complaining sulkily: +</p> + +<p> +“I canna see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious!” cried the mother irritably, “you’re as +bad as your father if it’s a bit dusk!” +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless she took a paper spill from a sheaf on the mantelpiece and +proceeded to light the lamp that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the +room. As she reached up, her figure displayed itself just rounding with +maternity. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, mother——!” exclaimed the girl. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” said the woman, suspended in the act of putting the lamp +glass over the flame. The copper reflector shone handsomely on her, as she +stood with uplifted arm, turning to face her daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got a flower in your apron!” said the child, in a +little rapture at this unusual event. +</p> + +<p> +“Goodness me!” exclaimed the woman, relieved. “One would +think the house was afire.” She replaced the glass and waited a moment +before turning up the wick. A pale shadow was seen floating vaguely on the +floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me smell!” said the child, still rapturously, coming forward +and putting her face to her mother’s waist. +</p> + +<p> +“Go along, silly!” said the mother, turning up the lamp. The light +revealed their suspense so that the woman felt it almost unbearable. Annie was +still bending at her waist. Irritably, the mother took the flowers out from her +apron-band. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, mother—don’t take them out!” Annie cried, catching +her hand and trying to replace the sprig. +</p> + +<p> +“Such nonsense!” said the mother, turning away. The child put the +pale chrysanthemums to her lips, murmuring: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t they smell beautiful!” +</p> + +<p> +Her mother gave a short laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, “not to me. It was chrysanthemums when I +married him, and chrysanthemums when you were born, and the first time they +ever brought him home drunk, he’d got brown chrysanthemums in his +button-hole.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at the children. Their eyes and their parted lips were wondering. +The mother sat rocking in silence for some time. Then she looked at the clock. +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty minutes to six!” In a tone of fine bitter carelessness she +continued: “Eh, he’ll not come now till they bring him. There +he’ll stick! But he needn’t come rolling in here in his pit-dirt, +for <i>I</i> won’t wash him. He can lie on the floor—— Eh, +what a fool I’ve been, what a fool! And this is what I came here for, to +this dirty hole, rats and all, for him to slink past his very door. Twice last +week—he’s begun now——” +</p> + +<p> +She silenced herself, and rose to clear the table. +</p> + +<p> +While for an hour or more the children played, subduedly intent, fertile of +imagination, united in fear of the mother’s wrath, and in dread of their +father’s home-coming, Mrs Bates sat in her rocking-chair making a +‘singlet’ of thick cream-coloured flannel, which gave a dull +wounded sound as she tore off the grey edge. She worked at her sewing with +energy, listening to the children, and her anger wearied itself, lay down to +rest, opening its eyes from time to time and steadily watching, its ears raised +to listen. Sometimes even her anger quailed and shrank, and the mother +suspended her sewing, tracing the footsteps that thudded along the sleepers +outside; she would lift her head sharply to bid the children +‘hush’, but she recovered herself in time, and the footsteps went +past the gate, and the children were not flung out of their playing world. +</p> + +<p> +But at last Annie sighed, and gave in. She glanced at her waggon of slippers, +and loathed the game. She turned plaintively to her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother!”—but she was inarticulate. +</p> + +<p> +John crept out like a frog from under the sofa. His mother glanced up. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, “just look at those shirt-sleeves!” +</p> + +<p> +The boy held them out to survey them, saying nothing. Then somebody called in a +hoarse voice away down the line, and suspense bristled in the room, till two +people had gone by outside, talking. +</p> + +<p> +“It is time for bed,” said the mother. +</p> + +<p> +“My father hasn’t come,” wailed Annie plaintively. But her +mother was primed with courage. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. They’ll bring him when he does come—like a +log.” She meant there would be no scene. “And he may sleep on the +floor till he wakes himself. I know he’ll not go to work tomorrow after +this!” +</p> + +<p> +The children had their hands and faces wiped with a flannel. They were very +quiet. When they had put on their nightdresses, they said their prayers, the +boy mumbling. The mother looked down at them, at the brown silken bush of +intertwining curls in the nape of the girl’s neck, at the little black +head of the lad, and her heart burst with anger at their father who caused all +three such distress. The children hid their faces in her skirts for comfort. +</p> + +<p> +When Mrs Bates came down, the room was strangely empty, with a tension of +expectancy. She took up her sewing and stitched for some time without raising +her head. Meantime her anger was tinged with fear. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +The clock struck eight and she rose suddenly, dropping her sewing on her chair. +She went to the stairfoot door, opened it, listening. Then she went out, +locking the door behind her. +</p> + +<p> +Something scuffled in the yard, and she started, though she knew it was only +the rats with which the place was overrun. The night was very dark. In the +great bay of railway lines, bulked with trucks, there was no trace of light, +only away back she could see a few yellow lamps at the pit-top, and the red +smear of the burning pit-bank on the night. She hurried along the edge of the +track, then, crossing the converging lines, came to the stile by the white +gates, whence she emerged on the road. Then the fear which had led her shrank. +People were walking up to New Brinsley; she saw the lights in the houses; +twenty yards further on were the broad windows of the ‘Prince of +Wales’, very warm and bright, and the loud voices of men could be heard +distinctly. What a fool she had been to imagine that anything had happened to +him! He was merely drinking over there at the ‘Prince of Wales’. +She faltered. She had never yet been to fetch him, and she never would go. So +she continued her walk towards the long straggling line of houses, standing +blank on the highway. She entered a passage between the dwellings. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Rigley?—Yes! Did you want him? No, he’s not in at this +minute.” +</p> + +<p> +The raw-boned woman leaned forward from her dark scullery and peered at the +other, upon whom fell a dim light through the blind of the kitchen window. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it Mrs Bates?” she asked in a tone tinged with respect. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I wondered if your Master was at home. Mine hasn’t come +yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Asn’t ’e! Oh, Jack’s been ’ome an’ +’ad ’is dinner an’ gone out. ’E’s just gone for +’alf an hour afore bedtime. Did you call at the ‘Prince of +Wales’?” +</p> + +<p> +“No——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, you didn’t like——! It’s not very +nice.” The other woman was indulgent. There was an awkward pause. +“Jack never said nothink about—about your Mester,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No!—I expect he’s stuck in there!” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth Bates said this bitterly, and with recklessness. She knew that the +woman across the yard was standing at her door listening, but she did not care. +As she turned: +</p> + +<p> +“Stop a minute! I’ll just go an’ ask Jack if e’ knows +anythink,” said Mrs Rigley. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no—I wouldn’t like to put——!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will, if you’ll just step inside an’ see as th’ +childer doesn’t come downstairs and set theirselves afire.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth Bates, murmuring a remonstrance, stepped inside. The other woman +apologized for the state of the room. +</p> + +<p> +The kitchen needed apology. There were little frocks and trousers and childish +undergarments on the squab and on the floor, and a litter of playthings +everywhere. On the black American cloth of the table were pieces of bread and +cake, crusts, slops, and a teapot with cold tea. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, ours is just as bad,” said Elizabeth Bates, looking at the +woman, not at the house. Mrs Rigley put a shawl over her head and hurried out, +saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I shanna be a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +The other sat, noting with faint disapproval the general untidiness of the +room. Then she fell to counting the shoes of various sizes scattered over the +floor. There were twelve. She sighed and said to herself, “No +wonder!”—glancing at the litter. There came the scratching of two +pairs of feet on the yard, and the Rigleys entered. Elizabeth Bates rose. +Rigley was a big man, with very large bones. His head looked particularly bony. +Across his temple was a blue scar, caused by a wound got in the pit, a wound in +which the coal-dust remained blue like tattooing. +</p> + +<p> +“Asna ’e come whoam yit?” asked the man, without any form of +greeting, but with deference and sympathy. “I couldna say wheer he +is—’e’s non ower theer!”—he jerked his head to +signify the ‘Prince of Wales’. +</p> + +<p> +“’E’s ’appen gone up to th’ +‘Yew’,” said Mrs Rigley. +</p> + +<p> +There was another pause. Rigley had evidently something to get off his mind: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah left ’im finishin’ a stint,” he began. +“Loose-all ’ad bin gone about ten minutes when we com’n away, +an’ I shouted, ‘Are ter comin’, Walt?’ an’ +’e said, ‘Go on, Ah shanna be but a’ef a minnit,’ so we +com’n ter th’ bottom, me an’ Bowers, thinkin’ as +’e wor just behint, an’ ’ud come up i’ th’ next +bantle——” +</p> + +<p> +He stood perplexed, as if answering a charge of deserting his mate. Elizabeth +Bates, now again certain of disaster, hastened to reassure him: +</p> + +<p> +“I expect ’e’s gone up to th’ ‘Yew Tree’, +as you say. It’s not the first time. I’ve fretted myself into a +fever before now. He’ll come home when they carry him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, isn’t it too bad!” deplored the other woman. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll just step up to Dick’s an’ see if ’e +<i>is</i> theer,” offered the man, afraid of appearing alarmed, afraid of +taking liberties. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I wouldn’t think of bothering you that far,” said +Elizabeth Bates, with emphasis, but he knew she was glad of his offer. +</p> + +<p> +As they stumbled up the entry, Elizabeth Bates heard Rigley’s wife run +across the yard and open her neighbour’s door. At this, suddenly all the +blood in her body seemed to switch away from her heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Mind!” warned Rigley. “Ah’ve said many a time as +Ah’d fill up them ruts in this entry, sumb’dy ’ll be +breakin’ their legs yit.” +</p> + +<p> +She recovered herself and walked quickly along with the miner. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like leaving the children in bed, and nobody in the +house,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, you dunna!” he replied courteously. They were soon at the gate +of the cottage. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I shanna be many minnits. Dunna you be frettin’ now, +’e’ll be all right,” said the butty. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you very much, Mr Rigley,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re welcome!” he stammered, moving away. “I shanna +be many minnits.” +</p> + +<p> +The house was quiet. Elizabeth Bates took off her hat and shawl, and rolled +back the rug. When she had finished, she sat down. It was a few minutes past +nine. She was startled by the rapid chuff of the winding-engine at the pit, and +the sharp whirr of the brakes on the rope as it descended. Again she felt the +painful sweep of her blood, and she put her hand to her side, saying aloud, +“Good gracious!—it’s only the nine o’clock deputy going +down,” rebuking herself. +</p> + +<p> +She sat still, listening. Half an hour of this, and she was wearied out. +</p> + +<p> +“What am I working myself up like this for?” she said pitiably to +herself, “I s’ll only be doing myself some damage.” +</p> + +<p> +She took out her sewing again. +</p> + +<p> +At a quarter to ten there were footsteps. One person! She watched for the door +to open. It was an elderly woman, in a black bonnet and a black woollen +shawl—his mother. She was about sixty years old, pale, with blue eyes, +and her face all wrinkled and lamentable. She shut the door and turned to her +daughter-in-law peevishly. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, Lizzie, whatever shall we do, whatever shall we do!” she +cried. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth drew back a little, sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, mother?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The elder woman seated herself on the sofa. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, child, I can’t tell you!”—she +shook her head slowly. Elizabeth sat watching her, anxious and vexed. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” replied the grandmother, sighing very deeply. +“There’s no end to my troubles, there isn’t. The things +I’ve gone through, I’m sure it’s enough——!” +She wept without wiping her eyes, the tears running. +</p> + +<p> +“But, mother,” interrupted Elizabeth, “what do you mean? What +is it?” +</p> + +<p> +The grandmother slowly wiped her eyes. The fountains of her tears were stopped +by Elizabeth’s directness. She wiped her eyes slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor child! Eh, you poor thing!” she moaned. “I don’t +know what we’re going to do, I don’t—and you as you +are—it’s a thing, it is indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth waited. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he dead?” she asked, and at the words her heart swung +violently, though she felt a slight flush of shame at the ultimate extravagance +of the question. Her words sufficiently frightened the old lady, almost brought +her to herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t say so, Elizabeth! We’ll hope it’s not as bad as +that; no, may the Lord spare us that, Elizabeth. Jack Rigley came just as I was +sittin’ down to a glass afore going to bed, an’ ’e said, +‘’Appen you’ll go down th’ line, Mrs Bates. +Walt’s had an accident. ’Appen you’ll go an’ sit +wi’ ’er till we can get him home.’ I hadn’t time to ask +him a word afore he was gone. An’ I put my bonnet on an’ come +straight down, Lizzie. I thought to myself, ‘Eh, that poor blessed child, +if anybody should come an’ tell her of a sudden, there’s no +knowin’ what’ll ’appen to ’er.’ You mustn’t +let it upset you, Lizzie—or you know what to expect. How long is it, six +months—or is it five, Lizzie? Ay!”—the old woman shook her +head—“time slips on, it slips on! Ay!” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth’s thoughts were busy elsewhere. If he was killed—would +she be able to manage on the little pension and what she could earn?—she +counted up rapidly. If he was hurt—they wouldn’t take him to the +hospital—how tiresome he would be to nurse!—but perhaps she’d +be able to get him away from the drink and his hateful ways. She +would—while he was ill. The tears offered to come to her eyes at the +picture. But what sentimental luxury was this she was beginning?—She +turned to consider the children. At any rate she was absolutely necessary for +them. They were her business. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” repeated the old woman, “it seems but a week or two +since he brought me his first wages. Ay—he was a good lad, Elizabeth, he +was, in his way. I don’t know why he got to be such a trouble, I +don’t. He was a happy lad at home, only full of spirits. But +there’s no mistake he’s been a handful of trouble, he has! I hope +the Lord’ll spare him to mend his ways. I hope so, I hope so. +You’ve had a sight o’ trouble with him, Elizabeth, you have indeed. +But he was a jolly enough lad wi’ me, he was, I can assure you. I +don’t know how it is....” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman continued to muse aloud, a monotonous irritating sound, while +Elizabeth thought concentratedly, startled once, when she heard the +winding-engine chuff quickly, and the brakes skirr with a shriek. Then she +heard the engine more slowly, and the brakes made no sound. The old woman did +not notice. Elizabeth waited in suspense. The mother-in-law talked, with lapses +into silence. +</p> + +<p> +“But he wasn’t your son, Lizzie, an’ it makes a difference. +Whatever he was, I remember him when he was little, an’ I learned to +understand him and to make allowances. You’ve got to make allowances for +them——” +</p> + +<p> +It was half-past ten, and the old woman was saying: “But it’s +trouble from beginning to end; you’re never too old for trouble, never +too old for that——” when the gate banged back, and there were +heavy feet on the steps. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go, Lizzie, let me go,” cried the old woman, rising. +But Elizabeth was at the door. It was a man in pit-clothes. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re bringin’ ’im, Missis,” he said. +Elizabeth’s heart halted a moment. Then it surged on again, almost +suffocating her. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he—is it bad?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +The man turned away, looking at the darkness: +</p> + +<p> +“The doctor says ’e’d been dead hours. ’E saw ’im +i’ th’ lamp-cabin.” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman, who stood just behind Elizabeth, dropped into a chair, and +folded her hands, crying: “Oh, my boy, my boy!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush!” said Elizabeth, with a sharp twitch of a frown. “Be +still, mother, don’t waken th’ children: I wouldn’t have them +down for anything!” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman moaned softly, rocking herself. The man was drawing away. +Elizabeth took a step forward. +</p> + +<p> +“How was it?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I couldn’t say for sure,” the man replied, very ill at +ease. “’E wor finishin’ a stint an’ th’ butties +’ad gone, an’ a lot o’ stuff come down atop ’n +’im.” +</p> + +<p> +“And crushed him?” cried the widow, with a shudder. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the man, “it fell at th’ back of ’im. +’E wor under th’ face, an’ it niver touched ’im. It +shut ’im in. It seems ’e wor smothered.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth shrank back. She heard the old woman behind her cry: +</p> + +<p> +“What?—what did ’e say it was?” +</p> + +<p> +The man replied, more loudly: “’E wor smothered!” +</p> + +<p> +Then the old woman wailed aloud, and this relieved Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, mother,” she said, putting her hand on the old woman, +“don’t waken th’ children, don’t waken th’ +children.” +</p> + +<p> +She wept a little, unknowing, while the old mother rocked herself and moaned. +Elizabeth remembered that they were bringing him home, and she must be ready. +“They’ll lay him in the parlour,” she said to herself, +standing a moment pale and perplexed. +</p> + +<p> +Then she lighted a candle and went into the tiny room. The air was cold and +damp, but she could not make a fire, there was no fireplace. She set down the +candle and looked round. The candle-light glittered on the lustre-glasses, on +the two vases that held some of the pink chrysanthemums, and on the dark +mahogany. There was a cold, deathly smell of chrysanthemums in the room. +Elizabeth stood looking at the flowers. She turned away, and calculated whether +there would be room to lay him on the floor, between the couch and the +chiffonier. She pushed the chairs aside. There would be room to lay him down +and to step round him. Then she fetched the old red tablecloth, and another old +cloth, spreading them down to save her bit of carpet. She shivered on leaving +the parlour; so, from the dresser-drawer she took a clean shirt and put it at +the fire to air. All the time her mother-in-law was rocking herself in the +chair and moaning. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll have to move from there, mother,” said Elizabeth. +“They’ll be bringing him in. Come in the rocker.” +</p> + +<p> +The old mother rose mechanically, and seated herself by the fire, continuing to +lament. Elizabeth went into the pantry for another candle, and there, in the +little penthouse under the naked tiles, she heard them coming. She stood still +in the pantry doorway, listening. She heard them pass the end of the house, and +come awkwardly down the three steps, a jumble of shuffling footsteps and +muttering voices. The old woman was silent. The men were in the yard. +</p> + +<p> +Then Elizabeth heard Matthews, the manager of the pit, say: “You go in +first, Jim. Mind!” +</p> + +<p> +The door came open, and the two women saw a collier backing into the room, +holding one end of a stretcher, on which they could see the nailed pit-boots of +the dead man. The two carriers halted, the man at the head stooping to the +lintel of the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Wheer will you have him?” asked the manager, a short, +white-bearded man. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth roused herself and came from the pantry carrying the unlighted +candle. +</p> + +<p> +“In the parlour,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“In there, Jim!” pointed the manager, and the carriers backed round +into the tiny room. The coat with which they had covered the body fell off as +they awkwardly turned through the two doorways, and the women saw their man, +naked to the waist, lying stripped for work. The old woman began to moan in a +low voice of horror. +</p> + +<p> +“Lay th’ stretcher at th’ side,” snapped the manager, +“an’ put ’im on th’ cloths. Mind now, mind! Look you +now——!” +</p> + +<p> +One of the men had knocked off a vase of chrysanthemums. He stared awkwardly, +then they set down the stretcher. Elizabeth did not look at her husband. As +soon as she could get in the room, she went and picked up the broken vase and +the flowers. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a minute!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The three men waited in silence while she mopped up the water with a duster. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, what a job, what a job, to be sure!” the manager was saying, +rubbing his brow with trouble and perplexity. “Never knew such a thing in +my life, never! He’d no business to ha’ been left. I never knew +such a thing in my life! Fell over him clean as a whistle, an’ shut him +in. Not four foot of space, there wasn’t—yet it scarce bruised +him.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked down at the dead man, lying prone, half naked, all grimed with +coal-dust. +</p> + +<p> +“‘’Sphyxiated,’ the doctor said. It <i>is</i> the most +terrible job I’ve ever known. Seems as if it was done o’ purpose. +Clean over him, an’ shut ’im in, like a mouse-trap”—he +made a sharp, descending gesture with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +The colliers standing by jerked aside their heads in hopeless comment. +</p> + +<p> +The horror of the thing bristled upon them all. +</p> + +<p> +Then they heard the girl’s voice upstairs calling shrilly: “Mother, +mother—who is it? Mother, who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth hurried to the foot of the stairs and opened the door: +</p> + +<p> +“Go to sleep!” she commanded sharply. “What are you shouting +about? Go to sleep at once—there’s nothing——” +</p> + +<p> +Then she began to mount the stairs. They could hear her on the boards, and on +the plaster floor of the little bedroom. They could hear her distinctly: +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter now?—what’s the matter with you, +silly thing?”—her voice was much agitated, with an unreal +gentleness. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought it was some men come,” said the plaintive voice of the +child. “Has he come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, they’ve brought him. There’s nothing to make a fuss +about. Go to sleep now, like a good child.” +</p> + +<p> +They could hear her voice in the bedroom, they waited whilst she covered the +children under the bedclothes. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he drunk?” asked the girl, timidly, faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“No! No—he’s not! He—he’s asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he asleep downstairs?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—and don’t make a noise.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a moment, then the men heard the frightened child again: +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that noise?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s nothing, I tell you, what are you bothering for?” +</p> + +<p> +The noise was the grandmother moaning. She was oblivious of everything, sitting +on her chair rocking and moaning. The manager put his hand on her arm and bade +her “Sh—sh!!” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman opened her eyes and looked at him. She was shocked by this +interruption, and seemed to wonder. +</p> + +<p> +“What time is it?”—the plaintive thin voice of the child, +sinking back unhappily into sleep, asked this last question. +</p> + +<p> +“Ten o’clock,” answered the mother more softly. Then she must +have bent down and kissed the children. +</p> + +<p> +Matthews beckoned to the men to come away. They put on their caps and took up +the stretcher. Stepping over the body, they tiptoed out of the house. None of +them spoke till they were far from the wakeful children. +</p> + +<p> +When Elizabeth came down she found her mother alone on the parlour floor, +leaning over the dead man, the tears dropping on him. +</p> + +<p> +“We must lay him out,” the wife said. She put on the kettle, then +returning knelt at the feet, and began to unfasten the knotted leather laces. +The room was clammy and dim with only one candle, so that she had to bend her +face almost to the floor. At last she got off the heavy boots and put them +away. +</p> + +<p> +“You must help me now,” she whispered to the old woman. Together +they stripped the man. +</p> + +<p> +When they arose, saw him lying in the naïve dignity of death, the women stood +arrested in fear and respect. For a few moments they remained still, looking +down, the old mother whimpering. Elizabeth felt countermanded. She saw him, how +utterly inviolable he lay in himself. She had nothing to do with him. She could +not accept it. Stooping, she laid her hand on him, in claim. He was still warm, +for the mine was hot where he had died. His mother had his face between her +hands, and was murmuring incoherently. The old tears fell in succession as +drops from wet leaves; the mother was not weeping, merely her tears flowed. +Elizabeth embraced the body of her husband, with cheek and lips. She seemed to +be listening, inquiring, trying to get some connection. But she could not. She +was driven away. He was impregnable. +</p> + +<p> +She rose, went into the kitchen, where she poured warm water into a bowl, +brought soap and flannel and a soft towel. +</p> + +<p> +“I must wash him,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Then the old mother rose stiffly, and watched Elizabeth as she carefully washed +his face, carefully brushing the big blond moustache from his mouth with the +flannel. She was afraid with a bottomless fear, so she ministered to him. The +old woman, jealous, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Let me wipe him!”—and she kneeled on the other side drying +slowly as Elizabeth washed, her big black bonnet sometimes brushing the dark +head of her daughter. They worked thus in silence for a long time. They never +forgot it was death, and the touch of the man’s dead body gave them +strange emotions, different in each of the women; a great dread possessed them +both, the mother felt the lie was given to her womb, she was denied; the wife +felt the utter isolation of the human soul, the child within her was a weight +apart from her. +</p> + +<p> +At last it was finished. He was a man of handsome body, and his face showed no +traces of drink. He was blonde, full-fleshed, with fine limbs. But he was dead. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless him,” whispered his mother, looking always at his face, and +speaking out of sheer terror. “Dear lad—bless him!” She spoke +in a faint, sibilant ecstasy of fear and mother love. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth sank down again to the floor, and put her face against his neck, and +trembled and shuddered. But she had to draw away again. He was dead, and her +living flesh had no place against his. A great dread and weariness held her: +she was so unavailing. Her life was gone like this. +</p> + +<p> +“White as milk he is, clear as a twelve-month baby, bless him, the +darling!” the old mother murmured to herself. “Not a mark on him, +clear and clean and white, beautiful as ever a child was made,” she +murmured with pride. Elizabeth kept her face hidden. +</p> + +<p> +“He went peaceful, Lizzie—peaceful as sleep. Isn’t he +beautiful, the lamb? Ay—he must ha’ made his peace, Lizzie. +’Appen he made it all right, Lizzie, shut in there. He’d have time. +He wouldn’t look like this if he hadn’t made his peace. The lamb, +the dear lamb. Eh, but he had a hearty laugh. I loved to hear it. He had the +heartiest laugh, Lizzie, as a lad——” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth looked up. The man’s mouth was fallen back, slightly open under +the cover of the moustache. The eyes, half shut, did not show glazed in the +obscurity. Life with its smoky burning gone from him, had left him apart and +utterly alien to her. And she knew what a stranger he was to her. In her womb +was ice of fear, because of this separate stranger with whom she had been +living as one flesh. Was this what it all meant—utter, intact +separateness, obscured by heat of living? In dread she turned her face away. +The fact was too deadly. There had been nothing between them, and yet they had +come together, exchanging their nakedness repeatedly. Each time he had taken +her, they had been two isolated beings, far apart as now. He was no more +responsible than she. The child was like ice in her womb. For as she looked at +the dead man, her mind, cold and detached, said clearly: “Who am I? What +have I been doing? I have been fighting a husband who did not exist. <i>He</i> +existed all the time. What wrong have I done? What was that I have been living +with? There lies the reality, this man.”—And her soul died in her +for fear: she knew she had never seen him, he had never seen her, they had met +in the dark and had fought in the dark, not knowing whom they met nor whom they +fought. And now she saw, and turned silent in seeing. For she had been wrong. +She had said he was something he was not; she had felt familiar with him. +Whereas he was apart all the while, living as she never lived, feeling as she +never felt. +</p> + +<p> +In fear and shame she looked at his naked body, that she had known falsely. And +he was the father of her children. Her soul was torn from her body and stood +apart. She looked at his naked body and was ashamed, as if she had denied it. +After all, it was itself. It seemed awful to her. She looked at his face, and +she turned her own face to the wall. For his look was other than hers, his way +was not her way. She had denied him what he was—she saw it now. She had +refused him as himself.—And this had been her life, and his +life.—She was grateful to death, which restored the truth. And she knew +she was not dead. +</p> + +<p> +And all the while her heart was bursting with grief and pity for him. What had +he suffered? What stretch of horror for this helpless man! She was rigid with +agony. She had not been able to help him. He had been cruelly injured, this +naked man, this other being, and she could make no reparation. There were the +children—but the children belonged to life. This dead man had nothing to +do with them. He and she were only channels through which life had flowed to +issue in the children. She was a mother—but how awful she knew it now to +have been a wife. And he, dead now, how awful he must have felt it to be a +husband. She felt that in the next world he would be a stranger to her. If they +met there, in the beyond, they would only be ashamed of what had been before. +The children had come, for some mysterious reason, out of both of them. But the +children did not unite them. Now he was dead, she knew how eternally he was +apart from her, how eternally he had nothing more to do with her. She saw this +episode of her life closed. They had denied each other in life. Now he had +withdrawn. An anguish came over her. It was finished then: it had become +hopeless between them long before he died. Yet he had been her husband. But how +little! +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got his shirt, ’Lizabeth?” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth turned without answering, though she strove to weep and behave as her +mother-in-law expected. But she could not, she was silenced. She went into the +kitchen and returned with the garment. +</p> + +<p> +“It is aired,” she said, grasping the cotton shirt here and there +to try. She was almost ashamed to handle him; what right had she or anyone to +lay hands on him; but her touch was humble on his body. It was hard work to +clothe him. He was so heavy and inert. A terrible dread gripped her all the +while: that he could be so heavy and utterly inert, unresponsive, apart. The +horror of the distance between them was almost too much for her—it was so +infinite a gap she must look across. +</p> + +<p> +At last it was finished. They covered him with a sheet and left him lying, with +his face bound. And she fastened the door of the little parlour, lest the +children should see what was lying there. Then, with peace sunk heavy on her +heart, she went about making tidy the kitchen. She knew she submitted to life, +which was her immediate master. But from death, her ultimate master, she winced +with fear and shame. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER AND OTHER STORIES ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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