initial commit of ebook 38561HEADmain

10 files changed, 41123 insertions, 0 deletions

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/38561-0.txt b/38561-0.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d819b5c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/38561-0.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,16586 @@
+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The White Peacock, 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 White Peacock
+
+Author: D.H. Lawrence
+
+Release Date: January 13, 2012 [eBook #38561]
+[Most recently updated: October 14, 2022]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Jim Adcock
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE PEACOCK ***
+
+
+
+
+cover 
+
+
+
+
+THE WHITE PEACOCK
+
+By D. H. LAWRENCE
+
+LONDON
+WILLIAM HEINEMANN
+
+1911
+
+
+
+
+“A book of real distinction both of style and thought. Many of the
+descriptive passages have an almost lyrical charm and the
+characterisation is generally speaking deft and life-like. ‘The White
+Peacock’ is a book not only worth reading but worth reckoning with, for
+we are inclined to think the author has come to stay.”—_The Morning
+Post._
+
+“That it has elements of greatness few will deny. Mr. Heinemann is,
+once again, to be congratulated on a writer of promise.”—_The
+Observer_.
+
+
+
+
+Contents
+
+ PART I
+ CHAPTER I THE PEOPLE OF NETHERMERE
+ CHAPTER II DANGLING THE APPLE
+ CHAPTER III A VENDOR OF VISIONS
+ CHAPTER IV THE FATHER
+ CHAPTER V THE SCENT OF BLOOD
+ CHAPTER VI THE EDUCATION OF GEORGE
+ CHAPTER VII LETTIE PULLS DOWN THE SMALL GOLD GRAPES
+ CHAPTER VIII THE RIOT OF CHRISTMAS
+ CHAPTER IX LETTIE COMES OF AGE
+
+ PART II
+ CHAPTER I STRANGE BLOSSOMS AND STRANGE NEW BUDDING
+ CHAPTER II A SHADOW IN SPRING
+ CHAPTER III THE IRONY OF INSPIRED MOMENTS
+ CHAPTER IV KISS WHEN SHE’S RIPE FOR TEARS
+ CHAPTER V AN ARROW FROM THE IMPATIENT GOD
+ CHAPTER VI THE COURTING
+ CHAPTER VII THE FASCINATION OF THE FORBIDDEN APPLE
+ CHAPTER VIII A POEM OF FRIENDSHIP
+ CHAPTER IX PASTORALS AND PEONIES
+
+ PART III
+ CHAPTER I A NEW START IN LIFE
+ CHAPTER II PUFFS OF WIND IN THE SAIL
+ CHAPTER III THE FIRST PAGES OF SEVERAL ROMANCES
+ CHAPTER IV DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE RAM
+ CHAPTER V THE DOMINANT MOTIF OF SUFFERING
+ CHAPTER VI PISGAH
+ CHAPTER VII THE SCARP SLOPE
+ CHAPTER VIII A PROSPECT AMONG THE MARSHES OF LETHE
+
+ Transcriber’s Notes
+
+
+
+
+PART I
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+THE PEOPLE OF NETHERMERE
+
+
+I stood watching the shadowy fish slide through the gloom of the
+mill-pond. They were grey, descendants of the silvery things that had
+darted away from the monks, in the young days when the valley was
+lusty. The whole place was gathered in the musing of old age. The
+thick-piled trees on the far shore were too dark and sober to dally
+with the sun; the weeds stood crowded and motionless. Not even a little
+wind flickered the willows of the islets. The water lay softly,
+intensely still. Only the thin stream falling through the mill-race
+murmured to itself of the tumult of life which had once quickened the
+valley.
+
+I was almost startled into the water from my perch on the alder roots
+by a voice saying:
+
+“Well, what is there to look at?” My friend was a young farmer, stoutly
+built, brown eyed, with a naturally fair skin burned dark and freckled
+in patches. He laughed, seeing me start, and looked down at me with
+lazy curiosity.
+
+“I was thinking the place seemed old, brooding over its past.”
+
+He looked at me with a lazy indulgent smile, and lay down on his back
+on the bank, saying: “It’s all right for a doss—here.”
+
+“Your life is nothing else but a doss. I shall laugh when somebody
+jerks you awake,” I replied.
+
+He smiled comfortably and put his hands over his eyes because of the
+light.
+
+“Why shall you laugh?” he drawled.
+
+“Because you’ll be amusing,” said I.
+
+We were silent for a long time, when he rolled over and began to poke
+with his finger in the bank.
+
+“I thought,” he said in his leisurely fashion, “there was some cause
+for all this buzzing.”
+
+I looked, and saw that he had poked out an old, papery nest of those
+pretty field bees which seem to have dipped their tails into bright
+amber dust. Some agitated insects ran round the cluster of eggs, most
+of which were empty now, the crowns gone; a few young bees staggered
+about in uncertain flight before they could gather power to wing away
+in a strong course. He watched the little ones that ran in and out
+among the shadows of the grass, hither and thither in consternation.
+
+“Come here—come here!” he said, imprisoning one poor little bee under a
+grass stalk, while with another stalk he loosened the folded blue
+wings.
+
+“Don’t tease the little beggar,” I said.
+
+“It doesn’t hurt him—I wanted to see if it was because he couldn’t
+spread his wings that he couldn’t fly. There he goes—no, he doesn’t.
+Let’s try another.”
+
+“Leave them alone,” said I. “Let them run in the sun. They’re only just
+out of the shells. Don’t torment them into flight.”
+
+He persisted, however, and broke the wing of the next.
+
+“Oh, dear—pity!” said he, and he crushed the little thing between his
+fingers. Then he examined the eggs, and pulled out some silk from round
+the dead larva, and investigated it all in a desultory manner, asking
+of me all I knew about the insects. When he had finished he flung the
+clustered eggs into the water and rose, pulling out his watch from the
+depth of his breeches’ pocket.
+
+“I thought it was about dinner-time,” said he, smiling at me. “I always
+know when it’s about twelve. Are you coming in?”
+
+“I’m coming down at any rate,” said I as we passed along the pond bank,
+and over the plank-bridge that crossed the brow of the falling sluice.
+The bankside where the grey orchard twisted its trees, was a steep
+declivity, long and sharp, dropping down to the garden.
+
+The stones of the large house were burdened with ivy and honey-suckle,
+and the great lilac-bush that had once guarded the porch now almost
+blocked the doorway. We passed out of the front garden into the
+farm-yard, and walked along the brick path to the back door.
+
+“Shut the gate, will you?” he said to me over his shoulder, as he
+passed on first.
+
+We went through the large scullery into the kitchen. The servant-girl
+was just hurriedly snatching the table-cloth out of the table drawer,
+and his mother, a quaint little woman with big, brown eyes, was
+hovering round the wide fireplace with a fork.
+
+“Dinner not ready?” said he with a shade of resentment.
+
+“No, George,” replied his mother apologetically, “it isn’t. The fire
+wouldn’t burn a bit. You shall have it in a few minutes, though.”
+
+He dropped on the sofa and began to read a novel. I wanted to go, but
+his mother insisted on my staying.
+
+“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Emily will be so glad if you stay,—and father
+will, I’m sure. Sit down, now.”
+
+I sat down on a rush chair by the long window that looked out into the
+yard. As he was reading, and as it took all his mother’s powers to
+watch the potatoes boil and the meat roast, I was left to my thoughts.
+George, indifferent to all claims, continued to read. It was very
+annoying to watch him pulling his brown moustache, and reading
+indolently while the dog rubbed against his leggings and against the
+knee of his old riding-breeches. He would not even be at the trouble to
+play with Trip’s ears, he was so content with his novel and his
+moustache. Round and round twirled his thick fingers, and the muscles
+of his bare arm moved slightly under the red-brown skin. The little
+square window above him filtered a green light from the foliage of the
+great horse-chestnut outside and the glimmer fell on his dark hair, and
+trembled across the plates which Annie was reaching down from the rack,
+and across the face of the tall clock. The kitchen was very big; the
+table looked lonely, and the chairs mourned darkly for the lost
+companionship of the sofa; the chimney was a black cavern away at the
+back, and the inglenook seats shut in another little compartment ruddy
+with fire-light, where the mother hovered. It was rather a desolate
+kitchen, such a bare expanse of uneven grey flagstones, such far-away
+dark corners and sober furniture. The only gay things were the chintz
+coverings of the sofa and the arm-chair cushions, bright red in the
+bare sombre room; some might smile at the old clock, adorned as it was
+with remarkable and vivid poultry; in me it only provoked wonder and
+contemplation.
+
+In a little while we heard the scraping of heavy boots outside, and the
+father entered. He was a big burly farmer, with his half-bald head
+sprinkled with crisp little curls.
+
+“Hullo, Cyril,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve not forsaken us then,” and
+turning to his son:
+
+“Have you many more rows in the coppice close?”
+
+“Finished!” replied George, continuing to read.
+
+“That’s all right—you’ve got on with ’em. The rabbits has bitten them
+turnips down, mother.”
+
+“I expect so,” replied his wife, whose soul was in the saucepans. At
+last she deemed the potatoes cooked and went out with the steaming pan.
+
+The dinner was set on the table and the father began to carve. George
+looked over his book to survey the fare then read until his plate was
+handed him. The maid sat at her little table near the window, and we
+began the meal. There came the treading of four feet along the brick
+path, and a little girl entered, followed by her grown-up sister. The
+child’s long brown hair was tossed wildly back beneath her sailor hat.
+She flung aside this article of her attire and sat down to dinner,
+talking endlessly to her mother. The elder sister, a girl of about
+twenty-one, gave me a smile and a bright look from her brown eyes, and
+went to wash her hands. Then she came and sat down, and looked
+disconsolately at the underdone beef on her plate.
+
+“I do hate this raw meat,” she said.
+
+“Good for you,” replied her brother, who was eating industriously.
+“Give you some muscle to wallop the nippers.”
+
+She pushed it aside, and began to eat the vegetables. Her brother
+re-charged his plate and continued to eat.
+
+“Well, our George, I do think you might pass a body that gravy,” said
+Mollie, the younger sister, in injured tones.
+
+“Certainly,” he replied. “Won’t you have the joint as well?”
+
+“No!” retorted the young lady of twelve, “I don’t expect you’ve done
+with it yet.”
+
+“Clever!” he exclaimed across a mouthful.
+
+“Do you think so?” said the elder sister Emily, sarcastically.
+
+“Yes,” he replied complacently, “you’ve made her as sharp as yourself,
+I see, since you’ve had her in Standard Six. I’ll try a potato, mother,
+if you can find one that’s done.”
+
+“Well, George, they seem mixed, I’m sure that was done that I tried.
+There—they are mixed—look at this one, it’s soft enough. I’m sure they
+were boiling long enough.”
+
+“Don’t explain and apologise to him,” said Emily irritably.
+
+“Perhaps the kids were too much for her this morning,” he said calmly,
+to nobody in particular.
+
+“No,” chimed in Mollie, “she knocked a lad across his nose and made it
+bleed.”
+
+“Little wretch,” said Emily, swallowing with difficulty. “I’m glad I
+did! Some of my lads belong to—to——”
+
+“To the devil,” suggested George, but she would not accept it from him.
+
+Her father sat laughing; her mother with distress in her eyes, looked
+at her daughter, who hung her head and made patterns on the table-cloth
+with her finger.
+
+“Are they worse than the last lot?” asked the mother, softly,
+fearfully.
+
+“No—nothing extra,” was the curt answer.
+
+“She merely felt like bashing ’em,” said George, calling, as he looked
+at the sugar bowl and at his pudding:
+
+“Fetch some more sugar, Annie.”
+
+The maid rose from her little table in the corner, and the mother also
+hurried to the cupboard. Emily trifled with her dinner and said
+bitterly to him:
+
+“I only wish you had a taste of teaching, it would cure your
+self-satisfaction.”
+
+“Pf!” he replied contemptuously, “I could easily bleed the noses of a
+handful of kids.”
+
+“You wouldn’t sit there bleating like a fatted calf,” she continued.
+
+This speech so tickled Mollie that she went off into a burst of
+laughter, much to the terror of her mother, who stood up in trembling
+apprehension lest she should choke.
+
+“You made a joke, Emily,” he said, looking at his younger sister’s
+contortions.
+
+Emily was too impatient to speak to him further, and left the table.
+Soon the two men went back to the fallow to the turnips, and I walked
+along the path with the girls as they were going to school.
+
+“He irritates me in everything he does and says,” burst out Emily with
+much heat.
+
+“He’s a pig sometimes,” said I.
+
+“He is!” she insisted. “He irritates me past bearing, with his grand
+know-all way, and his heavy smartness—I can’t beat it. And the way
+mother humbles herself to him——!”
+
+“It makes you wild,” said I.
+
+“Wild!” she echoed, her voice vibrating with nervous passion. We walked
+on in silence, till she asked.
+
+“Have you brought me those verses of yours?”
+
+“No—I’m so sorry—I’ve forgotten them again. As a matter of fact, I’ve
+sent them away.”
+
+“But you promised me.”
+
+“You know what my promises are. I’m as irresponsible as a puff of
+wind.”
+
+She frowned with impatience and her disappointment was greater than
+necessary. When I left her at the corner of the lane I felt a sting of
+her deep reproach in my mind. I always felt the reproach when she had
+gone.
+
+I ran over the little bright brook that came from the weedy, bottom
+pond. The stepping-stones were white in the sun, and the water slid
+sleepily among them. One or two butterflies, indistinguishable against
+the blue sky, trifled from flower to flower and led me up the hill,
+across the field where the hot sunshine stood as in a bowl, and I was
+entering the caverns of the wood, where the oaks bowed over and saved
+us a grateful shade. Within, everything was so still and cool that my
+steps hung heavily along the path. The bracken held out arms to me, and
+the bosom of the wood was full of sweetness, but I journeyed on,
+spurred by the attacks of an army of flies which kept up a guerrilla
+warfare round my head till I had passed the black rhododendron bushes
+in the garden, where they left me, scenting no doubt Rebecca’s pots of
+vinegar and sugar.
+
+The low red house, with its roof discoloured and sunken, dozed in
+sunlight, and slept profoundly in the shade thrown by the massive
+maples encroaching from the wood.
+
+There was no one in the dining-room, but I could hear the whirr of a
+sewing-machine coming from the little study, a sound as of some great,
+vindictive insect buzzing about, now louder, now softer, now settling.
+Then came a jingling of four or five keys at the bottom of the keyboard
+of the drawing-room piano, continuing till the whole range had been
+covered in little leaps, as if some very fat frog had jumped from end
+to end.
+
+“That must be mother dusting the drawing-room,” I thought. The
+unaccustomed sound of the old piano startled me. The vocal chords
+behind the green silk bosom,—you only discovered it was not a bronze
+silk bosom by poking a fold aside,—had become as thin and tuneless as a
+dried old woman’s. Age had yellowed the teeth of my mother’s little
+piano, and shrunken its spindle legs. Poor old thing, it could but
+screech in answer to Lettie’s fingers flying across it in scorn, so the
+prim, brown lips were always closed save to admit the duster.
+
+Now, however, the little old maidish piano began to sing a tinkling
+Victorian melody, and I fancied it must be some demure little woman
+with curls like bunches of hops on either side of her face, who was
+touching it. The coy little tune teased me with old sensations, but my
+memory would give me no assistance. As I stood trying to fix my vague
+feelings, Rebecca came in to remove the cloth from the table.
+
+“Who is playing, Beck?” I asked.
+
+“Your mother, Cyril.”
+
+“But she never plays. I thought she couldn’t.”
+
+“Ah,” replied Rebecca, “you forget when you was a little thing sitting
+playing against her frock with the prayer-book, and she singing to you.
+_You_ can’t remember her when her curls was long like a piece of brown
+silk. _You_ can’t remember her when she used to play and sing, before
+Lettie came and your father was——”
+
+Rebecca turned and left the room. I went and peeped in the
+drawing-room. Mother sat before the little brown piano, with her plump,
+rather stiff fingers moving across the keys, a faint smile on her lips.
+At that moment Lettie came flying past me, and flung her arms round
+mother’s neck, kissing her and saying:
+
+“Oh, my Dear, fancy my Dear playing the piano! Oh, Little Woman, we
+never knew you could!”
+
+“Nor can I,” replied mother laughing, disengaging herself. “I only
+wondered if I could just strum out this old tune; I learned it when I
+was quite a girl, on this piano. It was a cracked one then; the only
+one I had.”
+
+“But play again, dearie, do play again. It was like the clinking of
+lustre glasses, and you look so quaint at the piano. Do play, my dear!”
+pleaded Lettie.
+
+“Nay,” said my mother, “the touch of the old keys on my fingers is
+making me sentimental—you wouldn’t like to see me reduced to the tears
+of old age?”
+
+“Old age!” scolded Lettie, kissing her again. “You are young enough to
+play little romances. Tell us about it mother.”
+
+“About what, child?”
+
+“When you used to play.”
+
+“Before my fingers were stiff with fifty odd years? Where have you
+been, Cyril, that you weren’t in to dinner?”
+
+“Only down to Strelley Mill,” said I.
+
+“Of course,” said mother coldly.
+
+“Why ‘of course’?” I asked.
+
+“And you came away as soon as Em went to school?” said Lettie.
+
+“I did,” said I.
+
+They were cross with me, these two women. After I had swallowed my
+little resentment I said:
+
+“They would have me stay to dinner.”
+
+My mother vouchsafed no reply.
+
+“And has the great George found a girl yet?” asked Lettie.
+
+“No,” I replied, “he never will at this rate. Nobody will ever be good
+enough for him.”
+
+“I’m sure I don’t know what you can find in any of them to take you
+there so much,” said my mother.
+
+“Don’t be so mean, Mater,” I answered, nettled. “You know I like them.”
+
+“I know you like _her_” said my mother sarcastically. “As for him—he’s
+an unlicked cub. What can you expect when his mother has spoiled him as
+she has. But I wonder you are so interested in licking him.” My mother
+sniffed contemptuously.
+
+“He is rather good looking,” said Lettie with a smile.
+
+_“You_ could make a man of him, I am sure,” I said, bowing satirically
+to her.
+
+_“I_ am not interested,” she replied, also satirical.
+
+Then she tossed her head, and all the fine hairs that were free from
+bonds made a mist of yellow light in the sun.
+
+“What frock shall I wear Mater?” she asked.
+
+“Nay, don’t ask me,” replied her mother.
+
+“I think I’ll wear the heliotrope—though this sun will fade it,” she
+said pensively. She was tall, nearly six feet in height, but slenderly
+formed. Her hair was yellow, tending towards a dun brown. She had
+beautiful eyes and brows, but not a nice nose. Her hands were very
+beautiful.
+
+“Where are you going?” I asked.
+
+She did not answer me.
+
+“To Tempest’s!” I said. She did not reply.
+
+“Well I don’t know what you can see in _him_,” I continued.
+
+“Indeed!” said she. “He’s as good as most folk——” then we both began to
+laugh.
+
+“Not,” she continued blushing, “that I think anything about him. I’m
+merely going for a game of tennis. Are you coming?”
+
+“What shall you say if I agree?” I asked.
+
+“Oh!” she tossed her head. “We shall all be very pleased I’m sure.”
+
+“Ooray!” said I with fine irony.
+
+She laughed at me, blushed, and ran upstairs.
+
+Half an hour afterwards she popped her head in the study to bid me
+good-bye, wishing to see if I appreciated her. She was so charming in
+her fresh linen frock and flowered hat, that I could not but be proud
+of her. She expected me to follow her to the window, for from between
+the great purple rhododendrons she waved me a lace mitten, then glinted
+on like a flower moving brightly through the green hazels. Her path lay
+through the wood in the opposite direction from Strelley Mill, down the
+red drive across the tree-scattered space to the highroad. This road
+ran along the end of our lakelet, Nethermere, for about a quarter of a
+mile. Nethermere is the lowest in a chain of three ponds. The other two
+are the upper and lower mill ponds at Strelley: this is the largest and
+most charming piece of water, a mile long and about a quarter of a mile
+in width. Our wood runs down to the water’s edge. On the opposite side,
+on a hill beyond the farthest corner of the lake, stands Highclose. It
+looks across the water at us in Woodside with one eye as it were, while
+our cottage casts a sidelong glance back again at the proud house, and
+peeps coyly through the trees.
+
+I could see Lettie like a distant sail stealing along the water’s edge,
+her parasol flowing above. She turned through the wicket under the pine
+clump, climbed the steep field, and was enfolded again in the trees
+beside Highclose.
+
+Leslie was sprawled on a camp-chair, under a copper beech on the lawn,
+his cigar glowing. He watched the ash grow strange and grey in the warm
+daylight, and he felt sorry for poor Nell Wycherley, whom he had driven
+that morning to the station, for would she not be frightfully cut up as
+the train whirled her further and further away? These girls are so daft
+with a fellow! But she was a nice little thing—he’d get Marie to write
+to her.
+
+At this point he caught sight of a parasol fluttering along the drive,
+and immediately he fell into a deep sleep, with just a tiny slit in his
+slumber to allow him to see Lettie approach. She, finding her watchman
+ungallantly asleep, and his cigar, instead of his lamp untrimmed, broke
+off a twig of syringa whose ivory buds had not yet burst with luscious
+scent. I know not how the end of his nose tickled in anticipation
+before she tickled him in reality, but he kept bravely still until the
+petals swept him. Then, starting from his sleep, he exclaimed: “Lettie!
+I was dreaming of kisses!”
+
+“On the bridge of your nose?” laughed she—“But whose were the kisses?”
+
+“Who produced the sensation?” he smiled.
+
+“Since I only tapped your nose you should dream of——”
+
+“Go on!” said he, expectantly.
+
+“Of Doctor Slop,” she replied, smiling to herself as she closed her
+parasol.
+
+“I do not know the gentleman,” he said, afraid that she was laughing at
+him.
+
+“No—your nose is quite classic,” she answered, giving him one of those
+brief intimate glances with which women flatter men so cleverly. He
+radiated with pleasure.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+DANGLING THE APPLE
+
+
+The long-drawn booming of the wind in the wood and the sobbing and
+moaning in the maples and oaks near the house, had made Lettie
+restless. She did not want to go anywhere, she did not want to do
+anything, so she insisted on my just going out with her as far as the
+edge of the water. We crossed the tangle of fern and bracken, bramble
+and wild raspberry canes that spread in the open space before the
+house, and we went down the grassy slope to the edge of Nethermere. The
+wind whipped up noisy little wavelets, and the cluck and clatter of
+these among the pebbles, the swish of the rushes and the freshening of
+the breeze against our faces, roused us.
+
+The tall meadow-sweet was in bud along the tiny beach and we walked
+knee-deep among it, watching the foamy race of the ripples and the
+whitening of the willows on the far shore. At the place where
+Nethermere narrows to the upper end, and receives the brook from
+Strelley, the wood sweeps down and stands with its feet washed round
+with waters. We broke our way along the shore, crushing the
+sharp-scented wild mint, whose odour checks the breath, and examining
+here and there among the marshy places ragged nests of water-fowl, now
+deserted. Some slim young lap-wings started at our approach, and sped
+lightly from us, their necks outstretched in straining fear of that
+which could not hurt them. One, two, fled cheeping into cover of the
+wood; almost instantly they coursed back again to where we stood, to
+dart off from us at an angle, in an ecstasy of bewilderment and terror.
+
+“What has frightened the crazy little things?” asked Lettie.
+
+“I don’t know. They’ve cheek enough sometimes; then they go whining,
+skelping off from a fancy as if they had a snake under their wings.”
+
+Lettie however paid small attention to my eloquence. She pushed aside
+an elder bush, which graciously showered down upon her myriad crumbs
+from its flowers like slices of bread, and bathed her in a medicinal
+scent. I followed her, taking my dose, and was startled to hear her
+sudden, “Oh, Cyril!”
+
+On the bank before us lay a black cat, both hindpaws torn and bloody in
+a trap. It had no doubt been bounding forward after its prey when it
+was caught. It was gaunt and wild; no wonder it frightened the poor
+lap-wings into cheeping hysteria. It glared at us fiercely, growling
+low.
+
+“How cruel—oh, how cruel!” cried Lettie, shuddering.
+
+I wrapped my cap and Lettie’s scarf over my hands and bent to open the
+trap. The cat struck with her teeth, tearing the cloth convulsively.
+When it was free, it sprang away with one bound, and fell panting,
+watching us.
+
+I wrapped the creature in my jacket, and picked her up, murmuring:
+
+“Poor Mrs. Nickie Ben—we always prophesied it of you.”
+
+“What will you do with it?” asked Lettie.
+
+“It is one of the Strelley Mill cats,” said I, “and so I’ll take her
+home.”
+
+The poor animal moved and murmured and I carried her, but we brought
+her home. They stared, on seeing me enter the kitchen coatless,
+carrying a strange bundle, while Lettie followed me.
+
+“I have brought poor Mrs. Nickie Ben,” said I, unfolding my burden.
+
+“Oh, what a shame!” cried Emily, putting out her hand to touch the cat,
+but drawing quickly back, like the pee-wits.
+
+“This is how they all go,” said the mother.
+
+“I wish keepers had to sit two or three days with their bare ankles in
+a trap,” said Mollie in vindictive tones.
+
+We laid the poor brute on the rug, and gave it warm milk. It drank very
+little, being too feeble, Mollie, full of anger, fetched Mr. Nickie
+Ben, another fine black cat, to survey his crippled mate. Mr. Nickie
+Ben looked, shrugged his sleek shoulders, and walked away with high
+steps. There was a general feminine outcry on masculine callousness.
+
+George came in for hot water. He exclaimed in surprise on seeing us,
+and his eyes became animated.
+
+“Look at Mrs. Nickie Ben,” cried Mollie. He dropped on his knees on the
+rug and lifted the wounded paws.
+
+“Broken,” said he.
+
+“How awful!” said Emily, shuddering violently, and leaving the room.
+
+“Both?” I asked.
+
+“Only one—look!”
+
+“You are hurting her!” cried Lettie.
+
+“It’s no good,” said he.
+
+Mollie and the mother hurried out of the kitchen into the parlour.
+
+“What are you going to do?” asked Lettie.
+
+“Put her out of her misery,” he replied, taking up the poor cat. We
+followed him into the barn.
+
+“The quickest way,” said he, “is to swing her round and knock her head
+against the wall.”
+
+“You make me sick,” exclaimed Lettie.
+
+“I’ll drown her then,” he said with a smile. We watched him morbidly,
+as he took a length of twine and fastened a noose round the animal’s
+neck, and near it an iron goose; he kept a long piece of cord attached
+to the goose.
+
+“You’re not coming, are you?” said he. Lettie looked at him; she had
+grown rather white.
+
+“It’ll make you sick,” he said. She did not answer, but followed him
+across the yard to the garden. On the bank of the lower mill-pond he
+turned again to us and said:
+
+“Now for it!—you are chief mourners.” As neither of us replied, he
+smiled, and dropped the poor writhing cat into the water, saying,
+“Good-bye, Mrs. Nickie Ben.”
+
+We waited on the bank some time. He eyed us curiously.
+
+“Cyril,” said Lettie quietly, “isn’t it cruel?—isn’t it awful?”
+
+I had nothing to say.
+
+“Do you mean me?” asked George.
+
+“Not you in particular—everything! If we move the blood rises in our
+heel-prints.”
+
+He looked at her seriously, with dark eyes.
+
+“I had to drown her out of mercy,” said he, fastening the cord he held
+to an ash-pole. Then he went to get a spade, and with it, he dug a
+grave in the old black earth.
+
+“If,” said he, “the poor old cat had made a prettier corpse, you’d have
+thrown violets on her.”
+
+He had struck the spade into the ground, and hauled up the cat and the
+iron goose.
+
+“Well,” he said, surveying the hideous object, “haven’t her good looks
+gone! She was a fine cat.”
+
+“Bury it and have done,” Lettie replied.
+
+He did so asking: “Shall you have bad dreams after it?”
+
+“Dreams do not trouble me,” she answered, turning away.
+
+We went indoors, into the parlour, where Emily sat by a window, biting
+her finger. The room was long and not very high; there was a great
+rough beam across the ceiling. On the mantel-piece, and in the
+fireplace, and over the piano were wild flowers and fresh leaves
+plentifully scattered; the room was cool with the scent of the woods.
+
+“Has he done it?” asked Emily—“and did you watch him? If I had seen it
+I should have hated the sight of him, and I’d rather have touched a
+maggot than him.”
+
+“I shouldn’t be particularly pleased if he touched me,” said Lettie.
+
+“There is something so loathsome about callousness and brutality,” said
+Emily. “He fills me with disgust.”
+
+“Does he?” said Lettie, smiling coldly. She went across to the old
+piano. “He’s only healthy. He’s never been sick, not anyway, yet.” She
+sat down and played at random, letting the numbed notes fall like dead
+leaves from the haughty, ancient piano.
+
+Emily and I talked on by the window, about books and people. She was
+intensely serious, and generally succeeded in reducing me to the same
+state.
+
+After a while, when the milking and feeding were finished, George came
+in. Lettie was still playing the piano. He asked her why she didn’t
+play something with a tune in it, and this caused her to turn round in
+her chair to give him a withering answer. His appearance, however,
+scattered her words like startled birds. He had come straight from
+washing in the scullery, to the parlour, and he stood behind Lettie’s
+chair unconcernedly wiping the moisture from his arms. His sleeves were
+rolled up to the shoulder, and his shirt was opened wide at the breast.
+Lettie was somewhat taken aback by the sight of him standing with legs
+apart, dressed in dirty leggings and boots, and breeches torn at the
+knee, naked at the breast and arms.
+
+“Why don’t you play something with a tune in it?” he repeated, rubbing
+the towel over his shoulders beneath the shirt.
+
+“A tune!” she echoed, watching the swelling of his arms as he moved
+them, and the rise and fall of his breasts, wonderfully solid and
+white. Then having curiously examined the sudden meeting of the sunhot
+skin with the white flesh in his throat, her eyes met his, and she
+turned again to the piano, while the colour grew in her ears,
+mercifully sheltered by a profusion of bright curls.
+
+“What shall I play?” she asked, fingering the keys somewhat confusedly.
+
+He dragged out a book of songs from a little heap of music, and set it
+before her.
+
+“Which do you want to sing?” she asked thrilling a little as she felt
+his arms so near her.
+
+“Anything you like.”
+
+“A love song?” she said.
+
+“If you like—yes, a love song——” he laughed with clumsy insinuation
+that made the girl writhe.
+
+She did not answer, but began to play Sullivan’s “Tit Willow.” He had a
+passable bass voice, not of any great depth, and he sang with gusto.
+Then she gave him “Drink to me only with thine eyes.” At the end she
+turned and asked him if he liked the words. He replied that he thought
+them rather daft. But he looked at her with glowing brown eyes, as if
+in hesitating challenge.
+
+“That’s because you have no wine in your eyes to pledge with,” she
+replied, answering his challenge with a blue blaze of her eyes. Then
+her eyelashes drooped on to her cheek. He laughed with a faint ring of
+consciousness, and asked her how could she know.
+
+“Because,” she said slowly, looking up at him with pretended scorn,
+“because there’s no change in your eyes when I look at you. I always
+think people who are worth much talk with their eyes. That’s why you
+are forced to respect many quite uneducated people. Their eyes are so
+eloquent, and full of knowledge.” She had continued to look at him as
+she spoke—watching his faint appreciation of her upturned face, and her
+hair, where the light was always tangled, watching his brief
+self-examination to see if he could feel any truth in her words,
+watching till he broke into a little laugh which was rather more
+awkward and less satisfied than usual. Then she turned away, smiling
+also.
+
+“There’s nothing in this book nice to sing,” she said, turning over the
+leaves discontentedly. I found her a volume, and she sang “Should he
+upbraid.” She had a fine soprano voice, and the song delighted him. He
+moved nearer to her, and when at the finish she looked round with a
+flashing, mischievous air, she found him pledging her with wonderful
+eyes.
+
+“You like that,” said she with the air of superior knowledge, as if,
+dear me, all one had to do was to turn over to the right page of the
+vast volume of one’s soul to suit these people.
+
+“I do,” he answered emphatically, thus acknowledging her triumph.
+
+“I’d rather ‘dance and sing’ round ‘wrinkled care’ than carefully shut
+the door on him, while I slept in the chimney wouldn’t you?” she asked.
+
+He laughed, and began to consider what she meant before he replied.
+
+“As you do,” she added.
+
+“What?” he asked.
+
+“Keep half your senses asleep—half alive.”
+
+“Do I?” he asked.
+
+“Of course you do;—‘bos-bovis; an ox.’ You are like a stalled ox, food
+and comfort, no more. Don’t you love comfort?” she smiled.
+
+“Don’t you?” he replied, smiling shamefaced.
+
+“Of course. Come and turn over for me while I play this piece. Well,
+I’ll nod when you must turn—bring a chair.”
+
+She began to play a romance of Schubert’s. He leaned nearer to her to
+take hold of the leaf of music; she felt her loose hair touch his face,
+and turned to him a quick, laughing glance, while she played. At the
+end of the page she nodded, but he was oblivious; “Yes!” she said,
+suddenly impatient, and he tried to get the leaf over; she quickly
+pushed his hand aside, turned the page herself and continued playing.
+
+“Sorry!” said he, blushing actually.
+
+“Don’t bother,” she said, continuing to play without observing him.
+When she had finished:
+
+“There!” she said, “now tell me how you felt while I was playing.”
+
+“Oh—a fool!”—he replied, covered with confusion.
+
+“I’m glad to hear it,” she said—“but I didn’t mean that. I meant how
+did the music make you feel?”
+
+“I don’t know—whether—it made me feel anything,” he replied
+deliberately, pondering over his answer, as usual.
+
+“I tell you,” she declared, “you’re either asleep or stupid. Did you
+really see nothing in the music? But what did you think about?”
+
+He laughed—and thought awhile—and laughed again.
+
+“Why!” he admitted, laughing, and trying to tell the exact truth, “I
+thought how pretty your hands are—and what they are like to touch—and I
+thought it was a new experience to feel somebody’s hair tickling my
+cheek.” When he had finished his deliberate account she gave his hand a
+little knock, and left him saying:
+
+“You are worse and worse.”
+
+She came across the room to the couch where I was sitting talking to
+Emily, and put her arm around my neck.
+
+“Isn’t it time to go home, Pat?” she asked.
+
+“Half past eight—quite early,” said I.
+
+“But I believe—I think I ought to be home now,” she said.
+
+“Don’t go,” said he.
+
+“Why?” I asked.
+
+“Stay to supper,” urged Emily.
+
+“But I believe——” she hesitated.
+
+“She has another fish to fry,” I said.
+
+“I am not sure——” she hesitated again. Then she flashed into sudden
+wrath, exclaiming, “Don’t be so mean and nasty, Cyril!”
+
+“Were you going somewhere?” asked George humbly.
+
+“Why—no!” she said, blushing.
+
+“Then stay to supper—will you?” he begged. She laughed, and yielded. We
+went into the kitchen. Mr. Saxton was sitting reading. Trip, the big
+bull terrier, lay at his feet pretending to sleep; Mr. Nickie Ben
+reposed calmly on the sofa; Mrs. Saxton and Mollie were just going to
+bed. We bade them good-night, and sat down. Annie, the servant, had
+gone home, so Emily prepared the supper.
+
+“Nobody can touch that piano like you,” said Mr. Saxton to Lettie,
+beaming upon her with admiration and deference. He was proud of the
+stately, mumbling old thing, and used to say that it was full of music
+for those that liked to ask for it. Lettie laughed, and said that so
+few folks ever tried it, that her honour was not great.
+
+“What do you think of our George’s singing?” asked the father proudly,
+but with a deprecating laugh at the end.
+
+“I tell him, when he’s in love he’ll sing quite well,” she said.
+
+“When he’s in love!” echoed the father, laughing aloud, very pleased.
+
+“Yes,” she said, “when he finds out something he wants and can’t have.”
+
+George thought about it, and he laughed also.
+
+Emily, who was laying the table said, “There is hardly any water in the
+pippin, George.”
+
+“Oh, dash!” he exclaimed, “I’ve taken my boots off.”
+
+“It’s not a very big job to put them on again,” said his sister.
+
+“Why couldn’t Annie fetch it—what’s she here for?” he said angrily.
+
+Emily looked at us, tossed her head, and turned her back on him.
+
+“I’ll go, I’ll go, after supper,” said the father in a comforting tone.
+
+“After supper!” laughed Emily.
+
+George got up and shuffled out. He had to go into the spinney near the
+house to a well, and being warm disliked turning out.
+
+We had just sat down to supper when Trip rushed barking to the door.
+“Be quiet,” ordered the father, thinking of those in bed, and he
+followed the dog.
+
+It was Leslie. He wanted Lettie to go home with him at once. This she
+refused to do, so he came indoors, and was persuaded to sit down at
+table. He swallowed a morsel of bread and cheese, and a cup of coffee,
+talking to Lettie of a garden party which was going to be arranged at
+Highclose for the following week.
+
+“What is it for then?” interrupted Mr. Saxton.
+
+“For?” echoed Leslie.
+
+“Is it for the missionaries, or the unemployed, or something?”
+explained Mr. Saxton.
+
+“It’s a garden-party, not a bazaar,” said Leslie.
+
+“Oh—a private affair. I thought it would be some church matter of your
+mother’s. She’s very big at the church, isn’t she?”
+
+“She is interested in the church—yes!” said Leslie, then proceeding to
+explain to Lettie that he was arranging a tennis tournament in which
+she was to take part. At this point he became aware that he was
+monopolising the conversation, and turned to George, just as the latter
+was taking a piece of cheese from his knife with his teeth, asking:
+
+“Do you play tennis, Mr. Saxton?—I know Miss Saxton does not.”
+
+“No,” said George, working the piece of cheese into his cheek. “I never
+learned any ladies’ accomplishments.”
+
+Leslie turned to Emily, who had nervously been pushing two plates over
+a stain in the cloth, and who was very startled when she found herself
+addressed.
+
+“My mother would be so glad if you would come to the party, Miss
+Saxton.”
+
+“I cannot. I shall be at school. Thanks very much.”
+
+“Ah—it’s very good of you,” said the father, beaming. But George smiled
+contemptuously.
+
+When supper was over Leslie looked at Lettie to inform her that he was
+ready to go. She, however, refused to see his look, but talked brightly
+to Mr. Saxton, who was delighted. George, flattered, joined in the talk
+with gusto. Then Leslie’s angry silence began to tell on us all. After
+a dull lapse, George lifted his head and said to his father:
+
+“Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised if that little red heifer calved
+to-night.”
+
+Lettie’s eyes flashed with a sparkle of amusement at this thrust.
+
+“No,” assented the father, “I thought so myself.”
+
+After a moment’s silence, George continued deliberately, “I felt her
+gristles——”
+
+“George!” said Emily sharply.
+
+“We will go,” said Leslie.
+
+George looked up sideways at Lettie and his black eyes were full of
+sardonic mischief.
+
+“Lend me a shawl, will you, Emily?” said Lettie. “I brought nothing,
+and I think the wind is cold.”
+
+Emily, however, regretted that she had no shawl, and so Lettie must
+needs wear a black coat over her summer dress. It fitted so absurdly
+that we all laughed, but Leslie was very angry that she should appear
+ludicrous before them. He showed her all the polite attentions
+possible, fastened the neck of her coat with his pearl scarf-pin,
+refusing the pin Emily discovered, after some search. Then we sallied
+forth.
+
+When we were outside, he offered Lettie his arm with an air of injured
+dignity. She refused it and he began to remonstrate.
+
+“I consider you ought to have been home as you promised.”
+
+“Pardon me,” she replied, “but I did not promise.”
+
+“But you knew I was coming,” said he.
+
+“Well—you found me,” she retorted.
+
+“Yes,” he assented. “I did find you; flirting with a common fellow,” he
+sneered.
+
+“Well,” she returned. “He did—it is true—call a heifer, a heifer.”
+
+“And I should think you liked it,” he said.
+
+“I didn’t mind,” she said, with galling negligence.
+
+“I thought your taste was more refined,” he replied sarcastically. “But
+I suppose you thought it romantic.”
+
+“Very! Ruddy, dark, and really thrilling eyes,” said she.
+
+“I hate to hear a girl talk rot,” said Leslie. He himself had crisp
+hair of the “ginger” class.
+
+“But I mean it,” she insisted, aggravating his anger.
+
+Leslie was angry. “I’m glad he amuses you!”
+
+“Of course, I’m not hard to please,” she said pointedly. He was stung
+to the quick.
+
+“Then there’s some comfort in knowing I don’t please you,” he said
+coldly.
+
+“Oh! but you do! You amuse me also,” she said.
+
+After that he would not speak, preferring, I suppose, _not_ to amuse
+her.
+
+Lettie took my arm, and with her disengaged hand held her skirts above
+the wet grass. When he had left us at the end of the riding in the
+wood, Lettie said:
+
+“What an infant he is!”
+
+“A bit of an ass,” I admitted.
+
+“But really!” she said, “he’s more agreeable on the whole than—than my
+Taurus.”
+
+“Your bull!” I repeated laughing.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+A VENDOR OF VISIONS
+
+
+The Sunday following Lettie’s visit to the mill, Leslie came up in the
+morning, admirably dressed, and perfected by a grand air. I showed him
+into the dark drawing-room, and left him. Ordinarily he would have
+wandered to the stairs, and sat there calling to Lettie; to-day he was
+silent. I carried the news of his arrival to my sister, who was pinning
+on her brooch.
+
+“And how is the dear boy?” she asked. “I have not inquired,” said I.
+She laughed, and loitered about till it was time to set off for church
+before she came downstairs. Then she also assumed the grand air and
+bowed to him with a beautiful bow. He was somewhat taken aback and had
+nothing to say. She rustled across the room to the window, where the
+white geraniums grew magnificently. “I must adorn myself,” she said.
+
+It was Leslie’s custom to bring her flowers. As he had not done so this
+day, she was piqued. He hated the scent and chalky whiteness of the
+geraniums. So she smiled at him as she pinned them into the bosom of
+her dress, saying: “They are very fine, are they not?” He muttered that
+they were. Mother came downstairs, greeted him warmly, and asked him if
+he would take her to church.
+
+“If you will allow me,” said he.
+
+“You are modest to-day,” laughed mother.
+
+“To-day!” he repeated.
+
+“I hate modesty in a young man,” said mother—“Come, we shall be late.”
+Lettie wore the geraniums all day—till evening. She brought Alice Gall
+home to tea, and bade me bring up “Mon Taureau,” when his farm work was
+over.
+
+The day had been hot and close. The sun was reddening in the west as we
+leaped across the lesser brook. The evening scents began to awake, and
+wander unseen through the still air. An occasional yellow sunbeam would
+slant through the thick roof of leaves and cling passionately to the
+orange clusters of mountain-ash berries. The trees were silent, drawing
+together to sleep. Only a few pink orchids stood palely by the path,
+looking wistfully out at the ranks of red-purple bugle, whose last
+flowers, glowing from the top of the bronze column, yearned darkly for
+the sun.
+
+We sauntered on in silence, not breaking the first hush of the
+woodlands. As we drew near home we heard a murmur from among the trees,
+from the lover’s seat, where a great tree had fallen and remained
+mossed and covered with fragile growth. There a crooked bough made a
+beautiful seat for two.
+
+“Fancy being in love and making a row in such a twilight,” said I as we
+continued our way. But when we came opposite the fallen tree, we saw no
+lovers there, but a man sleeping, and muttering through his sleep. The
+cap had fallen from his grizzled hair, and his head leaned back against
+a profusion of the little wild geraniums that decorated the dead bough
+so delicately. The man’s clothing was good, but slovenly and neglected.
+His face was pale and worn with sickness and dissipation. As he slept,
+his grey beard wagged, and his loose unlovely mouth moved in indistinct
+speech. He was acting over again some part of his life, and his
+features twitched during the unnatural sleep. He would give a little
+groan, gruesome to hear and then talk to some woman. His features
+twitched as if with pain, and he moaned slightly.
+
+The lips opened in a grimace showing the yellow teeth behind the beard.
+Then he began again talking in his throat, thickly, so that we could
+only tell part of what he said. It was very unpleasant. I wondered how
+we should end it. Suddenly through the gloom of the twilight-haunted
+woods came the scream of a rabbit caught by a weasel. The man awoke
+with a sharp “Ah!”—he looked round in consternation, then sinking down
+again wearily, said, “I was dreaming again.”
+
+“You don’t seem to have nice dreams,” said George.
+
+The man winced then looking at us said, almost sneering:
+
+“And who are you?”
+
+We did not answer, but waited for him to move. He sat still, looking at
+us.
+
+“So!” he said at last, wearily, “I do dream. I do, I do.” He sighed
+heavily. Then he added, sarcastically: “Were you interested?”
+
+“No,” said I. “But you are out of your way surely. Which road did you
+want?”
+
+“You want me to clear out,” he said.
+
+“Well,” I said laughing in deprecation. “I don’t mind your dreaming.
+But this is not the way to anywhere.”
+
+“Where may you be going then?” he asked.
+
+“I? Home,” I replied with dignity.
+
+“You are a Beardsall?” he queried, eyeing me with bloodshot eyes.
+
+“I am!” I replied with more dignity, wondering who the fellow could be.
+
+He sat a few moments looking at me. It was getting dark in the wood.
+Then he took up an ebony stick with a gold head, and rose. The stick
+seemed to catch at my imagination. I watched it curiously as we walked
+with the old man along the path to the gate. We went with him into the
+open road. When we reached the clear sky where the light from the west
+fell full on our faces, he turned again and looked at us closely. His
+mouth opened sharply, as if he would speak, but he stopped himself, and
+only said “Good-bye—Good-bye.”
+
+“Shall you be all right?” I asked, seeing him totter.
+
+“Yes—all right—good-bye, lad.”
+
+He walked away feebly into the darkness. We saw the lights of a vehicle
+on the high-road: after a while we heard the bang of a door, and a cab
+rattled away.
+
+“Well—whoever’s he?” said George laughing.
+
+“Do you know,” said I, “it’s made me feel a bit rotten.”
+
+“Ay?” he laughed, turning up the end of the exclamation with indulgent
+surprise.
+
+We went back home, deciding to say nothing to the women. They were
+sitting in the window seat watching for us, mother and Alice and
+Lettie.
+
+“You _have_ been a long time!” said Lettie. “We’ve watched the sun go
+down—it set splendidly—look—the rim of the hill is smouldering yet.
+What have you been doing?”
+
+“Waiting till your Taurus finished work.”
+
+“Now be quiet,” she said hastily, and—turning to him, “You have come to
+sing hymns?”
+
+“Anything you like,” he replied.
+
+“How nice of you, George!” exclaimed Alice, ironically. She was a
+short, plump girl, pale, with daring, rebellious eyes. Her mother was a
+Wyld, a family famous either for shocking lawlessness, or for extreme
+uprightness. Alice, with an admirable father, and a mother who loved
+her husband passionately, was wild and lawless on the surface, but at
+heart very upright and amenable. My mother and she were fast friends,
+and Lettie had a good deal of sympathy with her. But Lettie generally
+deplored Alice’s outrageous behaviour, though she relished it—if
+“superior” friends were not present. Most men enjoyed Alice in company,
+but they fought shy of being alone with her.
+
+“Would you say the same to me?” she asked.
+
+“It depends what you’d answer,” he said, laughingly.
+
+“Oh, you’re so bloomin’ cautious. I’d rather have a tack in my shoe
+than a cautious man, wouldn’t you Lettie?”
+
+“Well—it depends how far I had to walk,” was Lettie’s reply—“but if I
+hadn’t to limp too far——”
+
+Alice turned away from Lettie, whom she often found rather irritating.
+
+“You do look glum, Sybil,” she said to me, “did somebody want to kiss
+you?”
+
+I laughed—on the wrong side, understanding her malicious feminine
+reference—and answered:
+
+“If they had, I should have looked happy.”
+
+“Dear boy, smile now then,”—and she tipped me under the chin. I drew
+away.
+
+“Oh, Gum—we are solemn! What’s the matter with you? Georgy—say
+something—else I’s’ll begin to feel nervous.”
+
+“What shall I say?” he asked, shifting his feet and resting his elbows
+on his knees. “Oh, Lor!” she cried in great impatience. He did not help
+her, but sat clasping his hands, smiling on one side of his face. He
+was nervous. He looked at the pictures, the ornaments, and everything
+in the room; Lettie got up to settle some flowers on the mantel-piece,
+and he scrutinised her closely. She was dressed in some blue foulard
+stuff, with lace at the throat, and lace cuffs to the elbow. She was
+tall and supple; her hair had a curling fluffiness very charming. He
+was no taller than she, and looked shorter, being strongly built. He
+too had a grace of his own, but not as he sat stiffly on a horse-hair
+chair. She was elegant in her movements.
+
+After a little while mother called us in to supper.
+
+“Come,” said Lettie to him, “take me in to supper.”
+
+He rose, feeling very awkward.
+
+“Give me your arm,” said she to tease him. He did so, and flushed under
+his tan, afraid of her round arm half hidden by lace, which lay among
+his sleeve.
+
+When we were seated she flourished her spoon and asked him what he
+would have. He hesitated, looked at the strange dishes and said he
+would have some cheese. They insisted on his eating new, complicated
+meats.
+
+“I’m sure you like tantafflins, don’t you Georgie?” said Alice, in her
+mocking fashion. He was _not_ sure. He could not analyse the flavours,
+he felt confused and bewildered even through his sense of taste! Alice
+begged him to have salad.
+
+“No, thanks,” said he. “I don’t like it.”
+
+“Oh, George!” she said, “How _can_ you say so when I’m _offering_ it
+you.”
+
+“Well—I’ve only had it once,” said he, “and that was when I was working
+with Flint, and he gave us fat bacon and bits of lettuce soaked in
+vinegar—‘’Ave a bit more salit,’ he kept saying, but I’d had enough.”
+
+“But all our lettuce,” said Alice with a wink, “is as sweet as a nut,
+no vinegar about our lettuce.” George laughed in much confusion at her
+pun on my sister’s name.
+
+“I believe you,” he said, with pompous gallantry.
+
+“Think of that!” cried Alice. “Our Georgie believes me. Oh, I am so, so
+pleased!”
+
+He smiled painfully. His hand was resting on the table, the thumb
+tucked tight under the fingers, his knuckles white as he nervously
+gripped his thumb. At last supper was finished, and he picked up his
+serviette from the floor and began to fold it. Lettie also seemed ill
+at ease. She had teased him till the sense of his awkwardness had
+become uncomfortable. Now she felt sorry, and a trifle repentant, so
+she went to the piano, as she always did to dispel her moods. When she
+was angry she played tender fragments of Tschaïkowsky, when she was
+miserable, Mozart. Now she played Handel in a manner that suggested the
+plains of heaven in the long notes, and in the little trills as if she
+were waltzing up the ladder of Jacob’s dream like the damsels in
+Blake’s pictures. I often told her she flattered herself scandalously
+through the piano; but generally she pretended not to understand me,
+and occasionally she surprised me by a sudden rush of tears to her
+eyes. For George’s sake, she played Gounod’s “Ave Maria,” knowing that
+the sentiment of the chant would appeal to him, and make him sad,
+forgetful of the petty evils of this life. I smiled as I watched the
+cheap spell working. When she had finished, her fingers lay motionless
+for a minute on the keys, then she spun round, and looked him straight
+in the eyes, giving promise of a smile. But she glanced down at her
+knee.
+
+“You are tired of music,” she said.
+
+“No,” he replied, shaking his head.
+
+“Like it better than salad?” she asked with a flash of raillery.
+
+He looked up at her with a sudden smile, but did not reply. He was not
+handsome; his features were too often in a heavy repose; but when he
+looked up and smiled unexpectedly, he flooded her with an access of
+tenderness.
+
+“Then you’ll have a little more,” said she, and she turned again to the
+piano. She played soft, wistful morsels, then suddenly broke off in the
+midst of one sentimental plaint, and left the piano, dropping into a
+low chair by the fire. There she sat and looked at him. He was
+conscious that her eyes were fixed on him, but he dared not look back
+at her, so he pulled his moustache.
+
+“You are only a boy, after all,” she said to him quietly. Then he
+turned and asked her why.
+
+“It is a boy that you are,” she repeated, leaning back in her chair,
+and smiling lazily at him.
+
+“I never thought so,” he replied seriously.
+
+“Really?” she said, chuckling.
+
+“No,” said he, trying to recall his previous impressions.
+
+She laughed heartily, saying:
+
+“You’re growing up.”
+
+“How?” he asked.
+
+“Growing up,” she repeated, still laughing.
+
+“But I’m sure I was never boyish,” said he.
+
+“I’m teaching you,” said she, “and when you’re boyish you’ll be a very
+decent man. A mere man daren’t be a boy for fear of tumbling off his
+manly dignity, and then he’d be a fool, poor thing.”
+
+He laughed, and sat still to think about it, as was his way.
+
+“Do you like pictures?” she asked suddenly, being tired of looking at
+him.
+
+“Better than anything,” he replied.
+
+“Except dinner, and a warm hearth and a lazy evening,” she said.
+
+He looked at her suddenly, hardening at her insult, and biting his lips
+at the taste of this humiliation. She repented, and smiled her
+plaintive regret to him.
+
+“I’ll show you some,” she said, rising and going out of the room. He
+felt he was nearer her. She returned, carrying a pile of great books.
+
+“Jove—you’re pretty strong!” said he.
+
+“You are charming in your compliment,” she said.
+
+He glanced at her to see if she were mocking.
+
+“That’s the highest you could say of me, isn’t it?” she insisted.
+
+“Is it?” he asked, unwilling to compromise himself.
+
+“For sure,” she answered—and then, laying the books on the table, “I
+know how a man will compliment me by the way he looks at me”—she
+kneeled before the fire. “Some look at my hair, some watch the rise and
+fall of my breathing, some look at my neck, and a few,—not you among
+them,—look me in the eyes for my thoughts. To you, I’m a fine specimen,
+strong! Pretty strong! You primitive man!”
+
+He sat twisting his fingers; she was very contrary.
+
+“Bring your chair up,” she said, sitting down at the table and opening
+a book. She talked to him of each picture, insisting on hearing his
+opinion. Sometimes he disagreed with her and would not be persuaded. At
+such times she was piqued.
+
+“If,” said she, “an ancient Briton in his skins came and contradicted
+me as you do, wouldn’t you tell him not to make an ass of himself?”
+
+“I don’t know,” said he.
+
+“Then you ought to,” she replied. “You know nothing.”
+
+“How is it you ask me then?” he said.
+
+She began to laugh.
+
+“Why—that’s a pertinent question. I think you might be rather nice, you
+know.”
+
+“Thank you,” he said, smiling ironically.
+
+“Oh!” she said. “I know, you think you’re perfect, but you’re not,
+you’re very annoying.”
+
+“Yes,” exclaimed Alice, who had entered the room again, dressed ready
+to depart. “He’s so blooming slow! Great whizz! Who wants fellows to
+carry cold dinners? Shouldn’t you like to shake him Lettie?”
+
+“I don’t feel concerned enough,” replied the other calmly.
+
+“Did you ever carry a boiled pudding Georgy?” asked Alice with innocent
+interest, punching me slyly.
+
+“Me!—why?—what makes you ask?” he replied, quite at a loss.
+
+“Oh, I only wondered if your people needed any indigestion mixture—pa
+mixes it—1/1 ½ a bottle.”
+
+“I don’t see——” he began.
+
+“Ta—ta, old boy, I’ll give you time to think about it. Good-night,
+Lettie. Absence makes the heart grow fonder—Georgy—of someone else.
+Farewell. Come along, Sybil love, the moon is shining—Good-night all,
+good-night!”
+
+I escorted her home, while they continued to look at the pictures. He
+was a romanticist. He liked Copley, Fielding, Cattermole and Birket
+Foster; he could see nothing whatsoever in Girtin or David Cox. They
+fell out decidedly over George Clausen.
+
+“But,” said Lettie, “he is a real realist, he makes common things
+beautiful, he sees the mystery and magnificence that envelops us even
+when we work menially. I _do_ know and I _can_ speak. If I hoed in the
+fields beside you——” This was a very new idea for him, almost a shock
+to his imagination, and she talked unheeded. The picture under
+discussion was a water-colour—“Hoeing” by Clausen.
+
+“You’d be just that colour in the sunset,” she said, thus bringing him
+back to the subject, “and if you looked at the ground you’d find there
+was a sense of warm gold fire in it, and once you’d perceived the
+colour, it would strengthen till you’d see nothing else. You are blind;
+you are only half-born; you are gross with good living and heavy
+sleeping. You are a piano which will only play a dozen common notes.
+Sunset is nothing to you—it merely happens anywhere. Oh, but you make
+me feel as if I’d like to make you suffer. If you’d ever been sick; if
+you’d ever been born into a home where there was something oppressed
+you, and you couldn’t understand; if ever you’d believed, or even
+doubted, you might have been a man by now. You never grow up, like
+bulbs which spend all summer getting fat and fleshy, but never wakening
+the germ of a flower. As for me, the flower is born in me, but it wants
+bringing forth. Things don’t flower if they’re overfed. You have to
+suffer before you blossom in this life. When death is just touching a
+plant, it forces it into a passion of flowering. You wonder how I have
+touched death. You don’t know. There’s always a sense of death in this
+home. I believe my mother hated my father before I was born. That was
+death in her veins for me before I was born. It makes a difference——”
+
+As he sat listening, his eyes grew wide and his lips were parted, like
+a child who feels the tale but does not understand the words. She,
+looking away from herself at last, saw him, began to laugh gently, and
+patted his hand saying:
+
+“Oh! my dear heart, are you bewildered? How amiable of you to listen to
+me—there isn’t any meaning in it all—there isn’t really!”
+
+“But,” said he, “why do you say it?”
+
+“Oh, the question!” she laughed. “Let us go back to our muttons, we’re
+gazing at each other like two dazed images.”
+
+They turned on, chatting casually, till George suddenly exclaimed,
+“There!”
+
+It was Maurice Griffinhagen’s “Idyll.”
+
+“What of it?” she asked, gradually flushing. She remembered her own
+enthusiasm over the picture.
+
+“Wouldn’t it be fine?” he exclaimed, looking at her with glowing eyes,
+his teeth showing white in a smile that was not amusement.
+
+“What?” she asked, dropping her head in confusion.
+
+“That—a girl like that—half afraid—and passion!” He lit up curiously.
+
+“She may well be half afraid, when the barbarian comes out in his
+glory, skins and all.”
+
+“But don’t you like it?” he asked.
+
+She shrugged her shoulders, saying, “Make love to the next girl you
+meet, and by the time the poppies redden the field, she’ll hang in your
+arms. She’ll have need to be more than half afraid, won’t she?”
+
+She played with the leaves of the book, and did not look at him.
+
+“But,” he faltered, his eyes glowing, “it would be—rather——”
+
+“Don’t, sweet lad, don’t!” she cried laughing.
+
+“But I shouldn’t—” he insisted, “I don’t know whether I should like any
+girl I know to——”
+
+“Precious Sir Galahad,” she said in a mock caressing voice, and
+stroking his cheek with her finger, “You ought to have been a monk—a
+martyr, a Carthusian.”
+
+He laughed, taking no notice. He was breathlessly quivering under the
+new sensation of heavy, unappeased fire in his breast, and in the
+muscles of his arms. He glanced at her bosom and shivered.
+
+“Are you studying just how to play the part?” she asked.
+
+“No—but——” he tried to look at her, but failed. He shrank, laughing,
+and dropped his head.
+
+“What?” she asked with vibrant curiosity.
+
+Having become a few degrees calmer, he looked up at her now, his eyes
+wide and vivid with a declaration that made her shrink back as if flame
+had leaped towards her face. She bent down her head and picked at her
+dress.
+
+“Didn’t you know the picture before?” she said, in a low, toneless
+voice.
+
+He shut his eyes and shrank with shame.
+
+“No, I’ve never seen it before,” he said.
+
+“I’m surprised,” she said. “It is a very common one.”
+
+“Is it?” he answered, and this make-belief conversation fell. She
+looked up, and found his eyes. They gazed at each other for a moment
+before they hid their faces again. It was a torture to each of them to
+look thus nakedly at the other, a dazzled, shrinking pain that they
+forced themselves to undergo for a moment, that they might the moment
+after tremble with a fierce sensation that filled their veins with
+fluid, fiery electricity. She sought almost in panic, for something to
+say.
+
+“I believe it’s in Liverpool, the picture,” she contrived to say.
+
+He dared not kill this conversation, he was too self-conscious. He
+forced himself to reply, “I didn’t know there was a gallery in
+Liverpool.”
+
+“Oh, yes, a very good one,” she said.
+
+Their eyes met in the briefest flash of a glance, then both turned
+their faces aside. Thus averted, one from the other, they made talk. At
+last she rose, gathered the books together, and carried them off. At
+the door she turned. She must steal another keen moment: “Are you
+admiring my strength?” she asked. Her pose was fine. With her head
+thrown back, the roundness of her throat ran finely down to the bosom
+which swelled above the pile of books held by her straight arms. He
+looked at her. Their lips smiled curiously. She put back her throat as
+if she were drinking. They felt the blood beating madly in their necks.
+Then, suddenly breaking into a slight trembling, she turned round and
+left the room.
+
+While she was out, he sat twisting his moustache. She came back along
+the hall talking madly to herself in French. Having been much impressed
+by Sarah Bernhardt’s “Dame aux Camelias” and “Adrienne Lecouvreur,”
+Lettie had caught something of the weird tone of this great actress,
+and her raillery and mockery came out in little wild waves. She laughed
+at him, and at herself, and at men in general, and at love in
+particular. Whatever he said to her, she answered in the same mad
+clatter of French, speaking high and harshly. The sound was strange and
+uncomfortable. There was a painful perplexity in his brow, such as I
+often perceived afterwards, a sense of something hurting, something he
+could not understand.
+
+“Well, well, well, well!” she exclaimed at last. “We must be mad
+sometimes, or we should be getting aged, Hein?”
+
+“I wish I could understand,” he said plaintively.
+
+“Poor dear!” she laughed. “How sober he is! And will you really go?
+They will think we’ve given you no supper, you look so sad.”
+
+“I have supped—full——” he began, his eyes dancing with a smile as he
+ventured upon a quotation. He was very much excited.
+
+“Of horrors!” she cried completing it. “Now that is worse than anything
+I have given you.”
+
+“Is it?” he replied, and they smiled at each other.
+
+“Far worse,” she answered. They waited in suspense for some moments. He
+looked at her.
+
+“Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand. Her voice was full of
+insurgent tenderness. He looked at her again, his eyes flickering. Then
+he took her hand. She pressed his fingers, holding them a little while.
+Then ashamed of her display of feeling, she looked down. He had a deep
+cut across his thumb.
+
+“What a gash!” she exclaimed, shivering, and clinging a little tighter
+to his fingers before she released them. He gave a little laugh.
+
+“Does it hurt you?” she asked very gently.
+
+He laughed again—“No!” he said softly, as if his thumb were not worthy
+of consideration.
+
+They smiled again at each other, and, with a blind movement, he broke
+the spell and was gone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+THE FATHER
+
+
+Autumn set in, and the red dahlias which kept the warm light alive in
+their bosoms so late into the evening died in the night, and the
+morning had nothing but brown balls of rottenness to show.
+
+They called me as I passed the post-office door in Eberwich one
+evening, and they gave me a letter for my mother. The distorted,
+sprawling handwriting perplexed me with a dim uneasiness; I put the
+letter away, and forgot it. I remembered it later in the evening, when
+I wished to recall something to interest my mother. She looked at the
+handwriting, and began hastily and nervously to tear open the envelope;
+she held it away from her in the light of the lamp, and with eyes drawn
+half closed, tried to scan it. So I found her spectacles, but she did
+not speak her thanks, and her hand trembled. She read the short letter
+quickly; then she sat down, and read it again, and continued to look at
+it.
+
+“What is it mother?” I asked.
+
+She did not answer, but continued staring at the letter. I went up to
+her, and put my hand on her shoulder, feeling very uncomfortable. She
+took no notice of me, beginning to murmur: “Poor Frank—Poor Frank.”
+That was my father’s name.
+
+“But what is it mother?—tell me what’s the matter!”
+
+She turned and looked at me as if I were a stranger; she got up, and
+began to walk about the room; then she left the room, and I heard her
+go out of the house.
+
+The letter had fallen on to the floor. I picked it up. The handwriting
+was very broken. The address gave a village some few miles away; the
+date was three days before.
+
+
+“My Dear Lettice:
+    “You will want to know I am gone. I can hardly last a day or two—my
+    kidneys are nearly gone.
+    “I came over one day. I didn’t see you, but I saw the girl by the
+    window, and I had a few words with the lad. He never knew, and he
+    felt nothing. I think the girl might have done. If you knew how
+    awfully lonely I am, Lettice—how awfully I have been, you might
+    feel sorry.
+    “I have saved what I could, to pay you back. I have had the worst
+    of it Lettice, and I’m glad the end has come. I have had the worst
+    of it.
+
+
+“Good-bye—for ever—your husband,
+“FRANK BEARDSALL.”
+
+
+I was numbed by this letter of my father’s. With almost agonised effort
+I strove to recall him, but I knew that my image of a tall, handsome,
+dark man with pale grey eyes was made up from my mother’s few words,
+and from a portrait I had once seen.
+
+The marriage had been unhappy. My father was of frivolous, rather
+vulgar character, but plausible, having a good deal of charm. He was a
+liar, without notion of honesty, and he had deceived my mother
+thoroughly. One after another she discovered his mean dishonesties and
+deceits, and her soul revolted from him, and because the illusion of
+him had broken into a thousand vulgar fragments, she turned away with
+the scorn of a woman who finds her romance has been a trumpery tale.
+When he left her for other pleasures—Lettie being a baby of three
+years, while I was five—she rejoiced bitterly. She had heard of him
+indirectly—and of him nothing good, although he prospered—but he had
+never come to see her or written to her in all the eighteen years.
+
+In a while my mother came in. She sat down, pleating up the hem of her
+black apron, and smoothing it out again.
+
+“You know,” she said, “he had a right to the children, and I’ve kept
+them all the time.”
+
+“He could have come,” said I.
+
+“I set them against him, I have kept them from him, and he wanted them.
+I ought to be by him now—I ought to have taken you to him long ago.”
+
+“But how could you, when you knew nothing of him?”
+
+“He would have come—he wanted to come—I have felt it for years. But I
+kept him away. I know I have kept him away. I have felt it, and he has.
+Poor Frank—he’ll see his mistakes now. He would not have been as cruel
+as I have been——”
+
+“Nay, mother, it is only the shock that makes you say so.”
+
+“This makes me know. I have felt in myself a long time that he was
+suffering; I have had the feeling of him in me. I knew, yes, I did know
+he wanted me, and you, I felt it. I have had the feeling of him upon me
+this last three months especially . . . I have been cruel to him.”
+
+“Well—we’ll go to him now, shall we?” I said.
+
+“To-morrow—to-morrow,” she replied, noticing me really for the first
+time. “I go in the morning.”
+
+“And I’ll go with you.”
+
+“Yes—in the morning. Lettie has her party to Chatsworth—don’t tell
+her—we won’t tell her.”
+
+“No,” said I.
+
+Shortly after, my mother went upstairs. Lettie came in rather late from
+Highclose; Leslie did not come in. In the morning they were going with
+a motor party into Matloch and Chatsworth, and she was excited, and did
+not observe anything.
+
+After all, mother and I could not set out until the warm tempered
+afternoon. The air was full of a soft yellowness when we stepped down
+from the train at Cossethay. My mother insisted on walking the long two
+miles to the village. We went slowly along the road, lingering over the
+little red flowers in the high hedge-bottom up the hillside. We were
+reluctant to come to our destination. As we came in sight of the little
+grey tower of the church, we heard the sound of braying, brassy music.
+Before us, filling a little croft, the Wakes was in full swing.
+
+Some wooden horses careered gaily round, and the swingboats leaped into
+the mild blue sky. We sat upon the stile, my mother and I, and watched.
+There were booths, and cocoanut shies and round-abouts scattered in the
+small field. Groups of children moved quietly from attraction to
+attraction. A deeply tanned man came across the field swinging two
+dripping buckets of water. Women looked from the doors of their
+brilliant caravans, and lean dogs rose lazily and settled down again
+under the steps. The fair moved slowly, for all its noise. A stout
+lady, with a husky masculine voice invited the excited children into
+her peep show. A swarthy man stood with his thin legs astride on the
+platform of the roundabouts, and sloping backwards, his mouth distended
+with a row of fingers, he whistled astonishingly to the coarse row of
+the organ, and his whistling sounded clear, like the flight of a wild
+goose high over the chimney tops, as he was carried round and round. A
+little fat man with an ugly swelling on his chest stood screaming from
+a filthy booth to a crowd of urchins, bidding them challenge a big,
+stolid young man who stood with folded arms, his fists pushing out his
+biceps. On being asked if he would undertake any of these prospective
+challenges, this young man nodded, not having yet attained a talking
+stage:—yes he would take two at a time, screamed the little fat man
+with the big excrescence on his chest, pointing at the cowering lads
+and girls. Further off, Punch’s quaint voice could be heard when the
+cocoanut man ceased grinding out screeches from his rattle. The
+cocoanut man was wroth, for these youngsters would not risk a penny
+shy, and the rattle yelled like a fiend. A little girl came along to
+look at us, daintily licking an ice-cream sandwich. We were
+uninteresting, however, so she passed on to stare at the caravans.
+
+We had almost gathered courage to cross the wakes, when the cracked
+bell of the church sent its note falling over the babble.
+
+“One—two—three”—had it really sounded three! Then it rang on a lower
+bell—“One—two—three.” A passing bell for a man! I looked at my
+mother—she turned away from me.
+
+The organ flared on—the husky woman came forward to make another
+appeal. Then there was a lull. The man with the lump on his chest had
+gone inside the rag to spar with the solid fellow. The cocoanut man had
+gone to the “Three Tunns” in fury, and a brazen girl of seventeen or so
+was in charge of the nuts. The horses careered round, carrying two
+frightened boys.
+
+Suddenly the quick, throbbing note of the low bell struck again through
+the din. I listened—but could not keep count. One, two, three, four—for
+the third time that great lad had determined to go on the horses, and
+they had started while his foot was on the step, and he had been
+foiled—eight, nine, ten—no wonder that whistling man had such a big
+Adam’s apple—I wondered if it hurt his neck when he talked, being so
+pointed—nineteen, twenty—the girl was licking more ice-cream, with
+precious, tiny licks—twenty-five, twenty-six—I wondered if I did count
+to twenty-six mechanically. At this point I gave it up, and watched for
+Lord Tennyson’s bald head to come spinning round on the painted rim of
+the round-abouts, followed by a red-faced Lord Roberts, and a
+villainous looking Disraeli.
+
+“Fifty-one——” said my mother. “Come—come along.”
+
+We hurried through the fair, towards the church; towards a garden where
+the last red sentinels looked out from the top of the holly-hock
+spires. The garden was a tousled mass of faded pink chrysanthemums, and
+weak-eyed Michaelmas daisies, and spectre stalks of holly-hock. It
+belonged to a low, dark house, which crouched behind a screen of yews.
+We walked along to the front. The blinds were down, and in one room we
+could see the stale light of candles burning.
+
+“Is this Yew Cottage?” asked my mother of a curious lad.
+
+“It’s Mrs. May’s,” replied the boy.
+
+“Does she live alone?” I asked.
+
+“She ’ad French Carlin—but he’s dead—an she’s letten th’ candles ter
+keep th’ owd lad off’n ’im.”
+
+We went to the house and knocked.
+
+“An ye come about him?” hoarsely whispered a bent old woman, looking up
+with very blue eyes, nodding her old head with its velvet net
+significantly towards the inner room.
+
+“Yes——” said my mother, “we had a letter.”
+
+“Ay, poor fellow—he’s gone, missis,” and the old lady shook her head.
+Then she looked at us curiously, leaned forward, and, putting her
+withered old hand on my mother’s arm, her hand with its dark blue
+veins, she whispered in confidence, “and the candles ’as gone out
+twice. ’E wor a funny feller, very funny!”
+
+“I must come in and settle things—I am his nearest relative,” said my
+mother, trembling.
+
+“Yes—I must ’a dozed, for when I looked up, it wor black darkness.
+Missis, I dursn’t sit up wi’ ’im no more, an’ many a one I’ve laid out.
+Eh, but his sufferin’s, Missis—poor feller—eh, Missis!”—she lifted her
+ancient hands, and looked up at my mother, with her eyes so intensely
+blue.
+
+“Do you know where he kept his papers?” asked my mother.
+
+“Yis, I axed Father Burns about it; he said we mun pray for ’im. I
+bought him candles out o’ my own pocket. He wor a rum feller, he wor!”
+and again she shook her grey head mournfully. My mother took a step
+forward.
+
+“Did ye want to see ’im?” asked the old woman with half timid
+questioning.
+
+“Yes,” replied my mother, with a vigorous nod. She perceived now that
+the old lady was deaf.
+
+We followed the woman into the kitchen, a long, low room, dark, with
+drawn blinds.
+
+“Sit ye down,” said the old lady in the same low tone, as if she were
+speaking to herself:
+
+“Ye are his sister, ’appen?”
+
+My mother shook her head.
+
+“Oh—his brother’s wife!” persisted the old lady.
+
+We shook our heads.
+
+“Only a cousin?” she guessed, and looked at us appealingly. I nodded
+assent.
+
+“Sit ye there a minute,” she said, and trotted off. She banged the
+door, and jarred a chair as she went. When she returned, she set down a
+bottle and two glasses with a thump on the table in front of us. Her
+thin, skinny wrist seemed hardly capable of carrying the bottle.
+
+“It’s one as he’d only just begun of—’ave a drop to keep ye up—do now,
+poor thing,” she said, pushing the bottle to my mother and hurrying
+off, returning with the sugar and the kettle. We refused.
+
+“’E won’t want it no more, poor feller—an it’s good, Missis, he allers
+drank it good. Ay—an’ ’e ’adn’t a drop the last three days, poor man,
+poor feller, not a drop. Come now, it’ll stay ye, come now.” We
+refused.
+
+“’T’s in there,” she whispered, pointing to a closed door in a dark
+corner of the gloomy kitchen. I stumbled up a little step, and went
+plunging against a rickety table on which was a candle in a tall brass
+candlestick. Over went the candle, and it rolled on the floor, and the
+brass holder fell with much clanging.
+
+“Eh!—Eh! Dear—Lord, Dear—Heart. Dear—Heart!” wailed the old woman. She
+hastened trembling round to the other side of the bed, and relit the
+extinguished candle at the taper which was still burning. As she
+returned, the light glowed on her old, wrinkled face, and on the
+burnished knobs of the dark mahogany bedstead, while a stream of wax
+dripped down on to the floor. By the glimmering light of the two tapers
+we could see the outlined form under the counterpane. She turned back
+the hem and began to make painful wailing sounds. My heart was beating
+heavily, and I felt choked. I did not want to look—but I must. It was
+the man I had seen in the woods—with the puffiness gone from his face.
+I felt the great wild pity, and a sense of terror, and a sense of
+horror, and a sense of awful littleness and loneliness among a great
+empty space. I felt beyond myself as if I were a mere fleck drifting
+unconsciously through the dark. Then I felt my mother’s arm round my
+shoulders, and she cried pitifully, “Oh, my son, my son!”
+
+I shivered, and came back to myself. There were no tears in my mother’s
+face, only a great pleading. “Never mind, mother—never mind,” I said
+incoherently.
+
+She rose and covered the face again, and went round to the old lady,
+and held her still, and stayed her little wailings. The woman wiped
+from her cheeks the few tears of old age, and pushed her grey hair
+smooth under the velvet network.
+
+“Where are all his things?” asked mother.
+
+“Eh?” said the old lady, lifting up her ear.
+
+“Are all his things here?” repeated mother in a louder tone.
+
+“Here?”—the woman waved her hand round the room. It contained the great
+mahogany bedstead naked of hangings, a desk, and an oak chest, and two
+or three mahogany chairs. “I couldn’t get him upstairs; he’s only been
+here about a three week.”
+
+“Where’s the key to the desk?” said my mother loudly in the woman’s
+ear.
+
+“Yes,” she replied—“it’s his desk.” She looked at us, perplexed and
+doubtful, fearing she had misunderstood us. This was dreadful.
+
+“Key!” I shouted. “Where is the key?”
+
+Her old face was full of trouble as she shook her head. I took it that
+she did not know.
+
+“Where are his clothes? _Clothes_” I repeated pointing to my coat. She
+understood, and muttered, “I’ll fetch ’em ye.”
+
+We should have followed her as she hurried upstairs through a door near
+the head of the bed, had we not heard a heavy footstep in the kitchen,
+and a voice saying: “Is the old lady going to drink with the Devil?
+Hullo, Mrs. May, come and drink with me!” We heard the tinkle of the
+liquor poured into a glass, and almost immediately the light tap of the
+empty tumbler on the table.
+
+“I’ll see what the old girl’s up to,” he said, and the heavy tread came
+towards us. Like me, he stumbled at the little step, but escaped
+collision with the table.
+
+“Damn that fool’s step,” he said heartily. It was the doctor—for he
+kept his hat on his head, and did not hesitate to stroll about the
+house. He was a big, burly, red-faced man.
+
+“I beg your pardon,” he said, observing my mother. My mother bowed.
+
+“Mrs. Beardsall?” he asked, taking off his hat.
+
+My mother bowed.
+
+“I posted a letter to you. You are a relative of his—of poor old
+Carlin’s?”—he nodded sideways towards the bed.
+
+“The nearest,” said my mother.
+
+“Poor fellow—he was a bit stranded. Comes of being a bachelor, Ma’am.”
+
+“I was very much surprised to hear from him,” said my mother.
+
+“Yes, I guess he’s not been much of a one for writing to his friends.
+He’s had a bad time lately. You have to pay some time or other. We
+bring them on ourselves—silly devils as we are.—I beg your pardon.”
+
+There was a moment of silence, during which the doctor sighed, and then
+began to whistle softly.
+
+“Well—we might be more comfortable if we had the blind up,” he said,
+letting daylight in among the glimmer of the tapers as he spoke.
+
+“At any rate,” he said, “you won’t have any trouble settling up—no
+debts or anything of that. I believe there’s a bit to leave—so it’s not
+so bad. Poor devil—he was very down at the last; but we have to pay at
+one end or the other. What on earth is the old girl after?” he asked,
+looking up at the raftered ceiling, which was rumbling and thundering
+with the old lady’s violent rummaging.
+
+“We wanted the key of his desk,” said my mother.
+
+“Oh—I can find you that—and the will. He told me where they were, and
+to give them you when you came. He seemed to think a lot of you.
+Perhaps he might ha’ done better for himself——”
+
+Here we heard the heavy tread of the old lady coming downstairs. The
+doctor went to the foot of the stairs.
+
+“Hello, now—be careful!” he bawled. The poor old woman did as he
+expected, and trod on the braces of the trousers she was trailing, and
+came crashing into his arms. He set her tenderly down, saying, “Not
+hurt, are you?—no!” and he smiled at her and shook his head.
+
+“Eh, doctor—Eh, doctor—bless ye, I’m thankful ye’ve come. Ye’ll see to
+’em now, will ye?”
+
+“Yes—” he nodded in his bluff, winning way, and hurrying into the
+kitchen, he mixed her a glass of whisky, and brought one for himself,
+saying to her, “There you are—’twas a nasty shaking for you.”
+
+The poor old woman sat in a chair by the open door of the staircase,
+the pile of clothing tumbled about her feet. She looked round pitifully
+at us and at the daylight struggling among the candle light, making a
+ghostly gleam on the bed where the rigid figure lay unmoved; her hand
+trembled so that she could scarcely hold her glass.
+
+The doctor gave us the keys, and we rifled the desk and the drawers,
+sorting out all the papers. The doctor sat sipping and talking to us
+all the time.
+
+“Yes,” he said, “he’s only been here about two years. Felt himself
+beginning to break up then, I think. He’d been a long time abroad; they
+always called him Frenchy.” The doctor sipped and reflected, and sipped
+again, “Ay—he’d run the rig in his day—used to dream dreadfully. Good
+thing the old woman was so deaf. Awful, when a man gives himself away
+in his sleep; played the deuce with him, knowing it.” Sip, sip, sip—and
+more reflections—and another glass to be mixed.
+
+“But he was a jolly decent fellow—generous, open-handed. The folks
+didn’t like him, because they couldn’t get to the bottom of him; they
+always hate a thing they can’t fathom. He was close, there’s no
+mistake—save when he was asleep sometimes.” The doctor looked at his
+glass and sighed.
+
+“However—we shall miss him—shan’t we, Mrs. May?” he bawled suddenly,
+startling us, making us glance at the bed.
+
+He lit his pipe and puffed voluminously in order to obscure the
+attraction of his glass. Meanwhile we examined the papers. There were
+very few letters—one or two addressed to Paris. There were many bills,
+and receipts, and notes—business, all business.
+
+There was hardly a trace of sentiment among all the litter. My mother
+sorted out such papers as she considered valuable; the others, letters
+and missives which she glanced at cursorily and put aside, she took
+into the kitchen and burned. She seemed afraid to find out too much.
+
+The doctor continued to colour his tobacco smoke with a few pensive
+words.
+
+“Ay,” he said, “there are two ways. You can burn your lamp with a big
+draught, and it’ll flare away, till the oil’s gone, then it’ll stink
+and smoke itself out. Or you can keep it trim on the kitchen table,
+dirty your fingers occasionally trimming it up, and it’ll last a long
+time, and sink out mildly.” Here he turned to his glass, and finding it
+empty, was awakened to reality.
+
+“Anything I can do, Madam?” he asked.
+
+“No, thank you.”
+
+“Ay, I don’t suppose there’s much to settle. Nor many tears to
+shed—when a fellow spends his years an’ his prime on the Lord knows
+who, you can’t expect those that remember him young to feel his loss
+too keenly. He’d had his fling in his day, though, ma’am. Ay—must ha’
+had some rich times. No lasting satisfaction in it though—always
+wanting, craving. There’s nothing like marrying—you’ve got your dish
+before you then, and you’ve got to eat it.” He lapsed again into
+reflection, from which he did not rouse till we had locked up the desk,
+burned the useless papers, put the others into my pockets and the black
+bag, and were standing ready to depart. Then the doctor looked up
+suddenly and said:
+
+“But what about the funeral?”
+
+Then he noticed the weariness of my mother’s look, and he jumped up,
+and quickly seized his hat, saying:
+
+“Come across to my wife and have a cup of tea. Buried in these dam
+holes a fellow gets such a boor. Do come—my little wife is lonely—come
+just to see her.”
+
+My mother smiled and thanked him. We turned to go. My mother hesitated
+in her walk; on the threshold of the room she glanced round at the bed,
+but she went on.
+
+Outside, in the fresh air of the fading afternoon, I could not believe
+it was true. It was not true, that sad, colourless face with grey
+beard, wavering in the yellow candle-light. It was a lie,—that wooden
+bedstead, that deaf woman, they were fading phrases of the untruth.
+That yellow blaze of little sunflowers was true, and the shadow from
+the sun-dial on the warm old almshouses—that was real. The heavy
+afternoon sunlight came round us warm and reviving; we shivered, and
+the untruth went out of our veins, and we were no longer chilled.
+
+The doctor’s house stood sweetly among the beech trees, and at the iron
+fence in front of the little lawn a woman was talking to a beautiful
+Jersey cow that pushed its dark nose through the fence from the field
+beyond. She was a little, dark woman with vivid colouring; she rubbed
+the nose of the delicate animal, peeped right into the dark eyes, and
+talked in a lovable Scottish speech; talked as a mother talks softly to
+her child.
+
+When she turned round in surprise to greet us there was still the
+softness of a rich affection in her eyes. She gave us tea, and scones,
+and apply jelly, and all the time we listened with delight to her
+voice, which was musical as bees humming in the lime trees. Though she
+said nothing significant we listened to her attentively.
+
+Her husband was merry and kind. She glanced at him with quick glances
+of apprehension, and her eyes avoided him. He, in his merry, frank way,
+chaffed her, and praised her extravagantly, and teased her again. Then
+he became a trifle uneasy. I think she was afraid he had been drinking;
+I think she was shaken with horror when she found him tipsy, and
+bewildered and terrified when she saw him drunk. They had no children.
+I noticed he ceased to joke when she became a little constrained. He
+glanced at her often, and looked somewhat pitiful when she avoided his
+looks, and he grew uneasy, and I could see he wanted to go away.
+
+“I had better go with you to see the vicar, then,” he said to me, and
+we left the room, whose windows looked south, over the meadows, the
+room where dainty little water-colours, and beautiful bits of
+embroidery, and empty flower vases, and two dirty novels from the town
+library, and the closed piano, and the odd cups, and the chipped spout
+of the teapot causing stains on the cloth—all told one story.
+
+We went to the joiner’s and ordered the coffin, and the doctor had a
+glass of whisky on it; the graveyard fees were paid, and the doctor
+sealed the engagement with a drop of brandy; the vicar’s port completed
+the doctor’s joviality, and we went home.
+
+This time the disquiet in the little woman’s dark eyes could not dispel
+the doctor’s merriment. He rattled away, and she nervously twisted her
+wedding ring. He insisted on driving us to the station, in spite of our
+alarm.
+
+“But you will be quite safe with him,” said his wife, in her caressing
+Highland speech. When she shook hands at parting I noticed the hardness
+of the little palm;—and I have always hated an old, black alpaca dress.
+
+It is such a long way home from the station at Eberwich. We rode part
+way in the bus; then we walked. It is a very long way for my mother,
+when her steps are heavy with trouble.
+
+Rebecca was out by the rhododendrons looking for us. She hurried to us
+all solicitous, and asked mother if she had had tea.
+
+“But you’ll do with another cup,” she said, and ran back into the
+house.
+
+She came into the dining-room to take my mother’s bonnet and coat. She
+wanted us to talk; she was distressed on my mother’s behalf; she
+noticed the blackness that lay under her eyes, and she fidgeted about,
+unwilling to ask anything, yet uneasy and anxious to know.
+
+“Lettie has been home,” she said.
+
+“And gone back again?” asked mother.
+
+“She only came to change her dress. She put the green poplin on. She
+wondered where you’d gone.”
+
+“What did you tell her?”
+
+“I said you’d just gone out a bit. She said she was glad. She was as
+lively as a squirrel.”
+
+Rebecca looked wistfully at my mother. At length the latter said:
+
+“He’s dead, Rebecca. I have seen him.”
+
+“Now thank God for that—no more need to worry over him.”
+
+“Well!—He died all alone, Rebecca—all alone.”
+
+“He died as you’ve lived,” said Becky with some asperity.
+
+“But I’ve had the children, I’ve had the children—we won’t tell Lettie,
+Rebecca.”
+
+“No ’m.” Rebecca left the room.
+
+“You and Lettie will have the money,” said mother to me. There was a
+sum of four thousand pounds or so. It was left to my mother; or, in
+default to Lettie and me.
+
+“Well, mother—if it’s ours, it’s yours.”
+
+There was silence for some minutes, then she said, “You might have had
+a father——”
+
+“We’re thankful we hadn’t, mother. You spared us that.”
+
+“But how can you tell?” said my mother.
+
+“I can,” I replied. “And I am thankful to you.”
+
+“If ever you feel scorn for one who is near you rising in your throat,
+try and be generous, my lad.”
+
+“Well——” said I.
+
+“Yes,” she replied, “we’ll say no more. Sometime you must tell
+Lettie—you tell her.”
+
+I did tell her, a week or so afterwards.
+
+“Who knows?” she asked, her face hardening.
+
+“Mother, Becky, and ourselves.”
+
+“Nobody else?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then it’s a good thing he is out of the way if he was such a nuisance
+to mother. Where is she?”
+
+“Upstairs.”
+
+Lettie ran to her.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+THE SCENT OF BLOOD
+
+
+The death of the man who was our father changed our lives. It was not
+that we suffered a great grief; the chief trouble was the unanswered
+crying of failure. But we were changed in our feelings and in our
+relations; there was a new consciousness, a new carefulness.
+
+We had lived between the woods and the water all our lives, Lettie and
+I, and she had sought the bright notes in everything. She seemed to
+hear the water laughing, and the leaves tittering and giggling like
+young girls; the aspen fluttered like the draperies of a flirt, and the
+sound of the wood-pigeons was almost foolish in its sentimentality.
+
+Lately, however, she had noticed again the cruel pitiful crying of a
+hedgehog caught in a gin, and she had noticed the traps for the fierce
+little murderers, traps walled in with a small fence of fir, and baited
+with the guts of a killed rabbit.
+
+On an afternoon a short time after our visit to Cossethay, Lettie sat
+in the window seat. The sun clung to her hair, and kissed her with
+passionate splashes of colour brought from the vermilion, dying creeper
+outside. The sun loved Lettie, and was loath to leave her. She looked
+out over Nethermere to Highclose, vague in the September mist. Had it
+not been for the scarlet light on her face, I should have thought her
+look was sad and serious. She nestled up to the window, and leaned her
+head against the wooden shaft. Gradually she drooped into sleep. Then
+she became wonderfully childish again—it was the girl of seventeen
+sleeping there, with her full pouting lips slightly apart, and the
+breath coming lightly. I felt the old feeling of responsibility; I must
+protect her, and take care of her.
+
+There was a crunch of the gravel. It was Leslie coming. He lifted his
+hat to her, thinking she was looking. He had that fine, lithe physique,
+suggestive of much animal vigour; his person was exceedingly
+attractive; one watched him move about, and felt pleasure. His face was
+less pleasing than his person. He was not handsome; his eyebrows were
+too light, his nose was large and ugly, and his forehead, though high
+and fair, was without dignity. But he had a frank, good-natured
+expression, and a fine, wholesome laugh.
+
+He wondered why she did not move. As he came nearer he saw. Then he
+winked at me and came in. He tiptoed across the room to look at her.
+The sweet carelessness of her attitude, the appealing, half-pitiful
+girlishness of her face touched his responsive heart, and he leaned
+forward and kissed her cheek where already was a crimson stain of
+sunshine.
+
+She roused half out of her sleep with a little, petulant “Oh!” as an
+awakened child. He sat down behind her, and gently drew her head
+against him, looking down at her with a tender, soothing smile. I
+thought she was going to fall asleep thus. But her eyelids quivered,
+and her eyes beneath them flickered into consciousness.
+
+“Leslie!—oh!—Let me go!” she exclaimed, pushing him away. He loosed
+her, and rose, looking at her reproachfully. She shook her dress, and
+went quickly to the mirror to arrange her hair.
+
+“You are mean!” she exclaimed, looking very flushed, vexed, and
+dishevelled.
+
+He laughed indulgently, saying, “You shouldn’t go to sleep then and
+look so pretty. Who could help?”
+
+“It is not nice!” she said, frowning with irritation.
+
+“We are not ‘nice’—are we? I thought we were proud of our
+unconventionality. Why shouldn’t I kiss you?”
+
+“Because it is a question of me, not of you alone.”
+
+“Dear me, you _are_ in a way!”
+
+“Mother is coming.”
+
+“Is she? You had better tell her.”
+
+Mother was very fond of Leslie.
+
+“Well, sir,” she said, “why are you frowning?”
+
+He broke into a laugh.
+
+“Lettie is scolding me for kissing her when she was playing ‘Sleeping
+Beauty.’”
+
+“The conceit of the boy, to play Prince!” said my mother.
+
+“Oh, but it appears I was sadly out of character,” he said ruefully.
+
+Lettie laughed and forgave him.
+
+“Well,” he said, looking at her and smiling, “I came to ask you to go
+out.”
+
+“It is a lovely afternoon,” said mother.
+
+She glanced at him, and said:
+
+“I feel dreadfully lazy.”
+
+“Never mind!” he replied, “you’ll wake up. Go and put your hat on.”
+
+He sounded impatient. She looked at him.
+
+He seemed to be smiling peculiarly.
+
+She lowered her eyes and went out of the room.
+
+“She’ll come all right,” he said to himself, and to me. “She likes to
+play you on a string.”
+
+She must have heard him. When she came in again, drawing on her gloves,
+she said quietly:
+
+“You come as well, Pat.”
+
+He swung round and stared at her in angry amazement.
+
+“I had rather stay and finish this sketch,” I said, feeling
+uncomfortable.
+
+“No, but do come, there’s a dear.” She took the brush from my hand, and
+drew me from my chair. The blood flushed into his cheeks. He went
+quietly into the hall and brought my cap.
+
+“All right!” he said angrily. “Women like to fancy themselves
+Napoleons.”
+
+“They do, dear Iron Duke, they do,” she mocked.
+
+“Yet, there’s a Waterloo in all their histories,” he said, since she
+had supplied him with the idea.
+
+“Say Peterloo, my general, say Peterloo.”
+
+“Ay, Peterloo,” he replied, with a splendid curl of the lip—“Easy
+conquests!”
+
+“‘He came, he saw, he conquered,’” Lettie recited.
+
+“Are you coming?” he said, getting more angry.
+
+“When you bid me,” she replied, taking my arm.
+
+We went through the wood, and through the dishevelled border-land to
+the high road, through the border-land that should have been park-like,
+but which was shaggy with loose grass and yellow mole-hills, ragged
+with gorse and bramble and briar, with wandering old thorn-trees, and a
+queer clump of Scotch firs.
+
+On the highway the leaves were falling, and they chattered under our
+steps. The water was mild and blue, and the corn stood drowsily in
+“stook.”
+
+We climbed the hill behind Highclose, and walked on along the upland,
+looking across towards the hills of arid Derbyshire, and seeing them
+not, because it was autumn. We came in sight of the head-stocks of the
+pit at Selsby, and of the ugly village standing blank and naked on the
+brow of the hill.
+
+Lettie was in very high spirits. She laughed and joked continually. She
+picked bunches of hips and stuck them in her dress. Having got a thorn
+in her finger from a spray of blackberries, she went to Leslie to have
+it squeezed out. We were all quite gay as we turned off the high road
+and went along the bridle path, with the woods on our right, the high
+Strelley hills shutting in our small valley in front, and the fields
+and the common to the left. About half way down the lane we heard the
+slurr of the scythestone on the scythe. Lettie went to the hedge to
+see. It was George mowing the oats on the steep hillside where the
+machine could not go. His father was tying up the corn into sheaves.
+
+Straightening his back, Mr. Saxton saw us, and called to us to come and
+help. We pushed through a gap in the hedge and went up to him.
+
+“Now then,” said the father to me, “take that coat off,” and to Lettie:
+“Have you brought us a drink? No;—come, that sounds bad! Going a walk I
+guess. You see what it is to get fat,” and he pulled a wry face as he
+bent over to tie the corn. He was a man beautifully ruddy and burly, in
+the prime of life.
+
+“Show me, I’ll do some,” said Lettie.
+
+“Nay,” he answered gently, “it would scratch your wrists and break your
+stays. Hark at my hands”—he rubbed them together—“like sandpaper!”
+
+George had his back to us, and had not noticed us. He continued to mow.
+Leslie watched him.
+
+“That’s a fine movement!” he exclaimed.
+
+“Yes,” replied the father, rising very red in the face from the tying,
+“and our George enjoys a bit o’ mowing. It puts you in fine condition
+when you get over the first stiffness.”
+
+We moved across to the standing corn. The sun being mild, George had
+thrown off his hat, and his black hair was moist and twisted into
+confused half-curls. Firmly planted, he swung with a beautiful rhythm
+from the waist. On the hip of his belted breeches hung the scythestone;
+his shirt, faded almost white, was torn just above the belt, and showed
+the muscles of his back playing like lights upon the white sand of a
+brook. There was something exceedingly attractive in the rhythmic body.
+
+I spoke to him, and he turned round. He looked straight at Lettie with
+a flashing, betraying smile. He was remarkably handsome. He tried to
+say some words of greeting, then he bent down and gathered an armful of
+corn, and deliberately bound it up.
+
+Like him, Lettie had found nothing to say. Leslie, however, remarked:
+
+“I should think mowing is a nice exercise.”
+
+“It is,” he replied, and continued, as Leslie picked up the scythe,
+“but it will make you sweat, and your hands will be sore.”
+
+Leslie tossed his head a little, threw off his coat, and said briefly:
+
+“How do you do it?” Without waiting for a reply he proceeded. George
+said nothing, but turned to Lettie.
+
+“You are picturesque,” she said, a trifle awkwardly, “Quite fit for an
+Idyll.”
+
+“And you?” he said.
+
+She shrugged her shoulders, laughed, and turned to pick up a scarlet
+pimpernel.
+
+“How do you bind the corn?” she asked.
+
+He took some long straws, cleaned them, and showed her the way to hold
+them. Instead of attending, she looked at his hands, big, hard,
+inflamed by the snaith of the scythe.
+
+“I don’t think I could do it,” she said.
+
+“No,” he replied quietly, and watched Leslie mowing. The latter who was
+wonderfully ready at everything, was doing fairly well, but he had not
+the invincible sweep of the other, nor did he make the same crisp
+crunching music.
+
+“I bet he’ll sweat,” said George.
+
+“Don’t you?” she replied.
+
+“A bit—but I’m not dressed up.”
+
+“Do you know,” she said suddenly, “your arms tempt me to touch them.
+They are such a fine brown colour, and they look so hard.”
+
+He held out one arm to her. She hesitated, then she swiftly put her
+finger tips on the smooth brown muscle, and drew them along. Quickly
+she hid her hand into the folds of her skirt, blushing.
+
+He laughed a low, quiet laugh, at once pleasant and startling to hear.
+
+“I wish I could work here,” she said, looking away at the standing
+corn, and the dim blue woods. He followed her look, and laughed
+quietly, with indulgent resignation.
+
+“I do!” she said emphatically.
+
+“You feel so fine,” he said, pushing his hand through his open shirt
+front, and gently rubbing the muscles of his side. “It’s a pleasure to
+work or to stand still. It’s a pleasure to yourself—your own physique.”
+
+She looked at him, full at his physical beauty, as if he were some
+great firm bud of life.
+
+Leslie came up, wiping his brow.
+
+“Jove,” said he, “I do perspire.”
+
+George picked up his coat and helped him into it; saying:
+
+“You may take a chill.”
+
+“It’s a jolly nice form of exercise,” said he.
+
+George, who had been feeling one finger tip, now took out his pen-knife
+and proceeded to dig a thorn from his hand.
+
+“What a hide you must have,” said Leslie.
+
+Lettie said nothing, but she recoiled slightly.
+
+The father, glad of an excuse to straighten his back and to chat, came
+to us.
+
+“You’d soon had enough,” he said, laughing to Leslie.
+
+George startled us with a sudden, “Holloa.” We turned, and saw a
+rabbit, which had burst from the corn, go coursing through the hedge,
+dodging and bounding the sheaves. The standing corn was a patch along
+the hill-side some fifty paces in length, and ten or so in width.
+
+“I didn’t think there’d have been any in,” said the father, picking up
+a short rake, and going to the low wall of the corn. We all followed.
+
+“Watch!” said the father, “if you see the heads of the corn shake!”
+
+We prowled round the patch of corn.
+
+“Hold! Look out!” shouted the father excitedly, and immediately after a
+rabbit broke from the cover.
+
+“Ay—Ay—Ay,” was the shout, “turn him—turn him!” We set off full pelt.
+The bewildered little brute, scared by Leslie’s wild running and
+crying, turned from its course, and dodged across the hill, threading
+its terrified course through the maze of lying sheaves, spurting on in
+a painful zigzag, now bounding over an untied bundle of corn, now
+swerving from the sound of a shout. The little wretch was hard pressed;
+George rushed upon it. It darted into some fallen corn, but he had seen
+it, and had fallen on it. In an instant he was up again, and the little
+creature was dangling from his hand.
+
+We returned, panting, sweating, our eyes flashing, to the edge of the
+standing corn. I heard Lettie calling, and turning round saw Emily and
+the two children entering the field as they passed from school.
+
+“There’s another!” shouted Leslie.
+
+I saw the oat-tops quiver. “Here! Here!” I yelled. The animal leaped
+out, and made for the hedge. George and Leslie, who were on that side,
+dashed off, turned him, and he coursed back our way. I headed him off
+to the father who swept in pursuit for a short distance, but who was
+too heavy for the work. The little beast made towards the gate, but
+this time Mollie, with her hat in her hand and her hair flying, whirled
+upon him, and she and the little fragile lad sent him back again. The
+rabbit was getting tired. It dodged the sheaves badly, running towards
+the top hedge. I went after it. If I could have let myself fall on it I
+could have caught it, but this was impossible to me, and I merely
+prevented its dashing through the hole into safety. It raced along the
+hedge bottom. George tore after it. As he was upon it, it darted into
+the hedge. He fell flat, and shot his hand into the gap. But it had
+escaped. He lay there, panting in great sobs, and looking at me with
+eyes in which excitement and exhaustion struggled like flickering light
+and darkness. When he could speak, he said, “Why didn’t you fall on top
+of it?”
+
+“I couldn’t,” said I.
+
+We returned again. The two children were peering into the thick corn
+also. We thought there was nothing more. George began to mow. As I
+walked round I caught sight of a rabbit skulking near the bottom corner
+of the patch. Its ears lay pressed against its back; I could see the
+palpitation of the heart under the brown fur, and I could see the
+shining dark eyes looking at me. I felt no pity for it, but still I
+could not actually hurt it. I beckoned to the father. He ran up, and
+aimed a blow with the rake. There was a sharp little cry which sent a
+hot pain through me as if I had been cut. But the rabbit ran out, and
+instantly I forgot the cry, and gave pursuit, fairly feeling my fingers
+stiffen to choke it. It was all lame. Leslie was upon it in a moment,
+and he almost pulled its head off in his excitement to kill it.
+
+I looked up. The girls were at the gate, just turning away.
+
+“There are no more,” said the father.
+
+At that instant Mary shouted.
+
+“There’s one down this hole.”
+
+The hole was too small for George to get his hand in, so we dug it out
+with the rake handle. The stick went savagely down the hole, and there
+came a squeak.
+
+“Mice!” said George, and as he said it the mother slid out. Somebody
+knocked her on the back, and the hole was opened out. Little mice
+seemed to swarm everywhere. It was like killing insects. We counted
+nine little ones lying dead.
+
+“Poor brute,” said George, looking at the mother, “What a job she must
+have had rearing that lot!” He picked her up, handled her curiously and
+with pity. Then he said, “Well, I may as well finish this to-night!”
+
+His father took another scythe from off the hedge, and together they
+soon laid the proud, quivering heads low. Leslie and I tied up as they
+mowed, and soon all was finished.
+
+The beautiful day was flushing to die. Over in the west the mist was
+gathering bluer. The intense stillness was broken by the rhythmic hum
+of the engines at the distant coal-mine, as they drew up the last
+bantles of men. As we walked across the fields the tubes of stubble
+tinkled like dulcimers. The scent of the corn began to rise gently. The
+last cry of the pheasants came from the wood, and the little clouds of
+birds were gone.
+
+I carried a scythe, and we walked, pleasantly weary, down the hill
+towards the farm. The children had gone home with the rabbits.
+
+When we reached the mill, we found the girls just rising from the
+table. Emily began to carry away the used pots, and to set clean ones
+for us. She merely glanced at us and said her formal greeting. Lettie
+picked up a book that lay in the ingle seat, and went to the window.
+George dropped into a chair. He had flung off his coat, and had pushed
+back his hair. He rested his great brown arms on the table and was
+silent for a moment.
+
+“Running like that,” he said to me, passing his hand over his eyes,
+“makes you more tired than a whole day’s work. I don’t think I shall do
+it again.”
+
+“The sport’s exciting while it lasts,” said Leslie.
+
+“It does you more harm than the rabbits do us good,” said Mrs. Saxton.
+
+“Oh, I don’t know, mother,” drawled her son, “it’s a couple of
+shillings.”
+
+“And a couple of days off your life.”
+
+“What be that!” he replied, taking a piece of bread and butter, and
+biting a large piece from it.
+
+“Pour us a drop of tea,” he said to Emily.
+
+“I don’t know that I shall wait on such brutes,” she replied,
+relenting, and flourishing the teapot.
+
+“Oh,” said he, taking another piece of bread and butter, “I’m not all
+alone in my savageness this time.”
+
+“Men are all brutes,” said Lettie, hotly, without looking up from her
+book.
+
+“You can tame us,” said Leslie, in mighty good humour.
+
+She did not reply. George began, in that deliberate voice that so
+annoyed Emily:
+
+“It does make you mad, though, to touch the fur, and not be able to
+grab him”—he laughed quietly.
+
+Emily moved off in disgust. Lettie opened her mouth sharply to speak,
+but remained silent.
+
+“I don’t know,” said Leslie. “When it comes to killing it goes against
+the stomach.”
+
+“If you can run,” said George, “you should be able to run to death.
+When your blood’s up, you don’t hang half way.”
+
+“I think a man is horrible,” said Lettie, “who can tear the head off a
+little mite of a thing like a rabbit, after running it in torture over
+a field.”
+
+“When he is nothing but a barbarian to begin with——” said Emily.
+
+“If you began to run yourself—you’d be the same,” said George.
+
+“Why, women are cruel enough,” said Leslie, with a glance at Lettie.
+“Yes,” he continued, “they’re cruel enough in their way”—another look,
+and a comical little smile.
+
+“Well,” said George, “what’s the good finicking! If you feel like doing
+a thing—you’d better do it.”
+
+“Unless you haven’t courage,” said Emily, bitingly.
+
+He looked up at her with dark eyes, suddenly full of anger.
+
+“But,” said Lettie—she could not hold herself from asking, “Don’t you
+think it’s brutal, now—that you _do_ think—isn’t it degrading and mean
+to run the poor little things down?”
+
+“Perhaps it is,” he replied, “but it wasn’t an hour ago.”
+
+“You have no feeling,” she said bitterly.
+
+He laughed deprecatingly, but said nothing.
+
+We finished tea in silence, Lettie reading, Emily moving about the
+house. George got up and went out at the end. A moment or two after we
+heard him across the yard with the milk-buckets, singing “The Ash
+Grove.”
+
+“He doesn’t care a scrap for anything,” said Emily with accumulated
+bitterness. Lettie looked out of the window across the yard, thinking.
+She looked very glum.
+
+After a while we went out also, before the light faded altogether from
+the pond. Emily took us into the lower garden to get some ripe plums.
+The old garden was very low. The soil was black. The cornbind and
+goosegrass were clutching at the ancient gooseberry bushes, which
+sprawled by the paths. The garden was not very productive, save of
+weeds, and perhaps, tremendous lank artichokes or swollen marrows. But
+at the bottom, where the end of the farm buildings rose high and grey,
+there was a plum-tree which had been crucified to the wall, and which
+had broken away and leaned forward from bondage. Now under the boughs
+were hidden great mist-bloomed, crimson treasures, splendid globes. I
+shook the old, ragged trunk, green, with even the fresh gum dulled
+over, and the treasures fell heavily, thudding down among the immense
+rhubarb leaves below. The girls laughed, and we divided the spoil, and
+turned back to the yard. We went down to the edge of the garden, which
+skirted the bottom pond, a pool chained in a heavy growth of weeds. It
+was moving with rats, the father had said. The rushes were thick below
+us; opposite, the great bank fronted us, with orchard trees climbing it
+like a hillside. The lower pond received the overflow from the upper by
+a tunnel from the deep black sluice.
+
+Two rats ran into the black culvert at our approach. We sat on some
+piled, mossy stones to watch. The rats came out again, ran a little
+way, stopped, ran again, listened, were reassured, and slid about
+freely, dragging their long naked tails. Soon six or seven grey beasts
+were playing round the mouth of the culvert, in the gloom. They sat and
+wiped their sharp faces, stroking their whiskers. Then one would give a
+little rush and a little squirm of excitement and would jump vertically
+into the air, alighting on four feet, running, sliding into the black
+shadow. One dropped with an ugly plop into the water, and swam toward
+us, the hoary imp, his sharp snout and his wicked little eyes moving at
+us. Lettie shuddered. I threw a stone into the dead pool, and
+frightened them all. But we had frightened ourselves more, so we
+hurried away, and stamped our feet in relief on the free pavement of
+the yard.
+
+Leslie was looking for us. He had been inspecting the yard and the
+stock under Mr. Saxton’s supervision.
+
+“Were you running away from me?” he asked.
+
+“No,” she replied. “I have been to fetch you a plum. Look!” And she
+showed him two in a leaf.
+
+“They are too pretty to eat!” said he.
+
+“You have not tasted yet,” she laughed.
+
+“Come,” he said, offering her his arm. “Let us go up to the water.” She
+took his arm.
+
+It was a splendid evening, with the light all thick and yellow lying on
+the smooth pond. Lettie made him lift her on to a leaning bough of
+willow. He sat with his head resting against her skirts. Emily and I
+moved on. We heard him murmur something, and her voice reply, gently,
+caressingly:
+
+“No—let us be still—it is all so still—I love it best of all now.”
+
+Emily and I talked, sitting at the base of the alders, a little way on.
+After an excitement, and in the evening, especially in autumn, one is
+inclined to be sad and sentimental. We had forgotten that the darkness
+was weaving. I heard in the little distance Leslie’s voice begin to
+murmur like a flying beetle that comes not too near. Then, away down in
+the yard George began singing the old song, “I sowed the seeds of
+love.”
+
+This interrupted the flight of Leslie’s voice, and as the singing came
+nearer, the hum of low words ceased. We went forward to meet George.
+Leslie sat up, clasping his knees, and did not speak. George came near,
+saying:
+
+“The moon is going to rise.”
+
+“Let me get down,” said Lettie, lifting her hands to him to help her.
+He, mistaking her wish, put his hands under her arms, and set her
+gently down, as one would a child. Leslie got up quickly, and seemed to
+hold himself separate, resenting the intrusion.
+
+“I thought you were all four together,” said George quietly. Lettie
+turned quickly at the apology:
+
+“So we were. So we are—five now. Is it there the moon will rise?”
+
+“Yes—I like to see it come over the wood. It lifts slowly up to stare
+at you. I always think it wants to know something, and I always think I
+have something to answer, only I don’t know what it is,” said Emily.
+
+Where the sky was pale in the east over the rim of wood came the
+forehead of the yellow moon. We stood and watched in silence. Then, as
+the great disc, nearly full, lifted and looked straight upon us, we
+were washed off our feet in a vague sea of moonlight. We stood with the
+light like water on our faces. Lettie was glad, a little bit exalted;
+Emily was passionately troubled; her lips were parted, almost
+beseeching; Leslie was frowning, oblivious, and George was thinking,
+and the terrible, immense moonbeams braided through his feeling. At
+length Leslie said softly, mistakenly:
+
+“Come along, dear”—and he took her arm.
+
+She let him lead her along the bank of the pond, and across the plank
+over the sluice.
+
+“Do you know,” she said, as we were carefully descending the steep bank
+of the orchard, “I feel as if I wanted to laugh, or dance—something
+rather outrageous.”
+
+“Surely not like that _now_,” Leslie replied in a low voice, feeling
+really hurt.
+
+“I do though! I will race you to the bottom.”
+
+“No, no, dear!” He held her back. When he came to the wicket leading on
+to the front lawns, he said something to her softly, as he held the
+gate.
+
+I think he wanted to utter his half finished proposal, and so bind her.
+
+She broke free, and, observing the long lawn which lay in grey shadow
+between the eastern and western glows, she cried:
+
+“Polka!—a polka—one can dance a polka when the grass is smooth and
+short—even if there are some fallen leaves. Yes, yes—how jolly!”
+
+She held out her hand to Leslie, but it was too great a shock to his
+mood. So she called to me, and there was a shade of anxiety in her
+voice, lest after all she should be caught in the toils of the night’s
+sentiment.
+
+“Pat—you’ll dance with me—Leslie hates a polka.” I danced with her. I
+do not know the time when I could not polka—it seems innate in one’s
+feet, to dance that dance. We went flying round, hissing through the
+dead leaves. The night, the low hung yellow moon, the pallor of the
+west, the blue cloud of evening overhead went round and through the
+fantastic branches of the old laburnum, spinning a little madness. You
+cannot tire Lettie; her feet are wings that beat the air. When at last
+I stayed her she laughed as fresh as ever, as she bound her hair.
+
+“There!” she said to Leslie, in tones of extreme satisfaction, “that
+was lovely. Do you come and dance now.”
+
+“Not a polka,” said he, sadly, feeling the poetry in his heart insulted
+by the jigging measure.
+
+“But one cannot dance anything else on wet grass, and through shuffling
+dead leaves. You, George?”
+
+“Emily says I jump,” he replied.
+
+“Come on—come on”—and in a moment they were bounding across the grass.
+After a few steps she fell in with him, and they spun round the grass.
+It was true, he leaped, sprang with large strides, carrying her with
+him. It was a tremendous, irresistible dancing. Emily and I must join,
+making an inner ring. Now and again there was a sense of something
+white flying near, and wild rustle of draperies, and a swish of
+disturbed leaves as they whirled past us. Long after we were tired they
+danced on.
+
+At the end, he looked big, erect, nerved with triumph, and she was
+exhilarated like a Bacchante.
+
+“Have you finished?” Leslie asked.
+
+She knew she was safe from his question that day.
+
+“Yes,” she panted. “You should have danced. Give me my hat, please. Do
+I look very disgraceful?”
+
+He took her hat and gave it to her.
+
+“Disgraceful?” he repeated.
+
+“Oh, you _are_ solemn to-night! What is it?”
+
+“Yes, what is it?” he repeated ironically.
+
+“It must be the moon. Now, is my hat straight? Tell me now—you’re not
+looking. Then put it level. Now then! Why, your hands are quite cold,
+and mine so hot! I feel so impish,” and she laughed.
+
+“There—now I’m ready. Do you notice those little chrysanthemums trying
+to smell sadly; when the old moon is laughing and winking through those
+boughs. What business have they with their sadness!” She took a handful
+of petals and flung them into the air: “There—if they sigh they ask for
+sorrow—I like things to wink and look wild.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+THE EDUCATION OF GEORGE
+
+
+As I have said, Strelley Mill lies at the north end of the long
+Nethermere valley. On the northern slopes lay its pasture and arable
+lands. The shaggy common, now closed and part of the estate, covered
+the western slope, and the cultivated land was bounded on the east by
+the sharp dip of the brook course, a thread of woodland broadening into
+a spinney and ending at the upper pond; beyond this, on the east, rose
+the sharp, wild, grassy hillside, scattered with old trees, ruinous
+with the gaunt, ragged bones of old hedge-rows, grown into thorn trees.
+Along the rim of the hills, beginning in the northwest, were dark
+woodlands, which swept round east and south till they raced down in
+riot to the very edge of southern Nethermere, surrounding our house.
+From the eastern hill crest, looking straight across, you could see the
+spire of Selsby Church, and a few roofs, and the head-stocks of the
+pit.
+
+So on three sides the farm was skirted by woods, the dens of rabbits,
+and the common held another warren.
+
+Now the squire of the estate, head of an ancient, once even famous, but
+now decayed house, loved his rabbits. Unlike the family fortunes, the
+family tree flourished amazingly; Sherwood could show nothing
+comparable. Its ramifications were stupendous; it was more like a
+banyan than a British oak. How was the good squire to nourish himself
+and his lady, his name, his tradition, and his thirteen lusty branches
+on his meagre estates? An evil fortune discovered to him that he could
+sell each of his rabbits, those bits of furry vermin, for a shilling or
+thereabouts in Nottingham; since which time the noble family subsisted
+by rabbits.
+
+Farms were gnawed away; corn and sweet grass departed from the face of
+the hills; cattle grew lean, unable to eat the defiled herbage. Then
+the farm became the home of a keeper, and the country was silent, with
+no sound of cattle, no clink of horses, no barking of lusty dogs.
+
+But the squire loved his rabbits. He defended them against the snares
+of the despairing farmer, protected them with gun and notices to quit.
+How he glowed with thankfulness as he saw the dishevelled hillside
+heave when the gnawing hosts moved on!
+
+“Are they not quails and manna?” said he to his sporting guest, early
+one Monday morning, as the high meadow broke into life at the sound of
+his gun. “Quails and manna—in this wilderness?”
+
+“They are, by Jove!” assented the sporting guest as he took another
+gun, while the saturnine keeper smiled grimly.
+
+Meanwhile, Strelley Mill began to suffer under this gangrene. It was
+the outpost in the wilderness. It was an understood thing that none of
+the squire’s tenants had a gun.
+
+“Well,” said the squire to Mr. Saxton, “you have the land for next to
+nothing—next to nothing—at a rent really absurd. Surely the little that
+the rabbits eat——”
+
+“It’s not a little—come and look for yourself,” replied the farmer. The
+squire made a gesture of impatience.
+
+“What _do_ you want?” he inquired.
+
+“Will you wire me off?” was the repeated request.
+
+“Wire is—what does Halkett say—so much per yard—and it would come
+to—what did Halkett tell me now?—but a large sum. No, I can’t do it.”
+
+“Well, I can’t live like this.”
+
+“Have another glass of whisky? Yes, yes, I want another glass myself,
+and I can’t drink alone—so if I am to enjoy my glass.—That’s it! Now
+surely you exaggerate a little. It’s not so bad.”
+
+“I can’t go on like it, I’m sure.”
+
+“Well, we’ll see about compensation—we’ll see. I’ll have a talk with
+Halkett, and I’ll come down and have a look at you. We all find a pinch
+somewhere—it’s nothing but humanity’s heritage.”
+
+
+I was born in September, and love it best of all the months. There is
+no heat, no hurry, no thirst and weariness in corn harvest as there is
+in the hay. If the season is late, as is usual with us, then
+mid-September sees the corn still standing in stook. The mornings come
+slowly. The earth is like a woman married and fading; she does not leap
+up with a laugh for the first fresh kiss of dawn, but slowly, quietly,
+unexpectantly lies watching the waking of each new day. The blue mist,
+like memory in the eyes of a neglected wife, never goes from the wooded
+hill, and only at noon creeps from the near hedges. There is no bird to
+put a song in the throat of morning; only the crow’s voice speaks
+during the day. Perhaps there is the regular breathing hush of the
+scythe—even the fretful jar of the mowing machine. But next day, in the
+morning, all is still again. The lying corn is wet, and when you have
+bound it, and lift the heavy sheaf to make the stook, the tresses of
+oats wreathe round each other and droop mournfully.
+
+As I worked with my friend through the still mornings we talked
+endlessly. I would give him the gist of what I knew of chemistry, and
+botany, and psychology. Day after day I told him what the professors
+had told me; of life, of sex and its origins; of Schopenhauer and
+William James. We had been friends for years, and he was accustomed to
+my talk. But this autumn fruited the first crop of intimacy between us.
+I talked a great deal of poetry to him, and of rudimentary metaphysics.
+He was very good stuff. He had hardly a single dogma, save that of
+pleasing himself. Religion was nothing to him. So he heard all I had to
+say with an open mind, and understood the drift of things very rapidly,
+and quickly made these ideas part of himself.
+
+We tramped down to dinner with only the clinging warmth of the sunshine
+for a coat. In this still, enfolding weather a quiet companionship is
+very grateful. Autumn creeps through everything. The little damsons in
+the pudding taste of September, and are fragrant with memory. The
+voices of those at table are softer and more reminiscent than at
+haytime.
+
+Afternoon is all warm and golden. Oat sheaves are lighter; they whisper
+to each other as they freely embrace. The long, stout stubble tinkles
+as the foot brushes over it; the scent of the straw is sweet. When the
+poor, bleached sheaves are lifted out of the hedge, a spray of nodding
+wild raspberries is disclosed, with belated berries ready to drop;
+among the damp grass lush blackberries may be discovered. Then one
+notices that the last bell hangs from the ragged spire of fox-glove.
+The talk is of people, an odd book; of one’s hopes—and the future; of
+Canada, where work is strenuous, but not life; where the plains are
+wide, and one is not lapped in a soft valley, like an apple that falls
+in a secluded orchard. The mist steals over the face of the warm
+afternoon. The tying-up is all finished, and it only remains to rear up
+the fallen bundles into shocks. The sun sinks into a golden glow in the
+west. The gold turns to red, the red darkens, like a fire burning low,
+the sun disappears behind the bank of milky mist, purple like the pale
+bloom on blue plums, and we put on our coats and go home.
+
+
+In the evening, when the milking was finished, and all the things fed,
+then we went out to look at the snares. We wandered on across the
+stream and up the wild hillside. Our feet rattled through black patches
+of devil’s-bit scabius; we skirted a swim of thistle-down, which
+glistened when the moon touched it. We stumbled on through wet, coarse
+grass, over soft mole-hills and black rabbit-holes. The hills and woods
+cast shadows; the pools of mist in the valleys gathered the moonbeams
+in cold, shivery light.
+
+We came to an old farm that stood on the level brow of the hill. The
+woods swept away from it, leaving a great clearing of what was once
+cultivated land. The handsome chimneys of the house, silhouetted
+against a light sky, drew my admiration. I noticed that there was no
+light or glow in any window, though the house had only the width of one
+room, and though the night was only at eight o’clock. We looked at the
+long, impressive front. Several of the windows had been bricked in,
+giving a pitiful impression of blindness; the places where the plaster
+had fallen off the walls showed blacker in the shadow. We pushed open
+the gate, and as we walked down the path, weeds and dead plants brushed
+our ankles. We looked in at a window. The room was lighted also by a
+window from the other side, through which the moonlight streamed on to
+the flagged floor, dirty, littered with paper, and wisps of straw. The
+hearth lay in the light, with all its distress of grey ashes, and piled
+cinders of burnt paper, and a child’s headless doll, charred and
+pitiful. On the border-line of shadow lay a round fur cap—a
+game-keeper’s cap. I blamed the moonlight for entering the desolate
+room; the darkness alone was decent and reticent. I hated the little
+roses on the illuminated piece of wallpaper, I hated that fireside.
+
+With farmer’s instinct George turned to the outhouse. The cow-yard
+startled me. It was a forest of the tallest nettles I have ever
+seen—nettles far taller than my six feet. The air was soddened with the
+dank scent of nettles. As I followed George along the obscure brick
+path, I felt my flesh creep. But the buildings, when we entered them,
+were in splendid condition; they had been restored within a small
+number of years; they were well-timbered, neat, and cosy. Here and
+there we saw feathers, bits of animal wreckage, even the remnants of a
+cat, which we hastily examined by the light of a match. As we entered
+the stable there was an ugly noise, and three great rats half rushed at
+us and threatened us with their vicious teeth. I shuddered, and hurried
+back, stumbling over a bucket, rotten with rust, and so filled with
+weeds that I thought it part of the jungle. There was a silence made
+horrible by the faint noises that rats and flying bats give out. The
+place was bare of any vestige of corn or straw or hay, only choked with
+a growth of abnormal weeds. When I found myself free in the orchard I
+could not stop shivering. There were no apples to be seen overhead
+between us and the clear sky. Either the birds had caused them to fall,
+when the rabbits had devoured them, or someone had gathered the crop.
+
+“This,” said George bitterly, “is what the mill will come to.”
+
+“After your time,” I said.
+
+“My time—my time. I shall never have a time. And I shouldn’t be
+surprised if father’s time isn’t short—with rabbits and one thing and
+another. As it is, we depend on the milk-round, and on the carting
+which I do for the council. You can’t call it farming. We’re a
+miserable mixture of farmer, milkman, greengrocer, and carting
+contractor. It’s a shabby business.”
+
+“You have to live,” I retorted.
+
+“Yes—but it’s rotten. And father won’t move—and he won’t change his
+methods.”
+
+“Well—what about you?”
+
+“Me! What should I change for?—I’m comfortable at home. As for my
+future, it can look after itself, so long as nobody depends on me.”
+
+“Laissez faire,” said I, smiling.
+
+“This is no laissez faire,” he replied, glancing round, “this is
+pulling the nipple out of your lips, and letting the milk run away
+sour. Look there!”
+
+Through the thin veil of moonlit mist that slid over the hillside we
+could see an army of rabbits bunched up, or hopping a few paces
+forward, feeding.
+
+We set off at a swinging pace down the hill, scattering the hosts. As
+we approached the fence that bounded the Mill fields, he exclaimed,
+“Hullo!”—and hurried forward. I followed him, and observed the dark
+figure of a man rise from the hedge. It was a game-keeper. He pretended
+to be examining his gun. As we came up he greeted us with a calm
+“Good-evenin’!”
+
+George replied by investigating the little gap in the hedge.
+
+“I’ll trouble you for that snare,” he said.
+
+“Will yer?” answered Annable, a broad, burly, black-faced fellow. “An’
+_I_ should like ter know what you’re doin’ on th’ wrong side th’
+’edge?”
+
+“You can see what we’re doing—hand over my snare—_and_ the rabbit,”
+said George angrily.
+
+“What rabbit?” said Annable, turning sarcastically to me.
+
+“You know well enough—an’ you can hand it over—or——” George replied.
+
+“Or what? Spit it out! The sound won’t kill me”—the man grinned with
+contempt.
+
+“Hand over here!” said George, stepping up to the man in a rage.
+
+“Now don’t!” said the keeper, standing stock still, and looking
+unmovedly at the proximity of George:
+
+“You’d better get off home—both you an’ ’im. You’ll get neither snare
+nor rabbit—see!”
+
+“We _will_ see!” said George, and he made a sudden move to get hold of
+the man’s coat. Instantly he went staggering back with a heavy blow
+under the left ear.
+
+“Damn brute!” I ejaculated, bruising my knuckles against the fellow’s
+jaw. Then I too found myself sitting dazedly on the grass, watching the
+great skirts of his velveteens flinging round him as if he had been a
+demon, as he strode away. I got up, pressing my chest where I had been
+struck. George was lying in the hedge-bottom. I turned him over, and
+rubbed his temples, and shook the drenched grass on his face. He opened
+his eyes and looked at me, dazed. Then he drew his breath quickly, and
+put his hand to his head.
+
+“He—he nearly stunned me,” he said.
+
+“The devil!” I answered.
+
+“I wasn’t ready.”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Did he knock me down?”
+
+“Ay—me too.”
+
+He was silent for some time, sitting limply. Then he pressed his hand
+against the back of his head, saying, “My head does sing!” He tried to
+get up, but failed. “Good God!—being knocked into this state by a
+damned keeper!”
+
+“Come on,” I said, “let’s see if we can’t get indoors.”
+
+“No!” he said quickly, “we needn’t tell them—don’t let them know.”
+
+I sat thinking of the pain in my own chest, and wishing I could
+remember hearing Annable’s jaw smash, and wishing that my knuckles were
+more bruised than they were—though that was bad enough. I got up, and
+helped George to rise. He swayed, almost pulling me over. But in a
+while he could walk unevenly.
+
+“Am I,” he said, “covered with clay and stuff?”
+
+“Not much,” I replied, troubled by the shame and confusion with which
+he spoke.
+
+“Get it off,” he said, standing still to be cleaned.
+
+I did my best. Then we walked about the fields for a time, gloomy,
+silent, and sore.
+
+Suddenly, as we went by the pond-side, we were startled by great,
+swishing black shadows that swept just above our heads. The swans were
+flying up for shelter, now that a cold wind had begun to fret
+Nethermere. They swung down on to the glassy mill-pond, shaking the
+moonlight in flecks across the deep shadows; the night rang with the
+clacking of their wings on the water; the stillness and calm were
+broken; the moonlight was furrowed and scattered, and broken. The
+swans, as they sailed into shadow, were dim, haunting spectres; the
+wind found us shivering.
+
+“Don’t—you won’t say anything?” he asked as I was leaving him.
+
+“No.”
+
+“Nothing at all—not to anybody?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Good-night.”
+
+
+About the end of September, our countryside was alarmed by the harrying
+of sheep by strange dogs. One morning, the squire, going the round of
+his fields as was his custom, to his grief and horror found two of his
+sheep torn and dead in the hedge-bottom, and the rest huddled in a
+corner swaying about in terror, smeared with blood. The squire did not
+recover his spirits for days.
+
+There was a report of two grey wolvish dogs. The squire’s keeper had
+heard yelping in the fields of Dr. Collins of the Abbey, about dawn.
+Three sheep lay soaked in blood when the labourer went to tend the
+flocks.
+
+Then the farmers took alarm. Lord, of the White House farm, intended to
+put his sheep in pen, with his dogs in charge. It was Saturday,
+however, and the lads ran off to the little travelling theatre that had
+halted at Westwold. While they sat open-mouthed in the theatre,
+gloriously nicknamed the “Blood-Tub,” watching heroes die with much
+writhing and heaving, and struggling up to say a word, and collapsing
+without having said it, six of their silly sheep were slaughtered in
+the field. At every house it was enquired of the dog; nowhere had one
+been loose.
+
+Mr. Saxton had some thirty sheep on the Common. George determined that
+the easiest thing was for him to sleep out with them. He built a
+shelter of hurdles interlaced with brushwood, and in the sunny
+afternoon we collected piles of bracken, browning to the ruddy
+winter-brown now. He slept there for a week, but that week aged his
+mother like a year. She was out in the cold morning twilight watching,
+with her apron over her head, for his approach. She did not rest with
+the thought of him out on the Common.
+
+Therefore, on Saturday night he brought down his rugs, and took up Gyp
+to watch in his stead. For some time we sat looking at the stars over
+the dark hills. Now and then a sheep coughed, or a rabbit rustled
+beneath the brambles, and Gyp whined. The mist crept over the
+gorse-bushes, and the webs on the brambles were white;—the devil throws
+his net over the blackberries as soon as September’s back is turned,
+they say.
+
+“I saw two fellows go by with bags and nets,” said George, as we sat
+looking out of his little shelter.
+
+“Poachers,” said I. “Did you speak to them?”
+
+“No—they didn’t see me. I was dropping asleep when a rabbit rushed
+under the blanket, all of a shiver, and a whippet dog after it. I gave
+the whippet a punch in the neck, and he yelped off. The rabbit stopped
+with me quite a long time—then it went.”
+
+“How did you feel?”
+
+“I didn’t care. I don’t care much what happens just now. Father could
+get along without me, and mother has the children. I think I shall
+emigrate.”
+
+“Why didn’t you before?”
+
+“Oh, I don’t know. There are a lot of little comforts and interests at
+home that one would miss. Besides, you feel somebody in your own
+countryside, and you’re nothing in a foreign part, I expect.”
+
+“But you’re going?”
+
+“What is there to stop here for? The valley is all running wild and
+unprofitable. You’ve no freedom for thinking of what the other folks
+think of you, and everything round you keeps the same, and so you can’t
+change yourself—because everything you look at brings up the same old
+feeling, and stops you from feeling fresh things. And what is there
+that’s worth anything?—What’s worth having in my life?”
+
+“I thought,” said I, “your comfort was worth having.”
+
+He sat still and did not answer.
+
+“What’s shaken you out of your nest?” I asked.
+
+“I don’t know. I’ve not felt the same since that row with Annable. And
+Lettie said to me: ‘Here, you can’t live as you like—in any way or
+circumstance. You’re like a bit out of those coloured marble mosaics in
+the hall, you have to fit in your own set, fit into your own pattern,
+because you’re put there from the first. But you don’t want to be like
+a fixed bit of a mosaic—you want to fuse into life, and melt and mix
+with the rest of folk, to have some things burned out of you——’ She was
+downright serious.”
+
+“Well, you need not believe her. When did you see her?”
+
+“She came down on Wednesday, when I was getting the apples in the
+morning. She climbed a tree with me, and there was a wind, that was why
+I was getting all the apples, and it rocked us, me right up at the top,
+she sitting half way down holding the basket. I asked her didn’t she
+think that free kind of life was the best, and that was how she
+answered me.”
+
+“You should have contradicted her.”
+
+“It seemed true. I never thought of it being wrong, in fact.”
+
+“Come—that sounds bad.”
+
+“No—I thought she looked down on us—on our way of life. I thought she
+meant I was like a toad in a hole.”
+
+“You should have shown her different.”
+
+“How could I when I could see no different?”
+
+“It strikes me you’re in love.”
+
+He laughed at the idea, saying, “No, but it is rotten to find that
+there isn’t a single thing you have to be proud of.”
+
+“This is a new tune for you.”
+
+He pulled the grass moodily.
+
+“And when do you think of going?”
+
+“Oh—I don’t know—I’ve said nothing to mother. Not yet,—at any rate not
+till spring.”
+
+“Not till something has happened,” said I.
+
+“What?” he asked.
+
+“Something decisive.”
+
+“I don’t know what can happen—unless the Squire turns us out.”
+
+“No?” I said.
+
+He did not speak.
+
+“You should make things happen,” said I.
+
+“Don’t make me feel a worse fool, Cyril,” he replied despairingly.
+
+Gyp whined and jumped, tugging her chain to follow us. The grey blurs
+among the blackness of the bushes were resting sheep. A chill, dim mist
+crept along the ground.
+
+“But, for all that, Cyril,” he said, “to have her laugh at you across
+the table; to hear her sing as she moved about, before you are washed
+at night, when the fire’s warm, and you’re tired; to have her sit by
+you on the hearth seat, close and soft. . . .”
+
+“In Spain,” I said. “In Spain.”
+
+He took no notice, but turned suddenly, laughing.
+
+“Do you know, when I was stooking up, lifting the sheaves, it felt like
+having your arm round a girl. It was quite a sudden sensation.”
+
+“You’d better take care,” said I, “you’ll mesh yourself in the silk of
+dreams, and then——”
+
+He laughed, not having heard my words.
+
+“The time seems to go like lightning—thinking” he confessed—“I seem to
+sweep the mornings up in a handful.”
+
+“Oh, Lord!” said I. “Why don’t you scheme forgetting what you want,
+instead of dreaming fulfilments?”
+
+“Well,” he replied. “If it was a fine dream, wouldn’t you want to go on
+dreaming?” and with that he finished, and I went home.
+
+I sat at my window looking out, trying to get things straight. Mist
+rose, and wreathed round Nethermere, like ghosts meeting and embracing
+sadly. I thought of the time when my friend should not follow the
+harrow on our own snug valley side, and when Lettie’s room next mine
+should be closed to hide its emptiness, not its joy. My heart clung
+passionately to the hollow which held us all; how could I bear that it
+should be desolate! I wondered what Lettie would do.
+
+In the morning I was up early, when daybreak came with a shiver through
+the woods. I went out, while the moon still shone sickly in the west.
+The world shrank from the morning. It was then that the last of the
+summer things died. The wood was dark,—and smelt damp and heavy with
+autumn. On the paths the leaves lay clogged.
+
+As I came near the farm I heard the yelling of dogs. Running, I reached
+the Common, and saw the sheep huddled and scattered in groups,
+something leaped round them. George burst into sight pursuing.
+Directly, there was the bang, bang of a gun. I picked up a heavy piece
+of sandstone and ran forwards. Three sheep scattered wildly before me.
+In the dim light I saw their grey shadows move among the gorse bushes.
+Then a dog leaped, and I flung my stone with all my might. I hit. There
+came a high-pitched howling yelp of pain; I saw the brute make off, and
+went after him, dodging the prickly bushes, leaping the trailing
+brambles. The gunshots rang out again, and I heard the men shouting
+with excitement. My dog was out of sight, but I followed still,
+slanting down the hill. In a field ahead I saw someone running. Leaping
+the low hedge, I pursued, and overtook Emily, who was hurrying as fast
+as she could through the wet grass. There was another gunshot and great
+shouting. Emily glanced round, saw me, and started.
+
+“It’s gone to the quarries,” she panted. We walked on, without saying a
+word. Skirting the spinney, we followed the brook course, and came at
+last to the quarry fence. The old excavations were filled now with
+trees. The steep walls, twenty feet deep in places, were packed with
+loose stones, and trailed with hanging brambles. We climbed down the
+steep bank of the brook, and entered the quarries by the bed of the
+stream. Under the groves of ash and oak a pale primrose still lingered,
+glimmering wanly beside the hidden water. Emily found a smear of blood
+on a beautiful trail of yellow convolvulus. We followed the tracks on
+to the open, where the brook flowed on the hard rock bed, and the stony
+floor of the quarry was only a tangle of gorse and bramble and
+honeysuckle.
+
+“Take a good stone,” said I, and we pressed on, where the grove in the
+great excavation darkened again, and the brook slid secretly under the
+arms of the bushes and the hair of the long grass. We beat the cover
+almost to the road. I thought the brute had escaped, and I pulled a
+bunch of mountain-ash berries, and stood tapping them against my knee.
+I was startled by a snarl and a little scream. Running forward, I came
+upon one of the old, horse-shoe lime kilns that stood at the head of
+the quarry. There, in the mouth of one of the kilns, Emily was kneeling
+on the dog, her hands buried in the hair of its throat, pushing back
+its head. The little jerks of the brute’s body were the spasms of
+death; already the eyes were turning inward, and the upper lip was
+drawn from the teeth by pain.
+
+“Good Lord, Emily! But he is dead!” exclaimed.
+
+“Has he hurt you?” I drew her away. She shuddered violently, and seemed
+to feel a horror of herself.
+
+“No—no,” she said, looking at herself, with blood all on her skirt,
+where she had knelt on the wound which I had given the dog, and pressed
+the broken rib into the chest. There was a trickle of blood on her arm.
+
+“Did he bite you?” I asked, anxious.
+
+“No—oh, no—I just peeped in, and he jumped. But he had no strength, and
+I hit him back with my stone, and I lost my balance, and fell on him.”
+
+“Let me wash your arm.”
+
+“Oh!” she exclaimed, “isn’t it horrible! Oh, I think it is so awful.”
+
+“What?” said I, busy bathing her arm in the cold water of the brook.
+
+“This—this whole brutal affair.”
+
+“It ought to be cauterised,” said I, looking at a score on her arm from
+the dog’s tooth.
+
+“That scratch—that’s nothing! Can you get that off my skirt—I feel
+hateful to myself.”
+
+I washed her skirt with my handkerchief as well as I could, saying:
+
+“Let me just sear it for you; we can go to the Kennels. Do—you ought—I
+don’t feel safe otherwise.”
+
+“Really,” she said, glancing up at me, a smile coming into her fine
+dark eyes.
+
+“Yes—come along.”
+
+“Ha, ha!” she laughed. “You look so serious.”
+
+I took her arm and drew her away. She linked her arm in mine and leaned
+on me.
+
+“It is just like Lorna Doone,” she said as if she enjoyed it.
+
+“But you will let me do it,” said I, referring to the cauterising.
+
+“You make me; but I shall feel—ugh, I daren’t think of it. Get me some
+of those berries.”
+
+I plucked a few bunches of guelder-rose fruits, transparent, ruby
+berries. She stroked them softly against her lips and cheek, caressing
+them. Then she murmured to herself:
+
+“I have always wanted to put red berries in my hair.”
+
+The shawl she had been wearing was thrown across her shoulders, and her
+head was bare, and her black hair, soft and short and ecstatic, tumbled
+wildly into loose light curls. She thrust the stalks of the berries
+under her combs. Her hair was not heavy or long enough to have held
+them. Then, with the ruby bunches glowing through the black mist of
+curls, she looked up at me, brightly, with wide eyes. I looked at her,
+and felt the smile winning into her eyes. Then I turned and dragged a
+trail of golden-leaved convolvulus from the hedge, and I twisted it
+into a coronet for her.
+
+“There!” said I, “you’re crowned.”
+
+She put back her head, and the low laughter shook in her throat.
+
+“What!” she asked, putting all the courage and recklessness she had
+into the question, and in her soul trembling.
+
+“Not Chloë, not Bacchante. You have always got your soul in your eyes,
+such an earnest, troublesome soul.”
+
+The laughter faded at once, and her great seriousness looked out again
+at me, pleading.
+
+“You are like Burne-Jones’ damsels. Troublesome shadows are always
+crowding across your eyes, and you cherish them. You think the flesh of
+the apple is nothing, nothing. You only care for the eternal pips. Why
+don’t you snatch your apple and eat it, and throw the core away?”
+
+She looked at me sadly, not understanding, but believing that I in my
+wisdom spoke truth, as she always believed when I lost her in a maze of
+words. She stooped down, and the chaplet fell from her hair, and only
+one bunch of berries remained. The ground around us was strewn with the
+four-lipped burrs of beechnuts, and the quaint little nut-pyramids were
+scattered among the ruddy fallen leaves. Emily gathered a few nuts.
+
+“I love beechnuts,” she said, “but they make me long for my childhood
+again till I could almost cry out. To go out for beechnuts before
+breakfast; to thread them for necklaces before supper;—to be the envy
+of the others at school next day! There was as much pleasure in a beech
+necklace then as there is in the whole autumn now—and no sadness. There
+are no more unmixed joys after you have grown up.” She kept her face to
+the ground as she spoke, and she continued to gather the fruits.
+
+“Do you find any with nuts in?” I asked.
+
+“Not many—here—here are two, three. You have them. No—I don’t care
+about them.”
+
+I stripped one of its horny brown coat and gave it to her. She opened
+her mouth slightly to take it, looking up into my eyes. Some people,
+instead of bringing with them clouds of glory, trail clouds of sorrow;
+they are born with “the gift of sorrow”; “sorrows” they proclaim “alone
+are real. The veiled grey angels of sorrow work out slowly the
+beautiful shapes. Sorrow is beauty, and the supreme blessedness.” You
+read it in their eyes, and in the tones of their voices. Emily had the
+gift of sorrow. It fascinated me, but it drove me to rebellion.
+
+We followed the soft, smooth-bitten turf road under the old beeches.
+The hillside fell away, dishevelled with thistles and coarse grass.
+Soon we were in sight of the Kennels, the red old Kennels which had
+been the scene of so much animation in the time of Lord Byron. They
+were empty now, overgrown with weeds. The barred windows of the
+cottages were grey with dust; there was no need now to protect the
+windows from cattle, dog or man. One of the three houses was inhabited.
+Clear water trickled through a wooden runnel into a great stone trough
+outside near the door.
+
+“Come here,” said I to Emily. “Let me fasten the back of your dress.”
+
+“Is it undone?” she asked, looking quickly over her shoulder, and
+blushing.
+
+As I was engaged in my task, a girl came out of the cottage with a
+black kettle and a tea-cup. She was so surprised to see me thus
+occupied that she forgot her own duty, and stood open-mouthed.
+
+“S’r Ann! S’r Ann,” called a voice from inside. “Are ter goin’ ter come
+in an’ shut that door?”
+
+Sarah Ann hastily poured a few cupfuls of water into the kettle, then
+she put down both utensils and stood holding her bare arms to warm
+them. Her chief garment consisted of a skirt with grey bodice and red
+flannel skirt, very much torn. Her black hair hung in wild tails on to
+her shoulders.
+
+“We must go in here,” said I, approaching the girl. She, however,
+hastily seized the kettle and ran indoors with an “Oh, mother!”
+
+A woman came to the door. One breast was bare, and hung over her
+blouse, which, like a dressing-jacket, fell loose over her skirt. Her
+fading, red-brown hair was all frowsy from the bed. In the folds of her
+skirt clung a swarthy urchin with a shockingly short shirt. He stared
+at us with big black eyes, the only portion of his face undecorated
+with egg and jam. The woman’s blue eyes questioned us languidly. I told
+her our errand.
+
+“Come in—come in,” she said, “but dunna look at th’ ’ouse. Th’ childers
+not been long up. Go in, Billy, wi’ nowt on!”
+
+We entered, taking the forgotten kettle lid. The kitchen was large, but
+scantily furnished save, indeed, for children. The eldest, a girl of
+twelve or so, was standing toasting a piece of bacon with one hand, and
+holding back her nightdress in the other. As the toast hand got
+scorched, she transferred the bacon to the other, gave the hot fingers
+a lick to cool them, and then held back her nightdress again. Her
+auburn hair hung in heavy coils down her gown. A boy sat on the steel
+fender, catching the dropping fat on a piece of bread. “One, two,
+three, four, five, six drops,” and he quickly bit off the tasty corner,
+and resumed the task with the other hand. When we entered he tried to
+draw his shirt over his knees, which caused the fat to fall wasted. A
+fat baby, evidently laid down from the breast, lay kicking on the
+squab, purple in the face, while another lad was pushing bread and
+butter into its mouth. The mother swept to the sofa, poked out the
+bread and butter, pushed her finger into the baby’s throat, lifted the
+child up, punched its back, and was highly relieved when it began to
+yell. Then she administered a few sound spanks to the naked buttocks of
+the crammer. He began to howl, but stopped suddenly on seeing us
+laughing. On the sack-cloth which served as hearth rug sat a beautiful
+child washing the face of a wooden doll with tea, and wiping it on her
+nightgown. At the table, an infant in a high chair sat sucking a piece
+of bacon, till the grease ran down his swarthy arms, oozing through his
+fingers. An old lad stood in the big arm-chair, whose back was hung
+with a calf-skin, and was industriously pouring the dregs of the
+teacups into a basin of milk. The mother whisked away the milk, and
+made a rush for the urchin, the baby hanging over her arm the while.
+
+“I could half kill thee,” she said, but he had slid under the
+table,—and sat serenely unconcerned.
+
+“Could you”—I asked when the mother had put her bonny baby again to her
+breast—“could you lend me a knitting needle?”
+
+“Our S’r Ann, wheer’s thy knittin’ needles?” asked the woman, wincing
+at the same time, and putting her hand to the mouth of the sucking
+child. Catching my eye, she said:
+
+“You wouldn’t credit how he bites. ’E’s nobbut two teeth, but they like
+six needles.” She drew her brows together and pursed her lips, saying
+to the child, “Naughty lad, naughty lad! Tha’ shanna hae it, no, not if
+ter bites thy mother like that.”
+
+The family interest was now divided between us and the private concerns
+in process when we entered;—save, however, that the bacon sucker had
+sucked on stolidly, immovable, all the time.
+
+“Our Sam, wheer’s my knittin’, tha’s ’ad it?” cried S’r Ann after a
+little search.
+
+“’A ’e na,” replied Sam from under the table.
+
+“Yes, tha’ ’as,” said the mother, giving a blind prod under the table
+with her foot.
+
+“’A ’e na then!” persisted Sam.
+
+The mother suggested various possible places of discovery, and at last
+the knitting was found at the back of the table drawer, among forks and
+old wooden skewers.
+
+“I ’an ter tell yer wheer ivrythink is,” said the mother in mild
+reproach. S’r Ann, however, gave no heed to her parent. Her heart was
+torn for her knitting, the fruit of her labours; it was a red woollen
+cuff for the winter; a corkscrew was bored through the web, and the
+ball of red wool was bristling with skewers.
+
+“It’s a’ thee, our Sam,” she wailed. “I know it’s a’ thee an’ thy A. B.
+C.”
+
+Samuel, under the table, croaked out in a voice of fierce monotony:
+
+“P. is for Porkypine, whose bristles so strong
+Kill the bold lion by pricking ’is tongue.”
+
+
+The mother began to shake with quiet laughter.
+
+“His father learnt him that—made it all up,” she whispered proudly to
+us—and to him.
+
+“Tell us what ‘B’ is Sam.”
+
+“Shonna,” grunted Sam.
+
+“Go on, there’s a duckie; an’ I’ll ma’ ’e a treacle puddin’.”
+
+“Today?” asked S’r Ann eagerly.
+
+“Go on, Sam, my duck,” persisted the mother.
+
+“Tha’ ’as na got no treacle,” said Sam conclusively.
+
+The needle was in the fire; the children stood about watching.
+
+“Will you do it yourself?” I asked Emily.
+
+“I!” she exclaimed, with wide eyes of astonishment, and she shook her
+head emphatically.
+
+“Then I must.” I took out the needle, holding it in my handkerchief. I
+took her hand and examined the wound. But when she saw the hot glow of
+the needle, she snatched away her hand, and looked into my eyes,
+laughing in a half-hysterical fear and shame. I was very serious, very
+insistent. She yielded me her hand again, biting her lips in
+imagination of the pain, and looking at me. While my eyes were looking
+into hers she had courage; when I was forced to pay attention to my
+cauterising, she glanced down, and with a sharp “Ah!” ending in a
+little laugh, she put her hands behind her, and looked again up at me
+with wide brown eyes, all quivering with apprehension, and a little
+shame, and a laughter that held much pleading.
+
+One of the children began to cry.
+
+“It is no good,” said I, throwing the fast cooling needle on to the
+hearth.
+
+I gave the girls all the pennies I had—then I offered Sam, who had
+crept out of the shelter of the table, a sixpence.
+
+“Shonna a’e that,” he said, turning from the small coin.
+
+“Well—I have no more pennies, so nothing will be your share.”
+
+I gave the other boy a rickety knife I had in my pocket. Sam looked
+fiercely at me. Eager for revenge, he picked up the “porkypine quill”
+by the hot end. He dropped it with a shout of rage, and, seizing a cup
+off the table, flung it at the fortunate Jack. It smashed against the
+fire-place. The mother grabbed at Sam, but he was gone. A girl, a
+little girl, wailed, “Oh, that’s my rosey mug—my rosey mug.” We fled
+from the scene of confusion. Emily had hardly noticed it. Her thoughts
+were of herself, and of me.
+
+“I am an awful coward,” said she humbly.
+
+“But I can’t help it——” she looked beseechingly.
+
+“Never mind,” said I.
+
+“All my flesh seems to jump from it. You don’t know how I feel.”
+
+“Well—never mind.”
+
+“I couldn’t help it, not for my life.”
+
+“I wonder,” said I, “if anything could possibly disturb that young
+bacon-sucker? He didn’t even look round at the smash.”
+
+“No,” said she, biting the tip of her finger moodily.
+
+Further conversation was interrupted by howls from the rear. Looking
+round we saw Sam careering after us over the close-bitten turf, howling
+scorn and derision at us. “Rabbit-tail, rabbit-tail,” he cried, his
+bare little legs twinkling, and his little shirt fluttering in the cold
+morning air. Fortunately, at last he trod on a thistle or a thorn, for
+when we looked round again to see why he was silent, he was capering on
+one leg, holding his wounded foot in his hands.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+LETTIE PULLS DOWN THE SMALL GOLD GRAPES
+
+
+During the falling of the leaves Lettie was very wilful. She uttered
+many banalities concerning men, and love, and marriage; she taunted
+Leslie and thwarted his wishes. At last he stayed away from her. She
+had been several times down to the mill, but because she fancied they
+were very familiar, receiving her on to their rough plane like one of
+themselves, she stayed away. Since the death of our father she had been
+restless; since inheriting her little fortune she had become proud,
+scornful, difficult to please. Difficult to please in every
+circumstance; she, who had always been so rippling in thoughtless life,
+sat down in the window sill to think, and her strong teeth bit at her
+handkerchief till it was torn in holes. She would say nothing to me;
+she read all things that dealt with modern women.
+
+One afternoon Lettie walked over to Eberwich. Leslie had not been to
+see us for a fortnight. It was a grey, dree afternoon. The wind drifted
+a clammy fog across the hills, and the roads were black and deep with
+mud. The trees in the wood slouched sulkily. It was a day to be shut
+out and ignored if possible. I heaped up the fire, and went to draw the
+curtains and make perfect the room. Then I saw Lettie coming along the
+path quickly, very erect. When she came in her colour was high.
+
+“Tea not laid?” she said briefly.
+
+“Rebecca has just brought in the lamp,” said I.
+
+Lettie took off her coat and furs, and flung them on the couch. She
+went to the mirror, lifted her hair, all curled by the fog, and stared
+haughtily at herself. Then she swung round, looked at the bare table,
+and rang the bell.
+
+It was so rare a thing for us to ring the bell from the dining-room,
+that Rebecca went first to the outer door. Then she came in the room
+saying:
+
+“Did you ring?”
+
+“I thought tea would have been ready,” said Lettie coldly. Rebecca
+looked at me, and at her, and replied:
+
+“It is but half-past four. I can bring it in.”
+
+Mother came down hearing the clink of the tea-cups.
+
+“Well,” she said to Lettie, who was unlacing her boots, “and did you
+find it a pleasant walk?”
+
+“Except for the mud,” was the reply.
+
+“Ah, I guess you wished you had stayed at home. What a state for your
+boots!—and your skirts too, I know. Here, let me take them into the
+kitchen.”
+
+“Let Rebecca take them,” said Lettie—but mother was out of the room.
+
+When mother had poured out the tea, we sat silently at table. It was on
+the tip of our tongues to ask Lettie what ailed her, but we were
+experienced and we refrained. After a while she said:
+
+“Do you know, I met Leslie Tempest.”
+
+“Oh,” said mother tentatively, “Did he come along with you?”
+
+“He did not look at me.”
+
+“Oh!” exclaimed mother, and it was speaking volumes; then, after a
+moment, she resumed:
+
+“Perhaps he did not see you.”
+
+“Or was it a stony Britisher?” I asked.
+
+“He saw me,” declared Lettie, “or he wouldn’t have made such a babyish
+show of being delighted with Margaret Raymond.”
+
+“It may have been no show—he still may not have seen you.”
+
+“I felt at once that he had; I could see his animation was extravagant.
+He need not have troubled himself, I was not going to run after him.”
+
+“You seem very cross,” said I.
+
+“Indeed I am not. But he knew I had to walk all this way home, and he
+could take up Margaret, who has only half the distance.”
+
+“Was he driving?”
+
+“In the dog-cart.” She cut her toast into strips viciously. We waited
+patiently.
+
+“It was mean of him, wasn’t it mother?”
+
+“Well, my girl, you have treated him badly.”
+
+“What a baby! What a mean, manly baby! Men are great infants.”
+
+“And girls,” said mother, “do not know what they want.”
+
+“A grown-up quality,” I added.
+
+“Nevertheless,” said Lettie, “he is a mean fop, and I detest him.”
+
+She rose and sorted out some stitchery. Lettie never stitched unless
+she were in a bad humour. Mother smiled at me, sighed, and proceeded to
+Mr. Gladstone for comfort; her breviary and missal were Morley’s Life
+of Gladstone.
+
+I had to take a letter to Highclose to Mrs. Tempest—from my mother,
+concerning a bazaar in process at the church. “I will bring Leslie back
+with me,” said I to myself.
+
+The night was black and hateful. The lamps by the road from Eberwich
+ended at Nethermere; their yellow blur on the water made the cold, wet
+inferno of the night more ugly.
+
+Leslie and Marie were both in the library—half a library, half a
+business office; used also as a lounge room, being cosy. Leslie lay in
+a great armchair by the fire, immune among clouds of blue smoke. Marie
+was perched on the steps, a great volume on her knee. Leslie got up in
+his cloud, shook hands, greeted me curtly, and vanished again. Marie
+smiled me a quaint, vexed smile, saying:
+
+“Oh, Cyril, I’m so glad you’ve come. I’m so worried, and Leslie says
+he’s not a pastry cook, though I’m sure I don’t want him to be one,
+only he need not be a bear.”
+
+“What’s the matter?”
+
+She frowned, gave the big volume a little smack and said:
+
+“Why, I do so much want to make some of those Spanish tartlets of your
+mother’s that are so delicious, and of course Mabel knows nothing of
+them, and they’re not in my cookery book, and I’ve looked through page
+upon page of the encyclopedia, right through ‘Spain,’ and there’s
+nothing yet, and there are fifty pages more, and Leslie won’t help me,
+though I’ve got a headache, because he’s frabous about something.” She
+looked at me in comical despair.
+
+“Do you want them for the bazaar?”
+
+“Yes—for to-morrow. Cook has done the rest, but I had fairly set my
+heart on these. Don’t you think they are lovely?”
+
+“Exquisitely lovely. Suppose I go and ask mother.”
+
+“If you would. But no, oh no, you can’t make all that journey this
+terrible night. We are simply besieged by mud. The men are both
+out—William has gone to meet father—and mother has sent George to carry
+some things to the vicarage. I can’t ask one of the girls on a night
+like this. I shall have to let it go—and the cranberry tarts too—it
+cannot be helped. I am so miserable.”
+
+“Ask Leslie,” said I.
+
+“He is too cross,” she replied, looking at him.
+
+He did not deign a remark.
+
+“Will you Leslie?”
+
+“What?”
+
+“Go across to Woodside for me?”
+
+“What for?”
+
+“A recipe. Do, there’s a dear boy.”
+
+“Where are the men?”
+
+“They are both engaged—they are out.”
+
+“Send a girl, then.”
+
+“At night like this? Who would go?”
+
+“Cissy.”
+
+“I shall not ask her. Isn’t he mean, Cyril? Men are mean.”
+
+“I will come back,” said I. “There is nothing at home to do. Mother is
+reading, and Lettie is stitching. The weather disagrees with her, as it
+does with Leslie.”
+
+“But it is not fair——” she said, looking at me softly. Then she put
+away the great book and climbed down.
+
+“Won’t you go, Leslie?” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.
+
+“Women!” he said, rising as if reluctantly. “There’s no end to their
+wants and their caprices.”
+
+“I thought he would go,” said she warmly. She ran to fetch his
+overcoat. He put one arm slowly in the sleeve, and then the other, but
+he would not lift the coat on to his shoulders.
+
+“Well!” she said, struggling on tiptoe, “You are a great creature!
+Can’t you get it on, naughty child?”
+
+“Give her a chair to stand on,” he said.
+
+She shook the collar of the coat sharply, but he stood like a sheep,
+impassive.
+
+“Leslie, you are too bad. I can’t get it on, you stupid boy.”
+
+I took the coat and jerked it on.
+
+“There,” she said, giving him his cap. “Now don’t be long.”
+
+“What a damned dirty night!” said he, when we were out.
+
+“It is,” said I.
+
+“The town, anywhere’s better than this hell of a country.”
+
+“Ha! How did you enjoy yourself?”
+
+He began a long history of three days in the metropolis. I listened,
+and heard little. I heard more plainly the cry of some night birds over
+Nethermere, and the peevish, wailing, yarling cry of some beast in the
+wood. I was thankful to slam the door behind me, to stand in the light
+of the hall.
+
+“Leslie!” exclaimed mother, “I am glad to see you.”
+
+“Thank you,” he said, turning to Lettie, who sat with her lap full of
+work, her head busily bent.
+
+“You see I can’t get up,” she said, giving him her hand, adorned as it
+was by the thimble. “How nice of you to come! We did not know you were
+back.”
+
+“But!” he exclaimed, then he stopped.
+
+“I suppose you enjoyed yourself,” she went on calmly.
+
+“Immensely, thanks.”
+
+Snap, snap, snap went her needle through the new stuff. Then, without
+looking up, she said:
+
+“Yes, no doubt. You have the air of a man who has been enjoying
+himself.”
+
+“How do you mean?”
+
+“A kind of guilty—or shall I say embarrassed—look. Don’t you notice it
+mother?”
+
+“I do!” said my mother.
+
+“I suppose it means we may not ask him questions,” Lettie concluded,
+always very busily sewing.
+
+He laughed. She had broken her cotton, and was trying to thread the
+needle again.
+
+“What have you been doing this miserable weather?” he enquired
+awkwardly.
+
+“Oh, we have sat at home desolate. ‘Ever of thee I’m fo-o-ondly
+dreēaming’—and so on. Haven’t we mother?”
+
+“Well,” said mother, “I don’t know. We imagined him all sorts of lions
+up there.”
+
+“What a shame we may not ask him to roar his old roars over for us,”
+said Lettie.
+
+“What are they like?” he asked.
+
+“How should I know? Like a sucking dove, to judge from your present
+voice. ‘A monstrous little voice.’”
+
+He laughed uncomfortably.
+
+She went on sewing, suddenly beginning to sing to herself:
+
+“Pussy cat, Pussy cat, where have you been?
+I’ve been up to London to see the fine queen:
+Pussy cat, Pussy cat, what did you there——
+I frightened a little mouse under a stair.”
+
+
+“I suppose,” she added, “that may be so. Poor mouse!—but I guess she’s
+none the worse. You did not see the queen, though?”
+
+“She was not in London,” he replied sarcastically.
+
+“You don’t——” she said, taking two pins from between her teeth. “I
+suppose you don’t mean by that, she was in Eberwich—your queen?”
+
+“I don’t know where she was,” he answered angrily.
+
+“Oh!” she said, very sweetly, “I thought perhaps you had met her in
+Eberwich. When did you come back?”
+
+“Last night,” he replied.
+
+“Oh—why didn’t you come and see us before?”
+
+“I’ve been at the offices all day.”
+
+“I’ve been up to Eberwich,” she said innocently.
+
+“Have you?”
+
+“Yes. And I feel so cross because of it. I thought I might see you. I
+felt as if you were at home.”
+
+She stitched a little, and glanced up secretly to watch his face
+redden, then she continued innocently,
+
+“Yes—I felt you had come back. It is funny how one has a feeling
+occasionally that someone is near; when it is someone one has a
+sympathy with.” She continued to stitch, then she took a pin from her
+bosom, and fixed her work, all without the least suspicion of guile.
+
+“I thought I might meet you when I was out——” another pause, another
+fixing, a pin to be taken from her lips—” but I didn’t.”
+
+“I was at the office till rather late,” he said quickly.
+
+She stitched away calmly, provokingly.
+
+She took the pin from her mouth again, fixed down a fold of stuff, and
+said softly:
+
+“You little liar.”
+
+Mother had gone out of the room for her recipe book.
+
+He sat on his chair dumb with mortification. She stitched swiftly and
+unerringly. There was silence for some moments. Then he spoke:
+
+“I did not know you wanted me for the pleasure of plucking this crow,”
+he said.
+
+“I wanted you!” she exclaimed, looking up for the first time, “Who said
+I wanted you?”
+
+“No one. If you didn’t want me I may as well go.”
+
+The sound of stitching alone broke the silence for some moments, then
+she said deliberately:
+
+“What made you think I wanted you?”
+
+“I don’t care a damn whether you wanted me or whether you didn’t.”
+
+“It seems to upset you! And don’t use bad language. It is the privilege
+of those near and dear to one.”
+
+“That’s why you begin it, I suppose.”
+
+“I cannot remember——” she said loftily.
+
+He laughed sarcastically.
+
+“Well—if you’re so beastly cut up about it——”
+
+He put this tentatively, expecting the soft answer. But she refused to
+speak, and went on stitching. He fidgeted about, twisted his cap
+uncomfortably, and sighed. At last he said:
+
+“Well—you—have we done then?”
+
+She had the vast superiority, in that she was engaged in ostentatious
+work. She could fix the cloth, regard it quizzically, rearrange it,
+settle down and begin to sew before she replied. This humbled him. At
+last she said:
+
+“I thought so this afternoon.”
+
+“But, good God, Lettie, can’t you drop it?”
+
+“And then?”—the question startled him.
+
+“Why!—forget it,” he replied.
+
+“Well?”—she spoke softly, gently. He answered to the call like an eager
+hound. He crossed quickly to her side as she sat sewing, and said, in a
+low voice:
+
+“You do care something for me, don’t you, Lettie?”
+
+“Well,”—it was modulated kindly, a sort of promise of assent.
+
+“You have treated me rottenly, you know, haven’t you? You know I—well,
+I care a good bit.”
+
+“It is a queer way of showing it.” Her voice was now a gentle reproof,
+the sweetest of surrenders and forgiveness. He leaned forward, took her
+face in his hands, and kissed her, murmuring:
+
+“You are a little tease.”
+
+She laid her sewing in her lap, and looked up.
+
+The next day, Sunday, broke wet and dreary. Breakfast was late, and
+about ten o’clock we stood at the window looking upon the impossibility
+of our going to church.
+
+There was a driving drizzle of rain, like a dirty curtain before the
+landscape. The nasturtium leaves by the garden walk had gone rotten in
+a frost, and the gay green discs had given place to the first black
+flags of winter, hung on flaccid stalks, pinched at the neck. The grass
+plot was strewn with fallen leaves, wet and brilliant: scarlet splashes
+of Virginia creeper, golden drift from the limes, ruddy brown shawls
+under the beeches, and away back in the corner, the black mat of maple
+leaves, heavy soddened; they ought to have been a vivid lemon colour.
+Occasionally one of these great black leaves would loose its hold, and
+zigzag down, staggering in the dance of death.
+
+“There now!” said Lettie suddenly.
+
+I looked up in time to see a crow close his wings and clutch the
+topmost bough of an old grey holly tree on the edge of the clearing. He
+flapped again, recovered his balance, and folded himself up in black
+resignation to the detestable weather.
+
+“Why has the old wretch settled just over our noses,” said Lettie
+petulantly. “Just to blot the promise of a sorrow.”
+
+“Your’s or mine?” I asked.
+
+“He is looking at me, I declare.”
+
+“You can see the wicked pupil of his eye at this distance,” I
+insinuated.
+
+“Well,” she replied, determined to take this omen unto herself. “I saw
+him first.”
+
+“‘One for sorrow, two for joy,
+Three for a letter, four for a boy,
+Five for silver, six for gold,
+And seven for a secret never told.’
+
+
+“—You may bet he’s only a messenger in advance. There’ll be three more
+shortly, and you’ll have your four,” said I, comforting.
+
+“Do you know,” she said, “it is very funny, but whenever I’ve
+particularly noticed one crow, I’ve had some sorrow or other.”
+
+“And when you notice four?” I asked.
+
+“You should have heard old Mrs. Wagstaffe,” was her reply. “She
+declares an old crow croaked in their apple tree every day for a week
+before Jerry got drowned.”
+
+“Great sorrow for her,” I remarked.
+
+“Oh, but she wept abundantly. I felt like weeping too, but somehow I
+laughed. She hoped he had gone to heaven—but—I’m sick of that word
+‘but’—it is always tangling one’s thoughts.”
+
+“But, Jerry!” I insisted.
+
+“Oh, she lifted up her forehead, and the tears dripped off her nose. He
+must have been an old nuisance, Syb. I can’t understand why women marry
+such men. I felt downright glad to think of the drunken old wretch
+toppling into the canal out of the way.”
+
+She pulled the thick curtain across the window, and nestled down in it,
+resting her cheek against the edge, protecting herself from the cold
+window pane. The wet, grey wind shook the half naked trees, whose
+leaves dripped and shone sullenly. Even the trunks were blackened,
+trickling with the rain which drove persistently.
+
+Whirled down the sky like black maple leaves caught up aloft, came two
+more crows. They swept down and clung hold of the trees in front of the
+house, staying near the old forerunner. Lettie watched them, half
+amused, half melancholy. One bird was carried past. He swerved round
+and began to battle up the wind, rising higher, and rowing laboriously
+against the driving wet current.
+
+“Here comes your fourth,” said I.
+
+She did not answer, but continued to watch. The bird wrestled
+heroically, but the wind pushed him aside, tilted him, caught under his
+broad wings and bore him down. He swept in level flight down the
+stream, outspread and still, as if fixed in despair. I grieved for him.
+Sadly two of his fellows rose and were carried away after him, like
+souls hunting for a body to inhabit, and despairing. Only the first
+ghoul was left on the withered, silver-grey skeleton of the holly.
+
+“He won’t even say ‘Nevermore’,” I remarked.
+
+“He has more sense,” replied Lettie. She looked a trifle lugubrious.
+Then she continued: “Better say ‘Nevermore’ than ‘Evermore.’”
+
+“Why?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, I don’t know. Fancy this ‘Evermore.’”
+
+She had been sure in her own soul that Leslie would come—now she began
+to doubt:—things were very perplexing.
+
+The bell in the kitchen jangled; she jumped up. I went and opened the
+door. He came in. She gave him one bright look of satisfaction. He saw
+it, and understood.
+
+“Helen has got some people over—I have been awfully rude to leave them
+now,” he said quietly.
+
+“What a dreadful day!” said mother.
+
+“Oh, fearful! Your face _is_ red, Lettie! What have you been doing?”
+
+“Looking into the fire.”
+
+“What did you see?”
+
+“The pictures wouldn’t come plain—nothing.”
+
+He laughed. We were silent for some time.
+
+“You were expecting me?” he murmured.
+
+“Yes—I knew you’d come.”
+
+They were left alone. He came up to her and put his arm around her, as
+she stood with her elbow on the mantelpiece.
+
+“You do want me,” he pleaded softly.
+
+“Yes,” she murmured.
+
+He held her in his arms and kissed her repeatedly, again and again,
+till she was out of breath, and put up her hand, and gently pushed her
+face away.
+
+“You are a cold little lover—you are a shy bird,” he said, laughing
+into her eyes. He saw her tears rise, swimming on her lids, but not
+falling.
+
+“Why, my love, my darling—why!”—he put his face to her’s and took the
+tear on his cheek:
+
+“I know you love me,” he said, gently, all tenderness.
+
+“Do you know,” he murmured. “I can positively feel the tears rising up
+from my heart and throat. They are quite painful gathering, my love.
+There—you can do anything with me.”
+
+They were silent for some time. After a while, a rather long while, she
+came upstairs and found mother—and at the end of some minutes I heard
+my mother go to him.
+
+I sat by my window and watched the low clouds reel and stagger past. It
+seemed as if everything were being swept along—I myself seemed to have
+lost my substance, to have become detached from concrete things and the
+firm trodden pavement of everyday life. Onward, always onward, not
+knowing where, nor why, the wind, the clouds, the rain and the birds
+and the leaves, everything whirling along—why?
+
+All this time the old crow sat motionless, though the clouds tumbled,
+and were rent and piled, though the trees bent, and the window-pane
+shivered with running water. Then I found it had ceased to rain; that
+there was a sickly yellow gleam of sunlight, brightening on some great
+elm-leaves near at hand till they looked like ripe lemons hanging. The
+crow looked at me—I was certain he looked at me.
+
+“What do you think of it all?” I asked him.
+
+He eyed me with contempt: great featherless, half winged bird as I was,
+incomprehensible, contemptible, but awful. I believe he hated me.
+
+“But,” said I, “if a raven could answer, why won’t you?”
+
+He looked wearily away. Nevertheless my gaze disquieted him. He turned
+uneasily; he rose, waved his wings as if for flight, poised, then
+settled defiantly down again.
+
+“You are no good,” said I, “you won’t help even with a word.”
+
+He sat stolidly unconcerned. Then I heard the lapwings in the meadow
+crying, crying. They seemed to seek the storm, yet to rail at it. They
+wheeled in the wind, yet never ceased to complain of it. They enjoyed
+the struggle, and lamented it in wild lament, through which came a
+sound of exultation. All the lapwings cried, cried the same tale,
+“Bitter, bitter, the struggle—for nothing, nothing, nothing,”—and all
+the time they swung about on their broad wings, revelling.
+
+“There,” said I to the crow, “they try it, and find it bitter, but they
+wouldn’t like to miss it, to sit still like you, you old corpse.”
+
+He could not endure this. He rose in defiance, flapped his wings, and
+launched off, uttering one “Caw” of sinister foreboding. He was soon
+whirled away.
+
+I discovered that I was very cold, so I went downstairs.
+
+Twisting a curl round his finger, one of those loose curls that always
+dance free from the captured hair, Leslie said:
+
+“Look how fond your hair is of me; look how it twines round my finger.
+Do you know, your hair—the light in it is like—oh—buttercups in the
+sun.”
+
+“It is like me—it won’t be kept in bounds,” she replied.
+
+“Shame if it were—like this, it brushes my face—so—and sets me tingling
+like music.”
+
+“Behave! Now be still, and I’ll tell you what sort of music you make.”
+
+“Oh—well—tell me.”
+
+“Like the calling of throstles and blackies, in the evening,
+frightening the pale little wood-anemones, till they run panting and
+swaying right up to our wall. Like the ringing of bluebells when the
+bees are at them; like Hippomenes, out-of-breath, laughing because he’d
+won.”
+
+He kissed her with rapturous admiration.
+
+“Marriage music, sir,” she added.
+
+“What golden apples did I throw?” he asked lightly.
+
+“What!” she exclaimed, half mocking.
+
+“This Atalanta,” he replied, looking lovingly upon her, “this
+Atalanta—I believe she just lagged at last on purpose.”
+
+“You have it,” she cried, laughing, submitting to his caresses. “It was
+you—the apples of your firm heels—the apples of your eyes—the apples
+Eve bit—that won me—hein!”
+
+“That was it—you are clever, you are rare. And I’ve won, won the ripe
+apples of your cheeks, and your breasts, and your very fists—they can’t
+stop me—and—and—all your roundness and warmness and softness—I’ve won
+you, Lettie.”
+
+She nodded wickedly, saying:
+
+“All those—those—yes.”
+
+“All—she admits it—everything!”
+
+“Oh!—but let me breathe. Did you claim everything?”
+
+“Yes, and you gave it me.”
+
+“Not yet. Everything though?”
+
+“Every atom.”
+
+“But—now you look——”
+
+“Did I look aside?”
+
+“With the inward eye. Suppose now we were two angels——”
+
+“Oh, dear—a sloppy angel!”
+
+“Well—don’t interrupt now—suppose I were one—like the ‘Blessed
+Damosel.’”
+
+“With a warm bosom——!”
+
+“Don’t be foolish, now—I a ‘Blessed Damosel’ and you kicking the brown
+beech leaves below thinking——”
+
+“What _are_ you driving at?”
+
+“Would you be thinking—thoughts like prayers?”
+
+“What on earth do you ask that for? Oh—I think I’d be cursing—eh?”
+
+“No—saying fragrant prayers—that your thin soul might mount up——”
+
+“Hang thin souls, Lettie! I’m not one of your souly sort. I can’t stand
+Pre-Raphaelities. You—You’re not a Burne-Jonesess—you’re an Albert
+Moore. I think there’s more in the warm touch of a soft body than in a
+prayer. I’ll pray with kisses.”
+
+“And when you can’t?”
+
+“I’ll wait till prayer-time again. By Jove, I’d rather feel my arms
+full of you; I’d rather touch that red mouth—you grudger!—than sing
+hymns with you in any heaven.”
+
+“I’m afraid you’ll never sing hymns with me in heaven.”
+
+“Well—I have you here—yes, I have you now.”
+
+“Our life is but a fading dawn?”
+
+“Liar!—Well, you called me! Besides, I don’t care; ‘Carpe diem’, my
+rosebud, my fawn. There’s a nice Carmen about a fawn. ‘Time to leave
+its mother, and venture into a warm embrace.’ Poor old Horace—I’ve
+forgotten him.”
+
+“Then poor old Horace.”
+
+“Ha! Ha!—Well, I shan’t forget _you_. What’s that queer look in your
+eyes?”
+
+“What is it?”
+
+“Nay—you tell me. You are such a tease, there’s no getting to the
+bottom of you.”
+
+“You can fathom the depth of a kiss——”
+
+“I will—I will——”
+
+After a while he asked:
+
+“When shall we be properly engaged, Lettie?”
+
+“Oh, wait till Christmas—till I am twenty-one.”
+
+“Nearly three months! Why on earth——”
+
+“It will make no difference. I shall be able to choose thee of my own
+free choice then.”
+
+“But three months!”
+
+“I shall consider thee engaged—it doesn’t matter about other people.”
+
+“I thought we should be married in three months.”
+
+“Ah—married in haste——. But what will your mother say?”
+
+“Say! Oh, she’ll say it’s the first wise thing I’ve done. You’ll make a
+fine wife, Lettie, able to entertain, and all that.”
+
+“You will flutter brilliantly.”
+
+“We will.”
+
+“No—you’ll be the moth—I’ll paint your wings—gaudy feather-dust. Then
+when you lose your coloured dust, when you fly too near the light, or
+when you play dodge with a butterfly net—away goes my part—you can’t
+fly—I—alas, poor me! What becomes of the feather-dust when the moth
+brushes his wings against a butterfly net?”
+
+“What are you making so many words about? You don’t know now, do you?”
+
+“No—that I don’t.”
+
+“Then just be comfortable. Let me look at myself in your eyes.”
+
+“Narcissus, Narcissus!—Do you see yourself well? Does the image flatter
+you?—Or is it a troubled stream, distorting your fair lineaments.”
+
+“I can’t see anything—only feel you looking—you are laughing at
+me.—What have you behind there—what joke?”
+
+“I—I’m thinking you’re just like Narcissus—a sweet, beautiful youth.”
+
+“Be serious—do.”
+
+“It would be dangerous. You’d die of it, and I—I should——”
+
+“What!”
+
+“Be just like I am now—serious.”
+
+He looked proudly, thinking she referred to the earnestness of her
+love.
+
+
+In the wood the wind rumbled and roared hoarsely overhead, but not a
+breath stirred among the saddened bracken. An occasional raindrop was
+shaken out of the trees; I slipped on the wet paths. Black bars striped
+the grey tree-trunks, where water had trickled down; the bracken was
+overthrown, its yellow ranks broken. I slid down the steep path to the
+gate, out of the wood.
+
+Armies of cloud marched in rank across the sky, heavily laden, almost
+brushing the gorse on the common. The wind was cold and disheartening.
+The ground sobbed at every step. The brook was full, swirling along,
+hurrying, talking to itself, in absorbed intent tones. The clouds
+darkened; I felt the rain. Careless of the mud, I ran, and burst into
+the farm kitchen.
+
+The children were painting, and they immediately claimed my help.
+
+“Emily—and George—are in the front room,” said the mother quietly, for
+it was Sunday afternoon. I satisfied the little ones; I said a few
+words to the mother, and sat down to take off my clogs.
+
+In the parlour, the father, big and comfortable, was sleeping in an
+arm-chair. Emily was writing at the table—she hurriedly hid her papers
+when I entered. George was sitting by the fire, reading. He looked up
+as I entered, and I loved him when he looked up at me, and as he
+lingered on his quiet “Hullo!” His eyes were beautifully eloquent—as
+eloquent as a kiss.
+
+We talked in subdued murmurs, because the father was asleep, opulently
+asleep, his tanned face as still as a brown pear against the wall. The
+clock itself went slowly, with languid throbs. We gathered round the
+fire, and talked quietly, about nothing—blissful merely in the sound of
+our voices, a murmured, soothing sound—a grateful, dispassionate love
+trio.
+
+At last George rose, put down his book—looked at his father—and went
+out.
+
+In the barn there was a sound of the pulper crunching the turnips. The
+crisp strips of turnip sprinkled quietly down onto a heap of gold which
+grew beneath the pulper. The smell of pulped turnips, keen and sweet,
+brings back to me the feeling of many winter nights, when frozen
+hoof-prints crunch in the yard, and Orion is in the south; when a
+friendship was at its mystical best.
+
+“Pulping on Sunday!” I exclaimed.
+
+“Father didn’t do it yesterday; it’s his work; and I didn’t notice it.
+You know—Father often forgets—he doesn’t like to have to work in the
+afternoon, now.”
+
+The cattle stirred in their stalls; the chains rattled round the posts;
+a cow coughed noisily. When George had finished pulping, and it was
+quiet enough for talk, just as he was spreading the first layers of
+chop and turnip and meal—in ran Emily, with her hair in silken, twining
+confusion, her eyes glowing—to bid us go in to tea before the milking
+was begun. It was the custom to milk before tea on Sunday—but George
+abandoned it without demur—his father willed it so, and his father was
+master, not to be questioned on farm matters, however one disagreed.
+
+The last day in October had been dreary enough; the night could not
+come too early. We had tea by lamplight, merrily, with the father
+radiating comfort as the lamp shone yellow light. Sunday tea was
+imperfect without a visitor; with me, they always declared, it was
+perfect. I loved to hear them say so. I smiled, rejoicing quietly into
+my teacup when the Father said:
+
+“It seems proper to have Cyril here at Sunday tea, it seems natural.”
+
+He was most loath to break the delightful bond of the lamp-lit
+tea-table; he looked up with a half-appealing glance when George at
+last pushed back his chair and said he supposed he’d better make a
+start.
+
+“Ay,” said the father in a mild, conciliatory tone, “I’ll be out in a
+minute.”
+
+The lamp hung against the barn-wall, softly illuminating the lower part
+of the building, where bits of hay and white dust lay in the hollows
+between the bricks, where the curled chips of turnip scattered orange
+gleams over the earthen floor; the lofty roof, with its swallows’ nests
+under the tiles, was deep in shadow, and the corners were full of
+darkness, hiding, half hiding, the hay, the chopper, the bins. The
+light shone along the passages before the stalls, glistening on the
+moist noses of the cattle, and on the whitewash of the walls.
+
+George was very cheerful; but I wanted to tell him my message. When he
+had finished the feeding, and had at last sat down to milk, I said:
+
+“I told you Leslie Tempest was at our house when I came away.”
+
+He sat with the bucket between his knees, his hands at the cow’s udder,
+about to begin to milk. He looked up a question at me.
+
+“They are practically engaged now,” I said.
+
+He did not turn his eyes away, but he ceased to look at me. As one who
+is listening for a far-off noise, he sat with his eyes fixed. Then he
+bent his head, and leaned it against the side of the cow, as if he
+would begin to milk. But he did not. The cow looked round and stirred
+uneasily. He began to draw the milk, and then to milk mechanically. I
+watched the movement of his hands, listening to the rhythmic clang of
+the jets of milk on the bucket, as a relief. After a while the movement
+of his hands became slower, thoughtful—then stopped.
+
+“She has really said yes?”
+
+I nodded.
+
+“And what does your mother say?”
+
+“She is pleased.”
+
+He began to milk again. The cow stirred uneasily, shifting her legs. He
+looked at her angrily, and went on milking. Then, quite upset, she
+shifted again, and swung her tail in his face.
+
+“Stand still!” he shouted, striking her on the haunch. She seemed to
+cower like a beaten woman. He swore at her, and continued to milk. She
+did not yield much that night; she was very restive; he took the stool
+from beneath him and gave her a good blow; I heard the stool knock on
+her prominent hip bone. After that she stood still, but her milk soon
+ceased to flow.
+
+When he stood up, he paused before he went to the next beast, and I
+thought he was going to talk. But just then the father came along with
+his bucket. He looked in the shed, and, laughing in his mature,
+pleasant way, said:
+
+“So you’re an onlooker to-day, Cyril—I thought you’d have milked a cow
+or two for me by now.”
+
+“Nay,” said I, “Sunday is a day of rest—and milking makes your hands
+ache.”
+
+“You only want a bit more practice,” he said, joking in his ripe
+fashion. “Why George, is that all you’ve got from Julia?”
+
+“It is.”
+
+“H’m—she’s soon going dry. Julia, old lady, don’t go and turn skinny.”
+
+When he had gone, and the shed was still, the air seemed colder. I
+heard his good-humoured “Stand over, old lass,” from the other shed,
+and the drum-beats of the first jets of milk on the pail.
+
+“He has a comfortable time,” said George, looking savage. I laughed. He
+still waited.
+
+“You really expected Lettie to have _him,_” I said.
+
+“I suppose so,” he replied, “then she’d made up her mind to it. It
+didn’t matter—what she wanted—at the bottom.”
+
+“You?” said I.
+
+“If it hadn’t been that he was a prize—with a ticket—she’d have had——”
+
+“You!” said I.
+
+“She was afraid—look how she turned and kept away——”
+
+“From you?” said I.
+
+“I should like to squeeze her till she screamed.”
+
+“You should have gripped her before, and kept her,” said I.
+
+“She—she’s like a woman, like a cat—running to comforts—she strikes a
+bargain. Women are all tradesmen.”
+
+“Don’t generalise, it’s no good.”
+
+“She’s like a prostitute——”
+
+“It’s banal! I believe she loves him.”
+
+He started, and looked at me queerly. He looked quite childish in his
+doubt and perplexity.
+
+“She, what——?”
+
+“Loves him—honestly.”
+
+“She’d ’a loved me better,” he muttered, and turned to his milking. I
+left him and went to talk to his father. When the latter’s four beasts
+were finished, George’s light still shone in the other shed.
+
+I went and found him at the fifth, the last cow. When at length he had
+finished he put down his pail, and going over to poor Julia, stood
+scratching her back, and her poll, and her nose, looking into her big,
+startled eye and murmuring. She was afraid; she jerked her head, giving
+him a good blow on the cheek with her horn.
+
+“You can’t understand them,” he said sadly, rubbing his face, and
+looking at me with his dark, serious eyes.
+
+“I never knew I couldn’t understand them. I never thought about
+it——till. But you know, Cyril, she led me on.”
+
+I laughed at his rueful appearance.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+THE RIOT OF CHRISTMAS
+
+
+For some weeks, during the latter part of November and the beginning of
+December, I was kept indoors by a cold. At last came a frost which
+cleared the air and dried the mud. On the second Saturday before
+Christmas the world was transformed; tall, silver and pearl-grey trees
+rose pale against a dim-blue sky, like trees in some rare, pale
+Paradise; the whole woodland was as if petrified in marble and silver
+and snow; the holly-leaves and long leaves of the rhododendron were
+rimmed and spangled with delicate tracery.
+
+When the night came clear and bright, with a moon among the hoar-frost,
+I rebelled against confinement, and the house. No longer the mists and
+dank weather made the home dear; tonight even the glare of the distant
+little iron works was not visible, for the low clouds were gone, and
+pale stars blinked from beyond the moon.
+
+Lettie was staying with me; Leslie was in London again. She tried to
+remonstrate in a sisterly fashion when I said I would go out.
+
+“Only down to the Mill,” said I. Then she hesitated a while—said she
+would come too. I suppose I looked at her curiously, for she said:
+
+“Oh—if you would rather go alone——!”
+
+“Come—come—yes, come!” said I, smiling to myself.
+
+Lettie was in her old animated mood. She ran, leaping over rough
+places, laughing, talking to herself in French. We came to the Mill.
+Gyp did not bark. I opened the outer door and we crept softly into the
+great dark scullery, peeping into the kitchen through the crack of the
+door.
+
+The mother sat by the hearth, where was a big bath half full of soapy
+water, and at her feet, warming his bare legs at the fire, was David,
+who had just been bathed. The mother was gently rubbing his fine fair
+hair into a cloud. Mollie was combing out her brown curls, sitting by
+her father, who, in the fire-seat, was reading aloud in a hearty voice,
+with quaint precision. At the table sat Emily and George: she was
+quickly picking over a pile of little yellow raisins, and he, slowly,
+with his head sunk, was stoning the large raisins. David kept reaching
+forward to play with the sleepy cat—interrupting his mother’s rubbing.
+There was no sound but the voice of the father, full of zest; I am
+afraid they were not all listening carefully. I clicked the latch and
+entered.
+
+“Lettie!” exclaimed George.
+
+“Cyril!” cried Emily.
+
+“Cyril, ’ooray!” shouted David.
+
+“Hullo, Cyril!” said Mollie.
+
+Six large brown eyes, round with surprise, welcomed me. They
+overwhelmed me with questions, and made much of us. At length they were
+settled and quiet again.
+
+“Yes, I am a stranger,” said Lettie, who had taken off her hat and furs
+and coat. “But you do not expect me often, do you? I may come at times,
+eh?”
+
+“We are only too glad,” replied the mother. “Nothing all day long but
+the sound of the sluice—and mists, and rotten leaves. I am thankful to
+hear a fresh voice.”
+
+“Is Cyril really better, Lettie?” asked Emily softly.
+
+“He’s a spoiled boy—I believe he keeps a little bit ill so that we can
+cade him. Let me help you—let me peel the apples—yes, yes—I will.”
+
+She went to the table, and occupied one side with her apple-peeling.
+George had not spoken to her. So she said:
+
+“I won’t help you—George, because I don’t like to feel my fingers so
+sticky, and because I love to see you so domesticated.”
+
+“You’ll enjoy the sight a long time, then, for these things are
+numberless.”
+
+“You should eat one now and then—I always do.”
+
+“If I ate one I should eat the lot.”
+
+“Then you may give me your one.”
+
+He passed her a handful without speaking.
+
+“That is too many, your mother is looking. Let me just finish this
+apple. There, I’ve not broken the peel!”
+
+She stood up, holding up a long curling strip of peel.
+
+“How many times must I swing it, Mrs. Saxton?”
+
+“Three times—but it’s not All Hallows’ Eve.”
+
+“Never mind! Look!——” she carefully swung the long band of green peel
+over her head three times, letting it fall the third. The cat pounced
+on it, but Mollie swept him off again.
+
+“What is it?” cried Lettie, blushing.
+
+“G,” said the father, winking and laughing—the mother looked daggers at
+him.
+
+“It isn’t nothink,” said David naïvely, forgetting his confusion at
+being in the presence of a lady in his shirt. Mollie remarked in her
+cool way:
+
+“It might be a ‘hess’—if you couldn’t write.”
+
+“Or an ‘L’,” I added. Lettie looked over at me imperiously, and I was
+angry.
+
+“What do you say, Emily?” she asked.
+
+“Nay,” said Emily, “It’s only you can see the right letter.”
+
+“Tell us what’s the right letter,” said George to her.
+
+“I!” exclaimed Lettie, “who can look into the seeds of Time?”
+
+“Those who have set ’em and watched ’em sprout,” said I.
+
+She flung the peel into the fire, laughing a short laugh, and went on
+with her work.
+
+Mrs. Saxton leaned over to her daughter and said softly, so that he
+should not hear, that George was pulling the flesh out of the raisins.
+
+“George!” said Emily sharply, “You’re leaving nothing but the husks.”
+
+He too was angry:
+
+“‘And he would fain fill his belly with the husks that the swine did
+eat.’” he said quietly, taking a handful of the fruit he had picked and
+putting some in his mouth. Emily snatched away the basin:
+
+“It is too bad!” she said.
+
+“Here,” said Lettie, handing him an apple she had peeled. “You may have
+an apple, greedy boy.”
+
+He took it and looked at it. Then a malicious smile twinkled round his
+eyes,—as he said:
+
+“If you give me the apple, to whom will you give the peel?”
+
+“The swine,” she said, as if she only understood his first reference to
+the Prodigal Son. He put the apple on the table.
+
+“Don’t you want it?” she said.
+
+“Mother,” he said comically, as if jesting. “She is offering me the
+apple like Eve.”
+
+Like a flash, she snatched the apple from him, hid it in her skirts a
+moment, looking at him with dilated eyes, and then she flung it at the
+fire. She missed, and the father leaned forward and picked it off the
+hob, saying:
+
+“The pigs may as well have it. You were slow, George—when a lady offers
+you a thing you don’t have to make mouths.”
+
+“A ce qu’il parait,” she cried, laughing now at her ease, boisterously:
+
+“Is she making love, Emily?” asked the father, laughing suggestively.
+
+“She says it too fast for me,” said Emily.
+
+George was leaning back in his chair, his hands in his breeches
+pockets.
+
+“We shall have to finish his raisins after all, Emily,” said Lettie
+brightly. “Look what a lazy animal he is.”
+
+“He likes his comfort,” said Emily, with irony.
+
+“The picture of content—solid, healthy, easy-moving content——”
+continued Lettie. As he sat thus, with his head thrown back against the
+end of the ingle-seat, coatless, his red neck seen in repose, he did
+indeed look remarkably comfortable.
+
+“I shall never fret my fat away,” he said stolidly.
+
+“No—you and I—we are not like Cyril. We do not burn our bodies in our
+heads—or our hearts, do we?”
+
+“We have it in common,” said he, looking at her indifferently beneath
+his lashes, as his head was tilted back.
+
+Lettie went on with the paring and coring of her apples—then she took
+the raisins. Meanwhile, Emily was making the house ring as she chopped
+the suet in a wooden bowl. The children were ready for bed. They kissed
+us all “Good-night”—save George. At last they were gone, accompanied by
+their mother. Emily put down her chopper, and sighed that her arm was
+aching, so I relieved her. The chopping went on for a long time, while
+the father read, Lettie worked, and George sat tilted back looking on.
+When at length the mincemeat was finished we were all out of work.
+Lettie helped to clear away—sat down—talked a little with effort—jumped
+up and said:
+
+“Oh, I’m too excited to sit still—it’s so near Christmas—let us play at
+something.”
+
+“A dance?” said Emily.
+
+“A dance—a dance!”
+
+He suddenly sat straight and got up:
+
+“Come on!” he said.
+
+He kicked off his slippers, regardless of the holes in his stocking
+feet, and put away the chairs. He held out his arm to her—she came with
+a laugh, and away they went, dancing over the great flagged kitchen at
+an incredible speed. Her light flying steps followed his leaps; you
+could hear the quick light tap of her toes more plainly than the thud
+of his stockinged feet. Emily and I joined in. Emily’s movements are
+naturally slow, but we danced at great speed. I was hot and perspiring,
+and she was panting, when I put her in a chair. But they whirled on in
+the dance, on and on till I was giddy, till the father laughing, cried
+that they should stop. But George continued the dance; her hair was
+shaken loose, and fell in a great coil down her back; her feet began to
+drag; you could hear a light slur on the floor; she was panting—I could
+see her lips murmur to him, begging him to stop; he was laughing with
+open mouth, holding her tight; at last her feet trailed; he lifted her,
+clasping her tightly, and danced twice round the room with her thus.
+Then he fell with a crash on the sofa, pulling her beside him. His eyes
+glowed like coals; he was panting in sobs, and his hair was wet and
+glistening. She lay back on the sofa, with his arm still around her,
+not moving; she was quite overcome. Her hair was wild about her face.
+Emily was anxious; the father said, with a shade of inquietude:
+
+“You’ve overdone it—it is very foolish.”
+
+When at last she recovered her breath and her life, she got up, and
+laughing in a queer way, began to put up her hair. She went into the
+scullery where were the brush and combs, and Emily followed with a
+candle. When she returned, ordered once more, with a little pallor
+succeeding the flush, and with a great black stain of sweat on her
+leathern belt where his hand had held her, he looked up at her from his
+position on the sofa, with a peculiar glance of triumph, smiling.
+
+“You great brute,” she said, but her voice was not as harsh as her
+words. He gave a deep sigh, sat up, and laughed quietly.
+
+“Another?” he said.
+
+“Will you dance with _me_?”
+
+“At your pleasure.”
+
+“Come then—a minuet.”
+
+“Don’t know it.”
+
+“Nevertheless, you must dance it. Come along.”
+
+He reared up, and walked to her side. She put him through the steps,
+even dragging him round the waltz. It was very ridiculous. When it was
+finished she bowed him to his seat, and, wiping her hands on her
+handkerchief, because his shirt where her hand had rested on his
+shoulders was moist, she thanked him.
+
+“I hope you enjoyed it,” he said.
+
+“Ever so much,” she replied.
+
+“You made me look a fool—so no doubt you did.”
+
+“Do you think you could look a fool? Why you are ironical! Ca marche!
+In other words, you have come on. But it is a sweet dance.”
+
+He looked at her, lowered his eyelids, and said nothing.
+
+“Ah, well,” she laughed, “some are bred for the minuet, and some for——”
+
+“—Less tomfoolery,” he answered.
+
+“Ah—you call it tomfoolery because you cannot do it. Myself, I like
+it—so——”
+
+“And I can’t do it?”
+
+“Could you? Did you? You are not built that way.”
+
+“Sort of Clarence MacFadden,” he said, lighting a pipe as if the
+conversation did not interest him.
+
+“Yes—what ages since we sang that!
+
+‘Clarence MacFadden he wanted to dance
+But his feet were not gaited that way . . .’
+
+
+“I remember we sang it after one corn harvest—we had a fine time. I
+never thought of you before as Clarence. It is very funny. By the
+way—will you come to our party at Christmas?”
+
+“When? Who’s coming?”
+
+“The twenty-sixth.—Oh!—only the old people—Alice—Tom Smith—Fanny—those
+from Highclose.”
+
+“And what will you do?”
+
+“Sing charades—dance a little—anything you like.”
+
+“Polka?”
+
+“And minuets—and valetas. Come and dance a valeta, Cyril.”
+
+She made me take her through a valeta, a minuet, a mazurka, and she
+danced elegantly, but with a little of Carmen’s ostentation—her dash
+and devilry. When we had finished, the father said:
+
+“Very pretty—very pretty, indeed! They do look nice, don’t they,
+George? I wish I was young.”
+
+“As I am——” said George, laughing bitterly.
+
+“Show me how to do them—some time, Cyril,” said Emily, in her pleading
+way, which displeased Lettie so much.
+
+“Why don’t you ask me?” said the latter quickly.
+
+“Well—but you are not often here.”
+
+“I am here now. Come——” and she waved Emily imperiously to the attempt.
+
+Lettie, as I have said, is tall, approaching six feet; she is lissome,
+but firmly moulded, by nature graceful; in her poise and harmonious
+movement are revealed the subtle sympathies of her artist’s soul. The
+other is shorter, much heavier. In her every motion you can see the
+extravagance of her emotional nature. She quivers with feeling; emotion
+conquers and carries havoc through her, for she has not a strong
+intellect, nor a heart of light humour; her nature is brooding and
+defenceless; she knows herself powerless in the tumult of her feelings,
+and adds to her misfortunes a profound mistrust of herself.
+
+As they danced together, Lettie and Emily, they showed in striking
+contrast. My sister’s ease and beautiful poetic movement was exquisite;
+the other could not control her movements, but repeated the same error
+again and again. She gripped Lettie’s hand fiercely, and glanced up
+with eyes full of humiliation and terror of her continued failure, and
+passionate, trembling, hopeless desire to succeed. To show her, to
+explain, made matters worse. As soon as she trembled on the brink of an
+action, the terror of not being able to perform it properly blinded
+her, and she was conscious of nothing but that she must do something—in
+a turmoil. At last Lettie ceased to talk, and merely swung her through
+the dances haphazard. This way succeeded better. So long as Emily need
+not think about her actions, she had a large, free grace; and the swing
+and rhythm and time were imparted through her senses rather than
+through her intelligence.
+
+It was time for supper. The mother came down for a while, and we talked
+quietly, at random. Lettie did not utter a word about her engagement,
+not a suggestion. She made it seem as if things were just as before,
+although I am sure she had discovered that I had told George. She
+intended that we should play as if ignorant of her bond.
+
+After supper, when we were ready to go home, Lettie said to him:
+
+“By the way—you must send us some mistletoe for the party—with plenty
+of berries, you know. Are there many berries on your mistletoe this
+year?”
+
+“I do not know—I have never looked. We will go and see—if you like,”
+George answered. “But will you come out into the cold?” He pulled on
+his boots, and his coat, and twisted a scarf round his neck. The young
+moon had gone. It was very dark—the liquid stars wavered. The great
+night filled us with awe. Lettie caught hold of my arm, and held it
+tightly. He passed on in front to open the gates. We went down into the
+front garden, over the turf bridge where the sluice rushed coldly
+under, on to the broad slope of the bank. We could just distinguish the
+gnarled old appletrees leaning about us. We bent our heads to avoid the
+boughs, and followed George. He hesitated a moment, saying:
+
+“Let me see—I think they are there—the two trees with mistletoe on.”
+
+We again followed silently.
+
+“Yes,” he said, “Here they are!”
+
+We went close and peered into the old trees. We could just see the dark
+bush of the mistletoe between the boughs of the tree. Lettie began to
+laugh.
+
+“Have we come to count the berries?” she said. “I can’t even see the
+mistletoe.”
+
+She leaned forwards and upwards to pierce the darkness; he, also
+straining to look, felt her breath on his cheek, and turning, saw the
+pallor of her face close to his, and felt the dark glow of her eyes. He
+caught her in his arms, and held her mouth in a kiss. Then, when he
+released her, he turned away, saying something incoherent about going
+to fetch the lantern to look. She remained with her back towards me,
+and pretended to be feeling among the mistletoe for the berries. Soon I
+saw the swing of the hurricane lamp below.
+
+“He is bringing the lantern,” said I.
+
+When he came up, he said, and his voice was strange and subdued:
+
+“Now we can see what it’s like.”
+
+He went near, and held up the lamp, so that it illuminated both their
+faces, and the fantastic boughs of the trees, and the weird bush of
+mistletoe sparsely pearled with berries. Instead of looking at the
+berries they looked into each other’s eyes; his lids flickered, and he
+flushed, in the yellow light of the lamp looking warm and handsome; he
+looked upwards in confusion and said: “There are plenty of berries.”
+
+As a matter of fact there were very few.
+
+She too looked up, and murmured her assent. The light seemed to hold
+them as in a globe, in another world, apart from the night in which I
+stood. He put up his hand and broke off a sprig of mistletoe, with
+berries, and offered it to her. They looked into each other’s eyes
+again. She put the mistletoe among her furs, looking down at her bosom.
+They remained still, in the centre of light, with the lamp uplifted;
+the red and black scarf wrapped loosely round his neck gave him a
+luxurious, generous look. He lowered the lamp and said, affecting to
+speak naturally:
+
+“Yes—there is plenty this year.”
+
+“You will give me some,” she replied, turning away and finally breaking
+the spell.
+
+“When shall I cut it?”—He strode beside her, swinging the lamp, as we
+went down the bank to go home. He came as far as the brooks without
+saying another word. Then he bade us good-night. When he had lighted
+her over the stepping-stones, she did not take my arm as we walked
+home.
+
+During the next two weeks we were busy preparing for Christmas, ranging
+the woods for the reddest holly, and pulling the gleaming ivy-bunches
+from the trees. From the farms around came the cruel yelling of pigs,
+and in the evening later, was a scent of pork-pies. Far-off on the
+high-way could be heard the sharp trot of ponies hastening with
+Christmas goods.
+
+There the carts of the hucksters dashed by to the expectant villagers,
+triumphant with great bunches of light foreign mistletoe, gay with
+oranges peeping through the boxes, and scarlet intrusion of apples, and
+wild confusion of cold, dead poultry. The hucksters waved their whips
+triumphantly, the little ponies rattled bravely under the sycamores,
+towards Christmas.
+
+In the late afternoon of the 24th, when dust was rising under the hazel
+brake, I was walking with Lettie. All among the mesh of twigs overhead
+was tangled a dark red sky. The boles of the trees grew denser—almost
+blue.
+
+Tramping down the riding we met two boys, fifteen or sixteen years old.
+Their clothes were largely patched with tough cotton moleskin; scarves
+were knotted round their throats, and in their pockets rolled tin
+bottles full of tea, and the white knobs of their knotted snap-bags.
+
+“Why!” said Lettie. “Are you going to work on Christmas eve?”
+
+“It looks like it, don’t it?” said the elder.
+
+“And what time will you be coming back?”
+
+“About ’alf past töw.”
+
+“Christmas morning!”
+
+“You’ll be able to look out for the herald Angels and the Star,” said
+I.
+
+“They’d think we was two dirty little uns,” said the younger lad,
+laughing.
+
+“They’ll ’appen ’a done before we get up ter th’ top,” added the elder
+boy— “an’ they’ll none venture down th’ shaft.”
+
+“If they did,” put in the other, “You’d ha’e ter bath ’em after. I’d
+gi’e ’em a bit o’ my pasty.”
+
+“Come on,” said the elder sulkily.
+
+They tramped off, slurring their heavy boots.
+
+“Merry Christmas!” I called after them.
+
+“In th’ mornin’,” replied the elder.
+
+“Same to you,” said the younger, and he began to sing with a tinge of
+bravado.
+
+“In the fields with their flocks abiding.
+They lay on the dewy ground——”
+
+
+“Fancy,” said Lettie, “those boys are working for me!”
+
+We were all going to the party at Highclose. I happened to go into the
+kitchen about half past seven. The lamp was turned low, and Rebecca sat
+in the shadows. On the table, in the light of the lamp, I saw a glass
+vase with five or six very beautiful Christmas roses.
+
+“Hullo, Becka, who’s sent you these?” said I.
+
+“They’re not sent,” replied Rebecca from the depth of the shadow, with
+suspicion of tears in her voice.
+
+“Why! I never saw them in the garden.”
+
+“Perhaps not. But I’ve watched them these three weeks, and kept them
+under glass.”
+
+“For Christmas? They are beauties. I thought some one must have sent
+them to you.”
+
+“It’s little as ’as ever been sent me,” replied Rebecca, “an’ less as
+will be.”
+
+“Why—what’s the matter?”
+
+“Nothing. Who’m I, to have anything the matter! Nobody—nor ever was,
+nor ever will be. And I’m getting old as well.”
+
+“Something’s upset you, Becky.”
+
+“What does it matter if it has? What are my feelings? A bunch o’
+fal-de-rol flowers as a gardener clips off wi’ never a thought is
+preferred before mine as I’ve fettled after this three-week. I can sit
+at home to keep my flowers company—nobody wants ’em.”
+
+I remembered that Lettie was wearing hot-house flowers; she was excited
+and full of the idea of the party at Highclose; I could imagine her
+quick “Oh no thank you, Rebecca. I have had a spray sent to me——”
+
+“Never mind, Becky,” said I, “she is excited to-night.”
+
+“An’ I’m easy forgotten.”
+
+“So are we all, Becky—tant mieux.”
+
+At Highclose Lettie made a stir. Among the little belles of the
+countryside, she was decidedly the most distinguished. She was
+brilliant, moving as if in a drama. Leslie was enraptured, ostentatious
+in his admiration, proud of being so well infatuated. They looked into
+each other’s eyes when they met, both triumphant, excited, blazing arch
+looks at one another. Lettie was enjoying her public demonstration
+immensely; it exhilarated her into quite a vivid love for him. He was
+magnificent in response. Meanwhile, the honoured lady of the house,
+pompous and ample, sat aside with my mother conferring her patronage on
+the latter amiable little woman, who smiled sardonically and watched
+Lettie. It was a splendid party; it was brilliant, it was dazzling.
+
+I danced with several ladies, and honourably kissed each under the
+mistletoe—except that two of them kissed me first, it was all done in a
+most correct manner.
+
+“You wolf,” said Miss Wookey archly. “I believe you are a wolf—a
+veritable rôdeur des femmes—and you look such a lamb too—such a dear.”
+
+“Even my bleat reminds you of Mary’s pet.”
+
+“But you are not my pet—at least—it is well that my Golaud doesn’t hear
+you——”
+
+“If he is so very big——” said I.
+
+“He is really; he’s beefy. I’ve engaged myself to him, somehow or
+other. One never knows how one does those things, do they?”
+
+“I couldn’t speak from experience,” said I.
+
+“Cruel man! I suppose I felt Christmasy, and I’d just been reading
+Maeterlinck—and he really is big.”
+
+“Who?” I asked.
+
+“Oh—He, of course. My Golaud. I can’t help admiring men who are a bit
+avoirdupoisy. It is unfortunate they can’t dance.”
+
+“Perhaps fortunate,” said I.
+
+“I can see you hate him. Pity I didn’t think to ask him if he
+danced—before——”
+
+“Would it have influenced you very much?”
+
+“Well—of course—one can be free to dance all the more with the really
+nice men whom one never marries.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Oh—you can only marry one——”
+
+“Of course.”
+
+“There he is—he’s coming for me! Oh, Frank, you leave me to the tender
+mercies of the world at large. I thought you’d forgotten me, Dear.”
+
+“I thought the same,” replied her Golaud, a great fat fellow with a
+childish bare face. He smiled awesomely, and one never knew what he
+meant to say.
+
+We drove home in the early Christmas morning. Lettie, warmly wrapped in
+her cloak, had had a little stroll with her lover in the shrubbery. She
+was still brilliant, flashing in her movements. He, as he bade her
+good-bye, was almost beautiful in his grace and his low musical tone. I
+nearly loved him myself. She was very fond towards him. As we came to
+the gate where the private road branched from the highway, we heard
+John say “Thank you”—and looking out, saw our two boys returning from
+the pit. They were very grotesque in the dark night as the lamplight
+fell on them, showing them grimy, flecked with bits of snow. They
+shouted merrily, their good wishes. Lettie leaned out and waved to
+them, and they cried “’ooray!” Christmas came in with their
+acclamations.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+LETTIE COMES OF AGE
+
+
+Lettie was twenty-one on the day after Christmas. She woke me in the
+morning with cries of dismay. There was a great fall of snow,
+multiplying the cold morning light, startling the slow-footed twilight.
+The lake was black like the open eyes of a corpse; the woods were black
+like the beard on the face of a corpse. A rabbit bobbed out, and
+floundered in much consternation; little birds settled into the depth,
+and rose in a dusty whirr, much terrified at the universal treachery of
+the earth. The snow was eighteen inches deep, and drifted in places.
+
+“They will never come!” lamented Lettie, for it was the day of her
+party.
+
+“At any rate—Leslie will,” said I.
+
+“One!” she exclaimed.
+
+“That one is all, isn’t it?” said I. “And for sure George will come,
+though I’ve not seen him this fortnight. He’s not been in one night,
+they say, for a fortnight.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“I cannot say.”
+
+Lettie went away to ask Rebecca for the fiftieth time if she thought
+they would come. At any rate the extra woman-help came.
+
+It was not more than ten o’clock when Leslie arrived, ruddy, with
+shining eyes, laughing like a boy. There was much stamping in the
+porch, and knocking of leggings with his stick, and crying of Lettie
+from the kitchen to know who had come, and loud, cheery answers from
+the porch bidding her come and see. She came, and greeted him with
+effusion.
+
+“Ha, my little woman!” he said kissing her. “I declare you are a woman.
+Look at yourself in the glass now——” She did so—“What do you see?” he
+asked laughing.
+
+“You—mighty gay, looking at me.”
+
+“Ah, but look at yourself. There! I declare you’re more afraid of your
+own eyes than of mine, aren’t you?”
+
+“I am,” she said, and he kissed her with rapture.
+
+“It’s your birthday,” he said.
+
+“I know,” she replied.
+
+“So do I. You promised me something.”
+
+“What?” she asked.
+
+“Here—see if you like it,”—he gave her a little case. She opened it,
+and instinctively slipped the ring on her finger. He made a movement of
+pleasure. She looked up, laughing breathlessly at him.
+
+“Now!” said he, in tones of finality.
+
+“Ah!” she exclaimed in a strange, thrilled voice.
+
+He caught her in his arms.
+
+After a while, when they could talk rationally again, she said:
+
+“Do you think they will come to my party?”
+
+“I hope not—By Heaven!”
+
+“But—oh, yes! We have made all preparations.”
+
+“What does that matter! Ten thousand folks here to-day——!”
+
+“Not ten thousand—only five or six. I shall be wild if they can’t
+come.”
+
+“You want them?”
+
+“We have asked them—and everything is ready—and I do want us to have a
+party one day.”
+
+“But to-day—damn it all, Lettie!”
+
+“But I did want my party to-day. Don’t you think they’ll come?”
+
+“They won’t if they’ve any sense!”
+
+“You might help me——” she pouted.
+
+“Well I’ll be—! and you’ve set your mind on having a houseful of people
+to-day?”
+
+“You know how we look forward to it—my party. At any rate—I know Tom
+Smith will come—and I’m almost sure Emily Saxton will.”
+
+He bit his moustache angrily, and said at last:
+
+“Then I suppose I’d better send John round for the lot.”
+
+“It wouldn’t be much trouble, would it?”
+
+“No _trouble_ at all.”
+
+“Do you know,” she said, twisting the ring on her finger. “It makes me
+feel as if I tied something round my finger to remember by. It somehow
+remains in my consciousness all the time.”
+
+“At any rate,” said he, “I have got you.”
+
+After dinner, when we were alone, Lettie sat at the table, nervously
+fingering her ring.
+
+“It is pretty, mother, isn’t it?” she said a trifle pathetically.
+
+“Yes, very pretty. I have always liked Leslie,” replied my mother.
+
+“But it feels so heavy—it fidgets me. I should like to take it off.”
+
+“You are like me, I never could wear rings. I hated my wedding ring for
+months.”
+
+“Did you, mother?”
+
+“I longed to take it off and put it away. But after a while I got used
+to it.”
+
+“I’m glad this isn’t a wedding ring.”
+
+“Leslie says it is as good,” said I.
+
+“Ah well, yes! But still it is different—” She put the jewels round
+under her finger, and looked at the plain gold band—then she twisted it
+back quickly, saying:
+
+“I’m glad it’s not—not yet. I begin to feel a woman, little mother—I
+feel grown up to-day.”
+
+My mother got up suddenly and went and kissed Lettie fervently.
+
+“Let me kiss my girl good-bye,” she said, and her voice was muffled
+with tears. Lettie clung to my mother, and sobbed a few quiet sobs,
+hidden in her bosom. Then she lifted her face, which was wet with
+tears, and kissed my mother, murmuring:
+
+“No, mother—no—o—!”
+
+About three o’clock the carriage came with Leslie and Marie. Both
+Lettie and I were upstairs, and I heard Marie come tripping up to my
+sister.
+
+“Oh, Lettie, he is in such a state of excitement, you never knew. He
+took me with him to buy it—let me see it on. I think it’s awfully
+lovely. Here, let me help you to do your hair—all in those little
+rolls—it will look charming. You’ve really got beautiful hair—there’s
+so much life in it—it’s a pity to twist it into a coil as you do. I
+wish my hair were a bit longer—though really, it’s all the better for
+this fashion—don’t you like it?—it’s ‘so chic’—I think these little
+puffs are just fascinating—it is rather long for them—but it will look
+ravishing. Really, my eyes, and eyebrows, and eyelashes are my best
+features, don’t you think?”
+
+Marie, the delightful, charming little creature, twittered on. I went
+downstairs.
+
+Leslie started when I entered the room, but seeing only me, he leaned
+forward again, resting his arms on his knees, looking in the fire.
+
+“What the Dickens is she doing?” he asked.
+
+“Dressing.”
+
+“Then we may keep on waiting. Isn’t it a deuced nuisance, these people
+coming?”
+
+“Well, we generally have a good time.”
+
+“Oh—it’s all very well—we’re not in the same boat, you and me.”
+
+“Fact,” said I laughing.
+
+“By Jove, Cyril, you don’t know what it is to be in love. I never
+thought—I couldn’t ha’ believed I should be like it. All the time when
+it isn’t at the top of your blood, it’s at the bottom:—‘the Girl, the
+Girl.’”
+
+He stared into the fire.
+
+“It seems pressing you, pressing you on. Never leaves you alone a
+moment.”
+
+Again he lapsed into reflection.
+
+“Then, all at once, you remember how she kissed you, and all your blood
+jumps afire.”
+
+He mused again for awhile—or rather, he seemed fiercely to con over his
+sensations.
+
+“You know,” he said, “I don’t think she feels for me as I do for her.”
+
+“Would you want her to?” said I.
+
+“I don’t know. Perhaps not—but—still I don’t think she feels——”
+
+At this he lighted a cigarette to soothe his excited feelings, and
+there was silence for some time. Then the girls came down. We could
+hear their light chatter. Lettie entered the room. He jumped up and
+surveyed her. She was dressed in soft, creamy, silken stuff; her neck
+was quite bare; her hair was, as Marie promised, fascinating; she was
+laughing nervously. She grew warm, like a blossom in the sunshine, in
+the glow of his admiration. He went forward and kissed her.
+
+“You are splendid!” he said.
+
+She only laughed for answer. He drew her away to the great arm-chair,
+and made her sit in it beside him. She was indulgent and he radiant. He
+took her hand and looked at it, and at his ring which she wore.
+
+“It looks all right!” he murmured.
+
+“Anything would,” she replied.
+
+“What do they mean—sapphires and diamonds—for I don’t know?”
+
+“Nor do I. Blue for hope, because Speranza in ‘Fairy Queen’ had a blue
+gown—and diamonds for—the crystalline clearness of my nature.”
+
+“Its glitter and hardness, you mean—You are a hard little mistress. But
+why Hope?”
+
+“Why?—No reason whatever, like most things. No, that’s not right. Hope!
+Oh—Blindfolded—hugging a silly harp with no strings. I wonder why she
+didn’t drop her harp framework over the edge of the globe, and take the
+handkerchief off her eyes, and have a look round! But of course she was
+a woman—and a man’s woman. Do you know I believe most women can sneak a
+look down their noses from underneath the handkerchief of hope they’ve
+tied over their eyes. They could take the whole muffler off—but they
+don’t do it, the dears.”
+
+“I don’t believe you know what you’re talking about, and I’m sure I
+don’t. Sapphires reminded me of your eyes—and—isn’t it ‘Blue that kept
+the faith?’ I remember something about it.”
+
+“Here,” said she, pulling off the ring, “you ought to wear it yourself,
+Faithful One, to keep me in constant mind.”
+
+“Keep it on, keep it on. It holds you faster than that fair damsel tied
+to a tree in Millais’ picture—I believe it’s Millais.”
+
+She sat shaking with laughter.
+
+“What a comparison! Who’ll be the brave knight to rescue
+me—discreetly—from behind?”
+
+“Ah,” he answered, “it doesn’t matter. You don’t want rescuing, do
+you?”
+
+“Not yet,” she replied, teasing him.
+
+They continued to talk half nonsense, making themselves eloquent by
+quick looks and gestures, and communion of warm closeness. The ironical
+tones went out of Lettie’s voice, and they made love.
+
+Marie drew me away into the dining room, to leave them alone.
+
+Marie is a charming little maid, whose appearance is neatness, whose
+face is confident little goodness. Her hair is dark, and lies low upon
+her neck in wavy coils. She does not affect the fashion in coiffure,
+and generally is a little behind the fashion in dress. Indeed she is a
+half-opened bud of a matron, conservative, full of proprieties, and of
+gentle indulgence. She now smiled at me with a warm delight in the
+romance upon which she had just shed her grace, but her demureness
+allowed nothing to be said. She glanced round the room, and out of the
+window, and observed:
+
+“I always love Woodside, it is restful—there is something about
+it—oh—assuring—really—it comforts one—I’ve been reading Maxim Gorky.”
+
+“You shouldn’t,” said I.
+
+“Dadda reads them—but I don’t like them—I shall read no more. I like
+Woodside—it makes you feel—really at home—it soothes one like the old
+wood does. It seems right—life is proper here—not ulcery——”
+
+“Just healthy living flesh,” said I.
+
+“No, I don’t mean that, because one feels—oh, as if the world were old
+and good, not old and bad.”
+
+“Young, and undisciplined, and mad,” said I.
+
+“No—but here, you, and Lettie, and Leslie, and me—it is so nice for us,
+and it seems so natural and good. Woodside is so old, and so sweet and
+serene—it does reassure one.”
+
+“Yes,” said I, “we just live, nothing abnormal, nothing cruel and
+extravagant—just natural—like doves in a dovecote.”
+
+“Oh!—doves!—they are so—so mushy.”
+
+“They are dear little birds, doves. You look like one yourself, with
+the black band round your neck. You a turtle-dove, and Lettie a
+wood-pigeon.”
+
+“Lettie is splendid, isn’t she? What a swing she has—what a mastery! I
+wish I had her strength—she just marches straight through in the right
+way—I think she’s fine.”
+
+I laughed to see her so enthusiastic in her admiration of my sister.
+Marie is such a gentle, serious little soul. She went to the window. I
+kissed her, and pulled two berries off the mistletoe. I made her a nest
+in the heavy curtains, and she sat there looking out on the snow.
+
+“It is lovely,” she said reflectively. “People must be ill when they
+write like Maxim Gorky.”
+
+“They live in town,” said I.
+
+“Yes—but then look at Hardy—life seems so terrible—it isn’t, is it?”
+
+“If you don’t feel it, it isn’t—if you don’t see it. I don’t see it for
+myself.”
+
+“It’s lovely enough for heaven.”
+
+“Eskimo’s heaven perhaps. And we’re the angels eh? And I’m an
+archangel.”
+
+“No, you’re a vain, frivolous man. Is that—? What is that moving
+through the trees?”
+
+“Somebody coming,” said I.
+
+It was a big, burly fellow moving curiously through the bushes.
+
+“Doesn’t he walk funnily?” exclaimed Marie. He did. When he came near
+enough we saw he was straddled upon Indian snow-shoes. Marie peeped,
+and laughed, and peeped, and hid again in the curtains laughing. He was
+very red, and looked very hot, as he hauled the great meshes, shuffling
+over the snow; his body rolled most comically. I went to the door and
+admitted him, while Marie stood stroking her face with her hands to
+smooth away the traces of her laughter.
+
+He grasped my hand in a very large and heavy glove, with which he then
+wiped his perspiring brow.
+
+“Well, Beardsall, old man,” he said, “and how’s things? God, I’m not
+’alf hot! Fine idea though——” He showed me his snow-shoes.
+
+“Ripping! ain’t they? I’ve come like an Indian brave——” He rolled his
+“r’s”, and lengthened out his “ah’s” tremendously—“brra-ave”.
+
+“Couldn’t resist it though,” he continued. “Remember your party last
+year—Girls turned up? On the war-path, eh?” He pursed up his childish
+lips and rubbed his fat chin.
+
+Having removed his coat, and the white wrap which protected his collar,
+not to mention the snowflakes, which Rebecca took almost as an insult
+to herself—he seated his fat, hot body on a chair, and proceeded to
+take off his gaiters and his boots. Then he donned his dancing pumps,
+and I led him upstairs.
+
+“Lord, I skimmed here like a swallow!” he continued—and I looked at his
+corpulence.
+
+“Never met a soul, though they’ve had a snow-plough down the road. I
+saw the marks of a cart up the drive, so I guessed the Tempests were
+here. So Lettie’s put her nose in Tempest’s nosebag—leaves nobody a
+chance, that—some women have rum taste—only they’re like ravens, they
+go for the gilding—don’t blame ’em—only it leaves nobody a chance.
+Madie Howitt’s coming, I suppose?”
+
+I ventured something about the snow.
+
+“She’ll come,” he said, “if it’s up to the neck. Her mother saw me go
+past.”
+
+He proceeded with his toilet. I told him that Leslie had sent the
+carriage for Alice and Madie. He slapped his fat legs, and exclaimed:
+
+“Miss Gall—I smell sulphur! Beardsall, old boy, there’s fun in the
+wind. Madie, and the coy little Tempest, and——” he hissed a line of a
+music-hall song through his teeth.
+
+During all this he had straightened his cream and lavender waistcoat:
+
+“Little pink of a girl worked it for me—a real juicy little
+peach—chipped somehow or other”—he had arranged his white bow—he had
+drawn forth two rings, one a great signet, the other gorgeous with
+diamonds, and had adjusted them on his fat white fingers; he had run
+his fingers delicately, through his hair, which rippled backwards a
+trifle tawdrily—being fine and somewhat sapless; he had produced a box,
+containing a cream carnation with suitable greenery; he had flicked
+himself with a silk handkerchief, and had dusted his patent-leather
+shoes; lastly, he had pursed up his lips and surveyed himself with
+great satisfaction in the mirror. Then he was ready to be presented.
+
+“Couldn’t forget to-day, Lettie. Wouldn’t have let old Pluto and all
+the bunch of ’em keep me away. I skimmed here like a ‘Brra-ave’ on my
+snow-shoes, like Hiawatha coming to Minnehaha.”
+
+“Ah—that was famine,” said Marie softly. “And this is a feast, a
+gorgeous feast, Miss Tempest,” he said, bowing to Marie, who laughed.
+
+“You have brought some music?” asked mother.
+
+“Wish I was Orpheus,” he said, uttering his words with exaggerated
+enunciation, a trick he had caught from his singing I suppose.
+
+“I see you’re in full feather, Tempest. Is she kind as she is fair?’”
+
+“Who?”
+
+Will pursed up his smooth sensuous face that looked as if it had never
+needed shaving. Lettie went out with Marie, hearing the bell ring.
+
+“She’s an houri!” exclaimed William. “Gad, I’m almost done for! She’s a
+lotus-blossom!—But is that your ring she’s wearing, Tempest?”
+
+“Keep off,” said Leslie.
+
+“And don’t be a fool,” said I.
+
+“Oh, O-O-Oh!” drawled Will, “so we must look the other way! ‘Le bel
+homme sans merci!’”
+
+He sighed profoundly, and ran his fingers through his hair, keeping one
+eye on himself in the mirror as he did so. Then he adjusted his rings
+and went to the piano. At first he only splashed about brilliantly.
+Then he sorted the music, and took a volume of Tchaikowsky’s songs. He
+began the long opening of one song, was unsatisfied, and found another,
+a serenade of Don Juan. Then at last he began to sing.
+
+His voice is a beautiful tenor, softer, more mellow, less strong and
+brassy than Leslie’s. Now it was raised that it might be heard
+upstairs. As the melting gush poured forth, the door opened. William
+softened his tones, and sang ‘dolce,’ but he did not glance round.
+
+“Rapture!—Choir of Angels,” exclaimed Alice, clasping her hands and
+gazing up at the lintel of the door like a sainted virgin.
+
+“Persephone—Europa——” murmured Madie, at her side, getting tangled in
+her mythology.
+
+Alice pressed her clasped hands against her bosom in ecstasy as the
+notes rose higher.
+
+“Hold me, Madie, or I shall rush to extinction in the arms of this
+siren.” She clung to Madie. The song finished, and Will turned round.
+
+“Take it calmly, Miss Gall,” he said. “I hope you’re not hit too
+badly.”
+
+“Oh—how can you say ‘take it calmly’—how can the savage beast be calm!”
+
+“I’m sorry for you,” said Will.
+
+“You are the cause of my trouble, dear boy,” replied Alice.
+
+“I never thought you’d come,” said Madie.
+
+“Skimmed here like an Indian ‘brra-ave,’” said Will. “Like Hiawatha
+towards Minnehaha. I knew you were coming.”
+
+“You know,” simpered Madie, “It gave me quite a flutter when I heard
+the piano. It is a year since I saw you. How did you get here?”
+
+“I came on snow-shoes,” said he. “Real Indian,—came from Canada—they’re
+just ripping.”
+
+“Oh—Aw-w _do_ go and put them on and show us—_do!—do_ perform for us,
+Billy dear!” cried Alice.
+
+“Out in the cold and driving sleet—no fear,” said he, and he turned to
+talk to Madie. Alice sat chatting with mother. Soon Tom Smith came, and
+took a seat next to Marie; and sat quietly looking over his spectacles
+with his sharp brown eyes, full of scorn for William, full of misgiving
+for Leslie and Lettie.
+
+Shortly after, George and Emily came in. They were rather nervous. When
+they had changed their clogs, and Emily had taken off her brown-paper
+leggings, and he his leather ones, they were not anxious to go into the
+drawing room. I was surprised—and so was Emily—to see that he had put
+on dancing shoes.
+
+Emily, ruddy from the cold air, was wearing a wine coloured dress,
+which suited her luxurious beauty. George’s clothes were well made—it
+was a point on which he was particular, being somewhat self-conscious.
+He wore a jacket and a dark bow. The other men were in evening dress.
+
+We took them into the drawing-room, where the lamp was not lighted, and
+the glow of the fire was becoming evident in the dusk. We had taken up
+the carpet—the floor was all polished—and some of the furniture was
+taken away—so that the room looked large and ample.
+
+There was general hand shaking, and the newcomers were seated near the
+fire. First mother talked to them—then the candles were lighted at the
+piano, and Will played to us. He is an exquisite pianist, full of
+refinement and poetry. It is astonishing, and it is a fact. Mother went
+out to attend to the tea, and after a while, Lettie crossed over to
+Emily and George, and, drawing up a low chair, sat down to talk to
+them. Leslie stood in the window bay, looking out on the lawn where the
+snow grew bluer and bluer and the sky almost purple.
+
+Lettie put her hands on Emily’s lap, and said softly, “Look—do you like
+it?”
+
+“What! engaged? exclaimed Emily.
+
+“I am of age, you see,” said Lettie.
+
+“It is a beauty, isn’t it. Let me try it on, will you? Yes, I’ve never
+had a ring. There, it won’t go over my knuckle—no—I thought not. Aren’t
+my hands red?—it’s the cold—yes, it’s too small for me. I do like it.”
+
+George sat watching the play of the four hands in his sister’s lap, two
+hands moving so white and fascinating in the twilight, the other two
+rather red, with rather large bones, looking so nervous, almost
+hysterical. The ring played between the four hands, giving an
+occasional flash from the twilight or candlelight.
+
+“You must congratulate me,” she said, in a very low voice, and two of
+us knew she spoke to him.
+
+“As, yes,” said Emily, “I do.”
+
+“And you?” she said, turning to him who was silent.
+
+“What do you want me to say?” he asked.
+
+“Say what you like.”
+
+ “Sometime, when I’ve thought about it.”
+
+“Cold dinners!” laughed Lettie, awaking Alice’s old sarcasm at his
+slowness.
+
+“What?” he exclaimed, looking up suddenly at her taunt. She knew she
+was playing false; she put the ring on her finger and went across the
+room to Leslie, laying her arm over his shoulder, and leaning her head
+against him, murmuring softly to him. He, poor fellow, was delighted
+with her, for she did not display her fondness often.
+
+We went in to tea. The yellow shaded lamp shone softly over the table,
+where Christmas roses spread wide open among some dark-coloured leaves;
+where the china and silver and the coloured dishes shone delightfully.
+We were all very gay and bright; who could be otherwise, seated round a
+well-laid table, with young company, and the snow outside. George felt
+awkward when he noticed his hands over the table, but for the rest, we
+enjoyed ourselves exceedingly.
+
+The conversation veered inevitably to marriage.
+
+“But what have you to say about it, Mr. Smith?” asked little Marie.
+
+“Nothing yet,” replied he in his peculiar grating voice. “My marriage
+is in the unanalysed solution of the future—when I’ve done the analysis
+I’ll tell you.”
+
+“But what do you think about it—?”
+
+“Do you remember Lettie,” said Will Bancroft, “that little red-haired
+girl who was in our year at college? She has just married old Craven
+out of Physic’s department.”
+
+“I wish her joy of it!” said Lettie; “wasn’t she an old flame of
+yours?”
+
+“Among the rest,” he replied smiling. “Don’t you remember you were one
+of them; you had your day.”
+
+“What a joke that was!” exclaimed Lettie, “we used to go in the
+arboretum at dinner-time. You lasted half one autumn. Do you remember
+when we gave a concert, you and I, and Frank Wishaw, in the small
+lecture theatre?”
+
+“When the Prinny was such an old buck, flattering you,” continued Will.
+“And that night Wishaw took you to the station—sent old Gettim for a
+cab and saw you in, large as life—never was such a thing before. Old
+Wishaw won you with that cab, didn’t he?”
+
+“Oh, how I swelled!” cried Lettie. “There were you all at the top of
+the steps gazing with admiration! But Frank Wishaw was not a nice
+fellow, though he played the violin beautifully. I never liked his
+eyes—”
+
+“No,” added Will. “He didn’t last long, did he?—though long enough to
+oust me. We had a giddy ripping time in Coll., didn’t we?”
+
+“It was not bad,” said Lettie. “Rather foolish. I’m afraid I wasted my
+three years.”
+
+“I think,” said Leslie, smiling, “you improved the shining hours to
+great purpose.”
+
+It pleased him to think what a flirt she had been, since the flirting
+had been harmless, and only added to the glory of his final conquest.
+George felt very much left out during these reminiscences.
+
+When we had finished tea, we adjourned to the drawing-room. It was in
+darkness, save for the fire light. The mistletoe had been discovered,
+and was being appreciated.
+
+“Georgie, Sybil, Sybil, Georgie, come and kiss me,” cried Alice.
+
+Will went forward to do her the honour. She ran to me, saying, “Get
+away, you fat fool—keep on your own preserves. Now Georgie dear, come
+and kiss me, ’cause you haven’t got nobody else but me, no y’ ave n’t.
+Do you want to run away, like Georgy-Porgy apple-pie? Shan’t cry, sure
+I shan’t, if you are ugly.”
+
+She took him and kissed him on either cheek, saying softly, “You shan’t
+be so serious, old boy—buck up, there’s a good fellow.”
+
+We lighted the lamp, and charades were proposed, Leslie and Lettie,
+Will and Madie and Alice went out to play. The first scene was an
+elopement to Gretna Green—with Alice a maid servant, a part that she
+played wonderfully well as a caricature. It was very noisy, and
+extremely funny. Leslie was in high spirits. It was remarkable to
+observe that, as he became more animated, more abundantly energetic,
+Lettie became quieter. The second scene, which they were playing as
+excited melodrama, she turned into small tragedy with her bitterness.
+They went out, and Lettie blew us kisses from the doorway.
+
+“Doesn’t she act well?” exclaimed Marie, speaking to Tom.
+
+“Quite realistic,” said he.
+
+“She could always play a part well,” said mother.
+
+“I should think,” said Emily, “she could take a role in life and play
+up to it.”
+
+“I believe she could,” mother answered, “there would only be intervals
+when she would see herself in a mirror acting.”
+
+“And what then?” said Marie.
+
+“She would feel desperate, and wait till the fit passed off,” replied
+my mother, smiling significantly.
+
+The players came in again. Lettie kept her part subordinate. Leslie
+played with brilliance; it was rather startling how he excelled. The
+applause was loud—but we could not guess the word. Then they laughed,
+and told us. We clamoured for more.
+
+“Do go, dear,” said Lettie to Leslie, “and I will be helping to arrange
+the room for the dances. I want to watch you—I am rather tired—it is so
+exciting—Emily will take my place.”
+
+They went. Marie and Tom, and Mother and I played bridge in one corner.
+Lettie said she wanted to show George some new pictures, and they bent
+over a portfolio for some time. Then she bade him help her to clear the
+room for the dances.
+
+“Well, you have had time to think,” she said to him.
+
+“A short time,” he replied. “What shall I say?”
+
+“Tell me what you’ve been thinking.”
+
+“Well—about you——” he answered, smiling foolishly.
+
+“What about me?” she asked, venturesome.
+
+“About you, how you were at college,” he replied.
+
+“Oh! I had a good time. I had plenty of boys. I liked them all, till I
+found there was nothing in them; then they tired me.”
+
+“Poor boys!” he said laughing. “Were they all alike?”
+
+“All alike,” she replied, “and they are still.”
+
+“Pity,” he said, smiling. “It’s hard lines on you.”
+
+“Why?” she asked.
+
+“It leaves you nobody to care for——” he replied.
+
+“How very sarcastic you are. You make one reservation.”
+
+“Do I?” he answered, smiling. “But you fire sharp into the air, and
+then say we’re all blank cartridges—except one, of course.”
+
+“You?” she queried, ironically—“oh, you would forever hang fire.”
+
+“‘Cold dinners!’” he quoted in bitterness. “But you knew I loved you.
+You knew well enough.”
+
+“Past tense,” she replied, “thanks—make it perfect next time.”
+
+“It’s you who hang fire—it’s you who make me,” he said.
+
+“And so from the retort circumstantial to the retort direct,’” she
+replied, smiling.
+
+“You see—you put me off,” he insisted, growing excited. For reply, she
+held out her hand and showed him the ring. She smiled very quietly. He
+stared at her with darkening anger.
+
+“Will you gather the rugs and stools together, and put them in that
+corner?” she said.
+
+He turned away to do so, but he looked back again, and said, in low,
+passionate tones:
+
+“You never counted me. I was a figure naught in the counting all
+along.”
+
+“See—there is a chair that will be in the way,” she replied calmly; but
+she flushed, and bowed her head. She turned away, and he dragged an
+armful of rugs into a corner.
+
+When the actors came in, Lettie was moving a vase of flowers. While
+they played, she sat looking on, smiling, clapping her hands. When it
+was finished Leslie came and whispered to her, whereon she kissed him
+unobserved, delighting and exhilarating him more than ever. Then they
+went out to prepare the next act.
+
+George did not return to her till she called him to help her. Her
+colour was high in her cheeks.
+
+
+“How do you know you did not count?” she said nervously, unable to
+resist the temptation to play this forbidden game.
+
+He laughed, and for a moment could not find any reply.
+
+“I do!” he said. “You knew you could have me any day, so you didn’t
+care.”
+
+“Then we’re behaving in quite the traditional fashion,” she answered
+with irony.
+
+
+“But you know,” he said, “you began it. You played with me, and showed
+me heaps of things—and those mornings—when I was binding corn, and when
+I was gathering the apples, and when I was finishing the
+straw-stack—you came then—I can never forget those mornings—things will
+never be the same—You have awakened my life—I imagine things that I
+couldn’t have done.”
+
+“Ah!—I am very sorry, I am so sorry.”
+
+“Don’t be!—don’t say so. But what of me?”
+
+“What?” she asked rather startled. He smiled again; he felt the
+situation, and was a trifle dramatic, though deadly in earnest.
+
+“Well,” said he, “you start me off—then leave me at a loose end. What
+am I going to do?”
+
+“You are a man,” she replied.
+
+He laughed. “What does that mean?” he said contemptuously.
+
+“You can go on—which way you like,” she answered.
+
+“Oh, well,” he said, “we’ll see.”
+
+“Don’t you think so?” she asked, rather anxious.
+
+“I don’t know—we’ll see,” he replied.
+
+They went out with some things. In the hall, she turned to him, with a
+break in her voice, saying: “Oh, I am so sorry—I am so sorry.”
+
+He said, very low and soft,—“Never mind—never mind.”
+
+She heard the laughter of those preparing the charade. She drew away
+and went in the drawing room, saying aloud:
+
+“Now I think everything is ready—we can sit down now.”
+
+After the actors had played the last charade, Leslie came and claimed
+her.
+
+“Now, Madam—are you glad to have me back?”
+
+“That I am,” she said. “Don’t leave me again, will you?”
+
+“I won’t,” he replied, drawing her beside him. “I have left my
+handkerchief in the dining-room,” he continued; and they went out
+together.
+
+Mother gave me permission for the men to smoke.
+
+“You know,” said Marie to Tom, “I am surprised that a scientist should
+smoke. Isn’t it a waste of time?”
+
+“Come and light me,” he said.
+
+“Nay,” she replied, “let science light you.”
+
+“Science does—Ah, but science is nothing without a girl to set it
+going—Yes—Come on—now, don’t burn my precious nose.”
+
+“Poor George!” cried Alice. “Does he want a ministering angel?”
+
+He was half lying in a big arm chair.
+
+“I do,” he replied. “Come on, be my box of soothing ointment. My
+matches are all loose.”
+
+“I’ll strike it on my heel, eh? Now, rouse up, or I shall have to sit
+on your knee to reach you.”
+
+“Poor dear—he shall beluxurious,” and the dauntless girl perched on his
+knee.
+
+“What if I singe your whiskers—would you send an Armada?
+Aw—aw—pretty!—You do look sweet—doesn’t he suck prettily?”
+
+“Do you envy me?” he asked, smiling whimsically.
+
+“Ra—ther!”
+
+“Shame to debar you,” he said, almost with tenderness.
+
+“Smoke with me.”
+
+He offered her the cigarette from his lips. She was surprised, and
+exceedingly excited by his tender tone. She took the cigarette.
+
+“I’ll make a heifer—like Mrs. Daws,” she said.
+
+“Don’t call yourself a cow,” he said.
+
+“Nasty thing—let me go,” she exclaimed.
+
+“No—you fit me—don’t go,” he replied, holding her.
+
+“Then you must have growed. Oh—what great hands—let go. Lettie, come
+and pinch him.”
+
+“What’s the matter?” asked my sister.
+
+“He won’t let me go.”
+
+“He’ll be tired first,” Lettie answered.
+
+Alice was released, but she did not move. She sat with wrinkled
+forehead trying his cigarette. She blew out little tiny whiffs of
+smoke, and thought about it; she sent a small puff down her nostrils,
+and rubbed her nose.
+
+“It’s not as nice as it looks,” she said.
+
+He laughed at her with masculine indulgence.
+
+“Pretty boy,” she said, stroking his chin.
+
+“Am I?” he murmured languidly.
+
+“Cheek!” she cried, and she boxed his ears. Then “Oh, pore fing!” she
+said, and kissed him.
+
+She turned round to wink at my mother and at Lettie. She found the
+latter sitting in the old position with Leslie, two in a chair. He was
+toying with her arm; holding it and stroking it.
+
+“Isn’t it lovely?” he said, kissing the forearm, “so warm and yet so
+white. Io—it reminds one of Io.”
+
+“Somebody else talking about heifers,” murmured Alice to George.
+
+“Can you remember,” said Leslie, speaking low, “that man in Merimée who
+wanted to bite his wife and taste her blood?”
+
+“I do,” said Lettie. “Have you a strain of wild beast too?”
+
+“Perhaps,” he laughed, “I wish these folks had gone. Your hair is all
+loose in your neck—it looks lovely like that though——”
+
+Alice, the mocker, had unbuttoned the cuff of the thick wrist that lay
+idly on her knee, and had pushed his sleeve a little way.
+
+“Ah!” she said. “What a pretty arm, brown as an overbaked loaf!”
+
+He watched her smiling.
+
+“Hard as a brick,” she added.
+
+“Do you like it?” he drawled.
+
+“No,” she said emphatically, in a tone that meant “yes.” “It makes me
+feel shivery.” He smiled again.
+
+She superposed her tiny pale, flower-like hands on his.
+
+He lay back looking at them curiously.
+
+“Do you feel as if your hands were full of silver?” she asked almost
+wistfully, mocking.
+
+“Better than that,” he replied gently.
+
+“And your heart full of gold?” she mocked.
+
+“Of hell!” he replied briefly.
+
+Alice looked at him searchingly.
+
+“And am I like a blue-bottle buzzing in your window to keep your
+company?” she asked.
+
+He laughed.
+
+“Good-bye,” she said, slipping down and leaving him.
+
+“Don’t go,” he said—but too late.
+
+The irruption of Alice into the quiet, sentimental party was like
+taking a bright light into a sleeping hen-roost. Everybody jumped up
+and wanted to do something. They cried out for a dance.
+
+“Emily—play a waltz—you won’t mind, will you, George? What! You don’t
+dance, Tom? Oh, Marie!”
+
+“I don’t mind, Lettie,” protested Marie.
+
+“Dance with me, Alice,” said George, smiling “and Cyril will take Miss
+Tempest.”
+
+“Glory!—come on—do or die!” said Alice.
+
+We began to dance. I saw Lettie watching, and I looked round. George
+was waltzing with Alice, dancing passably, laughing at her remarks.
+Lettie was not listening to what her lover was saying to her; she was
+watching the laughing pair. At the end she went to George.
+
+“Why!” she said, “You can——”
+
+“Did you think I couldn’t?” he said. “You are pledged for a minuet and
+a valeta with me—you remember?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You promise?”
+
+“Yes. But——”
+
+“I went to Nottingham and learned.”
+
+“Why—because?—Very well, Leslie, a mazurka. Will you play it,
+Emily—Yes, it is quite easy. Tom, you look quite happy talking to the
+Mater.”
+
+We danced the mazurka with the same partners. He did it better than I
+expected—without much awkwardness—but stiffly. However, he moved
+quietly through the dance, laughing and talking abstractedly all the
+time with Alice.
+
+Then Lettie cried a change of partners, and they took their valeta.
+There was a little triumph in his smile.
+
+“Do you congratulate me?” he said.
+
+“I am surprised,” she answered.
+
+“So am I. But I congratulate myself.”
+
+“Do you? Well, so do I.”
+
+“Thanks! You’re beginning at last.”
+
+“What?” she asked.
+
+“To believe in me.”
+
+“Don’t begin to talk again,” she pleaded sadly, “nothing vital.”
+
+“Do you like dancing with me?” he asked
+
+“Now, be quiet—_that’s_ real,” she replied.
+
+“By Heaven, Lettie, you make me laugh!”
+
+“Do I?” she said—“What if you married Alice—soon.”
+
+“I—Alice!—Lettie!! Besides, I’ve only a hundred pounds in the world,
+and no prospects whatever. That’s why—well—I shan’t marry
+anybody—unless its somebody with money.”
+
+“I’ve a couple of thousand or so of my own——”
+
+“Have you? It would have done nicely,” he said smiling.
+
+“You are different to-night,” she said, leaning on him.
+
+“Am I?” he replied—“It’s because things are altered too. They’re
+settled one way now—for the present at least.”
+
+“Don’t forget the two steps this time,” said she smiling, and adding
+seriously, “You see, I couldn’t help it.”
+
+“No, why not?”
+
+“Things! I have been brought up to expect it—everybody expected it—and
+you’re bound to do what people expect you to do—you can’t help it. We
+can’t help ourselves, we’re all chess-men,” she said.
+
+“Ay,” he agreed, but doubtfully.
+
+“I wonder where it will end,” she said.
+
+“Lettie!” he cried, and his hand closed in a grip on her’s.
+
+“Don’t—don’t say anything—it’s no good now, it’s too late. It’s done;
+and what is done, is done. If you talk any more, I shall say I’m tired
+and stop the dance. Don’t say another word.”
+
+He did not—at least to her. Their dance came to an end. Then he took
+Marie who talked winsomely to him. As he waltzed with Marie he regained
+his animated spirits. He was very lively the rest of the evening, quite
+astonishing and reckless. At supper he ate everything, and drank much
+wine.
+
+“Have some more turkey, Mr. Saxton.”
+
+“Thanks—but give me some of that stuff in brown jelly, will you? It’s
+new to me.”
+
+“Have some of this trifle, Georgie?”
+
+“I will—you are a jewel.”
+
+“So will you be—a yellow topaz tomorrow!”
+
+“Ah! tomorrow’s tomorrow!”
+
+After supper was over, Alice cried:
+
+“Georgie, dear—have you finished?—don’t die the death of a king—King
+John—I can’t spare you, pet.”
+
+“Are you so fond of me?”
+
+“I am—Aw! I’d throw my best Sunday hat under a milk-cart for you, I
+would!”
+
+“No; throw yourself into the milk-cart—some Sunday, when I’m driving.”
+
+“Yes—come and see us,” said Emily.
+
+“How nice! Tomorrow you won’t want me, Georgie dear, so I’ll come.
+Don’t you wish Pa would make Tono-Bungay? Wouldn’t you marry me then?”
+
+“I would,” said he.
+
+When the cart came, and Alice, Madie, Tom and Will departed, Alice bade
+Lettie a long farewell—blew Georgie many kisses—promised to love him
+faithful and true—and was gone.
+
+George and Emily lingered a short time.
+
+Now the room seemed empty and quiet, and all the laughter seemed to
+have gone. The conversation dribbled away; there was an awkwardness.
+
+“Well,” said George heavily, at last. “To-day is nearly gone—it will
+soon be tomorrow. I feel a bit drunk! We had a good time to-night.”
+
+“I am glad,” said Lettie.
+
+They put on their clogs and leggings, and wrapped themselves up, and
+stood in the hall.
+
+“We must go,” said George, “before the clock strikes,—like
+Cinderella—look at my glass slippers—” he pointed to his clogs.
+“Midnight, and rags, and fleeing. Very appropriate. I shall call myself
+Cinderella who wouldn’t fit. I believe I’m a bit drunk—the world looks
+funny.”
+
+We looked out at the haunting wanness of the hills beyond Nethermere.
+“Good-bye, Lettie; good-bye.”
+
+They were out in the snow, which peered pale and eerily from the depths
+of the black wood.
+
+“Good-bye,” he called out of the darkness. Leslie slammed the door, and
+drew Lettie away into the drawing-room. The sound of his low, vibrating
+satisfaction reached us, as he murmured to her, and laughed low. Then
+he kicked the door of the room shut. Lettie began to laugh and mock and
+talk in a high strained voice. The sound of their laughter mingled was
+strange and incongruous. Then her voice died down.
+
+Marie sat at the little piano—which was put in the
+dining-room—strumming and tinkling the false, quavering old notes. It
+was a depressing jingling in the deserted remains of the feast, but she
+felt sentimental, and enjoyed it.
+
+This was a gap between to-day and tomorrow, a dreary gap, where one sat
+and looked at the dreary comedy of yesterdays, and the grey tragedies
+of dawning tomorrows, vacantly, missing the poignancy of an actual
+to-day.
+
+The cart returned.
+
+“Leslie, Leslie, John is here, come along!” called Marie.
+
+There was no answer.
+
+“Leslie—John is waiting in the snow.”
+
+“All right.”
+
+“But you must come at once.” She went to the door and spoke to him.
+Then he came out looking rather sheepish, and rather angry at the
+interruption. Lettie followed, tidying her hair. She did not laugh and
+look confused, as most girls do on similar occasions; she seemed very
+tired.
+
+At last Leslie tore himself away, and after more returns for a farewell
+kiss, mounted the carriage, which stood in a pool of yellow light,
+blurred and splotched with shadows, and drove away, calling something
+about tomorrow.
+
+
+
+
+PART II
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+STRANGE BLOSSOMS AND STRANGE NEW BUDDING
+
+
+Winter lay a long time prostrate on the earth. The men in the mines of
+Tempest, Warrall and Co. came out on strike on a question of the
+rearranging of the working system down below. The distress was not
+awful, for the men were on the whole wise and well-conditioned, but
+there was a dejection over the face of the country-side, and some
+suffered keenly. Everywhere, along the lanes and in the streets,
+loitered gangs of men, unoccupied and spiritless. Week after week went
+on, and the agents of the Miner’s Union held great meetings, and the
+ministers held prayer-meetings, but the strike continued. There was no
+rest. Always the crier’s bell was ringing in the street; always the
+servants of the company were delivering handbills, stating the case
+clearly, and always the people talked and filled the months with
+bitter, and then hopeless, resenting. Schools gave breakfasts, chapels
+gave soup, well-to-do people gave teas—the children enjoyed it. But we,
+who knew the faces of the old men and the privations of the women,
+breathed a cold, disheartening atmosphere of sorrow and trouble.
+
+Determined poaching was carried on in the Squire’s woods and warrens.
+Annable defended his game heroically. One man was at home with a leg
+supposed to be wounded by a fall on the slippery roads—but really, by a
+man-trap in the woods. Then Annable caught two men, and they were
+sentenced to two months’ imprisonment.
+
+On both the lodge gates of Highclose—on our side and on the far
+Eberwich side—were posted notices that trespassers on the drive or in
+the grounds would be liable to punishment. These posters were soon
+mudded over, and fresh ones fixed.
+
+The men loitering on the road by Nethermere, looked angrily at Lettie
+as she passed, in her black furs which Leslie had given her, and their
+remarks were pungent. She heard them, and they burned in her heart.
+From my mother she inherited democratic views, which she now proceeded
+to debate warmly with her lover.
+
+Then she tried to talk to Leslie about the strike. He heard her with
+mild superiority, smiled, and said she did not know. Women jumped to
+conclusions at the first touch of feeling; men must look at a thing all
+round, then make a decision—nothing hasty and impetuous—careful,
+long-thought-out, correct decisions. Women could not be expected to
+understand these things, business was not for them; in fact, their
+mission was above business—etc., etc., Unfortunately Lettie was the
+wrong woman to treat thus.
+
+“So!” said she, with a quiet, hopeless tone of finality.
+
+“There now, you understand, don’t you, Minnehaha, my Laughing Water—So
+laugh again, darling, and don’t worry about these things. We will not
+talk about them any more, eh?”
+
+“No more.”
+
+“No more—that’s right—you are as wise as an angel. Come here—pooh, the
+wood is thick and lonely! Look, there is nobody in the world but us,
+and you are my heaven and earth!”
+
+“And hell?”
+
+“Ah—if you are so cold—how cold you are!—it gives me little shivers
+when you look so—and I am always hot—Lettie!”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“You are cruel! Kiss me—now—No, I don’t want your cheek—kiss me
+yourself. Why don’t you say something?”
+
+“What for? What’s the use of saying anything when there’s nothing
+immediate to say?”
+
+“You are offended!”
+
+“It feels like snow to-day,” she answered.
+
+At last, however, winter began to gather her limbs, to rise, and drift
+with saddened garments northward.
+
+The strike was over. The men had compromised. It was a gentle way of
+telling them they were beaten. But the strike was over.
+
+The birds fluttered and dashed; the catkins on the hazel loosened their
+winter rigidity, and swung soft tassels. All through the day sounded
+long, sweet whistlings from the brushes; then later, loud, laughing
+shouts of bird triumph on every hand.
+
+I remember a day when the breast of the hills was heaving in a last
+quick waking sigh, and the blue eyes of the waters opened bright.
+Across the infinite skies of March great rounded masses of cloud had
+sailed stately all day, domed with a white radiance, softened with
+faint, fleeting shadows as if companies of angels were gently sweeping
+past; adorned with resting, silken shadows like those of a full white
+breast. All day the clouds had moved on to their vast destination, and
+I had clung to the earth yearning and impatient. I took a brush and
+tried to paint them, then I raged at myself. I wished that in all the
+wild valley where cloud shadows were travelling like pilgrims,
+something would call me forth from my rooted loneliness. Through all
+the grandeur of the white and blue day, the poised cloud masses swung
+their slow flight, and left me unnoticed.
+
+At evening they were all gone, and the empty sky, like a blue bubble
+over us, swam on its pale bright rims.
+
+Leslie came, and asked his betrothed to go out with him, under the
+darkening wonderful bubble. She bade me accompany her, and, to escape
+from myself, I went.
+
+It was warm in the shelter of the wood and in the crouching hollows of
+the hills. But over the slanting shoulders of the hills the wind swept,
+whipping the redness into our faces.
+
+“Get me some of those alder catkins, Leslie,” said Lettie, as we came
+down to the stream.
+
+“Yes, those, where they hang over the brook. They are ruddy like new
+blood freshening under the skin. Look, tassels of crimson and gold!”
+She pointed to the dusty hazel catkins mingled with the alder on her
+bosom. Then she began to quote Christina Rossetti’s “A Birthday.”
+
+“I’m glad you came to take me a walk,” she continued—“Doesn’t Strelley
+Mill look pretty? Like a group of orange and scarlet fungi in a fairy
+picture. Do you know, I haven’t been, no, not for quite a long time.
+Shall we call now?”
+
+“The daylight will be gone if we do. It is half past five—more! I saw
+him—the son—the other morning.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“He was carting manure—I made haste by.”
+
+“Did he speak to you—did you look at him?”
+
+“No, he said nothing. I glanced at him—he’s just the same, brick
+colour—stolid. Mind that stone—it rocks. I’m glad you’ve got strong
+boots on.”
+
+“Seeing that I usually wear them——”
+
+She stood poised a moment on a large stone, the fresh spring brook
+hastening towards her, deepening, sidling round her.
+
+“You won’t call and see them, then?” she asked.
+
+“No. I like to hear the brook tinkling, don’t you?” he replied.
+
+“Ah, yes—it’s full of music.”
+
+“Shall we go on?” he said, impatient but submissive.
+
+“I’ll catch up in a minute,” said I.
+
+I went in and found Emily putting some bread into the oven.
+
+“Come out for a walk,” said I.
+
+“Now? Let me tell mother—I was longing——”
+
+She ran and put on her long grey coat and her red tam-o-shanter. As we
+went down the yard, George called to me.
+
+“I’ll come back,” I shouted.
+
+He came to the crew-yard gate to see us off. When we came out onto the
+path, we saw Lettie standing on the top bar of the stile, balancing
+with her hand on Leslie’s head. She saw us, she saw George, and she
+waved to us. Leslie was looking up at her anxiously. She waved again,
+then we could hear her laughing, and telling him excitedly to stand
+still, and steady her while she turned. She turned round, and leaped
+with a great flutter, like a big bird launching, down from the top of
+the stile to the ground and into his arms. Then we climbed the steep
+hill-side—Sunny Bank, that had once shone yellow with wheat, and now
+waved black tattered ranks of thistles where the rabbits ran. We passed
+the little cottages in the hollow scooped out of the hill, and gained
+the highlands that look out over Leicestershire to Charnwood on the
+left, and away into the mountain knob of Derbyshire straight in front
+and towards the right.
+
+The upper road is all grassy, fallen into long disuse. It used to lead
+from the Abbey to the Hall; but now it ends blindly on the hill-brow.
+Half way along is the old White House farm, with its green mounting
+steps mouldering outside. Ladies have mounted here and ridden towards
+the Vale of Belvoir—but now a labourer holds the farm.
+
+We came to the quarries, and looked in at the lime-kilns.
+
+“Let us go right into the wood out of the quarry,” said Leslie. “I have
+not been since I was a little lad.”
+
+“It is trespassing,” said Emily.
+
+“We don’t trespass,” he replied grandiloquently.
+
+So we went along by the hurrying brook, which fell over little cascades
+in its haste, never looking once at the primroses that were glimmering
+all along its banks. We turned aside, and climbed the hill through the
+woods. Velvety green sprigs of dog-mercury were scattered on the red
+soil. We came to the top of a slope, where the wood thinned. As I
+talked to Emily I became dimly aware of a whiteness over the ground.
+She exclaimed with surprise, and I found that I was walking, in the
+first shades of twilight, over clumps of snowdrops. The hazels were
+thin, and only here and there an oak tree uprose. All the ground was
+white with snowdrops, like drops of manna scattered over the red earth,
+on the grey-green clusters of leaves. There was a deep little dell,
+sharp sloping like a cup, and white sprinkling of flowers all the way
+down, with white flowers showing pale among the first inpouring of
+shadow at the bottom. The earth was red and warm, pricked with the
+dark, succulent green of bluebell sheaths, and embroidered with
+grey-green clusters of spears, and many white flowerets. High above,
+above the light tracery of hazel, the weird oaks tangled in the sunset.
+Below, in the first shadows, drooped hosts of little white flowers, so
+silent and sad; it seemed like a holy communion of pure wild things,
+numberless, frail, and folded meekly in the evening light. Other flower
+companies are glad; stately barbaric hordes of bluebells, merry-headed
+cowslip groups, even light, tossing wood-anemones; but snowdrops are
+sad and mysterious. We have lost their meaning. They do not belong to
+us, who ravish them. The girls bent among them, touching them with
+their fingers, and symbolising the yearning which I felt. Folded in the
+twilight, these conquered flowerets are sad like forlorn little friends
+of dryads.
+
+“What do they mean, do you think?” said Lettie in a low voice, as her
+white fingers touched the flowers, and her black furs fell on them.
+
+“There are not so many this year,” said Leslie.
+
+“They remind me of mistletoe, which is never ours, though we wear it,”
+said Emily to me.
+
+“What do you think they say—what do they make you think, Cyril?” Lettie
+repeated.
+
+“I don’t know. Emily says they belong to some old wild lost religion.
+They were the symbol of tears, perhaps, to some strange hearted Druid
+folk before us.”
+
+“More than tears,” said Lettie. “More than tears, they are so still.
+Something out of an old religion, that we have lost. They make me feel
+afraid.”
+
+“What should you have to fear?” asked Leslie.
+
+“If I knew I shouldn’t fear,” she answered. “Look at all the
+snowdrops”—they hung in dim, strange flecks among the dusky
+leaves—“look at them—closed up, retreating, powerless. They belong to
+some knowledge we have lost, that I have lost and that I need. I feel
+afraid. They seem like something in fate. Do you think, Cyril, we can
+lose things off the earth—like mastodons, and those old
+monstrosities—but things that matter—wisdom?”
+
+“It is against my creed,” said I.
+
+“I believe I have lost something,” said she.
+
+“Come,” said Leslie, “don’t trouble with fancies. Come with me to the
+bottom of this cup, and see how strange it will be, with the sky marked
+with branches like a filigree lid.”
+
+She rose and followed him down the steep side of the pit, crying, “Ah,
+you are treading on the flowers.”
+
+“No,” said he, “I am being very careful.”
+
+They sat down together on a fallen tree at the bottom. She leaned
+forward, her fingers wandering white among the shadowed grey spaces of
+leaves, plucking, as if it were a rite, flowers here and there. He
+could not see her face.
+
+“Don’t you care for me?” he asked softly.
+
+“You?”—she sat up and looked at him, and laughed strangely. “You do not
+seem real to me,” she replied, in a strange voice.
+
+For some time they sat thus, both bowed and silent. Birds “skirred” off
+from the bushes, and Emily looked up with a great start as a quiet,
+sardonic voice said above us:
+
+“A dove-cot, my eyes if it ain’t! It struck me I ’eered a cooin’, an’
+’ere’s th’ birds. Come on, sweethearts, it’s th’ wrong place for
+billin’ an’ cooin’, in th’ middle o’ these ’ere snowdrops. Let’s ’ave
+yer names, come on.”
+
+“Clear off, you fool!” answered Leslie from below, jumping up in anger.
+
+We all four turned and looked at the keeper. He stood in the rim of
+light, darkly; fine, powerful form, menacing us. He did not move, but
+like some malicious Pan looked down on us and said:
+
+“Very pretty—pretty! Two—and two makes four. ’Tis true, two and two
+makes four. Come on, come on out o’ this ’ere bridal bed, an’ let’s
+’ave a look at yer.”
+
+“Can’t you use your eyes, you fool,” replied Leslie, standing up and
+helping Lettie with her furs. “At any rate you can see there are ladies
+here.”
+
+“Very sorry, Sir! You can’t tell a lady from a woman at this distance
+at dusk. Who may you be, Sir?”
+
+“Clear out! Come along, Lettie, you can’t stay here now.”
+
+They climbed into the light.
+
+“Oh, very sorry, Mr. Tempest—when yer look down on a man he never looks
+the same. I thought it was some young fools come here dallyin’—”
+
+“Damn you—shut up!” exclaimed Leslie—“I beg your pardon, Lettie. Will
+you have my arm?”
+
+They looked very elegant, the pair of them. Lettie was wearing a long
+coat which fitted close; she had a small hat whose feathers flushed
+straight back with her hair.
+
+The keeper looked at them. Then, smiling, he went down the dell with
+great strides, and returned, saying, “Well, the lady might as well take
+her gloves.”
+
+She took them from him, shrinking to Leslie. Then she started, and
+said:
+
+“Let me fetch my flowers.”
+
+She ran for the handful of snowdrops that lay among the roots of the
+trees. We all watched her.
+
+“Sorry I made such a mistake—a lady!” said Annable. “But I’ve nearly
+forgot the sight o’ one—save the squire’s daughters, who are never out
+o’ nights.”
+
+“I should think you never have seen many—unless—! Have you ever been a
+groom?”
+
+“No groom but a bridegroom, Sir, and then I think I’d rather groom a
+horse than a lady, for I got well bit—if you will excuse me, Sir.”
+
+“And you deserved it—no doubt.”
+
+“I got it—an’ I wish you better luck, Sir. One’s more a man here in th’
+wood, though, than in my lady’s parlour, it strikes me.”
+
+“A lady’s parlour!” laughed Leslie, indulgent in his amusement at the
+facetious keeper.
+
+“Oh, yes! ‘Will you walk into my parlour——’”
+
+“You’re very smart for a keeper.”
+
+“Oh, yes Sir—I was once a lady’s man. But I’d rather watch th’ rabbits
+an’ th’ birds; an’ it’s easier breeding brats in th’ Kennels than in
+th’ town.”
+
+“They are yours, are they?” said I.
+
+“You know ’em, do you, Sir? Aren’t they a lovely little litter?—aren’t
+they a pretty bag o’ ferrets?—natural as weasels—that’s what I said
+they should be—bred up like a bunch o’ young foxes, to run as they
+would.”
+
+Emily had joined Lettie, and they kept aloof from the man they
+instinctively hated.
+
+“They’ll get nicely trapped, one of these days,” said I.
+
+“They’re natural—they can fend for themselves like wild beasts do,” he
+replied, grinning.
+
+“You are not doing your duty, it strikes me,” put in Leslie
+sententiously.
+
+The man laughed.
+
+“Duties of parents!—tell me, I’ve need of it. I’ve nine—that is eight,
+and one not far off. She breeds well, the ow’d lass—one every two
+years—nine in fourteen years—done well, hasn’t she?”
+
+“You’ve done pretty badly, I think.”
+
+“I—why? It’s natural! When a man’s more than nature he’s a devil. Be a
+good animal, says I, whether it’s man or woman. You, Sir, a good
+natural male animal; the lady there—a female un—that’s proper as long
+as yer enjoy it.”
+
+“And what then?”
+
+“Do as th’ animals do. I watch my brats—I let ’em grow. They’re
+beauties, they are—sound as a young ash pole, every one. They shan’t
+learn to dirty themselves wi’ smirking deviltry—not if I can help it.
+They can be like birds, or weasels, or vipers, or squirrels, so long as
+they ain’t human rot, that’s what I say.”
+
+“It’s one way of looking at things,” said Leslie.
+
+“Ay. Look at the women looking at us. I’m something between a bull and
+a couple of worms stuck together, I am. See that spink!” he raised his
+voice for the girls to hear. “Pretty, isn’t he? What for?—And what for
+do you wear a fancy vest and twist your moustache, Sir! What for, at
+the bottom! Ha—tell a woman not to come in a wood till she can look at
+natural things—she might see something—Good night, Sir.”
+
+He marched off into the darkness.
+
+“Coarse fellow, that,” said Leslie when he had rejoined Lettie, “but
+he’s a character.”
+
+“He makes you shudder,” she replied. “But yet you are interested in
+him. I believe he has a history.”
+
+“He seems to lack something,” said Emily.
+
+“I thought him rather a fine fellow,” said I.
+
+“Splendidly built fellow, but callous—no soul,” remarked Leslie,
+dismissing the question.
+
+“No,” assented Emily. “No soul—and among the snowdrops.”
+
+Lettie was thoughtful, and I smiled.
+
+It was a beautiful evening, still, with red, shaken clouds in the west.
+The moon in heaven was turning wistfully back to the east. Dark purple
+woods lay around us, painting out the distance. The near, wild, ruined
+land looked sad and strange under the pale afterglow. The turf path was
+fine and springy.
+
+“Let us run!” said Lettie, and joining hands we raced wildly along,
+with a flutter and a breathless laughter, till we were happy and
+forgetful. When we stopped we exclaimed at once, “Hark!”
+
+“A child!” said Lettie.
+
+“At the Kennels,” said I.
+
+We hurried forward. From the house came the mad yelling and yelping of
+children, and the wild hysterical shouting of a woman.
+
+“Tha’ little devil—tha’ little devil—tha’ shanna—that tha’ shanna!” and
+this was accompanied by the hollow sound of blows, and a pandemonium of
+howling. We rushed in, and found the woman in a tousled frenzy
+belabouring a youngster with an enamelled pan. The lad was rolled up
+like a young hedgehog—the woman held him by the foot, and like a flail
+came the hollow utensil thudding on his shoulders and back. He lay in
+the firelight and howled, while scattered in various groups, with the
+leaping firelight twinkling over their tears and their open mouths,
+were the other children, crying too. The mother was in a state of
+hysteria; her hair streamed over her face, and her eyes were fixed in a
+stare of overwrought irritation. Up and down went her long arm like a
+windmill sail. I ran and held it. When she could hit no more, the woman
+dropped the pan from her nerveless hand, and staggered, trembling, to
+the squab. She looked desperately weary and fordone—she clasped and
+unclasped her hands continually. Emily hushed the children, while
+Lettie hushed the mother, holding her hard, cracked hands as she swayed
+to and fro. Gradually the mother became still, and sat staring in front
+of her; then aimlessly she began to finger the jewels on Lettie’s
+finger.
+
+Emily was bathing the cheek of a little girl, who lifted up her voice
+and wept loudly when she saw the speck of blood on the cloth. But
+presently she became quiet too, and Emily could empty the water from
+the late instrument of castigation, and at last light the lamp.
+
+I found Sam under the table in a little heap. I put out my hand for
+him, and he wriggled away, like a lizard, into the passage. After a
+while I saw him in a corner, lying whimpering with little savage cries
+of pain. I cut off his retreat and captured him, bearing him struggling
+into the kitchen. Then, weary with pain, he became passive.
+
+We undressed him, and found his beautiful white body all discoloured
+with bruises. The mother began to sob again, with a chorus of babies.
+The girls tried to soothe the weeping, while I rubbed butter into the
+silent, wincing boy. Then his mother caught him in her arms, and kissed
+him passionately, and cried with abandon. The boy let himself be
+kissed—then he too began to sob, till his little body was all shaken.
+They folded themselves together, the poor dishevelled mother and the
+half-naked boy, and wept themselves still. Then she took him to bed,
+and the girls helped the other little ones into their nightgowns, and
+soon the house was still.
+
+“I canna manage ’em, I canna,” said the mother mournfully. “They
+growin’ beyont me—I dunna know what to do wi’ ’em. An’ niver a ’and
+does ’e lift ter ’elp me—no—’e cares not a thing for me—not a
+thing—nowt but makes a mock an’ a sludge o’ me.”
+
+“Ah, baby!” said Lettie, setting the bonny boy on his feet, and holding
+up his trailing nightgown behind him, “do you want to walk to your
+mother—go then—Ah!”
+
+The child, a handsome little fellow of some sixteen months, toddled
+across to his mother, waving his hands as he went, and laughing, while
+his large hazel eyes glowed with pleasure. His mother caught him,
+pushed the silken brown hair back from his forehead, and laid his cheek
+against hers.
+
+“Ah!” she said, “Tha’s got a funny Dad, tha’ has, not like another man,
+no, my duckie. ’E’s got no ’art ter care for nobody, ’e ’asna, ma
+pigeon—no,—lives like a stranger to his own flesh an’ blood.”
+
+The girl with the wounded cheek had found comfort in Leslie. She was
+seated on his knee, looking at him with solemn blue eyes, her solemnity
+increased by the quaint round head, whose black hair was cut short.
+
+“’S my chalk, yes it is, ’n our Sam says as it’s ’issen, an’ ’e ta’es
+it and marks it all gone, so I wouldna gie ’t ’im,”—she clutched in her
+fat little hand a piece of red chalk. “My Dad gen it me, ter mark my
+dolly’s face red, what’s on’y wood—I’ll show yer.”
+
+She wriggled down, and holding up her trailing gown with one hand,
+trotted to a corner piled with a child’s rubbish, and hauled out a
+hideous carven caricature of a woman, and brought it to Leslie. The
+face of the object was streaked with red.
+
+“’Ere sh’ is, my dolly, what my Dad make me—’er name’s Lady Mima.”
+
+“Is it?” said Lettie, “and are these her cheeks? She’s not pretty, is
+she?”
+
+“Um—sh’ is. My Dad says sh’ is—like a lady.”
+
+“And he gave you her rouge, did he?”
+
+“Rouge!” she nodded.
+
+“And you wouldn’t let Sam have it?”
+
+“No—an’ mi mower says, Dun gie ’t ’im’—’n ’e bite me.”
+
+“What will your father say?”
+
+“Me Dad?”
+
+“’E’d nobbut laugh,” put in the mother, “an’ say as a bite’s bett’r’n a
+kiss.”
+
+“Brute!” said Leslie feelingly.
+
+“No, but ’e never laid a finger on ’em—nor me neither. But ’e’s not
+like another man—niver tells yer nowt. He’s more a stranger to me this
+day than ’e wor th’ day I first set eyes on ’im.”
+
+“Where was that?” asked Lettie.
+
+“When I wor a lass at th’ ’All—an’ ’im a new man come—fair a gentleman,
+an’ a, an’ a! An even now can read an’ talk like a gentleman—but ’e
+tells me nothing—Oh no—what am I in ’is eyes but a sludge bump?—’e’s
+above me, ’e is, an’ above ’is own childer. God a-mercy, ’e ’ll be in
+in a minute. Come on ’ere!”
+
+She hustled the children to bed, swept the litter into a corner, and
+began to lay the table. The cloth was spotless, and she put him a
+silver spoon in the saucer.
+
+We had only just got out of the house when he drew near. I saw his
+massive figure in the doorway, and the big, prolific woman moved
+subserviently about the room.
+
+“Hullo, Proserpine—had visitors?”
+
+“I never axed ’em—they come in ’earin’ th’ childer cryin’. I never
+encouraged ’em——”
+
+We hurried away into the night. “Ah, it’s always the woman bears the
+burden,” said Lettie bitterly.
+
+“If he’d helped her—wouldn’t she have been a fine woman now—splendid?
+But she’s dragged to bits. Men are brutes—and marriage just gives scope
+to them,” said Emily.
+
+“Oh, you wouldn’t take that as a fair sample of marriage,” replied
+Leslie. “Think of you and me, Minnehaha.”
+
+“Ay.”
+
+“Oh—I meant to tell you—what do you think of Greymede old vicarage for
+us?”
+
+“It’s a lovely old place!” exclaimed Lettie, and we passed out of
+hearing.
+
+We stumbled over the rough path. The moon was bright, and we stepped
+apprehensively on the shadows thrown from the trees, for they lay so
+black and substantial. Occasionally a moonbeam would trace out a suave
+white branch that the rabbits had gnawed quite bare in the hard winter.
+We came out of the woods into the full heavens. The northern sky was
+full of a gush of green light; in front, eclipsed Orion leaned over his
+bed, and the moon followed.
+
+“When the northern lights are up,” said Emily, “I feel so strange—half
+eerie—they do fill you with awe, don’t they?”
+
+“Yes,” said I, “they make you wonder, and look, and expect something.”
+
+“What do you expect?” she said softly, and looked up, and saw me
+smiling, and she looked down again, biting her lips.
+
+When we came to the parting of the roads, Emily begged them just to
+step into the mill—just for a moment—and Lettie consented.
+
+The kitchen window was uncurtained, and the blind, as usual, was not
+drawn. We peeped in through the cords of budding honeysuckle. George
+and Alice were sitting at the table playing chess; the mother was
+mending a coat, and the father, as usual, was reading. Alice was
+talking quietly, and George was bent on the game. His arms lay on the
+table.
+
+We made a noise at the door, and entered. George rose heavily, shook
+hands, and sat down again.
+
+“Hullo, Lettie Beardsall, you are a stranger,” said Alice. “Are you
+_so_ much engaged?”
+
+“Ay—we don’t see much of her nowadays,” added the father in his jovial
+way.
+
+“And isn’t she a toff, in her fine hat and furs and snowdrops. Look at
+her, George, you’ve never looked to see what a toff she is.”
+
+He raised his eyes, and looked at her apparel and at her flowers, but
+not at her face:
+
+“Ay, she is fine,” he said, and returned to the chess.
+
+“We have been gathering snowdrops,” said Lettie, fingering the flowers
+in her bosom.
+
+“They are pretty—give me some, will you?” said Alice, holding out her
+hand. Lettie gave her the flowers.
+
+“Check!” said George deliberately.
+
+“Get out!” replied his opponent, “I’ve got some snowdrops—don’t they
+suit me, an innocent little soul like me? Lettie won’t wear them—she’s
+not meek and mild and innocent like me. Do you want some?”
+
+“If you like—what for?”
+
+“To make you pretty, of course, and to show you an innocent little
+meekling.”
+
+“You’re in check,” he said.
+
+“Where can you wear them?—there’s only your shirt. Aw!—there!”—she
+stuck a few flowers in his ruffled black hair—“Look, Lettie, isn’t he
+sweet?”
+
+Lettie laughed with a strained little laugh:
+
+“He’s like Bottom and the ass’s head,” she said.
+
+“Then I’m Titania—don’t I make a lovely fairy queen, Bully Bottom?—and
+who’s jealous Oberon?”
+
+“He reminds me of that man in Hedda Gabler—crowned with vine leaves—oh,
+yes, vine leaves,” said Emily.
+
+“How’s your mare’s sprain, Mr. Tempest?” George asked, taking no notice
+of the flowers in his hair.
+
+“Oh—she’ll soon be all right, thanks.”
+
+“Ah—George told me about it,” put in the father, and he held Leslie in
+conversation.
+
+“Am I in check, George?” said Alice, returning to the game. She knitted
+her brows and cogitated:
+
+“Pooh!” she said, “that’s soon remedied!”—she moved her piece, and said
+triumphantly, “Now, Sir!”
+
+He surveyed the game, and, with deliberation moved. Alice pounced on
+him; with a leap of her knight she called “check!”
+
+“I didn’t see it—you may have the game now,” he said.
+
+“Beaten, my boy!—don’t crow over a woman any more. Stale-mate—with
+flowers in your hair!”
+
+He put his hand to his head, and felt among his hair, and threw the
+flowers on the table.
+
+“Would you believe it——!” said the mother, coming into the room from
+the dairy.
+
+“What?” we all asked.
+
+“Nickie Ben’s been and eaten the sile cloth. Yes! When I went to wash
+it, there sat Nickie Ben gulping, and wiping the froth off his
+whiskers.”
+
+George laughed loudly and heartily. He laughed till he was tired.
+Lettie looked and wondered when he would be done.
+
+“I imagined,” he gasped, “how he’d feel with half a yard of muslin
+creeping down his throttle.”
+
+This laughter was most incongruous. He went off into another burst.
+Alice laughed too—it was easy to infect her with laughter. Then the
+father began—and in walked Nickie Ben, stepping disconsolately—we all
+roared again, till the rafters shook. Only Lettie looked impatiently
+for the end. George swept his bare arms across the table, and the
+scattered little flowers fell broken to the ground.
+
+“Oh—what a shame!” exclaimed Lettie.
+
+“What?” said he, looking round. “Your flowers? Do you feel sorry for
+them?—you’re too tender hearted; isn’t she, Cyril?”
+
+“Always was—for dumb animals, and things,” said I.
+
+“Don’t you wish you was a little dumb animal, Georgie?” said Alice.
+
+He smiled, putting away the chess-men.
+
+“Shall we go, dear?” said Lettie to Leslie.
+
+“If you are ready,” he replied, rising with alacrity.
+
+“I am tired,” she said plaintively.
+
+He attended to her with little tender solicitations.
+
+“Have we walked too far?” he asked.
+
+“No, it’s not that. No—it’s the snowdrops, and the man, and the
+children—and everything. I feel just a bit exhausted.”
+
+She kissed Alice, and Emily, and the mother.
+
+“Good-night, Alice,” she said. “It’s not altogether my fault we’re
+strangers. You know—really—I’m just the same—really. Only you imagine,
+and then what can I do?”
+
+She said farewell to George, and looked at him through a quiver of
+suppressed tears.
+
+George was somewhat flushed with triumph over Lettie: She had gone home
+with tears shaken from her eyes unknown to her lover; at the farm
+George laughed with Alice.
+
+We escorted Alice home to Eberwich—“Like a blooming little monkey
+dangling from two boughs,” as she put it, when we swung her along on
+our arms. We laughed and said many preposterous things. George wanted
+to kiss her at parting, but she tipped him under the chin and said,
+“Sweet!” as one does to a canary. Then she laughed with her tongue
+between her teeth, and ran indoors.
+
+“She is a little devil,” said he.
+
+We took the long way home by Greymede, and passed the dark schools.
+
+“Come on,” said he, “let’s go in the ‘Ram Inn,’ and have a look at my
+cousin Meg.”
+
+It was half past ten when he marched me across the road and into the
+sanded passage of the little inn. The place had been an important farm
+in the days of George’s grand-uncle, but since his decease it had
+declined, under the governance of the widow and a man-of-all-work. The
+old grand-aunt was propped and supported by a splendid grand-daughter.
+The near kin of Meg were all in California, so she, a bonny delightful
+girl of twenty-four, stayed near her grand-ma.
+
+As we tramped grittily down the passage, the red head of Bill poked out
+of the bar, and he said as he recognised George:
+
+“Good-ev’nin’—go forward—’er’s non abed yit.”
+
+We went forward, and unlatched the kitchen door. The great-aunt was
+seated in her little, round-backed armchair, sipping her “night-cap.”
+
+“Well, George, my lad!” she cried, in her querulous voice. “Tha’ niver
+says it’s thai, does ter? That’s com’n for summat, for sure, else what
+brings thee ter see me?”
+
+“No,” he said. “Ah’n com ter see thee, nowt else. Wheer’s Meg?”
+
+“Ah!—Ha—Ha—Ah!—Me, did ter say?—come ter see me?—Ha—wheer’s Meg!—an’
+who’s this young gentleman?”
+
+I was formally introduced, and shook the clammy corded hand of the old
+lady.
+
+“Tha’ looks delikit,” she observed, shaking her cap and its scarlet
+geraniums sadly: “Cum now, sit thee down, an’ dunna look so long o’ th’
+leg.”
+
+I sat down on the sofa, on the cushions covered with blue and red
+checks. The room was very hot, and I stared about uncomfortably. The
+old lady sat peering at nothing, in reverie. She was a hard-visaged,
+bosomless dame, clad in thick black cloth-like armour, and wearing an
+immense twisted gold brooch in the lace at her neck.
+
+We heard heavy, quick footsteps above.
+
+“Er’s commin’,” remarked the old lady, rousing from her apathy. The
+footsteps came downstairs—quickly, then cautiously round the bend. Meg
+appeared in the doorway. She started with surprise, saying:
+
+“Well, I ’eered sumbody, but I never thought it was you.” More colour
+still flamed into her glossy cheeks, and she smiled in her fresh, frank
+way. I think I have never seen a woman who had more physical charm;
+there was a voluptuous fascination in her every outline and movement;
+one never listened to the words that came from her lips, one watched
+the ripe motion of those red fruits.
+
+“Get ’em a drop o’ whiskey, Meg—you’ll ’a’e a drop?”
+
+I declined firmly, but did not escape.
+
+“Nay,” declared the old dame. “I s’ll ha’e none o’ thy no’s. Should ter
+like it ’ot?—Say th’ word, an’ tha’ ’as it.”
+
+I did not say the word.
+
+“Then gi’e ’im claret,” pronounced my hostess, “though it’s
+thin-bellied stuff ter go to ter bed on”—and claret it was.
+
+Meg went out again to see about closing. The grand-aunt sighed, and
+sighed again, for no perceptible reason but the whiskey.
+
+“It’s well you’ve come ter see me now,” she moaned, “for you’ll none
+’a’e a chance next time you come’n;—No—I’m all gone but my cap——” She
+shook that geraniumed erection, and I wondered what sardonic fate left
+it behind.
+
+“An’ I’m forced ter say it, I s’ll be thankful to be gone,” she added,
+after a few sighs.
+
+This weariness of the flesh was touching. The cruel truth is, however,
+that the old lady clung to life like a louse to a pig’s back. Dying,
+she faintly, but emphatically declared herself, “a bit better—a bit
+better. I s’ll be up to-morrow.”
+
+“I should a gone before now,” she continued, “but for that blessed
+wench—I canna abear to think o’ leavin ’er—come drink up, my lad, drink
+up—nay, tha’ ’rt nobbut young yet, tha’ ’rt none topped up wi’ a
+thimbleful.”
+
+I took whiskey in preference to the acrid stuff.
+
+“Ay,” resumed the grand-aunt. “I canna go in peace till ’er’s
+settled—an’ ’er’s that tickle o’ choosin’. Th’ right sort ’asn’t th’
+gumption ter ax’ er.”
+
+She sniffed, and turned scornfully to her glass. George grinned and
+looked conscious; as he swallowed a gulp of whiskey it crackled in his
+throat. The sound annoyed the old lady.
+
+“Tha’ might be scar’d at summat,” she said. “Tha’ niver ’ad six drops
+o’ spunk in thee.”
+
+She turned again with a sniff to her glass. He frowned with irritation,
+half filled his glass with liquor, and drank again.
+
+“I dare bet as tha’ niver kissed a wench in thy life—not proper”—and
+she tossed the last drops of her toddy down her skinny throat.
+
+Here Meg came along the passage.
+
+“Come, gran’ma,” she said. “I’m sure it’s time as you was in bed—come
+on.”
+
+“Sit thee down an’ drink a drop wi’s—it’s not ivry night as we ’a’e
+cumpny.”
+
+“No, let me take you to bed—I’m sure you must be ready.”
+
+“Sit thee down ’ere, I say, an’ get thee a drop o’ port. Come—no
+argy-bargyin’.”
+
+Meg fetched more glasses and a decanter. I made a place for her between
+me and George. We all had port wine. Meg, naïve and unconscious, waited
+on us deliciously. Her cheeks gleamed like satin when she laughed, save
+when the dimples held the shadow. Her suave, tawny neck was bare and
+bewitching. She turned suddenly to George as he asked her a question,
+and they found their faces close together. He kissed her, and when she
+started back, jumped and kissed her neck with warmth.
+
+“Là—là—dy—dà—là—dy—dà—dy—dà,” cried the old woman in delight, and she
+clutched her wineglass.
+
+“Come on—chink!” she cried, “all together—chink to him!”
+
+We four chinked and drank. George poured wine in a tumbler, and drank
+it off. He was getting excited, and all the energy and passion that
+normally were bound down by his caution and self-instinct began to
+flame out.
+
+“Here, aunt!” said he, lifting his tumbler, “here’s to what you
+want—you know!”
+
+“I knowed tha’ wor as spunky as ony on’em,” she cried. “Tha’ nobbut
+wanted warmin’ up. I’ll see as you’re all right. It’s a bargain. Chink
+again, ivrybody.”
+
+“A bargain,” said he before he put his lips to the glass.
+
+“What bargain’s that?” said Meg.
+
+The old lady laughed loudly and winked at George, who, with his lips
+wet with wine, got up and kissed Meg soundly, saying:
+
+“There it is—that seals it.”
+
+Meg wiped her face with her big pinafore, and seemed uncomfortable.
+
+“Aren’t you comin’, gran’ma?” she pleaded.
+
+“Eh, tha’ wants ter ’orry me off—what’s thai say, George—a deep un,
+isna ’er?”
+
+“Dunna go, Aunt, dunna be hustled off.”
+
+“Tush—Pish,” snorted the old lady. “Yah, tha’ ’rt a slow un, an’ no
+mistakes! Get a candle, Meg, I’m ready.”
+
+Meg brought a brass bedroom candlestick. Bill brought in the money in a
+tin box, and delivered it into the hands of the old lady.
+
+“Go thy ways to bed now, lad,” said she to the ugly, wizened
+serving-man. He sat in a corner and pulled off his boots.
+
+“Come an’ kiss me good-night, George,” said the old woman—and as he did
+so she whispered in his ear, whereat he laughed loudly. She poured
+whiskey into her glass and called to the serving-man to drink it. Then,
+pulling herself up heavily, she leaned on Meg and went upstairs. She
+had been a big woman, one could see, but now her shapeless, broken
+figure looked pitiful beside Meg’s luxuriant form. We heard them
+slowly, laboriously climb the stairs. George sat pulling his moustache
+and half-smiling; his eyes were alight with that peculiar childish look
+they had when he was experiencing new and doubtful sensations. Then he
+poured himself more whiskey.
+
+“I say, steady!” I admonished.
+
+“What for!” he replied, indulging himself like a spoiled child and
+laughing.
+
+Bill, who had sat for some time looking at the hole in his stocking,
+drained his glass, and with a sad “Good-night,” creaked off upstairs.
+
+Presently Meg came down, and I rose and said we must be going.
+
+“I’ll just come an’ lock the door after you,” said she, standing
+uneasily waiting.
+
+George got up. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself; then
+he got his balance, and, with his eyes on Meg, said:
+
+“’Ere!” he nodded his head to her. “Come here, I want ter ax thee
+sumwhat.”
+
+She looked at him, half-smiling, half doubtful. He put his arm round
+her and looking down into her eyes, with his face very close to hers,
+said:
+
+“Let’s ha’e a kiss.”
+
+Quite unresisting she yielded him her mouth, looking at him intently
+with her bright brown eyes. He kissed her, and pressed her closely to
+him.
+
+“I’m going to marry thee,” he said.
+
+“Go on!” she replied, softly, half glad, half doubtful.
+
+“I am an’ all,” he repeated, pressing her more tightly to him.
+
+I went down the passage, and stood in the open doorway looking out into
+the night. It seemed a long time. Then I heard the thin voice of the
+old woman at the top of the stairs:
+
+“Meg! Meg! Send ’im off now. Come on!”
+
+In the silence that followed there was a murmur of voices, and then
+they came into the passage.
+
+“Good-night, my lad, good luck to thee!” cried the voice like a ghoul
+from upper regions.
+
+He kissed his betrothed a rather hurried good-night at the door.
+
+“Good-night,” she replied softly, watching him retreat. Then we heard
+her shoot the heavy bolts.
+
+“You know,” he began, and he tried to clear his throat. His voice was
+husky and strangulated with excitement. He tried again:
+
+“You know—she—she’s a clinker.”
+
+I did not reply, but he took no notice.
+
+“Damn!” he ejaculated. “What did I let her go for!”
+
+We walked along in silence—his excitement abated somewhat.
+
+“It’s the way she swings her body—an’ the curves as she stands. It’s
+when you look at her—you feel—you know.”
+
+I suppose I knew, but it was unnecessary to say so.
+
+“You know—if ever I dream in the night—of women—you know—it’s always
+Meg; she seems to look so soft, and to curve her body——”
+
+Gradually his feet began to drag. When we came to the place where the
+colliery railway crossed the road, he stumbled, and pitched forward,
+only just recovering himself. I took hold of his arm.
+
+“Good Lord, Cyril, am I drunk?” he said.
+
+“Not quite,” said I.
+
+“No,” he muttered, “couldn’t be.”
+
+But his feet dragged again, and he began to stagger from side to side.
+I took hold of his arm. He murmured angrily—then, subsiding again,
+muttered, with slovenly articulation:
+
+“I—I feel fit to drop with sleep.”
+
+Along the dead, silent roadway, and through the uneven blackness of the
+wood, we lurched and stumbled. He was very heavy and difficult to
+direct. When at last we came to the brook we splashed straight through
+the water. I urged him to walk steadily and quietly across the yard. He
+did his best, and we made a fairly still entry into the farm. He
+dropped with all his weight on the sofa, and leaning down, began to
+unfasten his leggings. In the midst of his fumblings he fell asleep,
+and I was afraid he would pitch forward on to his head. I took off his
+leggings and his wet boots and his collar. Then, as I was pushing and
+shaking him awake to get off his coat, I heard a creaking on the
+stairs, and my heart sank, for I thought it was his mother. But it was
+Emily, in her long white nightgown. She looked at us with great dark
+eyes of terror, and whispered: “What’s the matter?”
+
+I shook my head and looked at him. His head had dropped down on his
+chest again.
+
+“Is he hurt?” she asked, her voice becoming audible, and dangerous. He
+lifted his head, and looked at her with heavy, angry eyes.
+
+“George!” she said sharply, in bewilderment and fear. His eyes seemed
+to contract evilly.
+
+“Is he drunk?” she whispered, shrinking away, and looking at me. “Have
+you made him drunk—you?”
+
+I nodded. I too was angry.
+
+“Oh, if mother gets up! I must get him to bed! Oh, how could you!”
+
+This sibilant whispering irritated him, and me. I tugged at his coat.
+He snarled incoherently, and swore. She caught her breath. He looked at
+her sharply, and I was afraid he would wake himself into a rage.
+
+“Go upstairs!” I whispered to her. She shook her head. I could see him
+taking heavy breaths, and the veins of his neck were swelling. I was
+furious at her disobedience.
+
+“Go at once,” I said fiercely, and she went, still hesitating and
+looking back.
+
+I had hauled off his coat and waistcoat, so I let him sink again into
+stupidity while I took off my boots. Then I got him to his feet, and,
+walking behind him, impelled him slowly upstairs. I lit a candle in his
+bedroom. There was no sound from the other rooms. So I undressed him,
+and got him in bed at last, somehow. I covered him up and put over him
+the calf-skin rug, because the night was cold. Almost immediately he
+began to breathe heavily. I dragged him over to his side, and pillowed
+his head comfortably. He looked like a tired boy, asleep.
+
+I stood still, now I felt myself alone, and looked round. Up to the low
+roof rose the carven pillars of dark mahogany; there was a chair by the
+bed, and a little yellow chest of drawers by the windows, that was all
+the furniture, save the calf-skin rug on the floor. In the drawers I
+noticed a book. It was a copy of Omar Khayyam, that Lettie had given
+him in her Khayyam days, a little shilling book with coloured
+illustrations.
+
+I blew out the candle, when I had looked at him again. As I crept on to
+the landing, Emily peeped from her room, whispering, “Is he in bed?”
+
+I nodded, and whispered good-night. Then I went home, heavily.
+
+After the evening at the farm, Lettie and Leslie drew closer together.
+They eddied unevenly down the little stream of courtship, jostling and
+drifting together and apart. He was unsatisfied and strove with every
+effort to bring her close to him, submissive. Gradually she yielded,
+and submitted to him. She folded round her and him the snug curtain of
+the present, and they sat like children playing a game behind the
+hangings of an old bed. She shut out all distant outlooks, as an Arab
+unfolds his tent and conquers the mystery and space of the desert. So
+she lived gleefully in a little tent of present pleasures and fancies.
+
+Occasionally, only occasionally, she would peep from her tent into the
+out space. Then she sat poring over books, and nothing would be able to
+draw her away; or she sat in her room looking out of the window for
+hours together. She pleaded headaches; mother said liver; he, angry
+like a spoilt child denied his wish, declared it moodiness and
+perversity.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+A SHADOW IN SPRING
+
+
+With spring came trouble. The Saxtons declared they were being bitten
+off the estate by rabbits. Suddenly, in a fit of despair, the father
+bought a gun. Although he knew that the Squire would not for one moment
+tolerate the shooting of that manna, the rabbits, yet he was out in the
+first cold morning twilight banging away. At first he but scared the
+brutes, and brought Annable on the scene; then, blooded by the use of
+the weapon, he played havoc among the furry beasts, bringing home some
+eight or nine couples.
+
+George entirely approved of this measure; it rejoiced him even; yet he
+had never had the initiative to begin the like himself, or even to urge
+his father to it. He prophesied trouble, and possible loss of the farm.
+It disturbed him somewhat, to think they must look out for another
+place, but he postponed the thought of the evil day till the time
+should be upon him.
+
+A vendetta was established between the Mill and the keeper, Annable.
+The latter cherished his rabbits:
+
+“Call ’em vermin!” he said. “I only know one sort of vermin—and that’s
+the talkin sort.” So he set himself to thwart and harass the rabbit
+slayers.
+
+It was about this time I cultivated the acquaintance of the keeper. All
+the world hated him—to the people in the villages he was like a devil
+of the woods. Some miners had sworn vengeance on him for having caused
+their committal to gaol. But he had a great attraction for me; his
+magnificent physique, his great vigour and vitality, and his swarthy,
+gloomy face drew me.
+
+He was a man of one idea:—that all civilisation was the painted fungus
+of rottenness. He hated any sign of culture. I won his respect one
+afternoon when he found me trespassing in the woods because I was
+watching some maggots at work in a dead rabbit. That led us to a
+discussion of life. He was a thorough materialist—he scorned religion
+and all mysticism. He spent his days sleeping, making intricate traps
+for weasels and men, putting together a gun, or doing some amateur
+forestry, cutting down timber, splitting it in logs for use in the
+hall, and planting young trees. When he thought, he reflected on the
+decay of mankind—the decline of the human race into folly and weakness
+and rottenness. “Be a good animal, true to your animal instinct,” was
+his motto. With all this, he was fundamentally very unhappy—and he made
+me also wretched. It was this power to communicate his unhappiness that
+made me somewhat dear to him, I think. He treated me as an affectionate
+father treats a delicate son; I noticed he liked to put his hand on my
+shoulder or my knee as we talked; yet withal, he asked me questions,
+and saved his thoughts to tell me, and believed in my knowledge like
+any acolyte.
+
+I went up to the quarry woods one evening in early April, taking a look
+for Annable. I could not find him, however, in the wood. So I left the
+wildlands, and went along by the old red wall of the kitchen garden,
+along the main road as far as the mouldering church which stands high
+on a bank by the road-side, just where the trees tunnel the darkness,
+and the gloom of the highway startles the travellers at noon. Great
+trees growing on the banks suddenly fold over everything at this point
+in the swinging road, and in the obscurity rots the Hall church, black
+and melancholy above the shrinking head of the traveller.
+
+The grassy path to the churchyard was still clogged with decayed
+leaves. The church is abandoned. As I drew near an owl floated softly
+out of the black tower. Grass overgrew the threshold. I pushed open the
+door, grinding back a heap of fallen plaster and rubbish and entered
+the place. In the twilight the pews were leaning in ghostly disorder,
+the prayer-books dragged from their ledges, scattered on the floor in
+the dust and rubble, torn by mice and birds. Birds scuffled in the
+darkness of the roof. I looked up. In the upward well of the tower I
+could see a bell hanging. I stooped and picked up a piece of plaster
+from the ragged confusion of feathers, and broken nests, and remnants
+of dead birds. Up into the vault overhead I tossed pieces of plaster
+until one hit the bell, and it “tonged” out its faint remonstrance.
+There was a rustle of many birds like spirits. I sounded the bell
+again, and dark forms moved with cries of alarm overhead, and something
+fell heavily. I shivered in the dark, evil-smelling place, and hurried
+to get out of doors. I clutched my hands with relief and pleasure when
+I saw the sky above me quivering with the last crystal lights, and the
+lowest red of sunset behind the yew-boles. I drank the fresh air, that
+sparkled with the sound of the blackbirds and thrushes whistling their
+strong bright notes.
+
+I strayed round to where the headstones, from their eminence leaned to
+look on the Hall below, where great windows shone yellow light on to
+the flagged court-yard, and the little fish pool. A stone staircase
+descended from the graveyard to the court, between stone balustrades
+whose pock-marked grey columns still swelled gracefully and with
+dignity, encrusted with lichens. The staircase was filled with ivy and
+rambling roses—impassable. Ferns were unrolling round the big square
+halting place, half way down where the stairs turned.
+
+A peacock, startled from the back premises of the Hall, came flapping
+up the terraces to the churchyard. Then a heavy footstep crossed the
+flags. It was the keeper. I whistled the whistle he knew, and he broke
+his way through the vicious rose-boughs up the stairs. The peacock
+flapped beyond me, on to the neck of an old bowed angel, rough and
+dark, an angel which had long ceased sorrowing for the lost Lucy, and
+had died also. The bird bent its voluptuous neck and peered about. Then
+it lifted up its head and yelled. The sound tore the dark sanctuary of
+twilight. The old grey grass seemed to stir, and I could fancy the
+smothered primroses and violets beneath it waking and gasping for fear.
+
+The keeper looked at me and smiled. He nodded his head towards the
+peacock, saying:
+
+“Hark at that damned thing!”
+
+Again the bird lifted its crested head and gave a cry, at the same time
+turning awkwardly on its ugly legs, so that it showed us the full
+wealth of its tail glimmering like a stream of coloured stars over the
+sunken face of the angel.
+
+“The proud fool!—look at it! Perched on an angel, too, as if it were a
+pedestal for vanity. That’s the soul of a woman—or it’s the devil.”
+
+He was silent for a time, and we watched the great bird moving uneasily
+before us in the twilight.
+
+“That’s the very soul of a lady,” he said, “the very, very soul. Damn
+the thing, to perch on that old angel. I should like to wring its
+neck.”
+
+Again the bird screamed, and shifted awkwardly on its legs; it seemed
+to stretch its beak at us in derision. Annable picked up a piece of sod
+and flung it at the bird, saying:
+
+“Get out, you screeching devil! God!” he laughed. “There must be plenty
+of hearts twisting under here,”—and he stamped on a grave, “when they
+hear that row.”
+
+He kicked another sod from a grave and threw at the big bird. The
+peacock flapped away, over the tombs, down the terraces.
+
+“Just look!” he said, “the miserable brute has dirtied that angel. A
+woman to the end, I tell you, all vanity and screech and defilement.”
+
+He sat down on a vault and lit his pipe. But before he had smoked two
+minutes, it was out again. I had not seen him in a state of
+perturbation before.
+
+“The church,” said I, “is rotten. I suppose they’ll stand all over the
+country like this, soon—with peacocks trailing the graveyards.”
+
+“Ay,” he muttered, taking no notice of me.
+
+“This stone is cold,” I said, rising.
+
+He got up too, and stretched his arms as if he were tired. It was quite
+dark, save for the waxing moon which leaned over the east.
+
+“It is a very fine night,” I said. “Don’t you notice a smell of
+violets?”
+
+“Ay! The moon looks like a woman with child. I wonder what Time’s got
+in her belly.”
+
+“You?” I said. “You don’t expect anything exciting do you?”
+
+“Exciting!—No—about as exciting as this rotten old place—just rot
+off—Oh, my God!—I’m like a good house, built and finished, and left to
+tumble down again with nobody to live in it.”
+
+“Why—what’s up—really?”
+
+He laughed bitterly, saying, “Come and sit down.”
+
+He led me off to a seat by the north door, between two pews, very black
+and silent. There we sat, he putting his gun carefully beside him. He
+remained perfectly still, thinking.
+
+“Whot’s up?” he said at last, “Why—I’ll tell you. I went to
+Cambridge—my father was a big cattle dealer—he died bankrupt while I
+was in college, and I never took my degree. They persuaded me to be a
+parson, and a parson I was.
+
+I went a curate to a little place in Leicestershire—a bonnie place with
+not many people, and a fine old church, and a great rich parsonage. I
+hadn’t overmuch to do, and the rector—he was the son of an Earl—was
+generous. He lent me a horse and would have me hunt like the rest. I
+always think of that place with a smell of honeysuckle while the grass
+is wet in the morning. It was fine, and I enjoyed myself, and did the
+parish work all right. I believe I was pretty good.
+
+A cousin of the rector’s used to come in the hunting season—a Lady
+Crystabel, lady in her own right. The second year I was there she came
+in June. There wasn’t much company, so she used to talk to me—I used to
+read then—and she used to pretend to be so childish and unknowing, and
+would get me telling her things, and talking to her, and I was hot on
+things. We must play tennis together, and ride together, and I must row
+her down the river. She said we were in the wilderness and could do as
+we liked. She made me wear flannels and soft clothes. She was very fine
+and frank and unconventional—ripping, I thought her. All the summer she
+stopped on. I should meet her in the garden early in the morning when I
+came from a swim in the river—it was cleared and deepened on
+purpose—and she’d blush and make me walk with her. I can remember I
+used to stand and dry myself on the bank full where she might see me—I
+was mad on her—and she was madder on me.
+
+We went to some caves in Derbyshire once, and she would wander from the
+rest, and loiter, and, for a game, we played a sort of hide and seek
+with the party. They thought we’d gone, and they went and locked the
+door. Then she pretended to be frightened and clung to me, and said
+what would they think, and hid her face in my coat. I took her and
+kissed her, and we made it up properly. I found out afterwards—she
+actually told me—she’d got the idea from a sloppy French novel—the
+Romance of A Poor Young Man. I was the Poor Young Man.
+
+We got married. She gave me a living she had in her parsonage, and we
+went to live at her Hall. She wouldn’t let me out of her sight.
+Lord!—we were an infatuated couple—and she would choose to view me in
+an aesthetic light. I was Greek statues for her, bless you: Croton,
+Hercules, I don’t know what! She had her own way too much—I let her do
+as she liked with me.
+
+Then gradually she got tired—it took her three years to be really
+glutted with me. I had a physique then—for that matter I have now.”
+
+He held out his arm to me, and bade me try his muscle. I was startled.
+The hard flesh almost filled his sleeve.
+
+“Ah,” he continued, “You don’t know what it is to have the pride of a
+body like mine. But she wouldn’t have children—no, she wouldn’t—said
+she daren’t. That was the root of the difference at first. But she
+cooled down, and if you don’t know the pride of my body you’d never
+know my humiliation. I tried to remonstrate—and she looked simply
+astounded at my cheek. I never got over that amazement.
+
+She began to get souly. A poet got hold of her, and she began to affect
+Burne-Jones—or Waterhouse—it was Waterhouse—she was a lot like one of
+his women—Lady of Shalott, I believe. At any rate, she got souly, and I
+was her animal—son animal—son boeuf. I put up with that for above a
+year. Then I got some servants’ clothes and went.
+
+I was seen in France—then in Australia—though I never left England. I
+was supposed to have died in the bush. She married a young fellow. Then
+I was proved to have died, and I read a little obituary notice on
+myself in a woman’s paper she subscribed to. She wrote it herself—as a
+warning to other young ladies of position not to be seduced by
+plausible “Poor Young Men.”
+
+Now she’s dead. They’ve got the paper—her paper—in the kitchen down
+there, and it’s full of photographs, even an old photo of me—“an
+unfortunate misalliance.” I feel, somehow, as if I were at an end too.
+I thought I’d grown a solid, middle-aged-man, and here I feel sore as I
+did at twenty-six, and I talk as I used to.
+
+One thing—I have got some children, and they’re of a breed as you’d not
+meet anywhere. I was a good animal before everything, and I’ve got some
+children.”
+
+He sat looking up where the big moon swam through the black branches of
+the yew.
+
+“So she’s dead—your poor peacock!” I murmured.
+
+He got up, looking always at the sky, and stretched himself again. He
+was an impressive figure massed in blackness against the moonlight,
+with his arms outspread.
+
+“I suppose,” he said, “it wasn’t all her fault.”
+
+“A white peacock, we will say,” I suggested.
+
+He laughed.
+
+“Go home by the top road, will you!” he said. “I believe there’s
+something on in the bottom wood.”
+
+“All right,” I answered, with a quiver of apprehension.
+
+“Yes, she was fair enough,” he muttered.
+
+“Ay,” said I, rising. I held out my hand from the shadow. I was
+startled myself by the white sympathy it seemed to express, extended
+towards him in the moonlight. He gripped it, and cleaved to me for a
+moment, then he was gone.
+
+I went out of the churchyard feeling a sullen resentment against the
+tousled graves that lay inanimate across my way. The air was heavy to
+breathe, and fearful in the shadow of the great trees. I was glad when
+I came out on the bare white road, and could see the copper lights from
+the reflectors of a pony-cart’s lamps, and could hear the amiable
+chat-chat of the hoofs trotting towards me. I was lonely when they had
+passed.
+
+Over the hill, the big flushed face of the moon poised just above the
+treetops, very majestic, and far off—yet imminent. I turned with swift
+sudden friendliness to the net of elm-boughs spread over my head,
+dotted with soft clusters winsomely. I jumped up and pulled the cool
+soft tufts against my face for company; and as I passed, still I
+reached upward for the touch of this budded gentleness of the trees.
+The wood breathed fragrantly, with a subtle sympathy. The firs softened
+their touch to me, and the larches woke from the barren winter-sleep,
+and put out velvet fingers to caress me as I passed. Only the clean,
+bare branches of the ash stood emblem of the discipline of life. I
+looked down on the blackness where trees filled the quarry and the
+valley bottoms, and it seemed that the world, my own home-world, was
+strange again.
+
+Some four or five days after Annable had talked to me in the
+churchyard, I went out to find him again. It was Sunday morning. The
+larch-wood was afloat with clear, lyric green, and some primroses
+scattered whitely on the edge under the fringing boughs. It was a clear
+morning, as when the latent life of the world begins to vibrate afresh
+in the air. The smoke from the cottage rose blue against the trees, and
+thick yellow against the sky. The fire, it seemed, was only just
+lighted, and the wood-smoke poured out.
+
+Sam appeared outside the house, and looked round. Then he climbed the
+water-trough for a better survey. Evidently unsatisfied, paying slight
+attention to me, he jumped down and went running across the hillside to
+the wood. “He is going for his father,” I said to myself, and I left
+the path to follow him down hill across the waste meadow, crackling the
+blanched stems of last year’s thistles as I went, and stumbling in
+rabbit holes. He reached the wall that ran along the quarry’s edge, and
+was over it in a twinkling.
+
+When I came to the place, I was somewhat nonplussed, for sheer from the
+stone fence, the quarry-side dropped for some twenty or thirty feet,
+piled up with unmortared stones. I looked round—there was a plain dark
+thread down the hillside, which marked a path to this spot, and the
+wall was scored with the marks of heavy boots. Then I looked again down
+the quarry-side, and I saw—how could I have failed to see?—stones
+projecting to make an uneven staircase, such as is often seen in the
+Derbyshire fences. I saw this ladder was well used, so I trusted myself
+to it, and scrambled down, clinging to the face of the quarry wall.
+Once down, I felt pleased with myself for having discovered and used
+the unknown access, and I admired the care and ingenuity of the keeper,
+who had fitted and wedged the long stones into the uncertain pile.
+
+It was warm in the quarry: there the sunshine seemed to thicken and
+sweeten; there the little mounds of overgrown waste were aglow with
+very early dog-violets; there the sparks were coming out on the bits of
+gorse, and among the stones the colt-foot plumes were already silvery.
+Here was spring sitting just awake, unloosening her glittering hair,
+and opening her purple eyes.
+
+I went across the quarry, down to where the brook ran murmuring a tale
+to the primroses and the budding trees. I was startled from my
+wandering among the fresh things by a faint clatter of stones.
+
+“What’s that young rascal doing?” I said to myself, setting forth to
+see. I came towards the other side of the quarry: on this, the moister
+side, the bushes grew up against the wall, which was higher than on the
+other side, though piled the same with old dry stones. As I drew near I
+could hear the scrape and rattle of stones, and the vigorous grunting
+of Sam as he laboured among them. He was hidden by a great bush of
+sallow catkins, all yellow, and murmuring with bees, warm with spice.
+When he came in view I laughed to see him lugging and grunting among
+the great pile of stones that had fallen in a mass from the
+quarry-side; a pile of stones and earth and crushed vegetation. There
+was a great bare gap in the quarry wall. Somehow, the lad’s labouring
+earnestness made me anxious, and I hurried up.
+
+He heard me, and glancing round, his face red with exertion, eyes big
+with terror, he called, commanding me:
+
+“Pull ’em off ’im—pull ’em off!” Suddenly my heart beating in my throat
+nearly suffocated me. I saw the hand of the keeper lying among the
+stones. I set to tearing away the stones, and we worked for some time
+without a word. Then I seized the arm of the keeper and tried to drag
+him out. But I could not.
+
+“Pull it off ’im!” whined the lad, working in a frenzy.
+
+When we got him out I saw at once he was dead, and I sat down trembling
+with exertion. There was a great smashed wound on the side of the head.
+Sam put his face against his father’s and snuffed round him like a dog,
+to feel the life in him. The child looked at me:
+
+“He won’t get up,” he said, and his little voice was hoarse with fear
+and anxiety.
+
+I shook my head. Then the boy began to whimper. He tried to close the
+lips which were drawn with pain and death, leaving the teeth bare; then
+his fingers hovered round the eyes, which were wide open, glazed, and I
+could see he was trembling to touch them into life.
+
+“He’s not asleep,” he said, “because his eyes is open—look!”
+
+I could not bear the child’s questioning terror. I took him up to carry
+him away, but he struggled and fought to be free.
+
+“Ma’e ’im get up—ma’e ’im get up,” he cried in a frenzy, and I had to
+let the boy go.
+
+He ran to the dead man, calling “Feyther! Feyther!” and pulling his
+shoulder; then he sat down, fascinated by the sight of the wound; he
+put out his finger to touch it, and shivered.
+
+“Come away,” said I.
+
+“Is it that?” he asked, pointing to the wound. I covered the face with
+a big silk handkerchief.
+
+“Now,” said I, “he’ll go to sleep if you don’t touch him—so sit still
+while I go and fetch somebody. Will _you_ run to the Hall?”
+
+He shook his head. I knew he would not. So I told him again not to
+touch his father, but to let him lie still till I came back. He watched
+me go, but did not move from his seat on the stones beside the dead
+man, though I know he was full of terror at being left alone.
+
+I ran to the Hall—I dared not go to the Kennels. In a short time I was
+back with the squire and three men. As I led the way, I saw the child
+lifting a corner of the handkerchief to peep and see if the eyes were
+closed in sleep. Then he heard us, and started violently. When we
+removed the covering, and he saw the face unchanged in its horror, he
+looked at me with a look I have never forgotten.
+
+“A bad business—an awful business!” repeated the squire. “A bad
+business. I said to him from the first that the stones might come down
+when he was going up, and he said he had taken care to fix them. But
+you can’t be sure, you can’t be certain. And he’d be about half way
+up—ay—and the whole wall would come down on him. An awful business, it
+is really; a terrible piece of work!”
+
+They decided at the inquest that the death came by misadventure. But
+there were vague rumours in the village that this was revenge which had
+overtaken the keeper.
+
+They decided to bury him in our churchyard at Greymede under the
+beeches; the widow would have it so, and nothing might be denied her in
+her state.
+
+It was a magnificent morning in early spring when I watched among the
+trees to see the procession come down the hillside. The upper air was
+woven with the music of the larks, and my whole world thrilled with the
+conception of summer. The young pale wind-flowers had arisen by the
+wood-gale, and under the hazels, when perchance the hot sun pushed his
+way, new little suns dawned, and blazed with real light. There was a
+certain thrill and quickening everywhere, as a woman must feel when she
+has conceived. A sallow tree in a favoured spot looked like a pale gold
+cloud of summer dawn; nearer it had poised a golden, fairy busby on
+every twig, and was voiced with a hum of bees, like any sacred golden
+bush, uttering its gladness in the thrilling murmur of bees, and in
+warm scent. Birds called and flashed on every hand; they made off
+exultant with streaming strands of grass, or wisps of fleece, plunging
+into the dark spaces of the wood, and out again into the blue.
+
+A lad moved across the field from the farm below with a dog trotting
+behind him,—a dog, no, a fussy, black-legged lamb trotting along on its
+toes, with its tail swinging behind. They were going to the mothers on
+the common, who moved like little grey clouds among the dark grose.
+
+I cannot help forgetting, and sharing the spink’s triumph, when he
+flashes past with a fleece from a bramble bush. It will cover the
+bedded moss, it will weave among the soft red cow-hair beautifully. It
+is a prize, it is an ecstasy to have captured it at the right moment,
+and the nest is nearly ready.
+
+Ah, but the thrush is scornful, ringing out his voice from the hedge!
+He sets his breast against the mud, and models it warm for the
+turquoise eggs—blue, blue, bluest of eggs, which cluster so close and
+round against the breast, which round up beneath the breast, nestling
+content. You should see the bright ecstasy in the eyes of a nesting
+thrush, because of the rounded caress of the eggs against her breast!
+
+What a hurry the jenny wren makes—hoping I shall not see her dart into
+the low bush. I have a delight in watching them against their shy
+little wills. But they have all risen with a rush of wings, and are
+gone, the birds. The air is brushed with agitation. There is no lark in
+the sky, not one; the heaven is clear of wings or twinkling dot——.
+
+Till the heralds come—till the heralds wave like shadows in the bright
+air, crying, lamenting, fretting forever. Rising and falling and
+circling round and round, the slow-waving peewits cry and complain, and
+lift their broad wings in sorrow. They stoop suddenly to the ground,
+the lapwings, then in another throb of anguish and protest, they swing
+up again, offering a glistening white breast to the sunlight, to deny
+it in black shadow, then a glisten of green, and all the time crying
+and crying in despair.
+
+The pheasants are frightened into cover, they run and dart through the
+hedge. The cold cock must fly in his haste, spread himself on his
+streaming plumes, and sail into the wood’s security.
+
+There is a cry in answer to the peewits, echoing louder and stronger
+the lamentation of the lapwings, a wail which hushes the birds. The men
+come over the brow of the hill, slowly, with the old squire walking
+tall and straight in front; six bowed men bearing the coffin on their
+shoulders, treading heavily and cautiously, under the great weight of
+the glistening white coffin; six men following behind, ill at ease,
+waiting their turn for the burden. You can see the red handkerchiefs
+knotted round their throats, and their shirt-fronts blue and white
+between the open waistcoats. The coffin is of new unpolished wood,
+gleaming and glistening in the sunlight; the men who carry it remember
+all their lives after the smell of new, warm elm-wood.
+
+Again a loud cry from the hill-top. The woman has followed thus far,
+the big, shapeless woman, and she cries with loud cries after the white
+coffin as it descends the hill, and the children that cling to her
+skirts weep aloud, and are not to be hushed by the other woman, who
+bends over them, but does not form one of the group. How the crying
+frightens the birds, and the rabbits; and the lambs away there run to
+their mothers. But the peewits are not frightened, they add their notes
+to the sorrow; they circle after the white, retreating coffin, they
+circle round the woman; it is they who forever “keen” the sorrows of
+this world. They are like priests in their robes, more black than
+white, more grief than hope, driving endlessly round and round,
+turning, lifting, falling and crying always in mournful desolation,
+repeating their last syllables like the broken accents of despair.
+
+The bearers have at last sunk between the high banks, and turned out of
+sight. The big woman cannot see them, and yet she stands to look. She
+must go home, there is nothing left.
+
+They have rested the coffin on the gate posts, and the bearers are
+wiping the sweat from their faces. They put their hands to their
+shoulders on the place where the weight has pressed.
+
+The other six are placing the pads on their shoulders, when a girl
+comes up with a jug and a blue pot. The squire drinks first, and fills
+for the rest. Meanwhile the girl stands back under the hedge, away from
+the coffin which smells of new elm-wood. In imagination she pictures
+the man shut up there in close darkness, while the sunlight flows all
+outside, and she catches her breast with terror. She must turn and
+rustle among the leaves of the violets for the flowers she does not
+see. Then, trembling, she comes to herself, and plucks a few flowers
+and breathes them hungrily into her soul, for comfort. The men put down
+the pots beside her, with thanks, and the squire gives the word. The
+bearers lift up the burden again, and the elm-boughs rattle along the
+hollow white wood, and the pitiful red clusters of elm-flowers sweep
+along it as if they whispered in sympathy—“We are so sorry, so
+sorry——”; always the compassionate buds in their fulness of life bend
+down to comfort the dark man shut up there. “Perhaps,” the girl thinks,
+“he hears them, and goes softly to sleep.” She shakes the tears out of
+her eyes on to the ground, and, taking up her pots, goes slowly down,
+over the brooks.
+
+In a while, I too got up and went down to the mill, which lay red and
+peaceful, with the blue smoke rising as winsomely and carelessly as
+ever. On the other side of the valley I could see a pair of horses nod
+slowly across the fallow. A man’s voice called to them now and again
+with a resonance that filled me with longing to follow my horses over
+the fallow, in the still, lonely valley, full of sunshine and eternal
+forgetfulness. The day had already forgotten. The water was blue and
+white and dark-burnished with shadows; two swans sailed across the
+reflected trees with perfect blithe grace. The gloom that had passed
+across was gone. I watched the swan with his ruffled wings swell
+onwards; I watched his slim consort go peeping into corners and under
+bushes; I saw him steer clear of the bushes, to keep full in view,
+turning his head to me imperiously, till I longed to pelt him with the
+empty husks of last year’s flowers, knap-weed and scabius. I was too
+indolent, and I turned instead to the orchard.
+
+There the daffodils were lifting their heads and throwing back their
+yellow curls. At the foot of each sloping, grey old tree stood a family
+of flowers, some bursten with golden fulness, some lifting their heads
+slightly, to show a modest, sweet countenance, others still hiding
+their faces, leaning forward pensively from the jaunty grey-green
+spears; I wished I had their language, to talk to them distinctly.
+
+Overhead, the trees, with lifted fingers shook out their hair to the
+sun, decking themselves with buds as white and cool as a water-nymphs
+breasts.
+
+I began to be very glad. The colts-foot discs glowed and laughed in a
+merry company down the path; I stroked the velvet faces, and laughed
+also, and I smelled the scent of black-currant leaves, which is full of
+childish memories.
+
+The house was quiet and complacent; it was peopled with ghosts again;
+but the ghosts had only come to enjoy the warm place once more,
+carrying sunshine in their arms and scattering it through the dusk of
+gloomy rooms.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+THE IRONY OF INSPIRED MOMENTS
+
+
+It happened, the next day after the funeral, I came upon reproductions
+of Aubrey Beardsley’s “Atalanta,” and of the tail-piece “Salome,” and
+others. I sat and looked and my soul leaped out upon the new thing. I
+was bewildered, wondering, grudging, fascinated. I looked a long time,
+but my mind, or my soul, would come to no state of coherence. I was
+fascinated and overcome, but yet full of stubbornness and resistance.
+
+Lettie was out, so, although it was dinner-time, even because it was
+dinner-time, I took the book and went down to the mill.
+
+The dinner was over; there was the fragrance of cooked rhubarb in the
+room. I went straight to Emily, who was leaning back in her chair, and
+put the Salome before her.
+
+“Look,” said I, “look here!”
+
+She looked; she was short-sighted, and peered close. I was impatient
+for her to speak. She turned slowly at last and looked at me,
+shrinking, with questioning.
+
+“Well?” I said.
+
+“Isn’t it—fearful!” she replied softly.
+
+“No!—why is it?”
+
+“It makes you feel—Why have you brought it?”
+
+“I wanted you to see it.”
+
+Already I felt relieved, seeing that she too was caught in the spell.
+
+George came and bent over my shoulder. I could feel the heavy warmth of
+him.
+
+“Good Lord!” he drawled, half amused. The children came crowding to
+see, and Emily closed the book.
+
+“I shall be late—Hurry up, Dave!” and she went to wash her hands before
+going to school.
+
+“Give it me, will you!” George asked, putting out his hand for the
+book. I gave it him, and he sat down to look at the drawings. When
+Mollie crept near to look, he angrily shouted to her to get away. She
+pulled a mouth, and got her hat over her wild brown curls. Emily came
+in ready for school.
+
+“I’m going—good-bye,” she said, and she waited hesitatingly. I moved to
+get my cap. He looked up with a new expression in his eyes, and said:
+
+“Are you going?—wait a bit—I’m coming.”
+
+I waited.
+
+“Oh, very well—good-bye,” said Emily bitterly, and she departed.
+
+When he had looked long enough he got up and we went out. He kept his
+finger between the pages of the book as he carried it. We went towards
+the fallow land without speaking. There he sat down on a bank, leaning
+his back against a holly-tree, and saying, very calmly:
+
+“There’s no need to be in any hurry now——” whereupon he proceeded to
+study the illustrations.
+
+“You know,” he said at last, “I do want her.”
+
+I started at the irrelevance of this remark, and said, “Who?”
+
+“Lettie. We’ve got notice, did you know?”
+
+I started to my feet this time with amazement.
+
+“Notice to leave?—what for?”
+
+“Rabbits I expect. I wish she’d have me, Cyril.”
+
+“To leave Strelley Mill!” I repeated.
+
+“That’s it—and I’m rather glad. But do you think she might have me,
+Cyril?”
+
+“What a shame! Where will you go? And you lie there joking——!”
+
+“I don’t. Never mind about the damned notice. I want her more than
+anything.—And the more I look at these naked lines, the more I want
+her. It’s a sort of fine sharp feeling, like these curved lines. I
+don’t know what I’m saying—but do you think she’d have me? Has she seen
+these pictures?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“If she did perhaps she’d want me—I mean she’d feel it clear and sharp
+coming through her.”
+
+“I’ll show her and see.”
+
+“I’d been sort of thinking about it—since father had that notice. It
+seemed as if the ground was pulled from under our feet. I never felt so
+lost. Then I began to think of her, if she’d have me—but not clear,
+till you showed me those pictures. I must have her if I can—and I must
+have something. It’s rather ghostish to have the road suddenly smudged
+out, and all the world anywhere, nowhere for you to go. I must get
+something sure soon, or else I feel as if I should fall from somewhere
+and hurt myself. I’ll ask her.”
+
+I looked at him as he lay there under the holly-tree, his face all
+dreamy and boyish, very unusual.
+
+“You’ll ask Lettie?” said I, “When—how?”
+
+“I must ask her quick, while I feel as if everything had gone, and I
+was ghostish. I think I must sound rather a lunatic.”
+
+He looked at me, and his eyelids hung heavy over his eyes as if he had
+been drinking, or as if he were tired.
+
+“Is she at home?” he said.
+
+“No, she’s gone to Nottingham. She’ll be home before dark.”
+
+“I’ll see her then. Can you smell violets?”
+
+I replied that I could not. He was sure that he could, and he seemed
+uneasy till he had justified the sensation. So he arose, very
+leisurely, and went along the bank, looking closely for the flowers.
+
+“I knew I could. White ones!”
+
+He sat down and picked three flowers, and held them to his nostrils,
+and inhaled their fragrance. Then he put them to his mouth, and I saw
+his strong white teeth crush them. He chewed them for a while without
+speaking; then he spat them out and gathered more.
+
+“They remind me of her too,” he said, and he twisted a piece of
+honeysuckle stem round the bunch and handed it to me.
+
+“A white violet, is she?” I smiled.
+
+“Give them to her, and tell her to come and meet me just when it’s
+getting dark in the wood.”
+
+“But if she won’t?”
+
+“She will.”
+
+“If she’s not at home?”
+
+“Come and tell me.”
+
+He lay down again with his head among the green violet leaves, saying:
+
+“I ought to work, because it all counts in the valuation. But I don’t
+care.”
+
+He lay looking at me for some time. Then he said:
+
+“I don’t suppose I shall have above twenty pounds left when we’ve sold
+up—but she’s got plenty of money to start with—if she has me—in Canada.
+I could get well off—and she could have—what she wanted—I’m sure she’d
+have what she wanted.”
+
+He took it all calmly as if it were realised. I was somewhat amused.
+
+“What frock will she have on when she comes to meet me?” he asked.
+
+“I don’t know. The same as she’s gone to Nottingham in, I suppose—a
+sort of gold-brown costume with a rather tight fitting coat. Why?”
+
+“I was thinking how she’d look.”
+
+“What chickens are you counting now?” I asked.
+
+“But what do you think I look best in?” he replied.
+
+“You? Just as you are—no, put that old smooth cloth coat on—that’s
+all.” I smiled as I told him, but he was very serious.
+
+“Shan’t I put my new clothes on?”
+
+“No—you want to leave your neck showing.”
+
+He put his hand to his throat, and said naïvely:
+
+“Do I?”—and it amused him.
+
+Then he lay looking dreamily up into the tree. I left him, and went
+wandering round the fields finding flowers and bird’s nests.
+
+When I came back, it was nearly four o’clock. He stood up and stretched
+himself. He pulled out his watch.
+
+“Good Lord,” he drawled, “I’ve lain there thinking all afternoon. I
+didn’t know I could do such a thing. Where have you been? It’s with
+being all upset you see. You left the violets—here, take them, will
+you; and tell her: I’ll come when it’s getting dark. I feel like
+somebody else—or else really like myself. I hope I shan’t wake up to
+the other things—you know, like I am always—before them.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Oh, I don’t know—only I feel as if I could talk straight off without
+arranging—like birds, without knowing what note is coming next.”
+
+When I was going he said:
+
+“Here, leave me that book—it’ll keep me like this—I mean I’m not the
+same as I was yesterday, and that book’ll keep me like it. Perhaps it’s
+a bilious bout—I do sometimes have one, if something very extraordinary
+happens. When it’s getting dark then!”
+
+Lettie had not arrived when I went home. I put the violets in a little
+vase on the table. I remembered he had wanted her to see the
+drawings—it was perhaps as well he had kept them.
+
+She came about six o’clock—in the motor-car with Marie. But the latter
+did not descend. I went out to assist with the parcels. Lettie had
+already begun to buy things; the wedding was fixed for July.
+
+The room was soon over-covered with stuffs: table linen, underclothing,
+pieces of silken stuff and lace stuff, patterns for carpets and
+curtains, a whole gleaming glowing array. Lettie was very delighted.
+She could hardly wait to take off her hat, but went round cutting the
+string of her parcels, opening them, talking all the time to my mother.
+
+“Look, Little Woman. I’ve got a ready-made underskirt—isn’t it lovely.
+Listen!” and she ruffled it through her hands. “Shan’t I sound
+splendid! Frou-Frou! But it is a charming shade, isn’t it, and not a
+bit bulky or clumsy anywhere?” She put the band of the skirt against
+her waist, and put forward her foot, and looked down, saying, “It’s
+just the right length, isn’t it, Little Woman?—and they said I was
+tall—it was a wonder. Don’t you wish it were yours, Little?—oh, you
+won’t confess it. Yes you like to be as fine as anybody—that’s why I
+bought you this piece of silk—isn’t it sweet, though?—you needn’t say
+there’s too much lavender in it, there is not. Now!” She pleated it up
+and held it against my mother’s chin. “It suits you beautifully—doesn’t
+it. Don’t you like it, Sweet? You don’t seem to like it a bit, and I’m
+sure it suits you—makes you look ever so young. I wish you wouldn’t be
+so old fashioned in your notions. You do like it, don’t you?”
+
+“Of course I do—I was only thinking what an extravagant mortal you are
+when you begin to buy. You know you mustn’t keep on always——”
+
+“Now—now, Sweet, don’t be naughty and preachey. It’s such a treat to go
+buying: You will come with me next time, won’t you? Oh, I have enjoyed
+it—but I wished you were there—Marie takes anything, she’s so easy to
+suit—I like to have a good buy—Oh, it was splendid!—and there’s lots
+more yet. Oh, did you see this cushion cover—these are the colours I
+want for that room—gold and amber——”
+
+This was a bad opening. I watched the shadows darken further and
+further along the brightness, hushing the glitter of the water. I
+watched the golden ripeness come upon the west, and thought the
+rencontre was never to take place. At last, however, Lettie flung
+herself down with a sigh, saying she was tired.
+
+“Come into the dining-room and have a cup of tea,” said mother. “I told
+Rebecca to mash when you came in.”
+
+“All right. Leslie’s coming up later on, I believe—about half past
+eight, he said. Should I show him what I’ve bought?”
+
+“There’s nothing there for a man to see.”
+
+“I shall have to change my dress, and I’m sure I don’t want the fag.
+Rebecca, just go and look at the things I’ve bought—in the other
+room—and, Becky, fold them up for me, will you, and put them on my
+bed?”
+
+As soon as she’d gone out, Lettie said: “She’ll enjoy doing it, won’t
+she, mother, they’re so nice! Do you think I need dress, mother?”
+
+“Please yourself—do as you wish.”
+
+“I suppose I shall have to; he doesn’t like blouses and skirts of an
+evening he says; he hates the belt. I’ll wear that old cream cashmere;
+it looks nice now I’ve put that new lace on it. Don’t those violets
+smell nice?—who got them?”
+
+“Cyril brought them in.”
+
+“George sent them you,” said I.
+
+“Well, I’ll just run up and take my dress off. Why are we troubled with
+men!”
+
+“It’s a trouble you like well enough,” said mother.
+
+“Oh, do I? such a bother!” and she ran upstairs.
+
+The sun was red behind Highclose. I kneeled in the window seat and
+smiled at Fate and at people who imagine that strange states are near
+to the inner realities. The sun went straight down behind the cedar
+trees, deliberately and, it seemed as I watched, swiftly lowered itself
+behind the trees, behind the rim of the hill.
+
+“I must go,” I said to myself, “and tell him she will not come.”
+
+Yet I fidgeted about the room, loth to depart. Lettie came down,
+dressed in white—or cream—cut low round the neck. She looked very
+delightful and fresh again, with a sparkle of the afternoon’s
+excitement still.
+
+“I’ll put some of these violets on me,” she said, glancing at herself
+in the mirror, and then taking the flowers from their water, she dried
+them, and fastened them among her lace.
+
+“Don’t Lettie and I look nice to-night?” she said smiling, glancing
+from me to her reflection which was like a light in the dusky room.
+
+“That reminds me,” I said, “George Saxton wanted to see you this
+evening.”
+
+“What ever for?”
+
+“I don’t know. They’ve got notice to leave their farm, and I think he
+feels a bit sentimental.”
+
+“Oh, well—is he coming here?”
+
+“He said would you go just a little way in the wood to meet him.”
+
+“Did he! Oh, indeed! Well, of course I can’t.”
+
+“Of course not—if you won’t. They’re his violets you’re wearing by the
+way.”
+
+“Are they—let them stay, it makes no difference. But whatever did he
+want to see me for?”
+
+“I couldn’t say, I assure you.”
+
+She glanced at herself in the mirror, and then at the clock.
+
+“Let’s see,” she remarked, “it’s only a quarter to eight. Three
+quarters of an hour—! But what can he want me for?—I never knew
+anything like it.”
+
+“Startling, isn’t it!” I observed satirically.
+
+“Yes,” she glanced at herself in the mirror:
+
+“I can’t go out like this.”
+
+“All right, you can’t then.”
+
+“Besides—it’s nearly dark, it will be too dark to see in the wood,
+won’t it?”
+
+“It will directly.”
+
+“Well, I’ll just go to the end of the garden, for one moment—run and
+fetch that silk shawl out of my wardrobe—be quick, while it’s light.”
+
+I ran and brought the wrap. She arranged it carefully over her head.
+
+We went out, down the garden path. Lettie held her skirts carefully
+gathered from the ground. A nightingale began to sing in the twilight;
+we stepped along in silence as far as the rhododendron bushes, now in
+rosy bud.
+
+“I cannot go into the wood,” she said.
+
+“Come to the top of the riding”—and we went round the dark bushes.
+
+George was waiting. I saw at once he was half distrustful of himself
+now. Lettie dropped her skirts and trailed towards him. He stood
+awkwardly awaiting her, conscious of the clownishness of his
+appearance. She held out her hand with something of a grand air:
+
+“See,” she said, “I have come.”
+
+“Yes—I thought you wouldn’t—perhaps”—he looked at her, and suddenly
+gained courage: “You have been putting white on—you, you do look
+nice—though not like——”
+
+“What?—Who else?”
+
+“Nobody else—only I—well I’d—I’d thought about it different—like some
+pictures.”
+
+She smiled with a gentle radiance, and asked indulgently, “And how was
+I different?”
+
+“Not all that soft stuff—plainer.”
+
+“But don’t I look very nice with all this soft stuff, as you call
+it?”—and she shook the silk away from her smiles.
+
+“Oh, yes—better than those naked lines.”
+
+“You are quaint to-night—what did you want me for—to say good-bye?”
+
+“Good-bye?”
+
+“Yes—you’re going away, Cyril tells me. I’m very sorry—fancy horrid
+strangers at the Mill! But then I shall be gone away soon, too. We are
+all going you see, now we’ve grown up,”—she kept hold of my arm. “Yes.”
+
+“And where will you go—Canada? You’ll settle there and be quite a
+patriarch, won’t you?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“You are not really sorry to go, are you?”
+
+“No, I’m glad.”
+
+“Glad to go away from us all.”
+
+“I suppose so—since I must.”
+
+“Ah, Fate—Fate! It separates you whether you want it or not.”
+
+“What?”
+
+“Why, you see, you have to leave. I mustn’t stay out here—it is growing
+chilly. How soon are you going?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“Not soon then?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“Then I may see you again?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I shall. Well, I must go. Shall I say good-bye now?—that was
+what you wanted, was it not?”
+
+“To say good-bye?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“No—it wasn’t—I wanted, I wanted to ask you——”
+
+“What?” she cried.
+
+“You don’t know, Lettie, now the old life’s gone, everything—how I want
+you—to set out with—it’s like beginning life, and I want you.”
+
+“But what could I do—I could only hinder—what help should I be?”
+
+“I should feel as if my mind was made up—as if I could do something
+clearly. Now it’s all hazy—not knowing what to do next.”
+
+“And if—if you had—what then?”
+
+“If I had you I could go straight on.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“Oh—I should take a farm in Canada——”
+
+“Well, wouldn’t it be better to get it first and make sure——?”
+
+“I have no money.”
+
+“Oh!—so you wanted me——?”
+
+“I only wanted you, I only wanted you. I would have given you——”
+
+“What?”
+
+“You’d have me—you’d have all me, and everything you wanted.”
+
+“That I paid for—a good bargain! No, oh no, George, I beg your pardon.
+This is one of my flippant nights. I don’t mean it like that. But you
+know it’s impossible—look how I’m fixed—it _is_ impossible, isn’t it
+now.”
+
+“I suppose it is.”
+
+“You know it is—Look at me now, and say if it’s not impossible—a
+farmer’s wife—with you in Canada.”
+
+“Yes—I didn’t expect you like that. Yes, I see it is impossible. But
+I’d thought about it, and felt as if I must have you. Should have you .
+. . Yes, it doesn’t do to go on dreaming. I think it’s the first time,
+and it’ll be the last. Yes, it is impossible. Now I have made up my
+mind.”
+
+“And what will you do?”
+
+“I shall not go to Canada.”
+
+“Oh, you must not—you must not do anything rash.”
+
+“No—I shall get married.”
+
+“You will? Oh, I am glad. I thought—you—you were too fond—. But you’re
+not—of yourself I meant. I am so glad. Yes—do marry!”
+
+“Well, I shall—since you are——”
+
+“Yes,” said Lettie. “It is best. But I thought that you——” she smiled
+at him in sad reproach.
+
+“Did you think so?” he replied, smiling gravely.
+
+“Yes,” she whispered. They stood looking at one another.
+
+He made an impulsive movement towards her. She, however, drew back
+slightly, checking him.
+
+“Well—I shall see you again sometime—so good-bye,” he said, putting out
+his hand.
+
+We heard a foot crunching on the gravel. Leslie halted at the top of
+the riding. Lettie, hearing him, relaxed into a kind of feline
+graciousness, and said to George:
+
+“I am so sorry you are going to leave—it breaks the old life up. You
+said I would see you again——” She left her hand in his a moment or two.
+
+“Yes,” George replied. “Good-night”—and he turned away. She stood for a
+moment in the same drooping, graceful attitude watching him, then she
+turned round slowly. She seemed hardly to notice Leslie.
+
+“Who was that you were talking to?” he asked.
+
+“He has gone now,” she replied irrelevantly, as if even then she seemed
+hardly to realise it.
+
+“It appears to upset you—his going—who is it?”
+
+“He!—Oh,—why, it’s George Saxton.”
+
+“Oh, him!”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“What did he want?”
+
+“Eh? What did he want? Oh, nothing.”
+
+“A mere trysting—in the interim, eh!”—he said this laughing, generously
+passing off his annoyance in a jest.
+
+“I feel so sorry,” she said.
+
+“What for?”
+
+“Oh—don’t let us talk about him—talk about something else. I can’t bear
+to talk about—him.”
+
+“All right,” he replied—and after an awkward little pause. “What sort
+of a time had you in Nottingham?”
+
+“Oh, a fine time.”
+
+“You’ll enjoy yourself in the shops between now and—July. Some time
+I’ll go with you and see them.”
+
+“Very well.”
+
+“That sounds as if you don’t want me to go. Am I already in the way on
+a shopping expedition, like an old husband?”
+
+“I should think you would be.”
+
+“That’s nice of you! Why?”
+
+“Oh, I don’t know.”
+
+“Yes you do.”
+
+“Oh, I suppose you’d hang about.”
+
+“I’m much too well brought up.”
+
+“Rebecca has lighted the hall lamp.”
+
+“Yes, it’s grown quite dark. I was here early. You never gave me a good
+word for it.”
+
+“I didn’t notice. There’s a light in the dining-room, we’ll go there.”
+
+They went into the dining-room. She stood by the piano and carefully
+took off the wrap. Then she wandered listlessly about the room for a
+minute.
+
+“Aren’t you coming to sit down?” he said, pointing to the seat on the
+couch beside him.
+
+“Not just now,” she said, trailing aimlessly to the piano. She sat down
+and began to play at random, from memory. Then she did that most
+irritating thing—played accompaniments to songs, with snatches of the
+air where the voice should have predominated.
+
+“I say Lettie, . . .” he interrupted after a time.
+
+“Yes,” she replied, continuing to play.
+
+“It’s not very interesting. . . .”
+
+“No?”—she continued to play.
+
+“Nor very amusing. . . .”
+
+She did not answer. He bore it for a little time longer, then he said:
+
+“How much longer is it going to last, Lettie?”
+
+“What?”
+
+“That sort of business. . . .”
+
+“The piano?—I’ll stop playing if you don’t like it.”
+
+She did not, however, cease.
+
+“Yes—and all this dry business.”
+
+“I don’t understand.”
+
+“Don’t you?—you make _me._’”
+
+There she went on, tinkling away at “If I built a world for you, dear.”
+
+“I say, stop it, do!” he cried.
+
+She tinkled to the end of the verse, and very slowly closed the piano.
+
+“Come on—come and sit down,” he said.
+
+“No, I don’t want to.—I’d rather have gone on playing.”
+
+“Go on with your damned playing then, and I’ll go where there’s more
+interest.”
+
+“You ought to like it.”
+
+He did not answer, so she turned slowly round on the stool, opened the
+piano, and laid her fingers on the keys. At the sound of the chord he
+started up, saying: “Then I’m going.”
+
+“It’s very early—why?” she said, through the calm jingle of “Meine Ruh
+is hin——”
+
+He stood biting his lips. Then he made one more appeal.
+
+“Lettie!”
+
+“Yes?”
+
+“Aren’t you going to leave off—and be—amiable?”
+
+“Amiable?”
+
+“You are a jolly torment. What’s upset you now?”
+
+“Nay, it’s not I who am upset.”
+
+“I’m glad to hear it—what do you call yourself?”
+
+“I?—nothing.”
+
+“Oh, well, I’m going then.”
+
+“Must you?—so early to-night?”
+
+He did not go, and she played more and more softly, languidly,
+aimlessly. Once she lifted her head to speak, but did not say anything.
+
+“Look here!” he ejaculated all at once, so that she started, and jarred
+the piano, “What do you mean by it?”
+
+She jingled leisurely a few seconds before answering, then she replied:
+
+“What a worry you are!”
+
+“I suppose you want me out of the way while you sentimentalise over
+that milkman. You needn’t bother. You can do it while I’m here. Or I’ll
+go and leave you in peace. I’ll go and call him back for you, if you
+like—if that’s what you want——”
+
+She turned on the piano stool slowly and looked at him, smiling
+faintly.
+
+“It is very good of you!” she said.
+
+He clenched his fists and grinned with rage.
+
+“You tantalising little——” he began, lifting his fists expressively.
+She smiled. Then he swung round, knocked several hats flying off the
+stand in the hall, slammed the door, and was gone.
+
+Lettie continued to play for some time, after which she went up to her
+own room.
+
+Leslie did not return to us the next day, nor the day after. The first
+day Marie came and told us he had gone away to Yorkshire to see about
+the new mines that were being sunk there, and was likely to be absent
+for a week or so. These business visits to the north were rather
+frequent. The firm, of which Mr. Tempest was director and chief
+shareholder, were opening important new mines in the other county, as
+the seams at home were becoming exhausted or unprofitable. It was
+proposed that Leslie should live in Yorkshire when he was married, to
+superintend the new workings. He at first rejected the idea, but he
+seemed later to approve of it more.
+
+During the time he was away Lettie was moody and cross-tempered. She
+did not mention George nor the mill; indeed, she preserved her best,
+most haughty and ladylike manner.
+
+On the evening of the fourth day of Leslie’s absence we were out in the
+garden. The trees were “uttering joyous leaves.” My mother was in the
+midst of her garden, lifting the dusky faces of the auriculas to look
+at the velvet lips, or tenderly taking a young weed from the black
+soil. The thrushes were calling and clamouring all round. The japonica
+flamed on the wall as the light grew thicker; the tassels of white
+cherry-blossom swung gently in the breeze.
+
+“What shall I do, mother?” said Lettie, as she wandered across the
+grass to pick at the japonica flowers. “What shall I do?—There’s
+nothing to do.”
+
+“Well, my girl—what do you want to do? You have been moping about all
+day—go and see somebody.”
+
+“It’s such a long way to Eberwich.”
+
+“Is it? Then go somewhere nearer.”
+
+Lettie fretted about with restless, petulant indecision.
+
+“I don’t know what to do,” she said, “And I feel as if I might just as
+well never have lived at all as waste days like this. I wish we weren’t
+buried in this dead little hole—I wish we were near the town—it’s
+hateful having to depend on about two or three folk for your—your—your
+pleasure in life.”
+
+“I can’t help it, my dear—you must do something for yourself.”
+
+“And what can I do?—I can do nothing.”
+
+“Then I’d go to bed.”
+
+“That I won’t—with the dead weight of a wasted day on me. I feel as if
+I’d do something desperate.”
+
+“Very well, then,” said mother, “do it, and have done.”
+
+“Oh, it’s no good talking to you—I don’t want——” She turned away, went
+to the laurestinus, and began pulling off it the long red berries. I
+expected she would fret the evening wastefully away. I noticed all at
+once that she stood still. It was the noise of a motor-car running
+rapidly down the hill towards Nethermere—a light, quick-clicking sound.
+I listened also. I could feel the swinging drop of the car as it came
+down the leaps of the hill. We could see the dust trail up among the
+trees. Lettie raised her head and listened expectantly. The car rushed
+along the edge of Nethermere—then there was the jar of brakes, as the
+machine slowed down and stopped. In a moment with a quick flutter of
+sound, it was passing the lodge-gates and whirling up the drive,
+through the wood, to us. Lettie stood with flushed cheeks and
+brightened eyes. She went towards the bushes that shut off the lawn
+from the gravelled space in front of the house, watching. A car came
+racing through the trees. It was the small car Leslie used on the
+firm’s business—now it was white with dust. Leslie suddenly put on the
+brakes, and tore to a standstill in front of the house. He stepped to
+the ground. There he staggered a little, being giddy and cramped with
+the long drive. His motor-jacket and cap were thick with dust.
+
+Lettie called to him, “Leslie!”—and flew down to him. He took her into
+his arms, and clouds of dust rose round her. He kissed her, and they
+stood perfectly still for a moment. She looked up into his face—then
+she disengaged her arms to take off his disfiguring motor-spectacles.
+After she had looked at him a moment, tenderly, she kissed him again.
+He loosened his hold of her, and she said, in a voice full of
+tenderness:
+
+“You are trembling, dear.”
+
+“It’s the ride. I’ve never stopped.”
+
+Without further words she took him into the house.
+
+“How pale you are—see, lie on the couch—never mind the dust. All right,
+I’ll find you a coat of Cyril’s. O, mother, he’s come all those miles
+in the car without stopping—make him lie down.”
+
+She ran and brought him a jacket, and put the cushions round, and made
+him lie on the couch. Then she took off his boots and put slippers on
+his feet. He lay watching her all the time; he was white with fatigue
+and excitement.
+
+“I wonder if I shall be had up for scorching—I can feel the road coming
+at me yet,” he said.
+
+“Why were you so headlong?”
+
+“I felt as if I should go wild if I didn’t come—if I didn’t rush. I
+didn’t know how you might have taken me, Lettie when I said—what I
+did.”
+
+She smiled gently at him, and he lay resting, recovering, looking at
+her.
+
+“It’s a wonder I haven’t done something desperate—I’ve been half mad
+since I said—Oh, Lettie, I was a damned fool and a wretch—I could have
+torn myself in two. I’ve done nothing but curse and rage at myself ever
+since. I feel as if I’d just come up out of hell. You don’t know how
+thankful I am, Lettie, that you’ve not—oh—turned against me for what I
+said.”
+
+She went to him and sat down by him, smoothing his hair from his
+forehead, kissing him, her attitude tender, suggesting tears, her
+movements impulsive, as if with a self-reproach she would not
+acknowledge, but which she must silence with lavish tenderness. He drew
+her to him, and they remained quiet for some time, till it grew dark.
+
+The noise of my mother stirring in the next room disturbed them. Lettie
+rose, and he also got up from the couch.
+
+“I suppose,” he said, “I shall have to go home and get bathed and
+dressed—though,” he added in tones which made it clear he did not want
+to go, “I shall have to get back in the morning—I don’t know what
+they’ll say.”
+
+“At any rate,” she said, “You could wash here——”
+
+“But I must get out of these clothes—and I want a bath.”
+
+“You could—you might have some of Cyril’s clothes—and the water’s hot.
+I know. At all events, you can stay to supper——”
+
+“If I’m going I shall have to go soon—or they’d not like it, if I go in
+late;—they have no idea I’ve come;—they don’t expect me till next
+Monday or Tuesday——”
+
+“Perhaps you could stay here—and they needn’t know.”
+
+They looked at each other with wide, smiling eyes—like children on the
+brink of a stolen pleasure.
+
+“Oh, but what would your mother think!—no, I’ll go.”
+
+“She won’t mind a bit.”
+
+“Oh, but——”
+
+“I’ll ask her.”
+
+He wanted to stay far more than she wished it, so it was she who put
+down his opposition and triumphed.
+
+My mother lifted her eyebrows, and said very quietly:
+
+“He’d better go home—and be straight.”
+
+“But look how he’d feel—he’d have to tell them . . . and how would he
+feel! It’s really my fault, in the end. Don’t be piggling and mean and
+Grundyish, Matouchka.”
+
+“It is neither meanness nor grundyishness——”
+
+“Oh, Ydgrun, Ydgrun——!” exclaimed Lettie, ironically.
+
+“He may certainly stay if he likes,” said mother, slightly nettled at
+Lettie’s gibe.
+
+“All right, Mutterchen—and be a sweetling, do!”
+
+Lettie went out a little impatient at my mother’s unwillingness, but
+Leslie stayed, nevertheless.
+
+In a few moments Lettie was up in the spare bedroom, arranging and
+adorning, and Rebecca was running with hot-water bottles, and hurrying
+down with clean bed-clothes. Lettie hastily appropriated my best
+brushes—which she had given me—and took the suit of pajamas of the
+thinnest, finest flannel—and discovered a new tooth-brush—and made
+selections from my shirts and handkerchiefs and underclothing—and
+directed me which suit to lend him. Altogether I was astonished, and
+perhaps a trifle annoyed, at her extraordinary thoughtfulness and
+solicitude.
+
+He came down to supper, bathed, brushed, and radiant. He ate heartily
+and seemed to emanate a warmth of physical comfort and pleasure. The
+colour was flushed again into his face, and he carried his body with
+the old independent, assertive air. I have never known the time when he
+looked handsomer, when he was more attractive. There was a certain
+warmth about him, a certain glow that enhanced his words, his laughter,
+his movements; he was the predominant person, and we felt a pleasure in
+his mere proximity. My mother, however, could not quite get rid of her
+stiffness, and soon after supper she rose, saying she would finish her
+letter in the next room, bidding him good-night, as she would probably
+not see him again. The cloud of this little coolness was the thinnest
+and most transitory. He talked and laughed more gaily than ever, and
+was ostentatious in his movements, throwing back his head, taking
+little attitudes which displayed the broad firmness of his breast, the
+grace of his well-trained physique. I left them at the piano; he was
+sitting pretending to play, and looking up all the while at her, who
+stood with her hand on his shoulder.
+
+In the morning he was up early, by six o’clock downstairs and attending
+to the car. When I got down I found him very busy, and very quiet.
+
+“I know I’m a beastly nuisance,” he said, “but I must get off early.”
+
+Rebecca came and prepared breakfast, which we two ate alone. He was
+remarkably dull and wordless.
+
+“It’s a wonder Lettie hasn’t got up to have breakfast with you—she’s
+such a one for raving about the perfection of the early morning—it’s
+purity and promises and so forth,” I said.
+
+He broke his bread nervously, and drank some coffee as if he were
+agitated, making noises in his throat as he swallowed.
+
+“It’s too early for her, I should think,” he replied, wiping his
+moustache hurriedly. Yet he seemed to listen for her. Lettie’s bedroom
+was over the study, where Rebecca had laid breakfast, and he listened
+now and again, holding his knife and fork suspended in their action.
+Then he went on with his meal again.
+
+When he was laying down his serviette, the door opened. He pulled
+himself together, and turned round sharply. It was mother. When she
+spoke to him, his face twitched with a little frown, half of relief,
+half of disappointment.
+
+“I must be going now,” he said—“thank you very much—Mother.”
+
+“You are a harum-scarum boy. I wonder why Lettie doesn’t come down. I
+know she is up.”
+
+“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I’ve heard her. Perhaps she is dressing. I
+must get off.”
+
+“I’ll call her.”
+
+“No—don’t bother her—she’d come if she wanted——”
+
+But mother had called from the foot of the stairs.
+
+“Lettie, Lettie—he’s going.”
+
+“All right,” said Lettie, and in another minute she came downstairs.
+She was dressed in dark, severe stuff, and she was somewhat pale. She
+did not look at any of us, but turned her eyes aside.
+
+“Good-bye,” she said to him, offering him her cheek. He kissed her,
+murmuring: “Good-bye—my love.”
+
+He stood in the doorway a moment, looking at her with beseeching eyes.
+She kept her face half averted, and would not look at him, but stood
+pale and cold, biting her underlip. He turned sharply away with a
+motion of keen disappointment, set the engines of the car into action,
+mounted, and drove quickly away.
+
+Lettie stood pale and inscrutable for some moments.
+
+Then she went in to breakfast and sat toying with her food, keeping her
+head bent down, her face hidden.
+
+In less than an hour he was back again, saying he had left something
+behind. He ran upstairs, and then, hesitating, went into the room where
+Lettie was still sitting at table.
+
+“I had to come back,” he said.
+
+She lifted her face towards him, but kept her eyes averted, looking out
+of the window. She was flushed.
+
+“What had you forgotten?” she asked.
+
+“I’d left my cigarette case,” he replied.
+
+There was an awkward silence.
+
+“But I shall have to be getting off,” he added.
+
+“Yes, I suppose you will,” she replied.
+
+After another pause, he asked:
+
+“Won’t you just walk down the path with me?”
+
+She rose without answering. He took a shawl and put it round her
+carefully. She merely allowed him. They walked in silence down the
+garden.
+
+“You—are you—are you angry with me?” he faltered.
+
+Tears suddenly came to her eyes.
+
+“What did you come back for?” she said, averting her face from him. He
+looked at her.
+
+“I knew you were angry—and——,” he hesitated.
+
+“Why didn’t you go away?” she said impulsively. He hung his head and
+was silent.
+
+“I don’t see why—why it should make trouble between us, Lettie,” he
+faltered. She made a swift gesture of repulsion, whereupon, catching
+sight of her hand, she hid it swiftly against her skirt again.
+
+“You make my hands—my very hands disclaim me,” she struggled to say.
+
+He looked at her clenched fist pressed against the folds of her dress.
+
+“But—,” he began, much troubled.
+
+“I tell you, I can’t bear the sight of my own hands,” she said in low,
+passionate tones.
+
+“But surely, Lettie, there’s no need—if you love me——”
+
+She seemed to wince. He waited, puzzled and miserable.
+
+“And we’re going to be married, aren’t we?” he resumed, looking
+pleadingly at her.
+
+She stirred, and exclaimed:
+
+“Oh, why don’t you go away? What did you come back for?”
+
+“You’ll kiss me before I go?” he asked.
+
+She stood with averted face, and did not reply. His forehead was
+twitching in a puzzled frown.
+
+“Lettie!” he said.
+
+She did not move or answer, but remained with her face turned full
+away, so that he could see only the contour of her cheek. After waiting
+awhile, he flushed, turned swiftly and set his machine rattling. In a
+moment he was racing between the trees.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+KISS WHEN SHE’S RIPE FOR TEARS
+
+
+It was the Sunday after Leslie’s visit. We had had a wretched week,
+with everybody mute and unhappy.
+
+Though Spring had come, none of us saw it. Afterwards it occurred to me
+that I had seen all the ranks of poplars suddenly bursten into a dark
+crimson glow, with a flutter of blood-red where the sun came through
+the leaves; that I had found high cradles where the swan’s eggs lay by
+the waterside; that I had seen the daffodils leaning from the
+moss-grown wooden walls of the boat-house, and all, moss, daffodils,
+water, scattered with the pink scarves from the elm buds; that I had
+broken the half-spread fans of the sycamore, and had watched the white
+cloud of sloe-blossom go silver grey against the evening sky: but I had
+not perceived it, and I had not any vivid spring-pictures left from the
+neglected week.
+
+It was Sunday evening, just after tea, when Lettie suddenly said to me:
+
+“Come with me down to Strelley Mill.”
+
+I was astonished, but I obeyed unquestioningly. On the threshold we
+heard a chattering of girls, and immediately Alice’s voice greeted us:
+
+“Hello, Sybil, love! Hello, Lettie! Come on, here’s a gathering of the
+goddesses. Come on, you just make us right. You’re Juno, and here’s
+Meg, she’s Venus, and I’m—here, somebody, who am I, tell us quick—did
+you say Minerva, Sybil dear? Well you ought, then! Now Paris, hurry up.
+He’s putting his Sunday clothes on to take us a walk—Laws, what a time
+it takes him! Get your blushes ready, Meg—now, Lettie, look haughty,
+and I’ll look wise. I wonder if he wants me to go and tie his tie. Oh,
+Glory—where on earth did you get that antimacassar?”
+
+“In Nottingham—don’t you like it?” said George referring to his tie.
+“Hello, Lettie—have you come?”
+
+“Yes, it’s a gathering of the goddesses. Have you that apple? If so,
+hand it over,” said Alice.
+
+“What apple?”
+
+“Oh, Lum, his education! Paris’s apple—Can’t you see we’ve come to be
+chosen?”
+
+“Oh, well—I haven’t got any apple—I’ve eaten mine.”
+
+“Isn’t he flat—he’s like boiling magnesia that’s done boiling for a
+week. Are you going to take us all to church then?”
+
+“If you like.”
+
+“Come on, then. Where’s the Abode of Love? Look at Lettie looking
+shocked. Awfully sorry, old girl—thought love agreed with you.”
+
+“Did you say _love_?” inquired George.
+
+“Yes, I did; didn’t I, Meg? And you say ‘Love’ as well, don’t you?”
+
+“I don’t know what it is,” laughed Meg, who was very red and rather
+bewildered.
+
+“‘Amor est titillatio’—‘Love is a tickling,’—there—that’s it, isn’t it,
+Sybil?”
+
+“How should I know.”
+
+“Of _course_ not, old fellow. Leave it to the girls. See how knowing
+Lettie looks—and, laws, Lettie, you are solemn.”
+
+“It’s love,” suggested George, over his new neck-tie.
+
+“I’ll bet it is ‘degustasse sat est’—ain’t it, Lettie? ‘One lick’s
+enough’—‘and damned be he that first cries: Hold, enough!’—Which one do
+you like? But _are_ you going to take us to church, Georgie,
+darling—one by one, or all at once?”
+
+“What do you want me to do, Meg?” he asked.
+
+“Oh, I don’t mind.”
+
+“And do you mind, Lettie?”
+
+“I’m not going to church.”
+
+“Let’s go a walk somewhere—and let us start now,” said Emily somewhat
+testily. She did not like this nonsense.
+
+“There you are Syb—you’ve got your orders—don’t leave me behind,”
+wailed Alice.
+
+Emily frowned and bit her finger.
+
+“Come on, Georgie. You look like the finger of a pair scales—between
+two weights. Which’ll draw?”
+
+“The heavier,” he replied, smiling, and looking neither at Meg or
+Lettie.
+
+“Then it’s Meg,” cried Alice. “Oh, I wish I was fleshy—I’ve no chance
+with Syb against Pem.”
+
+Emily flashed looks of rage; Meg blushed and felt ashamed; Lettie began
+to recover from her first outraged indignation, and smiled.
+
+Thus we went a walk, in two trios.
+
+Unfortunately, as the evening was so fine, the roads were full of
+strollers: groups of three or four men dressed in pale trousers and
+shiny black cloth coats, following their suspicious little dogs: gangs
+of youths slouching along, occupied with nothing, often silent, talking
+now and then in raucous tones on some subject of brief interest: then
+the gallant husbands, in their tail coats very husbandly, pushing a
+jingling perambulator, admonished by a much dressed spouse round whom
+the small members of the family gyrated: occasionally, two lovers
+walking with a space between them, disowning each other; occasionally,
+a smartly dressed mother with two little girls in white silk frocks and
+much expanse of yellow hair, stepping mincingly, and, near by, a father
+awkwardly controlling his Sunday suit.
+
+To endure all this it was necessary to chatter unconcernedly. George
+had to keep up the conversation behind, and he seemed to do it with
+ease, discoursing on the lambs, discussing the breed—when Meg
+exclaimed:
+
+“Oh, aren’t they black! They might ha’ crept down th’ chimney. I never
+saw any like them before.” He described how he had reared two on the
+bottle, exciting Meg’s keen admiration by his mothering of the lambs.
+Then he went on to the peewits, harping on the same string: how they
+would cry and pretend to be wounded—“Just fancy, though!”—and how he
+had moved the eggs of one pair while he was ploughing, and the mother
+had followed them, and had even sat watching as he drew near again with
+the plough, watching him come and go—“Well, she knew you—but they _do_
+know those who are kind to them——”
+
+“Yes,” he agreed, “her little bright eyes seem to speak as you go by.”
+
+“Oh, I do think they’re nice little things—don’t you, Lettie?” cried
+Meg in access of tenderness.
+
+Lettie did—with brevity.
+
+We walked over the hills and down into Greymede. Meg thought she ought
+to go home to her grandmother, and George bade her go, saying he would
+call and see her in an hour or so.
+
+The dear girl was disappointed, but she went unmurmuring. We left Alice
+with a friend, and hurried home through Selsby to escape the
+after-church parade.
+
+As you walk home past Selsby, the pit stands up against the west, with
+beautiful tapering chimneys marked in black against the swim of sunset,
+and the head-stocks etched with tall significance on the brightness.
+Then the houses are squat in rows of shadow at the foot of these high
+monuments.
+
+“Do you know, Cyril,” said Emily, “I _have_ meant to go and see Mrs
+Annable—the keeper’s wife—she’s moved into Bonsart’s Row, and the
+children come to school—Oh, it’s awful!—they’ve never been to school,
+and they are unspeakable.”
+
+“What’s she gone there for?” I asked.
+
+“I suppose the squire wanted the Kennels—and she chose it herself. But
+the way they live—it’s fearful to think of!”
+
+“And why haven’t you been?”
+
+“I don’t know—I’ve meant to—but——” Emily stumbled.
+
+“You didn’t want, and you daren’t?”
+
+“Perhaps not—would you?”
+
+“Pah—let’s go now!—There, you hang back.”
+
+“No I don’t,” she replied sharply.
+
+“Come on then, we’ll go through the twitchel. Let me tell Lettie.”
+
+Lettie at once declared, “No!”—with some asperity.
+
+“All right,” said George. “I’ll take you home.”
+
+But this suited Lettie still less.
+
+“I don’t know what you want to go for, Cyril,” she said, “and Sunday
+night, and, everybody everywhere. I want to go home.”
+
+“Well—you go then—Emily will come with you.”
+
+“Ha,” cried the latter, “you think I won’t go to see her.”
+
+I shrugged my shoulders, and George pulled his moustache.
+
+“Well, I don’t care,” declared Lettie, and we marched down the
+twitchel, Indian file.
+
+We came near to the ugly rows of houses that back up against the
+pit-hill. Everywhere is black and sooty: the houses are back to back,
+having only one entrance, which is from a square garden where
+black-speckled weeds grow sulkily, and which looks on to a row of evil
+little ash-pit huts. The road everywhere is trodden over with a crust
+of soot and coal-dust and cinders.
+
+Between the rows, however, was a crowd of women and children, bare
+heads, bare arms, white aprons, and black Sunday frocks bristling with
+gimp. One or two men squatted on their heels with their backs against a
+wall, laughing. The women were waving their arms and screaming up at
+the roof of the end house.
+
+Emily and Lettie drew back.
+
+“Look there—it’s that little beggar, Sam!” said George.
+
+There, sure enough, perched on the ridge of the roof against the end
+chimney, was the young imp, coatless, his shirt-sleeves torn away from
+the cuffs. I knew his bright, reddish young head in a moment. He got
+up, his bare toes clinging to the tiles, and spread out his fingers
+fanwise from his nose, shouting something, which immediately caused the
+crowd to toss with indignation, and the women to shriek again. Sam sat
+down suddenly, having almost lost his balance.
+
+The village constable hurried up, his thin neck stretching out of his
+tunic, and demanded the cause of the hubbub.
+
+Immediately a woman with bright brown squinting eyes and a birthmark on
+her cheek, rushed forward and seized the policeman by the sleeve.
+
+“Ta’e ’im up, ta’e ’im up, an’ birch ’im till ’is bloody back’s raw,”
+she screamed.
+
+The thin policeman shook her off, and wanted to know what was the
+matter.
+
+“I’ll smosh ’im like a rotten tater,” cried the woman, “if I can lay
+’ands on ’im. ’E’s not fit ter live nowhere where there’s decent
+folks—the thievin’, brazen little devil——” thus she went on.
+
+“But what’s up!” interrupted the thin constable, “what’s up wi’ ’im?”
+
+“Up—it’s ’im as ’is up, an’ let ’im wait till I get ’im down. A crafty
+little——”
+
+Sam, seeing her look at him, distorted his honest features, and
+overheated her wrath, till Lettie and Emily trembled with dismay.
+
+The mother’s head appeared at the bedroom window. She slid the sash
+back, and craned out, vainly trying to look over the gutter below the
+slates. She was even more dishevelled than usual, and the tears had
+dried on her pale face. She stretched further out, clinging to the
+window frame and to the gutter overhead, till I was afraid she would
+come down with a crash.
+
+The men, squatting on their heels against the wall of the ashpit,
+laughed, saying:
+
+“Nab ’im, Poll—can ter see ’m—clawk ’im!” and then the pitiful voice of
+the woman was heard crying: “Come thy ways down, my duckie, come
+on—on’y come ter thy mother—they shanna touch thee. Du thy mother’s
+biddin’, now—Sam—Sam—Sam!” her voice rose higher and higher.
+
+“Sammy, Sammy, go to thy mammy,” jeered the wits below.
+
+“Shonna ter come, Shonna ter come to thy mother, my duckie—come on,
+come thy ways down.”
+
+Sam looked at the crowd, and at the eaves from under which rose his
+mother’s voice. He was going to cry. A big gaunt woman, with the family
+steel comb stuck in her back hair, shouted, “Tha’ mun well bend thy
+face, tha’ needs ter scraight,” and aided by the woman with the
+birthmark and the squint, she reviled him. The little scoundrel, in a
+burst of defiance, picked a piece of mortar from between the slates,
+and in a second it flew into fragments against the family steel comb.
+The wearer thereof declared her head was laid open and there was
+general confusion. The policeman—I don’t know how thin he must have
+been when he was taken out of his uniform—lost his head, and he too
+began brandishing his fists, spitting from under his sweep’s-brush
+moustache as he commanded in tones of authority:
+
+“Now then, no more on it—let’s ’a’e thee down here, an’ no more messin’
+about!”
+
+The boy tried to creep over the ridge of the roof and escape down the
+other side. Immediately the brats rushed round yelling to the other
+side of the row, and pieces of red-burnt gravel began to fly over the
+roof. Sam crouched against the chimney.
+
+“Got ’im!” yelled one little devil “Got ’im! Hi—go again!”
+
+A shower of stones came down, scattering the women and the policeman.
+The mother rushed from the house and made a wild onslaught on the
+throwers. She caught one and flung him down. Immediately the rest
+turned and aimed their missiles at her. Then George and the policeman
+and I dashed after the young wretches, and the women ran to see what
+happened to their offspring. We caught two lads of fourteen or so, and
+made the policeman haul them after us. The rest fled.
+
+When we returned to the field of battle, Sam had gone too.
+
+“If ’e ’asna slived off!” cried the woman with a squint. “But I’ll see
+him locked up for this.”
+
+At this moment a band of missioners from one of the chapels or churches
+arrived at the end of the row, and the little harmonium began to bray,
+and the place vibrated with the sound of a woman’s powerful voice,
+propped round by several others, singing:
+
+“At even ’ere the sun was set——”
+
+Everybody hurried towards the new noise, save the policeman with his
+captives, the woman with the squint, and the woman with the family
+comb. I told the limb of the law he’d better get rid of the two boys
+and find out what mischief the others were after.
+
+Then I enquired of the woman with the squint what was the matter.
+
+“Thirty-seven young uns ’an we ’ad from that doe, an’ there’s no
+knowin’ ’ow many more, if they ’adn’t a-gone an’ ate-n ’er,” she
+replied, lapsing, now her fury was spent, into sullen resentment.
+
+“An’ niver a word should we a’ known,” added the family-comb-bearer,
+“but for that blessed cat of ourn, as scrat it up.”
+
+“Indeed,” said I, “the rabbit?”
+
+“No, there were nowt left but th’ skin—they’d seen ter that, a
+thieving, dirt-eatin’ lot.”
+
+“When was that?” said I.
+
+“This mortal night—an’ there was th’ head an’ th’ back in th’ dirty
+stewpot—I can show you this instant—I’ve got ’em in our pantry for a
+proof, ’aven’t I, Martha?”
+
+“A fat lot o’ good it is—but I’ll rip th’ neck out of ’im, if ever I
+lay ’ands on ’im.”
+
+At last I made out that Samuel had stolen a large, lop-eared doe out of
+a bunch in the coal-house of the squint-eyed lady, had skinned it,
+buried the skin, and offered his booty to his mother as a wild rabbit,
+trapped. The doe had been the chief item of the Annables’ Sunday
+dinner—albeit a portion was unluckily saved till Monday, providing
+undeniable proof of the theft. The owner of the rabbit had supposed the
+creature to have escaped. This peaceful supposition had been destroyed
+by the comb-bearer’s seeing her cat, scratching in the Annables garden,
+unearth the white and brown doe-skin, after which the trouble had
+begun.
+
+The squint-eyed woman was not so hard to manage. I talked to her as if
+she were some male friend of mine, only appealing to her womanliness
+with all the soft sadness I could press into the tones of my voice. In
+the end she was mollified, and even tender and motherly in her feelings
+toward the unfortunate family. I left on her dresser the half-crown I
+shrank from offering her, and, having reduced the comb-wearer also, I
+marched off, carrying the stewpot and the fragments of the ill-fated
+doe to the cottage of the widow, where George and the girls awaited me.
+
+The house was in a woeful state. In the rocking chair, beside the high
+guard that surrounded the hearth, sat the mother, rocking, looking
+sadly shaken now her excitement was over. Lettie was nursing the little
+baby, and Emily the next child. George was smoking his pipe and trying
+to look natural. The little kitchen was crowded—there was no room—there
+was not even a place on the table for the stew-jar, so I gathered
+together cups and mugs containing tea sops, and set down the vessel of
+ignominy on the much slopped tea-cloth. The four little children were
+striped and patched with tears—at my entrance one under the table
+recommenced to weep, so I gave him my pencil which pushed in and out,
+but which pushes in and out no more. The sight of the stewpot affected
+the mother afresh. She wept again, crying:
+
+“An’ I niver thought as ’ow it were aught but a snared un; as if I
+should set ’im on ter thieve their old doe; an’ tough it was an’ all;
+an’ ’im a thief, an me called all the names they could lay their
+tongues to: an’ then in my bit of a pantry, takin’ the very pots out:
+that stewpot as I brought all the way from Nottingham, an’ I’ve ’ad it
+afore our Minnie wor born—”
+
+The baby, the little baby, then began to cry. The mother got up
+suddenly, and took it.
+
+“Oh, come then, come then my pet. Why, why cos they shanna, no they
+shanna. Yes, he’s his mother’s least little lad, he is, a little un.
+Hush then, there, there—what’s a matter, my little?” She hushed the
+baby, and herself. At length she asked:
+
+“’As th’ p’liceman gone as well?”
+
+“Yes—it’s all right,” I said.
+
+She sighed deeply, and her look of weariness was painful to see.
+
+“How old is your eldest?” I asked.
+
+“Fanny—she’s fourteen. She’s out service at Websters. Then Jim, as is
+thirteen next month—let’s see, yes, it is next month—he’s gone to
+Flints—farming. They can’t do much—an’ I shan’t let ’em go into th’
+pit, if I can help it. My husband always used to say they should never
+go in th’ pit.”
+
+“They can’t do much for you.”
+
+“They dun what they can. But it’s a hard job, it is, ter keep ’em all
+goin’. Wi’ weshin, an’ th’ parish pay, an’ five shillin’ from th’
+squire—it’s ’ard. It was different when my husband was alive. It ought
+ter ’a been me as should ’a died—I don’t seem as if I can manage
+’em—they get beyond me. I wish I was dead this minnit, an’ ’im ’ere. I
+can’t understand it: ’im as wor so capable, to be took, an’ me left. ’E
+wor a man in a thousand, ’e wor—full o’ management like a gentleman. I
+wisht it was me as ’ad a been took. ’An ’e’s restless, ’cos ’e knows I
+find it ’ard. I stood at th’ door last night, when they was all asleep,
+looking out over th’ pit pond—an’ I saw a light, an’ I knowed it was
+’im—cos it wor our weddin’ day yesterday—by the day an’ th’ date. An’ I
+said to ’im ‘Frank, is it thee, Frank? I’m all right, I’m gettin’ on
+all right,’—an’ then ’e went; seemed to go ower the whimsey an’ back
+towards th’ wood. I know it wor ’im, an’ ’e couldna rest, thinkin’ I
+couldna manage——”
+
+After a while we left, promising to go again, and to see after the
+safety of Sam.
+
+It was quite dark, and the lamps were lighted in the houses. We could
+hear the throb of the fan-house engines, and the soft whirr of the fan.
+
+“Isn’t it cruel?” said Emily plaintively.
+
+“Wasn’t the man a wretch to marry the woman like that,” added Lettie
+with decision.
+
+“Speak of Lady Chrystabel,” said I, and then there was silence. “I
+suppose he did not know what he was doing, any more than the rest of
+us.”
+
+“I thought you were going to your aunt’s—to the Ram Inn,” said Lettie
+to George when they came to the cross-roads.
+
+“Not now—it’s too late,” he answered quietly. “You will come round our
+way, won’t you?”
+
+“Yes,” she said.
+
+We were eating bread and milk at the farm, and the father was talking
+with vague sadness and reminiscence, lingering over the thought of
+their departure from the old house. He was a pure romanticist, forever
+seeking the colour of the past in the present’s monotony. He seemed
+settling down to an easy contented middle-age, when the unrest on the
+farm and development of his children quickened him with fresh activity.
+He read books on the land question, and modern novels. In the end he
+became an advanced radical, almost a socialist. Occasionally his
+letters appeared in the newspapers. He had taken a new hold on life.
+
+Over supper he became enthusiastic about Canada, and to watch him, his
+ruddy face lighted up, his burly form straight and nerved with
+excitement, was to admire him; to hear him, his words of thoughtful
+common-sense all warm with a young man’s hopes, was to love him. At
+forty-six he was more spontaneous and enthusiastic than George, and far
+more happy and hopeful.
+
+Emily would not agree to go away with them—what should she do in
+Canada, she said—and she did not want the little ones “to be drudges on
+a farm—in the end to be nothing but cattle.”
+
+“Nay,” said her father gently, “Mollie shall learn the dairying, and
+David will just be right to take to the place when I give up. It’ll
+perhaps be a bit rough and hard at first, but when we’ve got over it we
+shall think it was one of the best times—like you do.”
+
+“And you, George?” asked Lettie.
+
+“I’m not going. What should I go for? There’s nothing at the end of it
+only a long life. It’s like a day here in June—a long work day,
+pleasant enough, and when it’s done you sleep well—but it’s work and
+sleep and comfort,—half a life. It’s not enough. What’s the odds?—I
+might as well be Flower, the mare.”
+
+His father looked at him gravely and thoughtfully.
+
+“Now it seems to me so different,” he said sadly, “it seems to me you
+can live your own life, and be independent, and think as you like
+without being choked with harassments. I feel as if I could keep
+on—like that——”
+
+“I’m going to get more out of my life, I hope,” laughed George. “No. Do
+you know?” and here he turned straight to Lettie. “Do you know, I’m
+going to get pretty rich, so that I can do what I want for a bit. I
+want to see what it’s like, to taste all sides—to taste the towns. I
+want to know what I’ve got in me. I’ll get rich—or at least I’ll have a
+good try.”
+
+“And pray how will you manage it?” asked Emily.
+
+“I’ll begin by marrying—and then you’ll see.”
+
+Emily laughed with scorn—“Let us see you begin.”
+
+“Ah, you’re not wise!” said the father sadly—then, laughing, he said to
+Lettie in coaxing, confidential tones, “but he’ll come out there to me
+in a year or two—you see if he doesn’t.”
+
+“I wish I could come now,” said I.
+
+“If you would,” said George, “I’d go with you. But not by myself, to
+become a fat stupid fool, like my own cattle.”
+
+While he was speaking Gyp burst into a rage of barking. The father got
+up to see what it was, and George followed. Trip, the great
+bull-terrier, rushed out of the house shaking the buildings with his
+roars. We saw the white dog flash down the yard, we heard a rattle from
+the hen-house ladder, and in a moment a scream from the orchard side.
+
+We rushed forward, and there on the sharp bank-side lay a little
+figure, face down, and Trip standing over it, looking rather puzzled.
+
+I picked up the child—it was Sam. He struggled as soon as he felt my
+hands, but I bore him off to the house. He wriggled like a wild hare,
+and kicked, but at last he was still. I set him on the hearthrug to
+examine him. He was a quaint little figure, dressed in a man’s trousers
+that had been botched small for him, and a coat hanging in rags.
+
+“Did he get hold of you?” asked the father. “Where was it he got hold
+of you?”
+
+But the child stood unanswering, his little pale lips pinched together,
+his eyes staring out at nothing. Emily went on her knees before him,
+and put her face close to his, saying, with a voice that made one
+shrink from its unbridled emotion of caress:
+
+“Did he hurt you, eh?—tell us where he hurt you.” She would have put
+her arms around him, but he shrank away.
+
+“Look here,” said Lettie, “it’s here—and it’s bleeding. Go and get some
+water, Emily, and some rags. Come on, Sam, let me look and I’ll put
+some rags round it. Come along.”
+
+She took the child and stripped him of his grotesque garments. Trip had
+given him a sharp grab on the thigh before he had realised that he was
+dealing with a little boy. It was not much, however, and Lettie soon
+had it bathed, and anointed with elder-flower ointment. On the boy’s
+body were several scars and bruises—evidently he had rough times.
+Lettie tended to him and dressed him again. He endured these attentions
+like a trapped wild rabbit—never looking at us, never opening his
+lips—only shrinking slightly. When Lettie had put on him his torn
+little shirt, and had gathered the great breeches about him, Emily went
+to him to coax him and make him at home. She kissed him, and talked to
+him with her full vibration of emotional caress. It seemed almost to
+suffocate him. Then she tried to feed him with bread and milk from a
+spoon, but he would not open his mouth, and he turned his head away.
+
+“Leave him alone—take no notice of him,” said Lettie, lifting him into
+the chimney seat, with the basin of bread and milk beside him. Emily
+fetched the two kittens out of their basket and put them too beside
+him.
+
+“I wonder how many eggs he’d got,” said the father, laughing softly.
+
+“Hush!” said Lettie. “When do you think you will go to Canada, Mr.
+Saxton?”
+
+“_Next_ spring—it’s no good going before.”
+
+“And then you’ll marry?” asked Lettie of George.
+
+“Before then—oh, before then,” he said.
+
+“Why—how is it you are suddenly in such a hurry?—when will it be?”
+
+“When are you marrying?” he asked in reply.
+
+“I don’t know,” she said, coming to a full stop.
+
+“Then I don’t know,” he said, taking a large wedge of cheese and biting
+a piece from it.
+
+“It was fixed for June,” she said, recovering herself at his suggestion
+of hope.
+
+“July!” said Emily.
+
+“Father!” said he, holding the piece of cheese up before him as he
+spoke—he was evidently nervous: “Would you advise me to marry Meg?”
+
+His father started, and said:
+
+“Why, was you thinking of doing?”
+
+“Yes—all things considered.”
+
+“Well—if she suits you——”
+
+“We’re cousins——”
+
+“If you want her, I suppose you won’t let that hinder you. She’ll have
+a nice bit of money, and if you like her——”
+
+“I like her all right—I shan’t go out to Canada with her though. I
+shall stay at the Ram—for the sake of the life.”
+
+“It’s a poor life, that!” said the father, ruminating.
+
+George laughed. “A bit mucky!” he said—“But it’ll do. It would need
+Cyril or Lettie to keep me alive in Canada.”
+
+It was a bold stroke—everybody was embarrassed.
+
+“Well,” said the father, “I suppose we can’t have everything we want—we
+generally have to put up with the next best thing—don’t we, Lettie?”—he
+laughed. Lettie flushed furiously.
+
+“I don’t know,” she said. “You can generally get what you want if you
+want it badly enough. Of course—if you _don’t mind_——”
+
+She rose and went across to Sam.
+
+He was playing with the kittens. One was patting and cuffing his bare
+toe, which had poked through his stocking. He pushed and teased the
+little scamp with his toe till it rushed at him, clinging, tickling,
+biting till he gave little bubbles of laughter, quite forgetful of us.
+Then the kitten was tired, and ran off. Lettie shook her skirts, and
+directly the two playful mites rushed upon it, darting round her,
+rolling head over heels, and swinging from the soft cloth. Suddenly
+becoming aware that they felt tired, the young things trotted away and
+cuddled together by the fender, where in an instant they were asleep.
+Almost as suddenly, Sam sank into drowsiness.
+
+“He’d better go to bed,” said the father.
+
+“Put him in my bed,” said George. “David would wonder what had
+happened.”
+
+“Will you go to bed, Sam?” asked Emily, holding out her arms to him,
+and immediately startling him by the terrible gentleness of her
+persuasion. He retreated behind Lettie.
+
+“Come along,” said the latter, and she quickly took him and undressed
+him. Then she picked him up, and his bare legs hung down in front of
+her. His head drooped drowsily on to her shoulder, against her neck.
+
+She put down her face to touch the loose riot of his ruddy hair. She
+stood so, quiet, still and wistful, for a few moments; perhaps she was
+vaguely aware that the attitude was beautiful for her, and irresistibly
+appealing to George, who loved, above all in her, her delicate dignity
+of tenderness. Emily waited with the lighted candle for her some
+moments.
+
+When she came down there was a softness about her.
+
+“Now,” said I to myself, “if George asks her again he is wise.”
+
+“He is asleep,” she said quietly.
+
+“I’m thinking we might as well let him stop while we’re here, should
+we, George?” said the father. “Eh?”
+
+“We’ll keep him here while we _are_ here——”
+
+“Oh—the lad! I should. Yes—he’d be better here than up yonder.”
+
+“Ah, yes—ever so much. It is good of you,” said Lettie.
+
+“Oh, he’ll make no difference,” said the father.
+
+“Not a bit,” added George.
+
+“What about his mother!” asked Lettie.
+
+“I’ll call and tell her in the morning,” said George.
+
+“Yes,” she said, “call and tell her.”
+
+Then she put on her things to go. He also put on his cap.
+
+“Are you coming a little way, Emily?” I asked.
+
+She ran, laughing, with bright eyes as we went out into the darkness.
+
+We waited for them at the wood gate. We all lingered, not knowing what
+to say. Lettie said finally:
+
+“Well—it’s no good—the grass is wet—Good-night—Good-night, Emily.”
+
+“Good-night,” he said, with regret and hesitation, and a trifle of
+impatience in his voice and his manner. He lingered still a moment; she
+hesitated—then she struck off sharply.
+
+“He has not asked her, the idiot!” I said to myself.
+
+“Really,” she said bitterly, when we were going up the garden path,
+“You think rather quiet folks have a lot in them, but it’s only
+stupidity—they are mostly fools.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+AN ARROW FROM THE IMPATIENT GOD
+
+
+On an afternoon three or four days after the recovery of Sam, matters
+became complicated. George, as usual, discovered that he had been
+dawdling in the portals of his desires, when the doors came to with a
+bang. Then he hastened to knock.
+
+“Tell her,” he said, “I will come up tomorrow after milking—tell her
+I’m coming to see her.”
+
+On the evening of that morrow, the first person to put in an appearance
+was a garrulous spinster who had called ostensibly to inquire into the
+absence of the family from church: “I said to Elizabeth, ‘Now what a
+_thing_ if anything happens to them just now, and the wedding is put
+off.’ I felt I _must_ come and make myself sure—that nothing had
+happened. We all feel _so_ interested in Lettie just now. I’m sure
+everybody is talking of her, she seems in the air.—I really think we
+shall have thunder: I _hope_ we shan’t.—Yes, we are all so glad that
+Mr. Tempest is content with a wife from at home—the others, his father
+and Mr. Robert and the rest—they were none of them to be suited at
+home, though to be sure the wives they brought were nothing—indeed they
+were not—as many a one said—Mrs. Robert was a paltry choice—neither in
+looks or manner had she anything to boast of—if her family was older
+than mine. Family wasn’t much to make up for what she lacked in other
+things, that I could easily have supplied her with; and, oh, dear, what
+an object she is now, with her wisp of hair and her spectacles! She for
+one hasn’t kept much of her youth. But when _is_ the exact date,
+dear?—Some say this and some that, but as I always say, I never trust a
+‘they say.’ It is so nice that you have that cousin a canon to come
+down for the service, Mrs. Beardsall, and Sir Walter Houghton for the
+groom’s man! What?—You don’t think so—oh, but I know, dear, I know; you
+do like to treasure up these secrets, don’t you; you are greedy for all
+the good things just now.”
+
+She shook her head at Lettie, and the jet ornaments on her bonnet
+twittered like a thousand wagging little tongues. Then she sighed, and
+was about to recommence her song, when she happened to turn her head
+and to espy a telegraph boy coming up the path.
+
+“Oh, I hope nothing is wrong, dear—I hope nothing is wrong! I always
+feel so terrified of a telegram. You’d better not open it yourself,
+dear—don’t now—let your brother go.”
+
+Lettie, who had turned pale, hurried to the door. The sky was very
+dark—there was a mutter of thunder.
+
+“It’s all right,” said Lettie, trembling, “it’s only to say he’s coming
+to-night.”
+
+“I’m very thankful, very thankful,” cried the spinster. “It might have
+been so much worse. I’m sure I never open a telegram without feeling as
+if I was opening a death-blow. I’m so glad, dear; it must have upset
+you. What news to take back to the village, supposing something had
+happened!” she sighed again, and the jet drops twinkled ominously in
+the thunder light, as if declaring they would make something of it yet.
+
+It was six o’clock. The air relaxed a little, and the thunder was
+silent. George would be coming about seven; and the spinster showed no
+signs of departure; and Leslie might arrive at any moment. Lettie
+fretted and fidgeted, and the old woman gabbled on. I looked out of the
+window at the water and the sky.
+
+The day had been uncertain. In the morning it was warm, and the
+sunshine had played and raced among the cloud-shadows on the hills.
+Later, great cloud masses had stalked up from the northwest and crowded
+thick across the sky; in this little night, sleet and wind, and rain
+whirled furiously. Then the sky had laughed at us again. In the
+sunshine came the spinster. But as she talked, over the hilltop rose
+the wide forehead of the cloud, rearing slowly, ominously higher. A
+first messenger of storm passed darkly over the sky, leaving the way
+clear again.
+
+“I will go round to Highclose,” said Lettie. “I am sure it will be
+stormy again. Are you coming down the road, Miss Slaighter, or do you
+mind if I leave you?”
+
+“I will go, dear, if you think there is going to be another storm—I
+dread it so. Perhaps I had better wait——”
+
+“Oh, it will not come over for an hour, I am sure. We read the weather
+well out here, don’t we, Cyril? You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
+
+We three set off, the gossip leaning on her toes, tripping between us.
+She was much gratified by Lettie’s information concerning the proposals
+for the new home. We left her in a glow of congratulatory smiles on the
+highway. But the clouds had upreared, and stretched in two great arms,
+reaching overhead. The little spinster hurried along, but the black
+hands of the clouds kept pace and clutched her. A sudden gust of wind
+shuddered in the trees, and rushed upon her cloak, blowing its bugles.
+
+An icy raindrop smote into her cheek. She hurried on, praying fervently
+for her bonnet’s sake that she might reach Widow Harriman’s cottage
+before the burst came. But the thunder crashed in her ear, and a host
+of hailstones flew at her. In despair and anguish she fled from under
+the ash trees; she reached the widow’s garden gate, when out leapt the
+lightning full at her. “Put me in the stair-hole!” she cried. “Where is
+the stair-hole?”
+
+Glancing wildly round, she saw a ghost. It was the reflection of the
+sainted spinster, Hilda Slaighter, in the widow’s mirror; a reflection
+with a bonnet fallen backwards, and to it attached a thick rope of
+grey-brown hair. The author of the ghost instinctively twisted to look
+at the back of her head. She saw some ends of grey hair, and fled into
+the open stair-hole as into a grave.
+
+We had gone back home till the storm was over, and then, restless,
+afraid of the arrival of George, we set out again into the wet evening.
+It was fine and chilly, and already a mist was rising from Nethermere,
+veiling the farther shore, where the trees rose loftily, suggesting
+groves beyond the Nile. The birds were singing riotously. The fresh
+green hedge glistened vividly and glowed again with intense green.
+Looking at the water, I perceived a delicate flush from the west hiding
+along it. The mist licked and wreathed up the shores; from the hidden
+white distance came the mournful cry of water fowl. We went slowly
+along behind a heavy cart, which clanked and rattled under the dripping
+trees, with the hoofs of the horse moving with broad thuds in front. We
+passed over black patches where the ash flowers were beaten down, and
+under great massed clouds of green sycamore. At the sudden curve of the
+road, near the foot of the hill, I stopped to break off a spray of
+larch, where the soft cones were heavy as raspberries, and gay like
+flowers with petals. The shaken bough spattered a heavy shower on my
+face, of drops so cold that they seemed to sink into my blood and chill
+it.
+
+“Hark!” said Lettie, as I was drying my face. There was the quick
+patter of a motor-car coming downhill. The heavy cart was drawn across
+the road to rest, and the driver hurried to turn the horse back. It
+moved with painful slowness, and we stood in the road in suspense.
+Suddenly, before we knew it, the car was dropping down on us, coming at
+us in a curve, having rounded the horse and cart. Lettie stood faced
+with terror. Leslie saw her, and swung round the wheels on the sharp,
+curving hill-side; looking only to see that he should miss her. The car
+slid sideways; the mud crackled under the wheels, and the machine went
+crashing into Nethermere. It caught the edge of the old stone wall with
+a smash. Then for a few moments I think I was blind. When I saw again,
+Leslie was lying across the broken hedge, his head hanging down the
+bank, his face covered with blood; the car rested strangely on the
+brink of the water, crumpled as if it had sunk down to rest.
+
+Lettie, with hands shuddering, was wiping the blood from his eyes with
+a piece of her underskirt. In a moment she said:
+
+“He is not dead—let us take him home—let us take him quickly.”
+
+I ran and took the wicket gate off its hinges and laid him on that. His
+legs trailed down, but we carried him thus, she at the feet, I at the
+head. She made me stop and put him down. I thought the weight was too
+much for her, but it was not that.
+
+“I can’t bear to see his hand hanging, knocking against the bushes and
+things.”
+
+It was not many yards to the house. A maidservant saw us, came running
+out, and went running back, like the frightened lapwing from the
+wounded cat.
+
+We waited until the doctor came. There was a deep graze down the side
+of the head—serious, but not dangerous; there was a cut across the
+cheek-bone that would leave a scar; and the collar-bone was broken. I
+stayed until he had recovered consciousness. “Lettie,” he wanted
+Lettie, so she had to remain at Highclose all night. I went home to
+tell my mother.
+
+When I went to bed I looked across at the lighted windows of Highclose,
+and the lights trailed mistily towards me across the water. The cedar
+stood dark guard against the house; bright the windows were, like the
+stars, and, like the stars, covering their torment in brightness. The
+sky was glittering with sharp lights—they are too far off to take
+trouble for us, so little, little almost to nothingness. All the great
+hollow vastness roars overhead, and the stars are only sparks that
+whirl and spin in the restless space. The earth must listen to us; she
+covers her face with a thin veil of mist, and is sad; she soaks up our
+blood tenderly, in the darkness, grieving, and in the light she soothes
+and reassures us. Here on our earth is sympathy and hope, the heavens
+have nothing but distances.
+
+A corn-crake talked to me across the valley, talked and talked
+endlessly, asking and answering in hoarse tones from the sleeping,
+mist-hidden meadows. The monotonous voice, that on past summer evenings
+had had pleasant notes of romance, now was intolerable to me. Its
+inflexible harshness and cacophany seemed like the voice of fate
+speaking out its tuneless perseverance in the night.
+
+In the morning Lettie came home wan, sad-eyed, and self-reproachful.
+After a short time they came for her, as he wanted her again.
+
+When in the evening I went to see George, he too was very despondent.
+
+“It’s no good now,” said I. “You should have insisted and made your own
+destiny.”
+
+“Yes—perhaps so,” he drawled in his best reflective manner.
+
+“I would have had her—she’d have been glad if you’d done as you wanted
+with her. She won’t leave him till he’s strong, and he’ll marry her
+before then. You should have had the courage to risk yourself—you’re
+always too careful of yourself and your own poor feelings—you never
+could brace yourself up to a shower-bath of contempt and hard usage, so
+you’ve saved your feelings and lost—not much, I suppose—you couldn’t.”
+
+“But——” he began, not looking up; and I laughed at him.
+
+“Go on,” I said.
+
+“Well—she was engaged to him——”
+
+“Pah—you thought you were too good to be rejected.”
+
+He was very pale, and when he was pale, the tan on his skin looked
+sickly. He regarded me with his dark eyes, which were now full of
+misery and a child’s big despair.
+
+“And nothing else,” I completed, with which the little, exhausted
+gunboat of my anger wrecked and sank utterly. Yet no thoughts would
+spread sail on the sea of my pity: I was like water that heaves with
+yearning, and is still.
+
+Leslie was very ill for some time. He had a slight brain fever, and was
+delirious, insisting that Lettie was leaving him. She stayed most of
+her days at Highclose.
+
+One day in June he lay resting on a deck chair in the shade of the
+cedar, and she was sitting by him. It was a yellow, sultry day, when
+all the atmosphere seemed inert, and all things were languid.
+
+“Don’t you think, dear,” she said, “it would be better for us not to
+marry?”
+
+He lifted his head nervously from the cushions; his face was emblazoned
+with a livid red bar on a field of white, and he looked worn, wistful.
+
+“Do you mean not yet?” he asked.
+
+“Yes—and, perhaps,—perhaps never.”
+
+“Ha,” he laughed, sinking down again. “I must be getting like myself
+again, if you begin to tease me.”
+
+“But,” she said, struggling valiantly, “I’m not sure I ought to marry
+you.”
+
+He laughed again, though a little apprehensively.
+
+“Are you afraid I shall always be weak in my noddle?” he asked. “But
+you wait a month.”
+
+“No, that doesn’t bother me——”
+
+“Oh, doesn’t it!”
+
+“Silly boy—no, it’s myself.”
+
+“I’m sure I’ve made no complaint about you.”
+
+“Not likely—but I wish you’d let me go.”
+
+“I’m a strong man to hold you, aren’t I? Look at my muscular paw!”—he
+held out his hands, frail and white with sickness.
+
+“You know you hold me—and I want you to let me go. I don’t want to——”
+
+“To what?”
+
+“To get married at all—let me be, let me go.”
+
+“What for?”
+
+“Oh—for my sake.”
+
+“You mean you don’t love me?”
+
+“Love—love—I don’t know anything about it. But I can’t—we can’t
+be—don’t you see—oh, what do they say,—flesh of one flesh.”
+
+“Why?” he whispered, like a child that is told some tale of mystery.
+
+She looked at him, as he lay propped upon his elbow, turning towards
+hers his white face of fear and perplexity, like a child that cannot
+understand, and is afraid, and wants to cry. Then slowly tears gathered
+full in her eyes, and she wept from pity and despair.
+
+This excited him terribly. He got up from his chair, and the cushions
+fell on to the grass:
+
+“What’s the matter, what’s the matter!—Oh, Lettie,—is it me?—don’t you
+want me now?—is that it?—tell me, tell me now, tell me,”—he grasped her
+wrists, and tried to pull her hands from her face. The tears were
+running down his cheeks. She felt him trembling, and the sound of his
+voice alarmed her from herself. She hastily smeared the tears from her
+eyes, got up, and put her arms round him. He hid his head on her
+shoulder and sobbed, while she bent over him, and so they cried out
+their cries, till they were ashamed, looking round to see if anyone
+were near. Then she hurried about, picking up the cushions, making him
+lie down, and arranging him comfortably, so that she might be busy. He
+was querulous, like a sick, indulged child. He would have her arm under
+his shoulders, and her face near his.
+
+“Well,” he said, smiling faintly again after a time. “You are naughty
+to give us such rough times—is it for the pleasure of making up, bad
+little Schnucke—aren’t you?”
+
+She kept close to him, and he did not see the wince and quiver of her
+lips.
+
+“I wish I was strong again—couldn’t we go boating—or ride on
+horseback—and you’d have to behave then. Do you think I shall be strong
+in a month? Stronger than you?”
+
+“I hope so,” she said.
+
+“Why, I don’t believe you do, I believe you like me like this—so that
+you can lay me down and smooth me—don’t you, quiet girl?”
+
+“When you’re good.”
+
+“Ah, well, in a month I shall be strong, and we’ll be married and go to
+Switzerland—do you hear, Schnucke—you won’t be able to be naughty any
+more then. Oh—do you want to go away from me again?”
+
+“No—only my arm is dead,” she drew it from beneath him, standing up,
+swinging it, smiling because it hurt her.
+
+“Oh, my darling—what a shame! oh, I am a brute, a kiddish brute. I wish
+I was strong again, Lettie, and didn’t do these things.”
+
+“You boy—it’s nothing.” She smiled at him again.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+THE COURTING
+
+
+During Leslie’s illness I strolled down to the mill one Saturday
+evening. I met George tramping across the yard with a couple of buckets
+of swill, and eleven young pigs rushing squealing about his legs,
+shrieking in an agony of suspense. He poured the stuff into a trough
+with luscious gurgle, and instantly ten noses were dipped in, and ten
+little mouths began to slobber. Though there was plenty of room for
+ten, yet they shouldered and shoved and struggled to capture a larger
+space, and many little trotters dabbled and spilled the stuff, and the
+ten sucking, clapping snouts twitched fiercely, and twenty little eyes
+glared askance, like so many points of wrath. They gave uneasy, gasping
+grunts in their haste. The unhappy eleventh rushed from point to point
+trying to push in his snout, but for his pains he got rough squeezing,
+and sharp grabs on his ears. Then he lifted up his face and screamed
+screams of grief and wrath unto the evening sky.
+
+But the ten little gluttons only twitched their ears to make sure there
+was no danger in the noise, and they sucked harder, with much spilling
+and slobbing. George laughed like a sardonic Jove, but at last he gave
+ear, and kicked the ten gluttons from the trough, and allowed the
+residue to the eleventh. This one, poor wretch, almost wept with relief
+as he sucked and swallowed in sobs, casting his little eyes
+apprehensively upwards, though he did not lift his nose from the
+trough, as he heard the vindictive shrieks of ten little fiends kept at
+bay by George. The solitary feeder, shivering with apprehension, rubbed
+the wood bare with his snout, then, turning up to heaven his eyes of
+gratitude, he reluctantly left the trough. I expected to see the ten
+fall upon him and devour him, but they did not; they rushed upon the
+empty trough, and rubbed the wood still drier, shrieking with misery.
+
+“How like life,” I laughed.
+
+“Fine litter,” said George; “there were fourteen, only that damned
+she-devil, Circe, went and ate three of ’em before we got at her.”
+
+The great ugly sow came leering up as he spoke.
+
+“Why don’t you fatten her up, and devour her, the old gargoyle? She’s
+an offence to the universe.”
+
+“Nay—she’s a fine sow.”
+
+I snorted, and he laughed, and the old sow grunted with contempt, and
+her little eyes twisted towards us with a demoniac leer as she rolled
+past.
+
+“What are you going to do to-night!” I asked. “Going out?”
+
+“I’m going courting,” he replied, grinning.
+
+“Oh!—wish _I_ were!”
+
+“You can come if you like—and tell me where I make mistakes, since
+you’re an expert on such matters.”
+
+“Don’t you get on very well then?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, all right—it’s easy enough when you don’t care a damn. Besides,
+you can always have a Johnny Walker. That’s the best of courting at the
+Ram Inn. I’ll go and get ready.”
+
+In the kitchen Emily sat grinding out some stitching from a big old
+hand-machine that stood on the table before her: she was making shirts
+for Sam, I presumed. That little fellow, who was installed at the farm,
+was seated by her side firing off words from a reading book. The
+machine rumbled and rattled on, like a whole factory at work, for an
+inch or two, during which time Sam shouted in shrill explosions like
+irregular pistol shots: “Do—not—pot——” “Put!” cried Emily from the
+machine; “put——” shrilled the child, “the soot—on—my—boot,”——there the
+machine broke down, and, frightened by the sound of his own voice, the
+boy stopped in bewilderment and looked round.
+
+“Go on!” said Emily, as she poked in the teeth of the old machine with
+the scissors, then pulled and prodded again. He began “—boot—but—you——”
+here he died off again, made nervous by the sound of his voice in the
+stillness. Emily sucked a piece of cotton and pushed it through the
+needle.
+
+“Now go on,” she said, “—‘but you may’.”
+
+“But—you—may—shoot”:—he shouted away, reassured by the rumble of the
+machine: “Shoot—the—fox. I—I—It—is—at—the—rot——”
+
+“Root,” shrieked Emily, as she guided the stuff through the doddering
+jaws of the machine.
+
+“Root,” echoed the boy, and he went off with these crackers:
+“Root—of—the—tree.”
+
+“Next one!” cried Emily.
+
+“Put—the—ol——” began the boy.
+
+“What?” cried Emily.
+
+“Ole—on——”
+
+“Wait a bit!” cried Emily, and then the machine broke down.
+
+“Hang!” she ejaculated.
+
+“Hang!” shouted the child.
+
+She laughed, and leaned over to him:
+
+“‘Put the oil in the pan to boil, while I toil in the soil—Oh, Cyril, I
+never knew you were there! Go along now, Sam: David ’ll be at the back
+somewhere.”
+
+“He’s in the bottom garden,” said I, and the child ran out.
+
+Directly George came in from the scullery, drying himself. He stood on
+the hearthrug as he rubbed himself, and surveyed his reflection in the
+mirror above the high mantelpiece; he looked at himself and smiled. I
+wondered that he found such satisfaction in his image, seeing that
+there was a gap in his chin, and an uncertain moth-eaten appearance in
+one cheek. Mrs. Saxton still held this mirror an object of dignity; it
+was fairly large, and had a well-carven frame; but it left gaps and
+spots and scratches in one’s countenance, and even where it was
+brightest, it gave one’s reflection a far-away dim aspect.
+Notwithstanding, George smiled at himself as he combed his hair, and
+twisted his moustache.
+
+“You seem to make a good impression on yourself,” said I.
+
+“I was thinking I looked all right—sort of face to go courting with,”
+he replied, laughing: “You just arrange a patch of black to come and
+hide your faults—and you’re all right.”
+
+“I always used to think,” said Emily, “that the black spots had
+swallowed so many faces they were full up, and couldn’t take any
+more—and the rest was misty because there were so many faces lapped one
+over the other—reflected.”
+
+“You do see yourself a bit ghostish——” said he, “on a background of
+your ancestors. I always think when you stop in an old place like this
+you sort of keep company with your ancestors too much; I sometimes feel
+like a bit of the old building walking about; the old feelings of the
+old folks stick to you like the lichens on the walls; you sort of get
+hoary.”
+
+“That’s it—it’s true,” asserted the father, “people whose families have
+shifted about much don’t know how it feels. That’s why I’m going to
+Canada.”
+
+“And I’m going in a Pub,” said George, “where it’s quite
+different—plenty of life.”
+
+“Life!” echoed Emily with contempt.
+
+“That’s the word, my wench,” replied her brother, lapsing into the
+dialect. “That’s what I’m after. We known such a lot, an’ we known
+nöwt.”
+
+“You do——” said the father, turning to me, “you stay in one place,
+generation after generation, and you seem to get proud, an’ look on
+things outside as foolishness. There’s many a thing as any common man
+knows, as we haven’t a glimpse of. We keep on thinking and feeling the
+same, year after year, till we’ve only got one side; an’ I suppose
+they’ve done it before us.”
+
+“It’s ‘Good-night an’ God bless you,’ to th’ owd place, granfeythers
+an’ grammothers,” laughed George as he ran upstairs—“an’ off we go on
+the gallivant,” he shouted from the landing.
+
+His father shook his head, saying:
+
+“I can’t make out how it is, he’s so different. I suppose it’s being in
+love——”
+
+We went into the barn to get the bicycles to cycle over to Greymede.
+George struck a match to look for his pump, and he noticed a great
+spider scuttle off into the corner of the wall, and sit peeping out at
+him like a hoary little ghoul.
+
+“How are you, old chap?” said George, nodding to him—“Thought he looked
+like an old grandfather of mine,” he said to me, laughing, as he pumped
+up the tyres of the old bicycle for me.
+
+It was Saturday night, so the bar parlour of the Ram Inn was fairly
+full.
+
+“Hello, George—come co’tin’?” was the cry, followed by a nod and a
+“Good evenin’,” to me, who was a stranger in the parlour.
+
+“It’s raïght for thaïgh,” said a fat young fellow with an unwilling
+white mustache, “—tha can co’te as much as ter likes ter ’ae, as well
+as th’ lass, an’ it costs thee nöwt——” at which the room laughed,
+taking pipes from mouths to do so. George sat down, looking round.
+
+“’Owd on a bit,” said a black-whiskered man, “tha mun ’a ’e patience
+when to ’t co’tin’ a lass. Ow’s puttin’ th’ owd lady ter bed—’ark
+thee—can t’ ear—that wor th’ bed latts goin’ bang. Ow’ll be dern in a
+minnit now, gie ’er time ter tuck th’ owd lady up. Can’ ter ’ear ’er
+say ’er prayers.”
+
+“Strike!” cried the fat young man, exploding:
+
+“Fancy th’ owd lady sayin’ ’er prayers!—it ’ud be enough ter ma’e ’er
+false teeth drop out.”
+
+The room laughed.
+
+They began to tell tales about the old landlady. She had practised
+bone-setting, in which she was very skilful. People came to her from
+long distances that she might divine their trouble and make right their
+limbs. She would accept no fee.
+
+Once she had gone up to Dr. Fullwood to give him a piece of her mind,
+inasmuch as he had let a child go for three weeks with a broken
+collar-bone, whilst treating him for dislocation. The doctor had tried
+the high hand with her, since when, wherever he went the miners placed
+their hands on their shoulders, and groaned: ‘Oh my collar-bone!’
+
+Here Meg came in. She gave a bright, quick, bird like look at George,
+and flushed a brighter red.
+
+“I thought you wasn’t cummin,” she said.
+
+“Dunna thee bother—’e’d none stop away,” said the black-whiskered man.
+
+She brought us glasses of whisky, and moved about supplying the men,
+who chaffed with her honestly and good-naturedly. Then she went out,
+but we remained in our corner. The men talked on the most peculiar
+subjects: there was a bitter discussion as to whether London is or is
+not a seaport—the matter was thrashed out with heat; then an embryo
+artist set the room ablaze by declaring there were only three colours,
+red, yellow, and blue, and the rest were not colours, they were
+mixtures: this amounted almost to atheism and one man asked the artist
+to dare to declare that his brown breeches were not a colour, which the
+artist did, and almost had to fight for it; next they came to strength,
+and George won a bet of five shillings, by lifting a piano; then they
+settled down, and talked sex, sotto voce, one man giving startling
+accounts of Japanese and Chinese prostitutes in Liverpool. After this
+the talk split up: a farmer began to counsel George how to manage the
+farm attached to the Inn, another bargained with him about horses, and
+argued about cattle, a tailor advised him thickly to speculate, and
+unfolded a fine secret by which a man might make money, if he had the
+go to do it—so on, till eleven o’clock. Then Bill came and called
+“time!” and the place was empty, and the room shivered as a little
+fresh air came in between the foul tobacco smoke, and the smell of
+drink, and foul breath.
+
+We were both affected by the whisky we had drunk. I was ashamed to find
+that when I put out my hand to take my glass, or to strike a match, I
+missed my mark, and fumbled; my hands seemed hardly to belong to me,
+and my feet were not much more sure. Yet I was acutely conscious of
+every change in myself and in him; it seemed as if I could make my body
+drunk, but could never intoxicate my mind, which roused itself and kept
+the sharpest guard. George was frankly half drunk: his eyelids sloped
+over his eyes and his speech was thick; when he put out his hand he
+knocked over his glass, and the stuff was spilled all over the table;
+he only laughed. I, too, felt a great prompting to giggle on every
+occasion, and I marvelled at myself.
+
+Meg came into the room when all the men had gone.
+
+“Come on, my duck,” he said, waving his arm with the generous flourish
+of a tipsy man. “Come an’ sit ’ere.”
+
+“Shan’t you come in th’ kitchen?” she asked, looking round on the
+tables where pots and glasses stood in little pools of liquor, and
+where spent matches and tobacco-ash littered the white wood.
+
+“No—what for?—come an’ sit ’ere!”—he was reluctant to get on his feet;
+I knew it and laughed inwardly; I also laughed to hear his thick
+speech, and his words which seemed to slur against his cheeks.
+
+She went and sat by him, having moved the little table with its spilled
+liquor.
+
+“They’ve been tellin’ me how to get rich,” he said, nodding his head
+and laughing, showing his teeth, “An’ I’m goin’ ter show ’em. You see,
+Meg, you see—I’m goin’ ter show ’em I can be as good as them, you see.”
+
+“Why,” said she, indulgent, “what are you going to do?”
+
+“You wait a bit an’ see—they don’t know yet what I can do—they don’t
+know—_you_ don’t know—none of you know.”
+
+“An’ what shall you do when we’re rich, George?”
+
+“Do?—I shall do what I like. I can make as good a show as anybody else,
+can’t I?”—he put his face very near to hers, and nodded at her, but she
+did not turn away.—“Yes—I’ll see what it’s like to have my fling. We’ve
+been too cautious, our family has—an’ I have; we’re frightened of
+ourselves, to do anything. I’m goin’ to do what I like, my duck, now—I
+don’t care—— I don’t care—that!”—he brought his hand down heavily on
+the table nearest him, and broke a glass. Bill looked in to see what
+was happening.
+
+“But you won’t do anything that’s not right, George!”
+
+“No—I don’t want to hurt nobody—but I don’t care—that!”
+
+“You’re too good-hearted to do anybody any harm.”
+
+“I believe I am. You know me a bit, you do, Meg—you don’t think I’m a
+fool now, do you?”
+
+“I’m sure I don’t—who does?”
+
+“No—you don’t—I know you don’t. Gi’e me a kiss—thou’rt a little beauty,
+thou art—like a ripe plum! I could set my teeth in thee, thou’rt that
+nice—full o’ red juice”—he playfully pretended to bite her. She
+laughed, and gently pushed him away.
+
+“Tha likest me, doesna ta?” he asked softly.
+
+“What do you want to know for?” she replied, with a tender archness.
+
+“But tha does—say now, tha does.”
+
+“I should a’ thought you’d a’ known, without telling.”
+
+“Nay, but I want to hear thee.”
+
+“Go on,” she said, and she kissed him.
+
+“But what should you do if I went to Canada and left you?”
+
+“Ah—you wouldn’t do that.”
+
+“But I might—and what then?”
+
+“Oh, I don’t know what I should do. But you wouldn’t do it, I know you
+wouldn’t—you couldn’t.” He quickly put his arms round her and kissed
+her, moved by the trembling surety of her tone:
+
+“No, I wouldna—I’d niver leave thee—tha’d be as miserable as sin,
+shouldna ta, my duck?”
+
+“Yes,” she murmured.
+
+“Ah,” he said, “tha’rt a warm little thing—tha loves me, eh?”
+
+“Yes,” she murmured, and he pressed her to him, and kissed her, and
+held her close.
+
+“We’ll be married soon, my bird—are ter glad?—in a bit—tha’rt glad,
+aren’t ta?”
+
+She looked up at him as if he were noble. Her love for him was so
+generous that it beautified him.
+
+He had to walk his bicycle home, being unable to ride; his shins, I
+know, were a good deal barked by the pedals.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+THE FASCINATION OF THE FORBIDDEN APPLE
+
+
+On the first Sunday in June, when Lettie knew she would keep her
+engagement with Leslie, and when she was having a day at home from
+Highclose, she got ready to go down to the mill. We were in mourning
+for an aunt, so she wore a dress of fine black voile, and a black hat
+with long feathers. Then, when I looked at her fair hands, and her arms
+closely covered in the long black cuffs of her sleeves, I felt keenly
+my old brother-love shielding, indulgent.
+
+It was a windy, sunny day. In shelter the heat was passionate, but in
+the open the wind scattered its fire. Every now and then a white cloud
+broad based, blue shadowed, travelled slowly along the sky-road after
+the forerunner small in the distance, and trailing over us a chill
+shade, a gloom which we watched creep on over the water, over the wood
+and the hill. These royal, rounded clouds had sailed all day along the
+same route, from the harbour of the South to the wastes in the Northern
+sky, following the swift wild geese. The brook hurried along singing,
+only here and there lingering to whisper to the secret bushes, then
+setting off afresh with a new snatch of song.
+
+The fowls pecked staidly in the farmyard, with Sabbath decorum.
+Occasionally a lost, sportive wind-puff would wander across the yard
+and ruffle them, and they resented it. The pigs were asleep in the sun,
+giving faint grunts now and then from sheer luxury. I saw a squirrel go
+darting down the mossy garden wall, up into the laburnum tree, where he
+lay flat along the bough, and listened. Suddenly away he went,
+chuckling to himself. Gyp all at once set off barking, but I soothed
+her down; it was the unusual sight of Lettie’s dark dress that startled
+her, I suppose.
+
+We went quietly into the kitchen. Mrs. Saxton was just putting a
+chicken, wrapped in a piece of flannel, on the warm hob to coax it into
+life; it looked very feeble. George was asleep, with his head in his
+arms on the table; the father was asleep on the sofa, very comfortable
+and admirable; I heard Emily fleeing up stairs, presumably to dress.
+
+“He stays out so late—up at the Ram Inn,” whispered the mother in a
+high whisper, looking at George, “and then he’s up at five—he doesn’t
+get his proper rest.” She turned to the chicks, and continued in her
+whisper—“the mother left them just before they hatched out, so we’ve
+been bringing them on here. This one’s a bit weak—I thought I’d hot him
+up a bit” she laughed with a quaint little frown of deprecation. Eight
+or nine yellow, fluffy little mites were cheeping and scuffling in the
+fender. Lettie bent over them to touch them; they were tame, and ran
+among her fingers.
+
+Suddenly George’s mother gave a loud cry, and rushed to the fire. There
+was a smell of singed down. The chicken had toddled into the fire, and
+gasped its faint gasp among the red-hot cokes. The father jumped from
+the sofa; George sat up with wide eyes; Lettie gave a little cry and a
+shudder; Trip rushed round and began to bark. There was a smell of
+cooked meat.
+
+“There goes number one!” said the mother, with her queer little laugh.
+It made me laugh too.
+
+“What’s a matter—what’s a matter?” asked the father excitedly.
+
+“It’s a chicken been and walked into the fire—I put it on the hob to
+warm,” explained his wife.
+
+“Goodness—I couldn’t think what was up!” he said, and dropped his head
+to trace gradually the border between sleeping and waking.
+
+George sat and smiled at us faintly, he was too dazed to speak. His
+chest still leaned against the table, and his arms were spread out
+thereon, but he lifted his face, and looked at Lettie with his dazed,
+dark eyes, and smiled faintly at her. His hair was all ruffled, and his
+shirt collar unbuttoned. Then he got up slowly, pushing his chair back
+with a loud noise, and stretched himself, pressing his arms upwards
+with a long, heavy stretch.
+
+“Oh—h—h!” he said, bending his arms and then letting them drop to his
+sides. “I never thought you’d come to-day.”
+
+“I wanted to come and see you—I shan’t have many more chances,” said
+Lettie, turning from him and yet looking at him again.
+
+“_No_, I suppose not,” he said, subsiding into quiet. Then there was
+silence for some time. The mother began to enquire after Leslie, and
+kept the conversation up till Emily came down, blushing and smiling and
+glad.
+
+“Are you coming out?” said she, “there are two or three robins’ nests,
+and a spinkie’s——”
+
+“I think I’ll leave my hat,” said Lettie, unpinning it as she spoke,
+and shaking her hair when she was free. Mrs. Saxton insisted on her
+taking a long white silk scarf; Emily also wrapped her hair in a gauze
+scarf, and looked beautiful.
+
+George came out with us, coatless, hatless, his waistcoat all
+unbuttoned, as he was. We crossed the orchard, over the old bridge, and
+went to where the slopes ran down to the lower pond, a bank all covered
+with nettles, and scattered with a hazel bush or two. Among the nettles
+old pans were rusting, and old coarse pottery cropped up.
+
+We came upon a kettle heavily coated with lime. Emily bent down and
+looked, and then we peeped in. There were the robin birds with their
+yellow beaks stretched so wide apart I feared they would never close
+them again. Among the naked little mites, that begged from us so
+blindly and confidently, were huddled three eggs.
+
+“They are like Irish children peeping out of a cottage,” said Emily,
+with the family fondness for romantic similes.
+
+We went on to where a tin lay with the lid pressed back, and inside it,
+snug and neat, was another nest, with six eggs, cheek to cheek.
+
+“How warm they are,” said Lettie, touching them, “you can fairly feel
+the mother’s breast.”
+
+He tried to put his hand into the tin, but the space was too small, and
+they looked into each other’s eyes and smiled. “You’d think the
+father’s breast had marked them with red,” said Emily.
+
+As we went up the orchard side we saw three wide displays of coloured
+pieces of pots arranged at the foot of three trees.
+
+“Look,” said Emily, “those are the children’s houses. You don’t know
+how our Mollie gets all Sam’s pretty bits—she is a cajoling hussy!”
+
+The two looked at each other again, smiling. Up on the pond-side, in
+the full glitter of light, we looked round where the blades of
+clustering corn were softly healing the red bosom of the hill. The
+larks were overhead among the sunbeams. We straggled away across the
+grass. The field was all afroth with cowslips, a yellow, glittering,
+shaking froth on the still green of the grass. We trailed our shadows
+across the fields, extinguishing the sunshine on the flowers as we
+went. The air was tingling with the scent of blossoms.
+
+“Look at the cowslips, all shaking with laughter,” said Emily, and she
+tossed back her head, and her dark eyes sparkled among the flow of
+gauze. Lettie was on in front, flitting darkly across the field,
+bending over the flowers, stooping to the earth like a sable Persephone
+come into freedom. George had left her at a little distance, hunting
+for something in the grass. He stopped, and remained standing in one
+place.
+
+Gradually, as if unconsciously, she drew near to him, and when she
+lifted her head, after stooping to pick some chimney-sweeps, little
+grass flowers, she laughed with a slight surprise to see him so near.
+
+“Ah!” she said. “I thought I was all alone in the world—such a splendid
+world—it was so nice.”
+
+“Like Eve in a meadow in Eden—and Adam’s shadow somewhere on the
+grass,” said I.
+
+“No—no Adam,” she asserted, frowning slightly, and laughing.
+
+“Who ever would want streets of gold,” Emily was saying to me, “when
+you can have a field of cowslips! Look at that hedgebottom that gets
+the South sun—one stream and glitter of buttercups.”
+
+“Those Jews always had an eye to the filthy lucre—they even made Heaven
+out of it,” laughed Lettie, and, turning to him, she said, “Don’t you
+wish we were wild—hark, like wood-pigeons—or larks—or, look, like
+peewits? Shouldn’t you love flying and wheeling and sparkling
+and—courting in the wind?” She lifted her eyelids, and vibrated the
+question. He flushed, bending over the ground.
+
+“Look,” he said, “here’s a larkie’s.”
+
+Once a horse had left a hoofprint in the soft meadow; now the larks had
+rounded, softened the cup, and had laid there three dark-brown eggs.
+Lettie sat down and leaned over the nest; he leaned above her. The wind
+running over the flower heads, peeped in at the little brown buds, and
+bounded off again gladly. The big clouds sent messages to them down the
+shadows, and ran in raindrops to touch them.
+
+“I wish,” she said, “I wish we were free like that. If we could put
+everything safely in a little place in the earth—couldn’t we have a
+good time as well as the larks?”
+
+“I don’t see,” said he, “why we can’t.”
+
+“Oh—but _I_ can’t—you know we can’t”—and she looked at him fiercely.
+
+“Why can’t you?” he asked.
+
+“You know we can’t—you know as well as I do,” she replied, and her
+whole soul challenged him. “We have to consider things” she added. He
+dropped his head. He was afraid to make the struggle, to rouse himself
+to decide the question for her. She turned away, and went kicking
+through the flowers. He picked up the blossoms she had left by the
+nest—they were still warm from her hands—and followed her. She walked
+on towards the end of the field, the long strands of her white scarf
+running before her. Then she leaned back to the wind, while he caught
+her up.
+
+“Don’t you want your flowers?” he asked humbly.
+
+“No, thanks—they’d be dead before I got home—throw them away, you look
+absurd with a posy.”
+
+He did as he was bidden. They came near the hedge. A crab-apple tree
+blossomed up among the blue.
+
+“You may get me a bit of that blossom,” said she, and suddenly
+added—“no, I can reach it myself,” whereupon she stretched upward and
+pulled several sprigs of the pink and white, and put it in her dress.
+
+“Isn’t it pretty?” she said, and she began to laugh ironically,
+pointing to the flowers—“pretty, pink-cheeked petals, and stamens like
+yellow hair, and buds like lips promising something nice”—she stopped
+and looked at him, flickering with a smile. Then she pointed to the
+ovary beneath the flower, and said: “Result: Crab-apples!”
+
+She continued to look at him, and to smile. He said nothing. So they
+went on to where they could climb the fence into the spinney. She
+climbed to the top rail, holding by an oak bough. Then she let him lift
+her down bodily.
+
+“Ah!” she said, “you like to show me how strong you are—a veritable
+Samson!”—she mocked, although she had invited him with her eyes to take
+her in his arms.
+
+We were entering the spinney of black poplar. In the hedge was an elm
+tree, with myriads of dark dots pointed against the bright sky, myriads
+of clusters of flaky green fruit.
+
+“Look at that elm,” she said, “you’d think it was in full leaf,
+wouldn’t you? Do you know why it’s so prolific?”
+
+“No,” he said, with a curious questioning drawl of the monosyllable.
+
+“It’s casting its bread upon the winds—no, it is dying, so it puts out
+all its strength and loads its boughs with the last fruit. It’ll be
+dead next year. If you’re here then, come and see. Look at the ivy, the
+suave smooth ivy, with its fingers in the trees’ throat. Trees know how
+to die, you see—we don’t.”
+
+With her whimsical moods she tormented him. She was at the bottom a
+seething confusion of emotion, and she wanted to make him likewise.
+
+“If we were trees with ivy—instead of being fine humans with free
+active life—we should hug our thinning lives, shouldn’t we?”
+
+“I suppose we should.”
+
+“You, for instance—fancy _your_ sacrificing yourself—for the next
+generation—that reminds you of Schopenhauer, doesn’t it?—for the next
+generation, or love, or anything!”
+
+He did not answer her; she was too swift for him. They passed on under
+the poplars, which were hanging strings of green beads above them.
+There was a little open space, with tufts of bluebells. Lettie stooped
+over a wood-pigeon that lay on the ground on its breast, its wings half
+spread. She took it up—its eyes were bursten and bloody; she felt its
+breast, ruffling the dimming iris on its throat.
+
+“It’s been fighting,” he said.
+
+“What for—a mate?” she asked, looking at him.
+
+“I don’t know,” he answered.
+
+“Cold—he’s quite cold, under the feathers! I think a wood-pigeon must
+enjoy being fought for—and being won especially if the right one won.
+It would be a fine pleasure to see them fighting—don’t you think?” she
+said, torturing him.
+
+“The claws are spread—it fell dead off the perch,” he replied.
+
+“Ah, poor thing—it was wounded—and sat and waited for death—when the
+other had won. Don’t you think life is very cruel, George—and love the
+cruellest of all?”
+
+He laughed bitterly under the pain of her soft, sad tones.
+
+“Let me bury him—and have done with the beaten lover. But we’ll make
+him a pretty grave.”
+
+She scooped a hole in the dark soil, and snatching a handful of
+bluebells, threw them in on top of the dead bird. Then she smoothed the
+soil over all, and pressed her white hands on the black loam.
+
+“There,” she said, knocking her hands one against the other to shake
+off the soil, “he’s done with. Come on.”
+
+He followed her, speechless with his emotion.
+
+ The spinney opened out; the ferns were serenely uncoiling, the
+ bluebells stood grouped with blue curls mingled. In the freer spaces
+ forget-me-nots flowered in nebulæ, and dog-violets gave an undertone
+ of dark purple, with primroses for planets in the night. There was a
+ slight drift of woodruff, sweet new-mown hay, scenting the air under
+ the boughs. On a wet bank was the design of golden saxifrage,
+ glistening unholily as if varnished by its minister, the snail. George
+ and Lettie crushed the veined belles of wood-sorrel and broke the
+ silken mosses. What did it matter to them what they broke or crushed.
+
+Over the fence of the spinney was the hillside, scattered with old
+thorn trees. There the little grey lichens held up ruby balls to us
+unnoticed. What did it matter, when all the great red apples were being
+shaken from the Tree to be left to rot.
+
+“If I were a man,” said Lettie, “I would go out west and be free. I
+should love it.”
+
+She took the scarf from her head and let it wave out on the wind; the
+colour was warm in her face with climbing, and her curls were freed by
+the wind, sparkling and rippling.
+
+“Well—you’re not a man,” he said, looking at her, and speaking with
+timid bitterness.
+
+“No,” she laughed, “if I were, I would shape things—oh, wouldn’t I have
+my own way!”
+
+“And don’t you now?”
+
+“Oh—I don’t want it particularly—when I’ve got it. When I’ve had my
+way, I _do want_ somebody to take it back from me.”
+
+She put her head back and looked at him sideways, laughing through the
+glitter of her hair.
+
+They came to the kennels. She sat down on the edge of the great stone
+water trough, and put her hands in the water, moving them gently like
+submerged flowers through the clear pool.
+
+“I love to see myself in the water,” she said, “I don’t mean _on_ the
+water, Narcissus—but that’s how I should like to be out west, to have a
+little lake of my own, and swim with my limbs quite free in the water.”
+
+“Do you swim well?” he asked.
+
+“Fairly.”
+
+“I would race you—in your little lake.”
+
+She laughed, took her hands out of the water, and watched the clear
+drops trickle off. Then she lifted her head suddenly, at some thought
+or other. She looked across the valley, and saw the red roofs of the
+Mill.
+
+“—Ilion, Ilion
+Fatalis incestusque judex
+Et mulier peregrina vertit.
+In pulverem——”
+
+
+“What’s that?” he said.
+
+“Nothing.”
+
+“That’s a private trough,” exclaimed a thin voice, high like a peewit’s
+cry. We started in surprise to see a tall, black-bearded man looking at
+us and away from us nervously, fidgeting uneasily some ten yards off.
+
+“Is it?” said Lettie, looking at her wet hands, which she proceeded to
+dry on a fragment of a handkerchief.
+
+“You mustn’t meddle with it,” said the man in the same reedy, oboe
+voice. Then he turned his head away, and his pale grey eyes roved the
+countryside——when he had courage, he turned his back to us, shading his
+eyes to continue his scrutiny. He walked hurriedly, a few steps, then
+craned his neck, peering into the valley, and hastened a dozen yards in
+another direction, again stretching and peering about. Then he went
+indoors.
+
+“He is pretending to look for somebody,” said Lettie, “but it’s only
+because he’s afraid we shall think he came out just to look at us”—and
+they laughed.
+
+Suddenly a woman appeared at the gate; she had pale eyes like the
+mouse-voiced man.
+
+“You’ll get Bright’s disease sitting on that there damp stone,” she
+said to Lettie, who at once rose apologetically.
+
+“I ought to know,” continued the mouse-voiced woman, “my own mother
+died of it.”
+
+“Indeed,” murmured Lettie, “I’m sorry.”
+
+“Yes,” continued the woman, “it behooves you to be careful. Do you come
+from Strelley Mill Farm?” she asked suddenly of George, surveying his
+shameful déshabille with bitter reproof.
+
+He admitted the imputation.
+
+“And you’re going to leave, aren’t you?”
+
+Which also he admitted.
+
+“Humph!—we s’ll ’appen get some neighbours. It’s a dog’s life for
+loneliness. I suppose you knew the last lot that was here.”
+
+Another brief admission.
+
+“A dirty lot—a dirty beagle she must have been. You should just ha’
+seen these grates.”
+
+“Yes,” said Lettie, “I have seen them.”
+
+“Faugh—the state! But come in—come in, you’ll see a difference.”
+
+They entered, out of curiosity. The kitchen was indeed different. It
+was clean and sparkling, warm with bright red chintzes on the sofa and
+on every chair cushion. Unfortunately the effect was spoiled by green
+and yellow antimaccassars, and by a profusion of paper and woollen
+flowers. There were three cases of woollen flowers, and on the wall,
+four fans stitched over with ruffled green and yellow paper, adorned
+with yellow paper roses, carnations, arum lilies, and poppies; there
+were also wall pockets full of paper flowers; while the wood outside
+was loaded with blossom. “Yes,” said Lettie, “there is a difference.”
+The woman swelled, and looked round. The black-bearded man peeped from
+behind the Christian Herald—those long blaring trumpets!—and shrank
+again. The woman darted at his pipe, which he had put on a piece of
+newspaper on the hob, and blew some imaginary ash from it. Then she
+caught sight of something—perhaps some dust—on the fireplace.
+
+“There!” she cried, “I knew it; I couldn’t leave him one second! I
+haven’t work enough burning wood, but he must be poke——poke——”
+
+“I only pushed a piece in between the bars,” complained the mouse-voice
+from behind the paper.
+
+“Pushed a piece in!” she re-echoed, with awful scorn, seizing the poker
+and thrusting it over his paper. “What do you call that, sitting there
+telling your stories before folks——”
+
+They crept out and hurried away. Glancing round, Lettie saw the woman
+mopping the doorstep after them, and she laughed. He pulled his watch
+out of his breeches’ pocket; it was half-past three.
+
+“What are you looking at the time for?” she asked.
+
+“Meg’s coming to tea,” he replied.
+
+She said no more, and they walked slowly on.
+
+When they came on to the shoulder of the hill, and looked down on to
+the mill, and the mill-pond, she said:
+
+“I will not come down with you—I will go home.”
+
+“Not come down to tea!” he exclaimed, full of reproach and amazement.
+“Why, what will they say?”
+
+“No, I won’t come down—let me say farewell—‘jamque Vale! Do you
+remember how Eurydice sank back into Hell?”
+
+“But”—he stammered, “you must come down to tea—how can I tell them? Why
+won’t you come?”
+
+She answered him in Latin, with two lines from Virgil. As she watched
+him, she pitied his helplessness, and gave him a last cut as she said,
+very softly and tenderly:
+
+“It wouldn’t be fair to Meg.”
+
+He stood looking at her; his face was coloured only by the grey-brown
+tan; his eyes, the dark, self-mistrustful eyes of the family, were
+darker than ever, dilated with misery of helplessness; and she was
+infinitely pitiful. She wanted to cry in her yearning.
+
+“Shall we go into the wood for a few minutes?” she said in a low,
+tremulous voice, as they turned aside.
+
+The wood was high and warm. Along the ridings the forget-me-nots were
+knee deep, stretching, glimmering into the distance like the Milky Way
+through the night. They left the tall, flower-tangled paths to go in
+among the bluebells, breaking through the close-pressed flowers and
+ferns till they came to an oak which had fallen across the hazels,
+where they sat half screened. The hyacinths drooped magnificently with
+an overweight of purple, or they stood pale and erect, like unripe ears
+of purple corn. Heavy bees swung down in a blunder of extravagance
+among the purple flowers. They were intoxicated even with the sight of
+so much blue. The sound of their hearty, wanton humming came clear upon
+the solemn boom of the wind overhead. The sight of their clinging,
+clambering riot gave satisfaction to the soul. A rosy campion flower
+caught the sun and shone out. An elm sent down a shower of flesh-tinted
+sheaths upon them.
+
+“If there were fauns and hamadryads!” she said softly, turning to him
+to soothe his misery. She took his cap from his head, ruffled his hair,
+saying:
+
+“If you were a faun, I would put guelder roses round your hair, and
+make you look Bacchanalian.” She left her hand lying on his knee, and
+looked up at the sky. Its blue looked pale and green in comparison with
+the purple tide ebbing about the wood. The clouds rose up like towers,
+and something had touched them into beauty, and poised them up among
+the winds. The clouds passed on, and the pool of sky was clear.
+
+“Look,” she said, “how we are netted down—boughs with knots of green
+buds. If we were free on the winds!—But I’m glad we’re not.” She turned
+suddenly to him, and with the same movement, she gave him her hand, and
+he clasped it in both his. “I’m glad we’re netted down here; if we were
+free in the winds—Ah!”
+
+She laughed a peculiar little laugh, catching her breath.
+
+“Look!” she said, “it’s a palace, with the ash-trunks smooth like a
+girl’s arm, and the elm-columns, ribbed and bossed and fretted, with
+the great steel shafts of beech, all rising up to hold an embroidered
+care-cloth over us; and every thread of the care-cloth vibrates with
+music for us, and the little broidered birds sing; and the hazel-bushes
+fling green spray round us, and the honeysuckle leans down to pour out
+scent over us. Look at the harvest of bluebells—ripened for us! Listen
+to the bee, sounding among all the organ-play—if he sounded exultant
+for us!” She looked at him, with tears coming up into her eyes, and a
+little, winsome, wistful smile hovering round her mouth. He was very
+pale, and dared not look at her. She put her hand in his, leaning
+softly against him. He watched, as if fascinated, a young thrush with
+full pale breast who hopped near to look at them—glancing with quick,
+shining eyes.
+
+“The clouds are going on again,” said Lettie.
+
+“Look at that cloud face—see—gazing right up into the sky. The lips are
+opening—he is telling us something.—now the form is slipping away—it’s
+gone—come, we must go too.”
+
+“No,” he cried, “don’t go—don’t go away.”
+
+Her tenderness made her calm. She replied in a voice perfect in
+restrained sadness and resignation.
+
+“No, my dear, no. The threads of my life were untwined; they drifted
+about like floating threads of gossamer; and you didn’t put out your
+hand to take them and twist them up into the chord with yours. Now
+another has caught them up, and the chord of my life is being twisted,
+and I cannot wrench it free and untwine it again—I can’t. I am not
+strong enough. Besides, you have twisted another thread far and tight
+into your chord; could you get free?”
+
+“Tell me what to do—yes, if you tell me.”
+
+“I can’t tell you—so let me go.”
+
+“No, Lettie,” he pleaded, with terror and humility. “No, Lettie; don’t
+go. What should I do with my life? Nobody would love you like I do—and
+what should I do with my love for you?—hate it and fear it, because
+it’s too much for me?”
+
+She turned and kissed him gratefully. He then took her in a long,
+passionate embrace, mouth to mouth. In the end it had so wearied her
+that she could only wait in his arms till he was too tired to hold her.
+He was trembling already.
+
+“Poor Meg!” she murmured to herself dully, her sensations having become
+vague.
+
+He winced, and the pressure of his arms slackened. She loosened his
+hands and rose half dazed from her seat by him. She left him, while he
+sat dejected, raising no protest.
+
+When I went out to look for them, when tea had already been waiting on
+the table half an hour or more, I found him leaning against the
+gatepost at the bottom of the hill. There was no blood in his face, and
+his tan showed livid; he was haggard as if he had been ill for some
+weeks.
+
+“Whatever’s the matter?” I said. “Where’s Lettie?”
+
+“She’s gone home,” he answered, and the sound of his own voice, and the
+meaning of his own words made him heave.
+
+“Why?” I asked in alarm.
+
+He looked at me as if to say “What are you talking about? I cannot
+listen!”
+
+“Why?” I insisted.
+
+“I don’t know,” he replied.
+
+“They are waiting tea for you,” I said.
+
+He heard me, but took no notice.
+
+“Come on,” I repeated, “there’s Meg and everybody waiting tea for you.”
+
+“I don’t want any,” he said.
+
+I waited a minute or two. He was violently sick.
+
+_“Vae meum
+Fervens difficile bile tumet jecur”_
+
+
+I thought to myself.
+
+When the sickness passed over, he stood up away from the post,
+trembling and lugubrious. His eyelids drooped heavily over his eyes,
+and he looked at me, and smiled a faint, sick smile.
+
+“Come and lie down in the loft,” I said, “and I’ll tell them you’ve got
+a bilious bout.”
+
+He obeyed me, not having energy to question; his strength had gone, and
+his splendid physique seemed shrunken; he walked weakly. I looked away
+from him, for in his feebleness he was already beginning to feel
+ludicrous.
+
+We got into the barn unperceived, and I watched him climb the ladder to
+the loft. Then I went indoors to tell them.
+
+I told them Lettie had promised to be at Highclose for tea, that George
+had a bilious attack, and was mooning about the barn till it was over;
+he had been badly sick. We ate tea without zest or enjoyment. Meg was
+wistful and ill at ease; the father talked to her and made much of her;
+the mother did not care for her much.
+
+“I can’t understand it,” said the mother, “he so rarely has anything
+the matter with him—why, I’ve hardly known the day! Are you sure it’s
+nothing serious, Cyril? It seems such a thing—and just when Meg
+happened to be down—just when Meg was coming——”
+
+About half-past six I had again to go and look for him, to satisfy the
+anxiety of his mother and his sweetheart. I went whistling to let him
+know I was coming. He lay on a pile of hay in a corner, asleep. He had
+put his cap under his head to stop the tickling of the hay, and he lay
+half curled up, sleeping soundly. He was still very pale, and there was
+on his face the repose and pathos that a sorrow always leaves. As he
+wore no coat I was afraid he might be chilly, so I covered him up with
+a couple of sacks, and I left him. I would not have him disturbed—I
+helped the father about the cowsheds, and with the pigs.
+
+Meg had to go at half-past seven. She was so disappointed that I said:
+
+“Come and have a look at him—I’ll tell him you did.”
+
+He had thrown off the sacks and spread out his limbs. As he lay on his
+back, flung out on the hay, he looked big again, and manly. His mouth
+had relaxed, and taken its old, easy lines. One felt for him now the
+warmth one feels for anyone who sleeps in an attitude of abandon. She
+leaned over him, and looked at him with a little rapture of love and
+tenderness; she longed to caress him. Then he stretched himself, and
+his eyes opened. Their sudden unclosing gave her a thrill. He smiled
+sleepily, and murmured, “Allo, Meg!” Then I saw him awake. As he
+remembered, he turned with a great sighing yawn, hid his face again,
+and lay still.
+
+“Come along, Meg,” I whispered, “he’ll be best asleep.”
+
+“I’d better cover him up,” she said, taking the sack and laying it very
+gently over his shoulders. He kept perfectly still while I drew her
+away.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+A POEM OF FRIENDSHIP
+
+
+The magnificent promise of spring was broken before the May-blossom was
+fully out. All through the beloved month the wind rushed in upon us
+from the north and north-east, bringing the rain fierce and heavy. The
+tender-budded trees shuddered and moaned; when the wind was dry, the
+young leaves flapped limp. The grass and corn grew lush, but the light
+of the dandelions was quite extinguished, and it seemed that only a
+long time back had we made merry before the broad glare of these
+flowers. The bluebells lingered and lingered; they fringed the fields
+for weeks like purple fringe of mourning. The pink campions came out
+only to hang heavy with rain; hawthorn buds remained tight and hard as
+pearls, shrinking into the brilliant green foliage; the forget-me-nots,
+the poor pleiades of the wood, were ragged weeds. Often at the end of
+the day the sky opened, and stately clouds hung over the horizon
+infinitely far away, glowing, through the yellow distance, with an
+amber lustre. They never came any nearer, always they remained far off,
+looking calmly and majestically over the shivering earth, then
+saddened, fearing their radiance might be dimmed, they drew away, and
+sank out of sight. Sometimes, towards sunset, a great shield stretched
+dark from the west to the zenith, tangling the light along its edges.
+As the canopy rose higher, it broke, dispersed, and the sky was
+primrose coloured, high and pale above the crystal moon. Then the
+cattle crouched among the gorse, distressed by the cold, while the
+long-billed snipe flickered round high overhead, round and round in
+great circles, seeming to carry a serpent from its throat, and crying a
+tragedy, more painful than the poignant lamentations and protests of
+the peewits. Following these evenings came mornings cold and grey.
+
+Such a morning I went up to George, on the top fallow. His father was
+out with the milk—he was alone; as I came up the hill I could see him
+standing in the cart, scattering manure over the bare red fields; I
+could hear his voice calling now and then to the mare, and the creak
+and clank of the cart as it moved on. Starlings and smart wagtails were
+running briskly over the clods, and many little birds flashed,
+fluttered, hopped here and there. The lapwings wheeled and cried as
+ever between the low clouds and the earth, and some ran beautifully
+among the furrows, too graceful and glistening for the rough field.
+
+I took a fork and scattered the manure along the hollows, and thus we
+worked, with a wide field between us, yet very near in the sense of
+intimacy. I watched him through the wheeling peewits, as the low clouds
+went stealthily overhead. Beneath us, the spires of the poplars in the
+spinney were warm gold, as if the blood shone through. Further gleamed
+the grey water, and below it the red roofs. Nethermere was half hidden
+and far away. There was nothing in this grey, lonely world but the
+peewits swinging and crying, and George swinging silently at his work.
+The movement of active life held all my attention, and when I looked
+up, it was to see the motion of his limbs and his head, the rise and
+fall of his rhythmic body, and the rise and fall of the slow waving
+peewits. After a while, when the cart was empty, he took a fork and
+came towards me, working at my task.
+
+It began to rain, so he brought a sack from the cart, and we crushed
+ourselves under the thick hedge. We sat close together and watched the
+rain fall like a grey striped curtain before us, hiding the valley; we
+watched it trickle in dark streams off the mare’s back, as she stood
+dejectedly; we listened to the swish of the drops falling all about; we
+felt the chill of the rain, and drew ourselves together in silence. He
+smoked his pipe, and I lit a cigarette. The rain continued; all the
+little pebbles and the red earth glistened in the grey gloom. We sat
+together, speaking occasionally. It was at these times we formed the
+almost passionate attachment which later years slowly wore away.
+
+When the rain was over, we filled our buckets with potatoes, and went
+along the wet furrows, sticking the spritted tubers in the cold ground.
+Being sandy, the field dried quickly. About twelve o’clock, when nearly
+all the potatoes were set, he left me, and fetching up Bob from the far
+hedge-side, harnessed the mare and him to the ridger, to cover the
+potatoes. The sharp light plough turned the soil in a fine furrow over
+the potatoes; hosts of little birds fluttered, settled, bounded off
+again after the plough. He called to the horses, and they came
+downhill, the white stars on the two brown noses nodding up and down,
+George striding firm and heavy behind. They came down upon me; at a
+call the horses turned, shifting awkwardly sideways; he flung himself
+against the plough, and leaning well in, brought it round with a sweep:
+a click, and they are off uphill again. There is a great rustle as the
+birds sweep round after him and follow up the new turned furrow.
+Untackling the horses when the rows were all covered, we tramped behind
+them down the wet hillside to dinner.
+
+I kicked through the drenched grass, crushing the withered cowslips
+under my clogs, avoiding the purple orchids that were stunted with
+harsh upbringing, but magnificent in their powerful colouring, crushing
+the pallid lady smocks, the washed-out wild gillivers. I became
+conscious of something near my feet, something little and dark, moving
+indefinitely. I had found again the larkie’s nest. I perceived the
+yellow beaks, the bulging eyelids of two tiny larks, and the blue lines
+of their wing quills. The indefinite movement was the swift rise and
+fall of the brown fledged backs, over which waved long strands of fine
+down. The two little specks of birds lay side by side, beak to beak,
+their tiny bodies rising and falling in quick unison. I gently put down
+my fingers to touch them; they were warm; gratifying to find them warm,
+in the midst of so much cold and wet. I became curiously absorbed in
+them, as an eddy of wind stirred the strands of down. When one
+fledgling moved uneasily, shifting his soft ball, I was quite excited;
+but he nestled down again, with his head close to his brother’s. In my
+heart of hearts, I longed for someone to nestle against, someone who
+would come between me and the coldness and wetness of the surroundings.
+I envied the two little miracles exposed to any tread, yet so serene.
+It seemed as if I were always wandering, looking for something which
+they had found even before the light broke into their shell. I was
+cold; the lilacs in the Mill garden looked blue and perished. I ran
+with my heavy clogs and my heart heavy with vague longing, down to the
+Mill, while the wind blanched the sycamores, and pushed the sullen
+pines rudely, for the pines were sulking because their million creamy
+sprites could not fly wet-winged. The horse-chestnuts bravely kept
+their white candles erect in the socket of every bough, though no sun
+came to light them. Drearily a cold swan swept up the water, trailing
+its black feet, clacking its great hollow wings, rocking the frightened
+water hens, and insulting the staid black-necked geese. What did I want
+that I turned thus from one thing to another?
+
+At the end of June the weather became fine again. Hay harvest was to
+begin as soon as it settled. There were only two fields to be mown this
+year, to provide just enough stuff to last until the spring. As my
+vacation had begun I decided I would help, and that we three, the
+father, George and I, would get in the hay without hired assistance.
+
+I rose the first morning very early, before the sun was well up. The
+clear sound of challenging cocks could be heard along the valley. In
+the bottoms, over the water and over the lush wet grass, the night mist
+still stood white and substantial. As I passed along the edge of the
+meadow the cow-parsnip was as tall as I, frothing up to the top of the
+hedge, putting the faded hawthorn to a wan blush. Little, early birds—I
+had not heard the lark—fluttered in and out of the foamy meadow-sea,
+plunging under the surf of flowers washed high in one corner, swinging
+out again, dashing past the crimson sorrel cresset. Under the froth of
+flowers were the purple vetch-clumps, yellow milk vetches, and the
+scattered pink of the wood-betony, and the floating stars of
+marguerites. There was a weight of honeysuckle on the hedges, where
+pink roses were waking up for their broad-spread flight through the
+day.
+
+Morning silvered the swaths of the far meadow, and swept in smooth,
+brilliant curves round the stones of the brook; morning ran in my
+veins; morning chased the silver, darting fish out of the depth, and I,
+who saw them, snapped my fingers at them, driving them back.
+
+I heard Trip barking, so I ran towards the pond. The punt was at the
+island, where from behind the bushes I could hear George whistling. I
+called to him, and he came to the water’s edge half dressed.
+
+“Fetch a towel,” he called, “and come on.”
+
+I was back in a few moments, and there stood my Charon fluttering in
+the cool air. One good push sent us to the islet I made haste to
+undress, for he was ready for the water, Trip dancing round, barking
+with excitement at his new appearance.
+
+“He wonders what’s happened to me,” he said, laughing, pushing the dog
+playfully away with his bare foot. Trip bounded back, and came leaping
+up, licking him with little caressing licks. He began to play with the
+dog, and directly they were rolling on the fine turf, the laughing,
+expostulating, naked man, and the excited dog, who thrust his great
+head on to the man’s face, licking, and, when flung away, rushed
+forward again, snapping playfully at the naked arms and breasts. At
+last George lay back, laughing and panting, holding Trip by the two
+fore feet which were planted on his breast, while the dog, also
+panting, reached forward his head for a flickering lick at the throat
+pressed back on the grass, and the mouth thrown back out of reach. When
+the man had thus lain still for a few moments, and the dog was just
+laying his head against his master’s neck to rest too, I called, and
+George jumped up, and plunged into the pond with me, Trip after us.
+
+The water was icily cold, and for a moment deprived me of my senses.
+When I began to swim, soon the water was buoyant, and I was sensible of
+nothing but the vigorous poetry of action. I saw George swimming on his
+back laughing at me, and in an instant I had flung myself like an
+impulse after him. The laughing face vanished as he swung over and
+fled, and I pursued the dark head and the ruddy neck. Trip, the wretch,
+came paddling towards me, interrupting me; then all bewildered with
+excitement, he scudded to the bank. I chuckled to myself as I saw him
+run along, then plunge in and go plodding to George. I was gaining. He
+tried to drive off the dog, and I gained rapidly. As I came up to him
+and caught him, with my hand on his shoulder, there came a laughter
+from the bank. It was Emily.
+
+I trod the water, and threw handfuls of spray at her. She laughed and
+blushed. Then Trip waded out to her and she fled swiftly from his
+shower-bath. George was floating just beside me, looking up and
+laughing.
+
+We stood and looked at each other as we rubbed ourselves dry. He was
+well proportioned, and naturally of handsome physique, heavily limbed.
+He laughed at me, telling me I was like one of Aubrey Beardsley’s long,
+lean ugly fellows. I referred him to many classic examples of
+slenderness, declaring myself more exquisite than his grossness, which
+amused him.
+
+But I had to give in, and bow to him, and he took on an indulgent,
+gentle manner. I laughed and submitted. For he knew how I admired the
+noble, white fruitfulness of his form. As I watched him, he stood in
+white relief against the mass of green. He polished his arm, holding it
+out straight and solid; he rubbed his hair into curls, while I watched
+the deep muscles of his shoulders, and the bands stand out in his neck
+as he held it firm; I remembered the story of Annable.
+
+He saw I had forgotten to continue my rubbing, and laughing he took
+hold of me and began to rub me briskly, as if I were a child, or
+rather, a woman he loved and did not fear. I left myself quite limply
+in his hands, and, to get a better grip of me, he put his arm round me
+and pressed me against him, and the sweetness of the touch of our naked
+bodies one against the other was superb. It satisfied in some measure
+the vague, indecipherable yearning of my soul; and it was the same with
+him. When he had rubbed me all warm, he let me go, and we looked at
+each other with eyes of still laughter, and our love was perfect for a
+moment, more perfect than any love I have known since, either for man
+or woman.
+
+We went together down to the fields, he to mow the island of grass he
+had left standing the previous evening, I to sharpen the machine knife,
+to mow out the hedge-bottoms with the scythe, and to rake the swaths
+from the way of the machine when the unmown grass was reduced to a
+triangle. The cool, moist fragrance of the morning, the intentional
+stillness of everything, of the tall bluish trees, of the wet, frank
+flowers, of the trustful moths folded and unfolded in the fallen
+swaths, was a perfect medium of sympathy. The horses moved with a still
+dignity, obeying his commands. When they were harnessed, and the
+machine oiled, still he was loth to mar the perfect morning, but stood
+looking down the valley.
+
+“I shan’t mow these fields any more,” he said, and the fallen, silvered
+swaths flickered back his regret, and the faint scent of the limes was
+wistful. So much of the field was cut, so much remained to cut; then it
+was ended. This year the elder flowers were widespread over the corner
+bushes, and the pink roses fluttered high above the hedge. There were
+the same flowers in the grass as we had known many years; we should not
+know them any more.
+
+“But merely to have mown them is worth having lived for,” he said,
+looking at me.
+
+We felt the warmth of the sun trickling through the morning’s mist of
+coolness.
+
+“You see that sycamore,” he said, “that bushy one beyond the big
+willow? I remember when father broke off the leading shoot because he
+wanted a fine straight stick, I can remember I felt sorry. It was
+running up so straight, with such a fine balance of leaves—you know how
+a young strong sycamore looks about nine feet high—it seemed a cruelty.
+When you are gone, and we are left from here, I shall feel like that,
+as if my leading shoot were broken off. You see, the tree is spoiled.
+Yet how it went on growing. I believe I shall grow faster. I can
+remember the bright red stalks of the leaves as he broke them off from
+the bough.”
+
+He smiled at me, half proud of his speech. Then he swung into the seat
+of the machine, having attended to the horses’ heads. He lifted the
+knife.
+
+“Good-bye,” he said, smiling whimsically back at me. The machine
+started. The bed of the knife fell, and the grass shivered and dropped
+over. I watched the heads of the daisies and the splendid lines of the
+cocksfool grass quiver, shake against the crimson burnet, and
+drop-over. The machine went singing down the field, leaving a track of
+smooth, velvet green in the way of the swath-board. The flowers in the
+wall of uncut grass waited unmoved, as the days wait for us. The sun
+caught in the uplicking scarlet sorrel flames, the butterflies woke,
+and I could hear the fine ring of his “Whoa!” from the far corner. Then
+he turned, and I could see only the tossing ears of the horses, and the
+white of his shoulder as they moved along the wall of high grass on the
+hill slope. I sat down under the elm to file the sections of the knife.
+Always as he rode he watched the falling swath, only occasionally
+calling the horses into line. It was his voice which rang the morning
+awake. When we were at work we hardly noticed one another. Yet his
+mother had said:
+
+“George is so glad when you’re in the field—he doesn’t care how long
+the day is.”
+
+Later, when the morning was hot, and the honeysuckle had ceased to
+breathe, and all the other scents were moving in the air about us, when
+all the field was down, when I had seen the last trembling ecstasy of
+the harebells, trembling to fall; when the thick clump of purple vetch
+had sunk; when the green swaths were settling, and the silver swaths
+were glistening and glittering as the sun came along them, in the hot
+ripe morning we worked together turning the hay, tipping over the
+yesterday’s swaths with our forks, and bringing yesterday’s fresh,
+hidden flowers into the death of sunlight.
+
+It was then that we talked of the past, and speculated on the future.
+As the day grew older and less wistful, we forgot everything, and
+worked on, singing, and sometimes I would recite him verses as we went,
+and sometimes I would tell him about books. Life was full of glamour
+for us both.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+PASTORALS AND PEONIES
+
+
+At dinner time the father announced to us the exciting fact that Leslie
+had asked if a few of his guests might picnic that afternoon in the
+Strelley hayfields. The closes were so beautiful, with the brook under
+all its sheltering trees, running into the pond that was set with two
+green islets. Moreover, the squire’s lady had written a book filling
+these meadows and the mill precincts with pot-pourri romance. The
+wedding guests at Highclose were anxious to picnic in so choice a spot.
+
+The father, who delighted in a gay throng, beamed at us from over the
+table. George asked who were coming.
+
+“Oh, not many—about half a dozen—mostly ladies down for the wedding.”
+
+George at first swore warmly; then he began to appreciate the affair as
+a joke.
+
+Mrs. Saxton hoped they wouldn’t want her to provide them pots, for she
+hadn’t two cups that matched, nor had any of her spoons the least
+pretence to silver. The children were hugely excited, and wanted a
+holiday from school, which Emily at once vetoed firmly, thereby causing
+family dissension.
+
+As we went round the field in the afternoon turning the hay, we were
+thinking apart, and did not talk. Every now and then—and at every
+corner—we stopped to look down towards the wood, to see if they were
+coming.
+
+“Here they are!” George exclaimed suddenly, having spied the movement
+of white in the dark wood. We stood still and watched. Two girls,
+heliotrope and white, a man with two girls, pale green and white, and a
+man with a girl last.
+
+“Can you tell who they are?” I asked.
+
+“That’s Marie Tempest, that first girl in white, and that’s him and
+Lettie at the back, I don’t know any more.”
+
+He stood perfectly still until they had gone out of sight behind the
+banks down by the brooks, then he stuck his fork in the ground, saying:
+
+“You can easily finish—if you like. I’ll go and mow out that bottom
+corner.”
+
+He glanced at me to see what I was thinking of him. I was thinking that
+he was afraid to meet her, and I was smiling to myself. Perhaps he felt
+ashamed, for he went silently away to the machine, where he belted his
+riding breeches tightly round his waist, and slung the scythe strap on
+his hip. I heard the clanging slur of the scythe stone as he whetted
+the blade. Then he strode off to mow the far bottom corner, where the
+ground was marshy, and the machine might not go, to bring down the lush
+green grass and the tall meadow sweet.
+
+I went to the pond to meet the newcomers. I bowed to Louie Denys, a
+tall, graceful girl of the drooping type, elaborately gowned in
+heliotrope linen; I bowed to Agnes D’Arcy, an erect, intelligent girl
+with magnificent auburn hair—she wore no hat and carried a sunshade; I
+bowed to Hilda Seconde, a svelte, petite girl, exquisitely and
+delicately pretty; I bowed to Maria and to Lettie, and I shook hands
+with Leslie and with his friend, Freddy Cresswell. The latter was to be
+best man, a broad shouldered, pale-faced fellow, with beautiful soft
+hair like red wheat, and laughing eyes, and a whimsical, drawling
+manner of speech, like a man who has suffered enough to bring him to
+manhood and maturity, but who in spite of all remains a boy,
+irresponsible, lovable—a trifle pathetic. As the day was very hot, both
+men were in flannels, and wore flannel collars, yet it was evident that
+they had dressed with scrupulous care. Instinctively I tried to pull my
+trousers into shape within my belt, and I felt the inferiority cast
+upon the father, big and fine as he was in his way, for his shoulders
+were rounded with work, and his trousers were much distorted.
+
+“What can we do?” said Marie; “you know we don’t want to hinder, we
+want to help you. It was so good of you to let us come.”
+
+The father laughed his fine indulgence, saying to them—they loved him
+for the mellow, laughing modulation of his voice:
+
+“Come on, then—I see there’s a bit of turning-over to do, as Cyril’s
+left. Come and pick your forks.”
+
+From among a sheaf of hayforks he chose the lightest for them, and they
+began anywhere, just tipping at the swaths. He showed them
+carefully—Marie and the charming little Hilda—just how to do it, but
+they found the right way the hardest way, so they worked in their own
+fashion, and laughed heartily with him when he made playful jokes at
+them. He was a great lover of girls, and they blossomed from timidity
+under his hearty influence.
+
+“Ain’ it flippin’ ’ot?” drawled Cresswell, who had just taken his M. A.
+degree in classics: “This bloomin’ stuff’s dry enough—come an’ flop on
+it.”
+
+He gathered a cushion of hay, which Louie Denys carefully appropriated,
+arranging first her beautiful dress, that fitted close to her shape,
+without any belt or interruption, and then laying her arms, that were
+netted to the shoulder in open lace, gracefully at rest. Lettie, who
+was also in a closefitting white dress which showed her shape down to
+the hips, sat where Leslie had prepared for her, and Miss D’Arcy
+reluctantly accepted my pile.
+
+Cresswell twisted his clean-cut mouth in a little smile, saying:
+
+“Lord, a giddy little pastoral—fit for old Theocritus, ain’t it, Miss
+Denys?”
+
+“Why do you talk to me about those classic people—I daren’t even say
+their names. What would he say about us?”
+
+He laughed, winking his blue eyes:
+
+“He’d make old Daphnis there,”—pointing to Leslie—“sing a match with
+me, Damoetas—contesting the merits of our various sheperdesses—begin
+Daphnis, sing up for Amaryllis, I mean Nais, damn ’em, they were for
+ever getting mixed up with their nymphs.”
+
+“I say, Mr. Cresswell, your language! Consider whom you’re damning,”
+said Miss Denys, leaning over and tapping his head with her silk glove.
+
+“You say any giddy thing in a pastoral,” he replied, taking the edge of
+her skirt, and lying back on it, looking up at her as she leaned over
+him. “Strike up, Daphnis, something about honey or white cheese—or else
+the early apples that’ll be ripe in a week’s time.”
+
+“I’m sure the apples you showed me are ever so little and green,”
+interrupted Miss Denys; “they will never be ripe in a week—ugh, sour!”
+
+He smiled up at her in his whimsical way:
+
+“Hear that, Tempest—‘Ugh, sour!’—not much! Oh, love us, haven’t you got
+a start yet?—isn’t there aught to sing about, you blunt-faced kid?”
+
+“I’ll hear you first—I’m no judge of honey and cheese.”
+
+“An’ darn little apples—takes a woman to judge them; don’t it, Miss
+Denys?”
+
+“I don’t know,” she said, stroking his soft hair from his forehead with
+her hand whereon rings were sparkling.
+
+“‘My love is not white, my hair is not yellow, like honey dropping
+through the sunlight—my love is brown, and sweet, and ready for the
+lips of love.’ Go on, Tempest—strike up, old cowherd. Who’s that tuning
+his pipe?—oh, that fellow sharpening his scythe! It’s enough to make
+your backache to look at him working—go an’ stop him, somebody.”
+
+“Yes, let us go and fetch him,” said Miss D’Arcy. “I’m sure he doesn’t
+know what a happy pastoral state he’s in—let us go and fetch him.”
+
+“They don’t like hindering at their work, Agnes—besides, where
+ignorance is bliss——” said Lettie, afraid lest she might bring him. The
+other hesitated, then with her eyes she invited me to go with her.
+
+“Oh, dear,” she laughed, with a little mowe, “Freddy is such an ass,
+and Louie Denys is like a wasp at treacle. I wanted to laugh, yet I
+felt just a tiny bit cross. Don’t you feel great when you go mowing
+like that? Father Timey sort of feeling? Shall we go and look! We’ll
+say we want those foxgloves he’ll be cutting down directly—and those
+bell flowers. I suppose you needn’t go on with your labours——”
+
+He did not know we were approaching till I called him, then he started
+slightly as he saw the tall, proud girl.
+
+“Mr. Saxton—Miss D’Arcy,” I said, and he shook hands with her.
+Immediately his manner became ironic, for he had seen his hand big and
+coarse and inflamed with the snaith clasping the lady’s hand.
+
+“We thought you looked so fine,” she said to him, “and men are so
+embarrassing when they make love to somebody else—aren’t they? Save us
+those foxgloves, will you—they are splendid—like savage soldiers drawn
+up against the hedge—don’t cut them down—and those
+campanulas—bell-flowers, ah, yes! They are spinning idylls up there. I
+don’t care for idylls, do you? Oh, you don’t know what a classical
+pastoral person you are—but there, I don’t suppose you suffer from
+idyllic love——” she laughed, “—one doesn’t see the silly little god
+fluttering about in our hayfields, does one? Do you find much time to
+sport with Amaryllis in the shade?—I’m sure it’s a shame they banished
+Phyllis from the fields——”
+
+He laughed and went on with his work. She smiled a little, too,
+thinking she had made a great impression. She put out her hand with a
+dramatic gesture, and looked at me, when the scythe crunched through
+the meadow-sweet.
+
+“Crunch! isn’t it fine!” she exclaimed, “a kind of inevitable fate—I
+think it’s fine!”
+
+We wandered about picking flowers and talking until teatime. A
+manservant came with the tea-basket, and the girls spread the cloth
+under a great willow tree. Lettie took the little silver kettle, and
+went to fill it at the small spring which trickled into a stone trough
+all pretty with cranesbill and stellaria hanging over, while long
+blades of grass waved in the water. George, who had finished his work,
+and wanted to go home to tea, walked across to the spring where Lettie
+sat playing with the water, getting little cupfuls to put into the
+kettle, watching the quick skating of the water beetles, and the large
+faint spots of their shadows darting on the silted mud at the bottom of
+the trough.
+
+She glanced round on hearing him coming, and smiled nervously: they
+were mutually afraid of meeting each other again.
+
+“It is about teatime,” he said.
+
+“Yes—it will be ready in a moment—this is not to make the tea with—it’s
+only to keep a little supply of hot water.”
+
+“Oh,” he said, “I’ll go on home—I’d rather.”
+
+“No,” she replied, “you can’t because we are all having tea together: I
+had some fruits put up, because I know you don’t trifle with tea—and
+your father’s coming.”
+
+“But,” he replied pettishly, “I can’t have my tea with all those
+folks—I don’t want to—look at me!”
+
+He held out his inflamed, barbaric hands.
+
+She winced and said:
+
+“It won’t matter—you’ll give the realistic touch.”
+
+He laughed ironically.
+
+“_No_—you must come,” she insisted.
+
+“I’ll have a drink then, if you’ll let me,” he said, yielding.
+
+She got up quickly, blushing, offering him the tiny, pretty cup.
+
+“I’m awfully sorry,” she said.
+
+“Never mind,” he muttered, and turning from the proffered cup he lay
+down flat, put his mouth to the water, and drank deeply. She stood and
+watched the motion of his drinking, and of his heavy breathing
+afterwards. He got up, wiping his mouth, not looking at her. Then he
+washed his hands in the water, and stirred up the mud. He put his hand
+to the bottom of the trough, bringing out a handful of silt, with the
+grey shrimps twisting in it. He flung the mud on the floor where the
+poor grey creatures writhed.
+
+“It wants cleaning out,” he said.
+
+“Yes,” she replied, shuddering. “You won’t be long,” she added, taking
+up the silver kettle.
+
+In a few moments he got up and followed her reluctantly down. He was
+nervous and irritable.
+
+The girls were seated on tufts of hay, with the men leaning in
+attendance on them, and the manservant waiting on all. George was
+placed between Lettie and Hilda. The former handed him his little
+egg-shell of tea, which, as he was not very thirsty, he put down on the
+ground beside him. Then she passed him the bread and butter, cut for
+five-o’clock tea, and fruits, grapes and peaches, and strawberries, in
+a beautifully carved oak tray. She watched for a moment his thick,
+half-washed fingers fumbling over the fruits, then she turned her head
+away. All the gay teatime, when the talk bubbled and frothed over all
+the cups, she avoided him with her eyes. Yet again and again, as
+someone said: “I’m sorry, Mr. Saxton—will you have some cake?”—or “See,
+Mr. Saxton—try this peach, I’m sure it will be mellow right to the
+stone,”—speaking very naturally, but making the distinction between him
+and the other men by their indulgence towards him, Lettie was forced to
+glance at him as he sat eating, answering in monosyllables, laughing
+with constraint and awkwardness, and her irritation flickered between
+her brows. Although she kept up the gay frivolity of the conversation,
+still the discord was felt by everybody, and we did not linger as we
+should have done over the cups. “George,” they said afterwards, “was a
+wet blanket on the party.” Lettie was intensely annoyed with him. His
+presence was unbearable to her. She wished him a thousand miles away.
+He sat listening to Cresswell’s whimsical affectation of vulgarity
+which flickered with fantasy, and he laughed in a strained fashion.
+
+He was the first to rise, saying he must get the cows up for milking.
+
+“Oh, let us go—let us go. May we come and see the cows milked?” said
+Hilda, her delicate, exquisite features flushing, for she was very shy.
+
+“No,” drawled Freddy, “the stink o’ live beef ain’t salubrious. You be
+warned, and stop here.”
+
+“I never could bear cows, except those lovely little highland cattle,
+all woolly, in pictures,” said Louie Denys, smiling archly, with a
+little irony.
+
+“No,” laughed Agnes D’Arcy, “they—they’re smelly,”—and she pursed up
+her mouth, and ended in a little trill of deprecatory laughter, as she
+often did. Hilda looked from one to the other, blushing.
+
+“Come, Lettie,” said Leslie good-naturedly, “I know you have a farmyard
+fondness—come on,” and they followed George down.
+
+As they passed along the pond bank a swan and her tawny, fluffy brood
+sailed with them the length of the water, “tipping on their little
+toes, the darlings—pitter-patter through the water, tiny little
+things,” as Marie said.
+
+We heard George below calling “Bully—Bully—Bully—Bully!”—and then, a
+moment or two after, in the bottom garden: “Come out, you little
+fool—are you coming out of it?” in manifestly angry tones.
+
+“Has it run away?” laughed Hilda, delighted and we hastened out of the
+lower garden to see.
+
+There in the green shade, between the tall gooseberry bushes, the heavy
+crimson peonies stood gorgeously along the path. The full red globes,
+poised and leaning voluptuously, sank their crimson weight on to the
+seeding grass of the path, borne down by secret rain, and by their own
+splendour. The path was poured over with red rich silk of strewn
+petals. The great flowers swung their crimson grandly about the walk,
+like crowds of cardinals in pomp among the green bushes. We burst into
+the new world of delight. As Lettie stooped, taking between both hands
+the gorgeous silken fulness of one blossom that was sunk to the earth.
+George came down the path, with the brown bull-calf straddling behind
+him, its neck stuck out, sucking zealously at his middle finger.
+
+The unconscious attitudes of the girls, all bent enraptured over the
+peonies, touched him with sudden pain. As he came up, with the calf
+stalking grudgingly behind, he said:
+
+“There’s a fine show of pyeenocks this year, isn’t there?”
+
+“What do you call them?” cried Hilda, turning to him her sweet,
+charming face full of interest.
+
+“Pyeenocks,” he replied.
+
+Lettie remained crouching with a red flower between her hands, glancing
+sideways unseen to look at the calf, which with its shiny nose uplifted
+was mumbling in its sticky gums the seductive finger. It sucked
+eagerly, but unprofitably, and it appeared to cast a troubled eye
+inwards to see if it were really receiving any satisfaction,—doubting,
+but not despairing. Marie, and Hilda, and Leslie laughed, while he,
+after looking at Lettie as she crouched, wistfully, as he thought, over
+the flower, led the little brute out of the garden, and sent it running
+into the yard with a smack on the haunch.
+
+Then he returned, rubbing his sticky finger dry against his breeches.
+He stood near to Lettie, and she felt rather than saw the extraordinary
+pale cleanness of the one finger among the others. She rubbed her
+finger against her dress in painful sympathy.
+
+“But aren’t the flowers lovely!” exclaimed Marie again. “I want to hug
+them.”
+
+“Oh, yes!” assented Hilda.
+
+“They are like a romance—D’Annunzio—a romance in passionate sadness,”
+said Lettie, in an ironical voice, speaking half out of conventional
+necessity of saying something, half out of desire to shield herself,
+and yet in a measure express herself.
+
+“There is a tale about them,” I said.
+
+The girls clamoured for the legend.
+
+“Pray, do tell us,” pleaded Hilda, the irresistible.
+
+“It was Emily told me—she says it’s a legend, but I believe it’s only a
+tale. She says the peonies were brought from the Hall long since by a
+fellow of this place—when it was a mill. He was brown and strong, and
+the daughter of the Hall, who was pale and fragile and young, loved
+him. When he went up to the Hall gardens to cut the yew hedges, she
+would hover round him in her white frock, and tell him tales of old
+days, in little snatches like a wren singing, till he thought she was a
+fairy who had bewitched him. He would stand and watch her, and one day,
+when she came near to him telling him a tale that set the tears
+swimming in her eyes, he took hold of her and kissed her and kept her.
+They used to tryst in the poplar spinney. She would come with her arms
+full of flowers, for she always kept to her fairy part. One morning she
+came early through the mists. He was out shooting. She wanted to take
+him unawares, like a fairy. Her arms were full of peonies. When she was
+moving beyond the trees he shot her, not knowing. She stumbled on, and
+sank down in their tryst place. He found her lying there among the red
+pyeenocks, white and fallen. He thought she was just lying talking to
+the red flowers, so he stood waiting. Then he went up, and bent over
+her, and found the flowers full of blood. It was he set the garden here
+with these pyeenocks.”
+
+The eyes of the girls were round with the pity of the tale and Hilda
+turned away to hide her tears.
+
+“It is a beautiful ending,” said Lettie, in a low tone, looking at the
+floor.
+
+“It’s all a tale,” said Leslie, soothing the girls.
+
+George waited till Lettie looked at him. She lifted her eyes to him at
+last. Then each turned aside, trembling.
+
+Marie asked for some of the peonies.
+
+“Give me just a few—and I can tell the others the story—it is so sad—I
+feel so sorry for him, it was so cruel for him——! And Lettie says it
+ends beautifully——!”
+
+George cut the flowers with his great clasp knife, and Marie took them,
+carefully, treating their romance with great tenderness. Then all went
+out of the garden and he turned to the cowshed.
+
+“Good-bye for the present,” said Lettie, afraid to stay near him.
+
+“Good-bye,” he laughed.
+
+“Thank you _so_ much for the flowers—and the story—it was splendid,”
+said Marie, “—but so sad!”
+
+Then they went, and we did not see them again.
+
+Later, when all had gone to bed at the mill, George and I sat together
+on opposite sides of the fire, smoking, saying little. He was casting
+up the total of discrepancies, and now and again he ejaculated one of
+his thoughts.
+
+“And all day,” he said, “Blench has been ploughing his wheat in,
+because it was that bitten off by the rabbits it was no manner of use,
+so he’s ploughed it in: an’ they say with idylls, eating peaches in our
+close.”
+
+Then there was silence, while the clock throbbed heavily, and outside a
+wild bird called, and was still; softly the ashes rustled lower in the
+grate.
+
+“She said it ended well—but what’s the good of death—what’s the good of
+that?” He turned his face to the ashes in the grate, and sat brooding.
+
+Outside, among the trees, some wild animal set up a thin, wailing cry.
+
+“Damn that row!” said I, stirring, looking also into the grey fire.
+
+“It’s some stoat or weasel, or something. It’s been going on like that
+for nearly a week. I’ve shot in the trees ever so many times. There
+were two—one’s gone.”
+
+Continuously, through the heavy, chilling silence, came the miserable
+crying from the darkness among the trees.
+
+“You know,” he said, “she hated me this afternoon, and I hated her——”
+
+It was midnight, full of sick thoughts.
+
+“It is no good,” said I. “Go to bed—it will be morning in a few hours.”
+
+
+
+
+PART III
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+A NEW START IN LIFE
+
+
+Lettie was wedded, as I had said, before Leslie lost all the wistful
+traces of his illness. They had been gone away to France five days
+before we recovered anything like the normal tone in the house. Then,
+though the routine was the same, everywhere was a sense of loss, and of
+change. The long voyage in the quiet home was over; we had crossed the
+bright sea of our youth, and already Lettie had landed and was
+travelling to a strange destination in a foreign land. It was time for
+us all to go, to leave the valley of Nethermere whose waters and whose
+woods were distilled in the essence of our veins. We were the children
+of the valley of Nethermere, a small nation with language and blood of
+our own, and to cast ourselves each one into separate exile was painful
+to us.
+
+“I shall have to go now,” said George. “It is my nature to linger an
+unconscionable time, yet I dread above all things this slow crumbling
+away from my foundations by which I free myself at last. I must wrench
+myself away now——”
+
+It was the slack time between the hay and the corn harvest, and we sat
+together in the grey, still morning of August pulling the stack. My
+hands were sore with tugging the loose wisps from the lower part of the
+stack, so I waited for the touch of rain to send us indoors. It came at
+last, and we hurried into the barn. We climbed the ladder into the loft
+that was strewn with farming implements and with carpenters’ tools. We
+sat together on the shavings that littered the bench before the high
+gable window, and looked out over the brooks and the woods and the
+ponds. The tree-tops were very near to us, and we felt ourselves the
+centre of the waters and the woods that spread down the rainy valley.
+
+“In a few years,” I said, “we shall be almost strangers.”
+
+He looked at me with fond, dark eyes and smiled incredulously.
+
+“It is as far,” said I, “to the ‘Ram’ as it is for me to
+London—farther.”
+
+“Don’t you want me to go there?” he asked, smiling quietly.
+
+“It’s all as one where you go, you will travel north, and I east, and
+Lettie south. Lettie has departed. In seven weeks I go.—And you?”
+
+“I must be gone before you,” he said decisively.
+
+“Do you know——” and he smiled timidly in confession, “I feel alarmed at
+the idea of being left alone on a loose end. I must not be the last to
+leave——” he added almost appealingly.
+
+“And you will go to Meg?” I asked.
+
+He sat tearing the silken shavings into shreds, and telling me in
+clumsy fragments all he could of his feelings:
+
+“You see it’s not so much what you call love. I don’t know. You see I
+built on Lettie,”—he looked up at me shamefacedly, then continued
+tearing the shavings—“you must found your castles on something, and I
+founded mine on Lettie. You see, I’m like plenty of folks, I have
+nothing definite to shape my life to. I put brick upon brick, as they
+come, and if the whole topples down in the end, it does. But you see,
+you and Lettie have made me conscious, and now I’m at a dead loss. I
+have looked to marriage to set me busy on my house of life, something
+whole and complete, of which it will supply the design. I must marry or
+be in a lost lane. There are two people I could marry—and Lettie’s
+gone. I love Meg just as well, as far as love goes. I’m not sure I
+don’t feel better pleased at the idea of marrying her. You know I
+should always have been second to Lettie, and the best part of love is
+being made much of, being first and foremost in the whole world for
+somebody. And Meg’s easy and lovely. I can have her without trembling,
+she’s full of soothing and comfort. I can stroke her hair and pet her,
+and she looks up at me, full of trust and lovingness, and there is no
+flaw, all restfulness in one another——”
+
+Three weeks later, as I lay in the August sunshine in a deck-chair on
+the lawn, I heard the sound of wheels along the gravel path. It was
+George calling for me to accompany him to his marriage. He pulled up
+the dog-cart near the door and came up the steps to me on the lawn. He
+was dressed as if for the cattle market, in jacket and breeches and
+gaiters.
+
+“Well, are you ready?” he said standing smiling down on me. His eyes
+were dark with excitement, and had that vulnerable look which was so
+peculiar to the Saxtons in their emotional moments.
+
+“You are in good time,” said I, “it is but half past nine.”
+
+“It wouldn’t do to be late on a day like this,” he said gaily, “see how
+the sun shines. Come, you don’t look as brisk as a best man should. I
+thought you would have been on tenterhooks of excitement. Get up, get
+up! Look here, a bird has given me luck”—he showed me a white smear on
+his shoulder.
+
+I drew myself up lazily.
+
+“All right,” I said, “but we must drink a whisky to establish it.”
+
+He followed me out of the fragrant sunshine into the dark house. The
+rooms were very still and empty, but the cool silence responded at once
+to the gaiety of our sunwarm entrance. The sweetness of the summer
+morning hung invisible like glad ghosts of romance through the shadowy
+room. We seemed to feel the sunlight dancing golden in our veins as we
+filled again the pale liqueur.
+
+“Joy to you—I envy you to-day.”
+
+His teeth were white, and his eyes stirred like dark liquor as he
+smiled.
+
+“Here is my wedding present!”
+
+I stood the four large water-colours along the wall before him. They
+were drawings among the waters and the fields of the mill, grey rain
+and twilight, morning with the sun pouring gold into the mist, and the
+suspense of a midsummer noon upon the pond. All the glamour of our
+yesterdays came over him like an intoxicant, and he quivered with the
+wonderful beauty of life that was weaving him into the large magic of
+the years. He realised the splendour of the pageant of days which had
+him in train.
+
+“It’s been wonderful, Cyril, all the time,” he said, with surprised
+joy.
+
+We drove away through the freshness of the wood, and among the flowing
+of the sunshine along the road. The cottages of Greymede filled the
+shadows with colour of roses, and the sunlight with odour of pinks and
+the blue of corn flowers and larkspur. We drove briskly up the long,
+sleeping hill, and bowled down the hollow past the farms where the hens
+were walking with the red gold cocks in the orchard, and the ducks like
+white cloudlets under the aspen trees revelled on the pond.
+
+“I told her to be ready any time,” said George—“but she doesn’t know
+it’s to-day. I didn’t want the public-house full of the business.”
+
+The mare walked up the sharp little rise on top of which stood the “Ram
+Inn.” In the quiet, as the horse slowed to a standstill, we heard the
+crooning of a song in the garden. We sat still in the cart, and looked
+across the flagged yard to where the tall madonna lilies rose in
+clusters out of the alyssome. Beyond the border of flowers was Meg,
+bending over the gooseberry bushes. She saw us and came swinging down
+the path, with a bowl of gooseberries poised on her hip. She was
+dressed in a plain, fresh holland frock, with a white apron. Her black,
+heavy hair reflected the sunlight, and her ripe face was luxuriant with
+laughter.
+
+“Well, I never!” she exclaimed, trying not to show that she guessed his
+errand. “Fancy you here at this time o’ morning!”
+
+Her eyes, delightful black eyes like polished jet, untroubled and
+frank, looked at us as a robin might, with bright questioning. Her eyes
+were so different from the Saxton’s: darker, but never still and full,
+never hesitating, dreading a wound, never dilating with hurt or with
+timid ecstasy.
+
+“Are you ready then?” he asked, smiling down on her.
+
+“What?” she asked in confusion.
+
+“To come to the registrar with me—I’ve got the licence.”
+
+“But I’m just going to make the pudding,” she cried, in full
+expostulation.
+
+“Let them make it themselves—put your hat on.”
+
+“But look at me! I’ve just been getting the gooseberries. Look!” she
+showed us the berries, and the scratches on her arms and hands.
+
+“What a shame!” he said, bending down to stroke her hand and her arm.
+She drew back smiling, flushing with joy. I could smell the white
+lilies where I sat.
+
+“But you don’t mean it, do you?” she said, lifting to him her face that
+was round and glossy like a blackheart cherry. For answer, he unfolded
+the marriage licence. She read it, and turned aside her face in
+confusion, saying:
+
+“Well, I’ve got to get ready. Shall you come an’ tell Gran’ma?”
+
+“Is there any need?” he answered reluctantly.
+
+“Yes, you come an tell ’er,” persuaded Meg.
+
+He got down from the trap. I preferred to stay out of doors. Presently
+Meg ran out with a glass of beer for me.
+
+“We shan’t be many minutes,” she apologised. “I’ve on’y to slip another
+frock on.”
+
+I heard George go heavily up the stairs and enter the room over the
+bar-parlour, where the grandmother lay bed-ridden.
+
+“What, is it thaïgh, ma lad? What are thaïgh doin’ ’ere this mornin’?”
+she asked.
+
+“Well A’nt, how does ta feel by now?” he said.
+
+“Eh, sadly, lad, sadly! It’ll not be long afore they carry me
+downstairs head first——”
+
+“Nay, dunna thee say so!—I’m just off to Nottingham—I want Meg ter
+come.”
+
+“What for?” cried the old woman sharply.
+
+“I wanted ’er to get married,” he replied.
+
+“What! What does’t say? An’ what about th’ licence, an’ th’ ring, an
+ivrything?”
+
+“I’ve seen to that all right,” he answered.
+
+“Well, tha ’rt a nice’st un, I must say! What’s want goin’ in this
+pig-in-a-poke fashion for? This is a nice shabby trick to serve a body!
+What does ta mean by it?”
+
+“You knowed as I wor goin’ ter marry ’er directly, so I can’t see as it
+matters o’ th’ day. I non wanted a’ th’ pub talkin’——”
+
+“Tha ’rt mighty particklar, an’ all, an’ all! An’ why shouldn’t the pub
+talk? Tha ’rt non marryin’ a nigger, as ta should be so frightened—I
+niver thought it on thee!—An’ what’s thy ’orry, all of a sudden?”
+
+“No hurry as I know of.”
+
+“No ’orry——!” replied the old lady, with withering sarcasm. “Tha wor
+niver in a ’orry a’ thy life! She’s non commin’ wi’ thee this day,
+though.”
+
+He laughed, also sarcastic. The old lady was angry. She poured on him
+her abuse, declaring she would not have Meg in the house again, nor
+leave her a penny, if she married him that day.
+
+“Tha can please thysen,” answered George, also angry.
+
+Meg came hurriedly into the room.
+
+“Ta’e that ’at off—ta’e it off! Tha non goos wi’ ’im this day, not if I
+know it! Does ’e think tha ’rt a cow, or a pig, to be fetched wheniver
+’e thinks fit. Ta’e that ’at off, I say!”
+
+The old woman was fierce and peremptory.
+
+“But gran’ma!——” began Meg.
+
+The bed creaked as the old lady tried to rise.
+
+“Ta’e that ’at off, afore I pull it off!” she cried.
+
+“Oh, be still Gran’ma—you’ll be hurtin’ yourself, you know you will——”
+
+“Are you coming Meg?” said George suddenly.
+
+“She is not!” cried the old woman.
+
+“Are you coming Meg?” repeated George, in a passion.
+
+Meg began to cry. I suppose she looked at him through her tears. The
+next thing I heard was a cry from the old woman, and the sound of
+staggering feet.
+
+“Would ta drag ’er from me!—if tha goos, ma wench, tha enters this
+’ouse no more, tha ’eers that! Tha does thysen my lady! Dunna venture
+anigh me after this, my gel!”—the old woman called louder and louder.
+George appeared in the doorway, holding Meg by the arm. She was crying
+in a little distress. Her hat with its large silk roses, was slanting
+over her eyes. She was dressed in white linen. They mounted the trap. I
+gave him the reins and scrambled up behind. The old woman heard us
+through the open window, and we listened to her calling as we drove
+away:
+
+“Dunna let me clap eyes on thee again, tha ungrateful ’ussy, tha
+ungrateful ’ussy! Tha’ll rue it, my wench, tha’ll rue it, an’ then
+dunna come ter me——”
+
+We drove out of hearing. George sat with a shut mouth, scowling. Meg
+wept awhile to herself woefully. We were swinging at a good pace under
+the beeches of the churchyard which stood above the level of the road.
+Meg, having settled her hat, bent her head to the wind, too much
+occupied with her attire to weep. We swung round the hollow by the bog
+end, and rattled a short distance up the steep hill to Watnall. Then
+the mare walked slowly. Meg, at leisure to collect herself, exclaimed
+plaintively:
+
+“Oh, I’ve only got one glove!”
+
+She looked at the odd silk glove that lay in her lap, then peered about
+among her skirts.
+
+“I must ’a left it in th’ bedroom,” she said piteously.
+
+He laughed, and his anger suddenly vanished.
+
+“What does it matter? You’ll do without all right.”
+
+At the sound of his voice, she recollected, and her tears and her
+weeping returned.
+
+“Nay,” he said, “don’t fret about the old woman. She’ll come round
+to-morrow—an’ if she doesn’t, it’s her lookout. She’s got Polly to
+attend to her.”
+
+“But she’ll be that miserable——!” wept Meg.
+
+“It’s her own fault. At any rate, don’t let it make you miserable”—he
+glanced to see if anyone were in sight, then he put his arm round her
+waist and kissed her, saying softly, coaxingly: “She’ll be all right
+to-morrow. We’ll go an’ see her then, an’ she’ll be glad enough to have
+us. We’ll give in to her then, poor old Gran’ma. She can boss you
+about, an’ me as well, tomorrow as much as she likes. She feels it
+hard, being tied to her bed. But to-day is ours, surely—isn’t it?
+To-day is ours, an’ you’re not sorry, are you?”
+
+“But I’ve got no gloves, an’ I’m sure my hair’s a sight. I never
+thought she could ’a reached up like that.”
+
+George laughed, tickled.
+
+“No,” he said, “she _was_ in a temper. But we can get you some gloves
+directly we get to Nottingham.”
+
+“I haven’t a farthing of money,” she said.
+
+“I’ve plenty!” he laughed. “Oh, an’ let’s try this on.”
+
+They were merry together as he tried on her wedding ring, and they
+talked softly, he gentle and coaxing, she rather plaintive. The mare
+took her own way, and Meg’s hat was disarranged once more by the
+sweeping elm-boughs. The yellow corn was dipping and flowing in the
+fields, like a cloth of gold pegged down at the corners under which the
+wind was heaving. Sometimes we passed cottages where the scarlet lilies
+rose like bonfires, and the tall larkspur like bright blue leaping
+smoke. Sometimes we smelled the sunshine on the browning corn,
+sometimes the fragrance of the shadow of leaves. Occasionally it was
+the dizzy scent of new haystacks. Then we rocked and jolted over the
+rough cobblestones of Cinderhill, and bounded forward again at the foot
+of the enormous pit hill, smelling of sulphur, inflamed with slow red
+fires in the daylight, and crusted with ashes. We reached the top of
+the rise and saw the city before us, heaped high and dim upon the broad
+range of the hill. I looked for the square tower of my old school, and
+the sharp proud spire of St. Andrews. Over the city hung a dullness, a
+thin dirty canopy against the blue sky.
+
+We turned and swung down the slope between the last sullied cornfields
+towards Basford, where the swollen gasometers stood like toadstools. As
+we neared the mouth of the street, Meg rose excitedly, pulling George’s
+arm, crying:
+
+“Oh, look, the poor little thing!”
+
+On the causeway stood two small boys lifting their faces and weeping to
+the heedless heavens, while before them, upside down, lay a baby
+strapped to a shut-up baby-chair. The gim-crack carpet-seated thing had
+collapsed as the boys were dismounting the curb-stone with it. It had
+fallen backwards, and they were unable to right it. There lay the
+infant strapped head downwards to its silly cart, in imminent danger of
+suffocation. Meg leaped out, and dragged the child from the wretched
+chair. The two boys, drenched with tears, howled on. Meg crouched on
+the road, the baby on her knee, its tiny feet dangling against her
+skirt. She soothed the pitiful tear-wet mite. She hugged it to her, and
+kissed it, and hugged it, and rocked it in an abandonment of pity. When
+at last the childish trio were silent, the boys shaken only by the last
+ebbing sobs, Meg calmed also from her frenzy of pity for the little
+thing. She murmured to it tenderly, and wiped its wet little cheeks
+with her handkerchief, soothing, kissing, fondling the bewildered mite,
+smoothing the wet strands of brown hair under the scrap of cotton
+bonnet, twitching the inevitable baby cape into order. It was a pretty
+baby, with wisps of brown-gold silken hair and large blue eyes.
+
+“Is it a girl?” I asked one of the boys—“How old is she?”
+
+“I don’t know,” he answered awkwardly, “We’ve ’ad ’er about a three
+week.”
+
+“Why, isn’t she your sister?”
+
+“No—my mother keeps ’er,”—they were very reluctant to tell us anything.
+
+“Poor little lamb!” cried Meg, in another access of pity, clasping the
+baby to her bosom with one hand, holding its winsome slippered feet in
+the other. She remained thus, stung through with acute pity, crouching,
+folding herself over the mite. At last she raised her head, and said,
+in a voice difficult with emotion:
+
+“But you love her—don’t you?”
+
+“Yes—she’s—she’s all right. But we ’ave to mind ’er,” replied the boy
+in great confusion.
+
+“Surely,” said Meg, “Surely you don’t begrudge that. Poor little
+thing—so little, she is—surely you don’t grumble at minding her a
+bit——?”
+
+The boys would not answer.
+
+“Oh, poor little lamb, poor little lamb!” murmured Meg over the child,
+condemning with bitterness the boys and the whole world of men.
+
+I taught one of the lads how to fold and unfold the wretched chair. Meg
+very reluctantly seated the unfortunate baby therein, gently fastening
+her with the strap.
+
+“Wheer’s ’er dummy?” asked one of the boys in muffled, self-conscious
+tones. The infant began to cry thinly. Meg crouched over it. The
+‘dummy’ was found in the gutter and wiped on the boy’s coat, then
+plugged into the baby’s mouth. Meg released the tiny clasping hand from
+over her finger, and mounted the dog cart, saying sternly to the boys:
+
+“Mind you look after her well, poor little baby with no mother. God’s
+watching to see what you do to her—so you be careful, mind.”
+
+They stood very shamefaced. George clicked to the mare, and as we
+started threw coppers to the boys. While we drove away I watched the
+little group diminish down the road.
+
+“It’s such a shame,” she said, and the tears were in her voice, “—A
+sweet little thing like that——”
+
+“Ay,” said George softly, “there’s all sorts of things in towns.”
+
+Meg paid no attention to him, but sat woman-like thinking of the
+forlorn baby, and condemning the hard world. He, full of tenderness and
+protectiveness towards her, having watched her with softening eyes,
+felt a little bit rebuffed that she ignored him, and sat alone in her
+fierce womanhood. So he busied himself with the reins, and the two sat
+each alone until Meg was roused by the bustle of the town. The mare
+sidled past the electric cars nervously, and jumped when a traction
+engine came upon us. Meg, rather frightened, clung to George again. She
+was very glad when we had passed the cemetery with its white population
+of tombstones, and drew up in a quiet street.
+
+But when we had dismounted, and given the horse’s head to a loafer, she
+became confused and bashful and timid to the last degree. He took her
+on his arm; he took the whole charge of her, and laughing, bore her
+away towards the steps of the office. She left herself entirely in his
+hands; she was all confusion, so he took the charge of her.
+
+When, after a short time, they came out, she began to chatter with
+blushful animation. He was very quiet, and seemed to be taking his
+breath.
+
+“Wasn’t he a funny little man? Did I do it all proper?—I didn’t know
+what I was doing. I’m sure they were laughing at me—do you think they
+were? Oh, just look at my frock—what a sight! What would they think——!”
+The baby had slightly soiled the front of her dress.
+
+George drove up the long hill into the town. As we came down between
+the shops on Mansfield Road he recovered his spirits.
+
+“Where are we going—where are you taking us?” asked Meg.
+
+“We may as well make a day of it while we are here,” he answered,
+smiling and flicking the mare. They both felt that they were launched
+forth on an adventure. He put up at the “Spread Eagle,” and we walked
+towards the market-place for Meg’s gloves. When he had bought her these
+and a large lace scarf to give her a more clothed appearance, he wanted
+dinner.
+
+“We’ll go,” he said, “to an hôtel.”
+
+His eyes dilated as he said it, and she shrank away with delighted
+fear. Neither of them had ever been to an hôtel. She was really afraid.
+She begged him to go to an eating house, to a café. He was obdurate.
+His one idea was to do the thing that he was half-afraid to do. His
+passion—and it was almost intoxication—was to dare to play with life.
+He was afraid of the town. He was afraid to venture into the foreign
+places of life, and all was foreign save the valley of Nethermere. So
+he crossed the borders flauntingly, and marched towards the heart of
+the unknown. We went to the Victoria Hôtel—the most imposing he could
+think of—and we had luncheon according to the menu. They were like two
+children, very much afraid, yet delighting in the adventure. He dared
+not, however, give the orders. He dared not address anybody, waiters or
+otherwise. I did that for him, and he watched me, absorbing, learning,
+wondering that things were so easy and so delightful. I murmured them
+injunctions across the table and they blushed and laughed with each
+other nervously. It would be hard to say whether they enjoyed that
+luncheon. I think Meg did not—even though she was with him. But of
+George I am doubtful. He suffered exquisitely from self consciousness
+and nervous embarrassment, but he felt also the intoxication of the
+adventure, he felt as a man who has lived in a small island when he
+first sets foot on a vast continent. This was the first step into a new
+life, and he mused delightedly upon it over his brandy. Yet he was
+nervous. He could not get over the feeling that he was trespassing.
+
+“Where shall we go this afternoon?” he asked.
+
+Several things were proposed, but Meg pleaded warmly for Colwick.
+
+“Let’s go on a steamer to Colwick Park. There’ll be entertainments
+there this afternoon. It’ll be lovely.”
+
+In a few moments we were on the top of the car swinging down to the
+Trent Bridges. It was dinner time, and crowds of people from shops and
+warehouses were hurrying in the sunshine along the pavements. Sunblinds
+cast their shadows on the shop-fronts, and in the shade streamed the
+people dressed brightly for summer. As our car stood in the great space
+of the market place we could smell the mingled scent of fruit, oranges,
+and small apricots, and pears piled in their vividly coloured sections
+on the stalls. Then away we sailed through the shadows of the dark
+streets, and the open pools of sunshine. The castle on its high rock
+stood in the dazzling dry sunlight; the fountain stood shadowy in the
+green glimmer of the lime trees that surrounded the alms-houses.
+
+There were many people at the Trent. We stood awhile on the bridge to
+watch the bright river swirling in a silent dance to the sea, while the
+light pleasure-boats lay asleep along the banks. We went on board the
+little paddle steamer and paid our “sixpence return.” After much
+waiting we set off, with great excitement, for our mile-long voyage.
+Two banjos were tumming somewhere below, and the passengers hummed and
+sang to their tunes. A few boats dabbled on the water. Soon the river
+meadows with their high thorn hedges lay green on our right, while the
+scarp of red rock rose on our left, covered with the dark trees of
+summer.
+
+We landed at Colwick Park. It was early, and few people were there.
+Dead glass fairy-lamps were slung about the trees. The grass in places
+was worn threadbare. We walked through the avenues and small glades of
+the park till we came to the boundary where the race-course stretched
+its level green, its winding white barriers running low into the
+distance. They sat in the shade for some time while I wandered about.
+Then many people began to arrive. It became noisy, even rowdy. We
+listened for some time to an open-air concert, given by the pierrots.
+It was rather vulgar, and very tiresome. It took me back to Cowes, to
+Yarmouth. There were the same foolish over-eyebrowed faces, the same
+perpetual jingle from an out-of-tune piano, the restless jigging to the
+songs, the same choruses, the same escapading. Meg was well pleased.
+The vulgarity passed by her. She laughed, and sang the choruses half
+audibly, daring, but not bold. She was immensely pleased. “Oh, it’s
+Ben’s turn now. I like him, he’s got such a wicked twinkle in his eye.
+Look at Joey trying to be funny!—he can’t to save his life. Doesn’t he
+look soft——!” She began to giggle in George’s shoulder. He saw the
+funny side of things for the time and laughed with her.
+
+During tea, which we took on the green verandah of the degraded hall,
+she was constantly breaking forth into some chorus, and he would light
+up as she looked at him and sing with her, _sotto voce_. He was not
+embarrassed at Colwick. There he had on his best careless, superior
+air. He moved about with a certain scornfulness, and ordered lobster
+for tea off-handedly. This also was a new walk of life. Here he was not
+hesitating or tremulously strung; he was patronising. Both Meg and he
+thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
+
+When we got back into Nottingham she entreated him not to go to the
+hotel as he had proposed, and he readily yielded. Instead they went to
+the Castle. We stood on the high rock in the cool of the day, and
+watched the sun sloping over the great river-flats where the menial
+town spread out, and ended, while the river and the meadows continued
+into the distance. In the picture galleries, there was a fine
+collection of Arthur Melville’s paintings. Meg thought them very
+ridiculous. I began to expound them, but she was manifestly bored, and
+he was half-hearted. Outside in the grounds was a military band
+playing. Meg longed to be there. The townspeople were dancing on the
+grass. She longed to join them, but she could not dance. So they sat
+awhile looking on.
+
+We were to go to the theatre in the evening. The Carl Rosa Company was
+giving “Carmen” at the Royal. We went into the dress circle “like giddy
+dukes,” as I said to him, so that I could see his eyes dilate with
+adventure again as he laughed. In the theatre, among the people in
+evening dress, he became once more childish and timorous. He had always
+the air of one who does something forbidden, and is charmed, yet
+fearful, like a trespassing child. He had begun to trespass that day
+outside his own estates of Nethermere.
+
+“Carmen” fascinated them both. The gaudy, careless Southern life amazed
+them. The bold free way in which Carmen played with life startled them
+with hints of freedom. They stared on the stage fascinated. Between the
+acts they held each other’s hands, and looked full into each other’s
+wide bright eyes, and, laughing with excitement, talked about the
+opera. The theatre surged and roared dimly like a hoarse shell. Then
+the music rose like a storm, and swept and rattled at their feet. On
+the stage the strange storm of life clashed in music towards tragedy
+and futile death. The two were shaken with a tumult of wild feeling.
+When it was all over they rose bewildered, stunned, she with tears in
+her eyes, he with a strange wild beating of his heart.
+
+They were both in a tumult of confused emotion. Their ears were full of
+the roaring passion of life, and their eyes were blinded by a spray of
+tears and that strange quivering laughter which burns with real pain.
+They hurried along the pavement to the “Spread Eagle,” Meg clinging to
+him, running, clasping her lace scarf over her white frock, like a
+scared white butterfly shaken through the night. We hardly spoke as the
+horse was being harnessed and the lamps lighted. In the little smoke
+room he drank several whiskies, she sipping out of his glass, standing
+all the time ready to go. He pushed into his pocket great pieces of
+bread and cheese, to eat on the way home. He seemed now to be thinking
+with much acuteness. His few orders were given sharp and terse. He
+hired an extra light rug in which to wrap Meg, and then we were ready.
+
+“Who drives?” said I.
+
+He looked at me and smiled faintly.
+
+“You,” he answered.
+
+Meg, like an impatient white flame stood waiting in the light of the
+lamps. He covered her, extinguished her in the dark rug.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+PUFFS OF WIND IN THE SAIL
+
+
+The year burst into glory to usher us forth out of the valley of
+Nethermere. The cherry trees had been gorgeous with heavy out-reaching
+boughs of red and gold. Immense vegetable marrows lay prostrate in the
+bottom garden, their great tentacles clutching the pond bank. Against
+the wall the globed crimson plums hung close together, and dropped
+occasionally with a satisfied plunge into the rhubarb leaves. The crop
+of oats was very heavy. The stalks of corn were like strong reeds of
+bamboo; the heads of grain swept heavily over like tresses weighted
+with drops of gold.
+
+George spent his time between the Mill and the Ram. The grandmother had
+received them with much grumbling but with real gladness. Meg was
+re-installed, and George slept at the Ram. He was extraordinarily
+bright, almost gay. The fact was that his new life interested and
+pleased him keenly. He often talked to me about Meg, how quaint and
+naïve she was, how she amused him and delighted him. He rejoiced in
+having a place of his own, a home, and a beautiful wife who adored him.
+Then the public-house was full of strangeness and interest. No hour was
+ever dull. If he wanted company he could go into the smoke-room, if he
+wanted quiet he could sit with Meg, and she was such a treat, so soft
+and warm, and so amusing. He was always laughing at her quaint crude
+notions, and at her queer little turns of speech. She talked to him
+with a little language, she sat on his knee and twisted his mustache,
+finding small unreal fault with his features for the delight of
+dwelling upon them. He was, he said, incredibly happy. Really he could
+not believe it. Meg was, ah! she was a treat. Then he would laugh,
+thinking how indifferent he had been about taking her. A little shadow
+might cross his eyes, but he would laugh again, and tell me one of his
+wife’s funny little notions. She was quite uneducated, and such fun, he
+said. I looked at him as he sounded this note. I remembered his crude
+superiority of early days, which had angered Emily so deeply. There was
+in him something of the prig. I did not like his amused indulgence of
+his wife.
+
+At threshing day, when I worked for the last time at the Mill, I
+noticed the new tendency in him. The Saxtons had always kept up a
+certain proud reserve. In former years, the family had moved into the
+parlour on threshing day, and an extra woman had been hired to wait on
+the men who came with the machine. This time George suggested: “Let us
+have dinner with the men in the kitchen, Cyril. They are a rum gang.
+It’s rather good sport mixing with them. They’ve seen a bit of life,
+and I like to hear them, they’re so blunt. They’re good studies
+though.”
+
+The farmer sat at the head of the table. The seven men trooped in, very
+sheepish, and took their places. They had not much to say at first.
+They were a mixed set, some rather small, young, and furtive looking,
+some unshapely and coarse, with unpleasant eyes, the eyelids slack.
+There was one man whom we called the Parrot, because he had a hooked
+nose, and put forward his head as he talked. He had been a very large
+man, but he was grey, and bending at the shoulders. His face was pale
+and fleshy, and his eyes seemed dull sighted.
+
+George patronised the men, and they did not object. He chaffed them,
+making a good deal of demonstration in giving them more beer. He
+invited them to pass up their plates, called the woman to bring more
+bread and altogether played mine host of a feast of beggars. The Parrot
+ate very slowly.
+
+“Come Dad,” said George “you’re not getting on. Not got many
+grinders——?”
+
+“What I’ve got’s in th’ road. Is’ll ’ae ter get em out. I can manage
+wi’ bare gums, like a baby again.”
+
+“Second childhood, eh? Ah well, we must all come to it,” George
+laughed.
+
+The old man lifted his head and looked at him, and said slowly:
+
+“You’n got ter ower th’ first afore that.”
+
+George laughed, unperturbed. Evidently he was well used to the thrusts
+of the public-house.
+
+“I suppose you soon got over yours,” he said.
+
+The old man raised himself and his eyes flickered into life. He chewed
+slowly, then said:
+
+“I’d married, an’ paid for it; I’d broke a constable’s jaw an’ paid for
+it; I’d deserted from the army, an’ paid for that: I’d had a bullet
+through my cheek in India atop of it all, by I was your age.”
+
+“Oh!” said George, with condescending interest, “you’ve seen a bit of
+life then?”
+
+They drew the old man out, and he told them in his slow, laconic
+fashion, a few brutal stories. They laughed and chaffed him. George
+seemed to have a thirst for tales of brutal experience, the raw gin of
+life. He drank it all in with relish, enjoying the sensation. The
+dinner was over. It was time to go out again to work.
+
+“And how old are you, Dad?” George asked. The Parrot looked at him
+again with his heavy, tired, ironic eyes, and answered:
+
+“If you’ll be any better for knowing—sixty-four.”
+
+“It’s a bit rough on you, isn’t it,” continued the young man, “going
+round with the threshing machine and sleeping outdoors at that time of
+life? I should ’a thought you’d ’a wanted a bit o’ comfort——”
+
+“How do you mean, ‘rough on me’?” the Parrot replied slowly.
+
+“Oh, I think you know what I mean,” answered George easily.
+
+“Don’t know as I do,” said the slow old Parrot. “Well, you haven’t made
+exactly a good thing out of life, have you?”
+
+“What d’you mean by a good thing? I’ve had my life, an’ I’m satisfied
+wi’ it. Is’ll die with a full belly.”
+
+“Oh, so you have saved a bit?”
+
+“No,” said the old man deliberately, “I’ve spent as I’ve gone on. An’
+I’ve had all I wish for. But I pity the angels, when the Lord sets me
+before them like a book to read. Heaven won’t be heaven just then.”
+
+“You’re a philosopher in your way,” laughed George.
+
+“And you,” replied the old man, “toddling about your back-yard, think
+yourself mighty wise. But your wisdom ’ll go with your teeth. You’ll
+learn in time to say nothing.”
+
+The old man went out and began his work, carrying the sacks of corn
+from the machine to the chamber.
+
+“There’s a lot in the old Parrot,” said George, “as he’ll never tell.”
+
+I laughed.
+
+“He makes you feel, as well, as if you’d a lot to discover in life,” he
+continued, looking thoughtfully over the dusty straw-stack at the
+chuffing machine.
+
+After the harvest was ended the father began to deplete his farm. Most
+of the stock was transferred to the “Ram.” George was going to take
+over his father’s milk business, and was going to farm enough of the
+land attaching to the Inn to support nine or ten cows. Until the
+spring, however, Mr. Saxton retained his own milk round, and worked at
+improving the condition of the land ready for the valuation. George,
+with three cows, started a little milk supply in the neighbourhood of
+the Inn, prepared his land for the summer, and helped in the
+public-house.
+
+Emily was the first to depart finally from the Mill. She went to a
+school in Nottingham, and shortly afterwards Mollie, her younger
+sister, went to her. In October I moved to London. Lettie and Leslie
+were settled in their home in Brentwood, Yorkshire. We all felt very
+keenly our exile from Nethermere. But as yet the bonds were not broken;
+only use could sever them. Christmas brought us all home again,
+hastening to greet each other. There was a slight change in everybody.
+Lettie was brighter, more imperious, and very gay; Emily was quiet,
+self-restrained, and looked happier; Leslie was jollier and at the same
+time more subdued and earnest; George looked very healthy and happy,
+and sounded well pleased with himself; my mother with her gaiety at our
+return brought tears to our eyes.
+
+We dined one evening at Highclose with the Tempests. It was dull as
+usual, and we left before ten o’clock. Lettie had changed her shoes and
+put on a fine cloak of greenish blue. We walked over the frost-bound
+road. The ice on Nethermere gleamed mysteriously in the moonlight, and
+uttered strange half-audible whoops and yelps. The moon was very high
+in the sky, small and brilliant like a vial full of the pure white
+liquid of light. There was no sound in the night save the haunting
+movement of the ice, and the clear tinkle of Lettie’s laughter.
+
+On the drive leading to the wood we saw someone approaching. The wild
+grass was grey on either side, the thorn trees stood with shaggy black
+beards sweeping down, the pine trees were erect like dark soldiers. The
+black shape of the man drew near, with a shadow running at its feet. I
+recognised George, obscured as he was in his cap and his upturned
+collar. Lettie was in front with her husband. As George was passing,
+she said, in bright clear tones:
+
+“A Happy New Year to you.”
+
+He stopped, swung round, and laughed.
+
+“I thought you wouldn’t have known me,” he said.
+
+“What, is it you George?” cried Lettie in great surprise—“Now, what a
+joke! How are you?”—she put out her white hand from her draperies. He
+took it, and answered, “I am very well—and you—?” However meaningless
+the words were, the tone was curiously friendly, intimate, informal.
+
+“As you see,” she replied laughing, interested in his attitude—“but
+where are you going?”
+
+“I am going home,” he answered, in a voice that meant “have you
+forgotten that I too am married?”
+
+“Oh, of course!” cried Lettie. “You are now mine host of the Ram. You
+must tell me about it. May I ask him to come home with us for an hour,
+mother?—It is New Year’s Eve, you know.”
+
+“You have asked him already,” laughed mother.
+
+“Will Mrs. Saxton spare you for so long?” asked Lettie of George.
+
+“Meg? Oh, she does not order my comings and goings.”
+
+“Does she not?” laughed Lettie. “She is very unwise. Train up a husband
+in the way he should go, and in after life——. I never could quote a
+text from end to end. I am full of beginnings, but as for a finish——!
+Leslie, my shoe-lace is untied—shall I wait till I can put my foot on
+the fence?”
+
+Leslie knelt down at her feet. She shook the hood back from her head,
+and her ornaments sparkled in the moonlight. Her face with its
+whiteness and its shadows was full of fascination, and in their dark
+recesses her eyes thrilled George with hidden magic. She smiled at him
+along her cheeks while her husband crouched before her. Then, as the
+three walked along towards the wood she flung her draperies into loose
+eloquence and there was a glimpse of her bosom white with the moon. She
+laughed and chattered, and shook her silken stuffs, sending out a
+perfume exquisite on the frosted air. When we reached the house Lettie
+dropped her draperies and rustled into the drawing-room. There the lamp
+was low-lit, shedding a yellow twilight from the window space. Lettie
+stood between the firelight and the dusky lamp glow, tall and warm
+between the lights. As she turned laughing to the two men, she let her
+cloak slide over her white shoulder and fall with silk splendour of a
+peacock’s gorgeous blue over the arm of the large settee. There she
+stood, with her white hand upon the peacock of her cloak, where it
+tumbled against her dull orange dress. She knew her own splendour, and
+she drew up her throat laughing and brilliant with triumph. Then she
+raised both her arms to her head and remained for a moment delicately
+touching her hair into order, still fronting the two men. Then with a
+final little laugh she moved slowly and turned up the lamp, dispelling
+some of the witchcraft from the room. She had developed strangely in
+six months. She seemed to have discovered the wonderful charm of her
+womanhood. As she leaned forward with her arm outstretched to the lamp,
+as she delicately adjusted the wicks with mysterious fingers, she
+seemed to be moving in some alluring figure of a dance, her hair like a
+nimbus clouding the light, her bosom lit with wonder. The soft
+outstretching of her hand was like the whispering of strange words into
+the blood, and as she fingered a book the heart watched silently for
+the meaning.
+
+“Won’t you take off my shoes, darling?” she said, sinking among the
+cushions of the settee. Leslie kneeled again before her, and she bent
+her head and watched him.
+
+“My feet are a tiny bit cold,” she said plaintively, giving him her
+foot, that seemed like gold in the yellow silk stocking. He took it
+between his hands, stroking it:
+
+“It is quite cold,” he said, and he held both her feet in his hands.
+
+“Ah, you dear boy!” she cried with sudden gentleness, bending forward
+and touching his cheek.
+
+“Is it great fun being mine host of ‘Ye Ramme Inne?’” she said
+playfully to George. There seemed a long distance between them now as
+she sat, with the man in evening dress crouching before her putting
+golden shoes on her feet.
+
+“It is rather,” he replied, “the men in the smoke room say such rum
+things. My word, you hear some tales there.”
+
+“Tell us, do!” she pleaded.
+
+“Oh! I couldn’t. I never could tell a tale, and even if I could—well——”
+
+“But I do long to hear,” she said, “what the men say in the smoke room
+of ‘Ye Ramme Inne.’ Is it quite untellable?”
+
+“Quite!” he laughed.
+
+“What a pity! See what a cruel thing it is to be a woman, Leslie: we
+never know what men say in smoke rooms, while you read in your novels
+everything a woman ever uttered. It is a shame! George, you are a
+wretch, you should tell me. I do envy you——.”
+
+“What do you envy me, exactly?” he asked laughing always at her
+whimsical way.
+
+“Your smoke room. The way you see life—or the way you hear it, rather.”
+
+“But I should have thought you saw life ten times more than me,” he
+replied.
+
+“I! I only see manners—good manners and bad manners. You know ‘manners
+maketh a man.’ That’s when a woman’s there. But you wait awhile, you’ll
+see.”
+
+“When shall I see?” asked George, flattered and interested.
+
+“When you have made the fortune you talked about,” she replied.
+
+He was uplifted by her remembering the things he had said.
+
+“But when I have made it—when!”—he said sceptically,—“even then—well, I
+shall only be, or have been, landlord of ‘Ye Ramme Inne.’” He looked at
+her, waiting for her to lift up his hopes with her gay balloons.
+
+“Oh, that doesn’t matter! Leslie might be landlord of some Ram Inn when
+he’s at home, for all anybody would know—mightn’t you, hubby, dear?”
+
+“Thanks!” replied Leslie, with good humoured sarcasm.
+
+“You can’t tell a publican from a peer, if he’s a rich publican,” she
+continued. “Money maketh the man, you know.”
+
+“Plus manners,” added George, laughing.
+
+“Oh they are always there—where I am. I give you ten years. At the end
+of that time you must invite us to your swell place—say the Hall at
+Eberwich—and we will come—‘with all our numerous array.’”
+
+She sat among her cushions smiling upon him. She was half ironical,
+half sincere. He smiled back at her, his dark eyes full of trembling
+hope, and pleasure, and pride.
+
+“How is Meg?” she asked. “Is she as charming as ever—or have you
+spoiled her?”
+
+“Oh, she is as charming as ever,” he replied. “And we are tremendously
+fond of one another.”
+
+“That is right!—I do think men are delightful,” she added, smiling.
+
+“I am glad you think so,” he laughed.
+
+They talked on brightly about a thousand things. She touched on Paris,
+and pictures, and new music, with her quick chatter, sounding to George
+wonderful in her culture and facility. And at last he said he must go.
+
+“Not until you have eaten a biscuit and drunk good luck with me,” she
+cried, catching her dress about her like a dim flame and running out of
+the room. We all drank to the New Year in the cold champagne.
+
+“To the _Vita Nuova_!” said Lettie, and we drank smiling:
+
+“Hark!” said George, “the hooters.”
+
+We stood still and listened. There was a faint booing noise far away
+outside. It was midnight. Lettie caught up a wrap and we went to the
+door. The wood, the ice, the grey dim hills lay frozen in the light of
+the moon. But outside the valley, far away in Derbyshire, away towards
+Nottingham, on every hand the distant hooters and buzzers of mines and
+ironworks crowed small on the borders of the night, like so many
+strange, low voices of cockerels bursting forth at different pitch,
+with different tone, warning us of the dawn of the New Year.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+THE FIRST PAGES OF SEVERAL ROMANCES
+
+
+I found a good deal of difference in Leslie since his marriage. He had
+lost his assertive self-confidence. He no longer pronounced
+emphatically and ultimately on every subject, nor did he seek to
+dominate, as he had always done, the company in which he found himself.
+I was surprised to see him so courteous and attentive to George. He
+moved unobtrusively about the room while Lettie was chattering, and in
+his demeanour there was a new reserve, a gentleness and grace. It was
+charming to see him offering the cigarettes to George, or, with
+beautiful tact, asking with his eyes only whether he should refill the
+glass of his guest, and afterward replacing it softly close to the
+other’s hand.
+
+To Lettie he was unfailingly attentive, courteous, and undemonstrative.
+
+Towards the end of my holiday he had to go to London on business, and
+we agreed to take the journey together. We must leave Woodside soon
+after eight o’clock in the morning. Lettie and he had separate rooms. I
+thought she would not have risen to take breakfast with us, but at a
+quarter-past seven, just as Rebecca was bringing in the coffee, she
+came downstairs. She wore a blue morning gown, and her hair was as
+beautifully dressed as usual.
+
+“Why, my darling, you shouldn’t have troubled to come down so early,”
+said Leslie, as he kissed her.
+
+“Of course, I should come down,” she replied, lifting back the heavy
+curtains and looking out on the snow where the darkness was wilting
+into daylight. “I should not let you go away into the cold without
+having seen you take a good breakfast. I think it is thawing. The snow
+on the rhododendrons looks sodden and drooping. Ah, well, we can keep
+out the dismal of the morning for another hour.” She glanced at the
+clock—“just an hour!” she added. He turned to her with a swift
+tenderness. She smiled to him, and sat down at the coffee-maker. We
+took our places at table.
+
+“I think I shall come back to-night,” he said quietly, almost
+appealingly.
+
+She watched the flow of the coffee before she answered. Then the brass
+urn swung back, and she lifted her face to hand him the cup.
+
+“You will not do anything so foolish, Leslie,” she said calmly.
+
+He took his cup, thanking her, and bent his face over the fragrant
+steam.
+
+“I can easily catch the 7:15 from St. Pancras,” he replied, without
+looking up.
+
+“Have I sweetened to your liking Cyril?” she asked, and then, as she
+stirred her coffee she added, “It is ridiculous Leslie! You catch the
+7.15 and very probably miss the connection at Nottingham. You can’t
+have the motor-car there, because of the roads. Besides, it is absurd
+to come toiling home in the cold slushy night when you may just as well
+stay in London and be comfortable.”
+
+“At any rate I should get the 10.30 down to Lawton Hill,” he urged.
+
+“But there is no need,” she replied, “there is not the faintest need
+for you to come home to-night. It is really absurd of you. Think of all
+the discomfort! Indeed I should not want to come trailing dismally home
+at midnight, I should not indeed. You would be simply wretched. Stay
+and have a jolly evening with Cyril.”
+
+He kept his head bent over his plate and did not reply. His persistence
+irritated her slightly.
+
+“That is what you can do!” she said. “Go to the pantomime. Or wait—go
+to Maeterlinck’s ‘Blue Bird.’ I am sure that is on somewhere. I wonder
+if Rebecca has destroyed yesterday’s paper. Do you mind touching the
+bell, Cyril?” Rebecca came, and the paper was discovered. Lettie
+carefully read the notices, and planned for us with zest a delightful
+programme for the evening. Leslie listened to it all in silence.
+
+When the time had come for our departure Lettie came with us into the
+hall to see that we were well wrapped up. Leslie had spoken very few
+words. She was conscious that he was deeply offended, but her manner
+was quite calm, and she petted us both brightly.
+
+“Good-bye dear!” she said to him, when he came mutely to kiss her. “You
+know it would have been miserable for you to sit all those hours in the
+train at night. You will have ever such a jolly time. I know you will.
+I shall look for you to-morrow. Good-bye, then, Good-bye!”
+
+He went down the steps and into the car without looking at her. She
+waited in the doorway as we moved round. In the black-grey morning she
+seemed to harbour the glittering blue sky and the sunshine of March in
+her dress and her luxuriant hair. He did not look at her till we were
+curving to the great, snow-cumbered rhododendrons, when, at the last
+moment he stood up in a sudden panic to wave to her. Almost as he saw
+her the bushes came between them and he dropped dejectedly into his
+seat.
+
+“Good-bye!” we heard her call cheerfully and tenderly like a blackbird.
+
+“Good-bye!” I answered, and: “Good-bye Darling, Good-bye!” he cried,
+suddenly starting up in a passion of forgiveness and tenderness.
+
+The car went cautiously down the soddened white path, under the trees.
+
+I suffered acutely the sickness of exile in Norwood. For weeks I
+wandered the streets of the suburb, haunted by the spirit of some part
+of Nethermere. As I went along the quiet roads where the lamps in
+yellow loneliness stood among the leafless trees of the night I would
+feel the feeling of the dark, wet bit of path between the wood meadow
+and the brooks. The spirit of that wild little slope to the Mill would
+come upon me, and there in the suburb of London I would walk wrapt in
+the sense of a small wet place in the valley of Nethermere. A strange
+voice within me rose and called for the hill path; again I could feel
+the wood waiting for me, calling and calling, and I crying for the
+wood, yet the space of many miles was between us. Since I left the
+valley of home I have not much feared any other loss. The hills of
+Nethermere had been my walls, and the sky of Nethermere my roof
+overhead. It seemed almost as if, at home, I might lift my hand to the
+ceiling of the valley, and touch my own beloved sky, whose familiar
+clouds came again and again to visit me, whose stars were constant to
+me, born when I was born, whose sun had been all my father to me. But
+now the skies were strange over my head, and Orion walked past me
+unnoticing, he who night after night had stood over the woods to spend
+with me a wonderful hour. When does day now lift up the confines of my
+dwelling place, when does the night throw open her vastness for me, and
+send me the stars for company? There is no night in a city. How can I
+lose myself in the magnificent forest of darkness when night is only a
+thin scattering of the trees of shadow with barrenness of lights
+between!
+
+I could never lift my eyes save to the Crystal Palace, crouching,
+cowering wretchedly among the yellow-grey clouds, pricking up its two
+round towers like pillars of anxious misery. No landmark could have
+been more foreign to me, more depressing, than the great dilapidated
+palace which lay forever prostrate above us, fretting because of its
+own degradation and ruin.
+
+I watched the buds coming on the brown almond trees; I heard the
+blackbirds, and I saw the restless starlings; in the streets were many
+heaps of violets, and men held forward to me snowdrops whose white mute
+lips were pushed upwards in a bunch: but these things had no meaning
+for me, and little interest.
+
+Most eagerly I waited for my letters. Emily wrote to me very
+constantly:
+
+“Don’t you find it quite exhilarating, almost intoxicating, to be so
+free? I think it is quite wonderful. At home you cannot live your own
+life. You have to struggle to keep even a little apart for yourself. It
+is so hard to stand aloof from our mothers, and yet they are only hurt
+and insulted if you tell them what is in your heart. It is such a
+relief not to have to be anything to anybody, but just to please
+yourself. I am sure mother and I have suffered a great deal from trying
+to keep up our old relations. Yet she would not let me go. When I come
+home in the evening and think that I needn’t say anything to anybody,
+nor do anything for anybody, but just have the evening for myself, I am
+overjoyed.
+
+“I have begun to write a story——”
+
+Again, a little later, she wrote:
+
+“As I go to school by Old Brayford village in the morning the birds are
+thrilling wonderfully and everything seems stirring. Very likely there
+will be a set-back, and after that spring will come in truth.
+
+“When shall you come and see me? I cannot think of a spring without
+you. The railways are the only fine exciting things here—one is only a
+few yards away from school. All day long I am watching the great
+Midland trains go south. They are very lucky to be able to rush
+southward through the sunshine.
+
+“The crows are very interesting. They flap past all the time we’re out
+in the yard. The railways and the crows make the charm of my life in
+Brayford. The other day I saw no end of pairs of crows. Do you remember
+what they say at home?—‘One for sorrow.’ Very often one solitary
+creature sits on the telegraph wires. I almost hate him when I look at
+him. I think my badge for life ought to be—one crow——.”
+
+Again, a little later:
+
+“I have been home for the week-end. Isn’t it nice to be made much of,
+to be an important cherished person for a little time? It is quite a
+new experience for me.
+
+“The snowdrops are full out among the grass in the front garden—and
+such a lot. I imagined you must come in the sunshine of the Sunday
+afternoon to see them. It did not seem possible you should not. The
+winter aconites are out along the hedge. I knelt and kissed them. I
+have been so glad to go away, to breathe the free air of life, but I
+felt as if I could not come away from the aconites. I have sent you
+some—are they much withered?
+
+“Now I am in my lodgings, I have the quite unusual feeling of being
+contented to stay here a little while—not long—not above a year, I am
+sure. But even to be contented for a little while is enough for me——.”
+
+In the beginning of March I had a letter from the father:
+
+“You’ll not see us again in the old place. We shall be gone in a
+fortnight. The things are most of them gone already. George has got Bob
+and Flower. I have sold three of the cows, Stafford, and Julia and
+Hannah. The place looks very empty. I don’t like going past the
+cowsheds, and we miss hearing the horses stamp at night. But I shall
+not be sorry when we have really gone. I begin to feel as if we’d
+stagnated here. I begin to feel as if I was settling and getting narrow
+and dull. It will be a new lease of life to get away.
+
+“But I’m wondering how we shall be over there. Mrs. Saxton feels very
+nervous about going. But at the worst we can but come back. I feel as
+if I must go somewhere, it’s stagnation and starvation for us here. I
+wish George would come with me. I never thought he would have taken to
+public-house keeping, but he seems to like it all right. He was down
+with Meg on Sunday. Mrs. Saxton says he’s getting a public-house tone.
+He is certainly much livelier, more full of talk than he was. Meg and
+he seem very comfortable, I’m glad to say. He’s got a good milk-round,
+and I’ve no doubt but what he’ll do well. He is very cautious at the
+bottom; he’ll never lose much if he never makes much.
+
+“Sam and David are very great friends. I’m glad I’ve got the boy. We
+often talk of you. It would be very lonely if it wasn’t for the
+excitement of selling things and so on. Mrs. Saxton hopes you will
+stick by George. She worries a bit about him, thinking he may go wrong.
+I don’t think he will ever go far. But I should be glad to know you
+were keeping friends. Mrs. Saxton says she will write to you about
+it——.”
+
+George was a very poor correspondent. I soon ceased to expect a letter
+from him. I received one directly after the father’s.
+
+“My Dear Cyril,
+
+“Forgive me for not having written you before, but you see, I cannot
+sit down and write to you any time. If I cannot do it just when I am in
+the mood, I cannot do it at all. And it so often happens that the mood
+comes upon me when I am in the fields at work, when it is impossible to
+write. Last night I sat by myself in the kitchen on purpose to write to
+you, and then I could not. All day, at Greymede, when I was drilling in
+the fallow at the back of the church, I had been thinking of you, and I
+could have written there if I had had materials, but I had not, and at
+night I could not.
+
+“I am sorry to say that in my last letter I did not thank you for the
+books. I have not read them both, but I have nearly finished Evelyn
+Innes. I get a bit tired of it towards the end. I do not do much
+reading now. There seems to be hardly any chance for me, either
+somebody is crying for me in the smoke room, or there is some business,
+or else Meg won’t let me. She doesn’t like me to read at night, she
+says I ought to talk to her, so I have to.
+
+“It is half-past seven, and I am sitting ready dressed to go and talk
+to Harry Jackson about a young horse he wants to sell to me. He is in
+pretty low water, and it will make a pretty good horse. But I don’t
+care much whether I have it or not. The mood seized me to write to you.
+Somehow at the bottom I feel miserable and heavy, yet there is no need.
+I am making pretty good money, and I’ve got all I want. But when I’ve
+been ploughing and getting the oats in those fields on the hillside at
+the back of Greymede church, I’ve felt as if I didn’t care whether I
+got on or not. It’s very funny. Last week I made over five pounds
+clear, one way and another, and yet now I’m as restless, and
+discontented as I can be, and I seem eager for something, but I don’t
+know what it is. Sometimes I wonder where I am going. Yesterday I
+watched broken white masses of cloud sailing across the sky in a fresh
+strong wind. They all seemed to be going somewhere. I wondered where
+the wind was blowing them. I don’t seem to have hold on anything, do I?
+Can you tell me what I want at the bottom of my heart? I wish you were
+here, then I think I should not feel like this. But generally I don’t,
+generally I am quite jolly, and busy.
+
+“By jove, here’s Harry Jackson come for me. I will finish this letter
+when I get back.
+
+“——I have got back, we have turned out, but I cannot finish. I cannot
+tell you all about it. I’ve had a little row with Meg. Oh, I’ve had a
+rotten time. But I cannot tell you about it to-night, it is late, and I
+am tired, and have a headache. Some other time perhaps——
+
+GEORGE SAXTON.”
+
+
+The spring came bravely, even in south London, and the town was filled
+with magic. I never knew the sumptuous purple of evening till I saw the
+round arc-lamps fill with light, and roll like golden bubbles along the
+purple dusk of the high road. Everywhere at night the city is filled
+with the magic of lamps: over the river they pour in golden patches
+their floating luminous oil on the restless darkness; the bright lamps
+float in and out of the cavern of London Bridge Station like round
+shining bees in and out of a black hive; in the suburbs the street
+lamps glimmer with the brightness of lemons among the trees. I began to
+love the town.
+
+In the mornings I loved to move in the aimless street’s procession,
+watching the faces come near to me, with the sudden glance of dark
+eyes, watching the mouths of the women blossom with talk as they
+passed, watching the subtle movements of the shoulders of men beneath
+their coats, and the naked warmth of their necks that went glowing
+along the street. I loved the city intensely for its movement of men
+and women, the soft, fascinating flow of the limbs of men and women,
+and the sudden flash of eyes and lips as they pass. Among all the faces
+of the street my attention roved like a bee which clambers drunkenly
+among blue flowers. I became intoxicated with the strange nectar which
+I sipped out of the eyes of the passers-by.
+
+I did not know how time was hastening by on still bright wings, till I
+saw the scarlet hawthorn flaunting over the road, and the lime-buds lit
+up like wine drops in the sun, and the pink scarves of the lime-buds
+pretty as louse-wort a-blossom in the gutters, and a silver-pink tangle
+of almond boughs against the blue sky. The lilacs came out, and in the
+pensive stillness of the suburb, at night, came the delicious tarry
+scent of lilac flowers, wakening a silent laughter of romance.
+
+Across all this, strangely, came the bleak sounds of home. Alice wrote
+to me at the end of May:
+
+“Cyril dear, prepare yourself. Meg has got twins—yesterday. I went up
+to see how she was this afternoon, not knowing anything, and there I
+found a pair of bubs in the nest, and old ma Stainwright bossing the
+show. I nearly fainted. Sybil dear, I hardly knew whether to laugh or
+to cry when I saw those two rummy little round heads, like two larch
+cones cheek by cheek on a twig. One is a darkie, with lots of black
+hair, and the other is red, would you believe it, just lit up with thin
+red hair like a flicker of firelight. I gasped. I believe I did shed a
+few tears, though what for, I don’t know.
+
+“The old grandma is a perfect old wretch over it. She lies chuckling
+and passing audible remarks in the next room, as pleased as punch
+really, but so mad because ma Stainwright wouldn’t have them taken in
+to her. You should have heard her when we took them in at last. They
+are both boys. She did make a fuss, poor old woman. I think she’s going
+a bit funny in the head. She seemed sometimes to think they were hers,
+and you should have heard her, the way she talked to them, it made me
+feel quite funny. She wanted them lying against her on the pillow, so
+that she could feel them with her face. I shed a few more tears, Sybil.
+I think I must be going dotty also. But she came round when we took
+them away, and began to chuckle to herself, and talk about the things
+she’d say to George when he came—awful shocking things, Sybil, made me
+blush dreadfully.
+
+“Georgie didn’t know about it then. He was down at Bingham, buying some
+horses, I believe. He seems to have got a craze for buying horses. He
+got in with Harry Jackson and Mayhew’s sons—you know, they were horse
+dealers—at least their father was. You remember he died bankrupt about
+three years ago. There are Fred and Duncan left, and they pretend to
+keep on the old business. They are always up at the Ram, and Georgie is
+always driving about with them. I don’t like it—they are a loose lot,
+rather common, and poor enough now.
+
+“Well, I thought I’d wait and see Georgie. He came about half-past
+five. Meg had been fidgeting about him, wondering where he was, and how
+he was, and so on. Bless me if I’d worry and whittle about a man. The
+old grandma heard the cart, and before he could get down she
+shouted—you know her room is in the front—‘Hi, George, ma lad, sharpen
+thy shins an’ com’ an’ a’e a look at ’em—thee’r’s two on ’em, two on
+’em!’ and she laughed something awful.
+
+“‘’Ello Granma, what art ter shoutin’ about?’ he said, and at the sound
+of his voice Meg turned to me so pitiful, and said:
+
+“‘He’s been wi’ them Mayhews.”
+
+“‘Tha’s gotten twins, a couple at a go ma lad!’ shouted the old woman,
+and you know how she gives squeal before she laughs! She made the horse
+shy, and he swore at it something awful. Then Bill took it, and Georgie
+came upstairs. I saw Meg seem to shrink when she heard him kick at the
+stairs as he came up, and she went white. When he got to the top he
+came in. He fairly reeked of whisky and horses. Bah, a man is hateful
+when he reeks of drink! He stood by the side of the bed grinning like a
+fool, and saying, quite thick:
+
+“‘You’ve bin in a bit of a ’urry, ’aven’t you Meg. An’ how are ter
+feelin’ then?’
+
+“‘Oh, I’m a’ right,’ said Meg.
+
+“‘Is it twins, straight?’ he said, ‘wheer is ’em?’
+
+“Meg looked over at the cradle, and he went round the bed to it,
+holding to the bed-rail. He had never kissed her, nor anything. When he
+saw the twins, asleep with their fists shut tight as wax, he gave a
+laugh as if he was amused, and said:
+
+“‘Two right enough—an’ one on ’em red! Which is the girl, Meg, the
+black un?’
+
+“‘They’re both boys,’ said Meg, quite timidly.
+
+“He turned round, and his eyes went little.
+
+“‘Blast ’em then!’ he said. He stood there looking like a devil. Sybil
+dear, I did not know our George could look like that. I thought he
+could only look like a faithful dog or a wounded stag. But he looked
+fiendish. He stood watching the poor little twins, scowling at them,
+till at last the little red one began to whine a bit. Ma Stainwright
+came pushing her fat carcass in front of him and bent over the baby,
+saying:
+
+“‘Why, my pretty, what are they doin’ to thee, what are they?—what are
+they doin’ to thee?’
+
+“Georgie scowled blacker than ever, and went out, lurching against the
+wash-stand and making the pots rattle till my heart jumped in my
+throat.
+
+“‘Well, if you don’t call that scandylos——!’ said old Ma Stainwright,
+and Meg began to cry. You don’t know, Cyril! She sobbed fit to break
+her heart. I felt as if I could have killed him.
+
+“That old gran’ma began talking to him, and he laughed at her. I do
+hate to hear a man laugh when he’s half drunk. It makes my blood boil
+all of a sudden. That old grandmother backs him up in everything, she’s
+a regular nuisance. Meg has cried to me before over the pair of them.
+The wicked, vulgar old thing that she is——”
+
+I went home to Woodside early in September. Emily was staying at the
+Ram. It was strange that everything was so different. Nethermere even
+had changed. Nethermere was no longer a complete, wonderful little
+world that held us charmed inhabitants. It was a small, insignificant
+valley lost in the spaces of the earth. The tree that had drooped over
+the brook with such delightful, romantic grace was a ridiculous thing
+when I came home after a year of absence in the south. The old symbols
+were trite and foolish.
+
+Emily and I went down one morning to Strelley Mill. The house was
+occupied by a labourer and his wife, strangers from the north. He was
+tall, very thin, and silent, strangely suggesting kinship with the rats
+of the place. She was small and very active, like some ragged domestic
+fowl run wild. Already Emily had visited her, so she invited us into
+the kitchen of the mill, and set forward the chairs for us. The large
+room had the barren air of a cell. There was a small table stranded
+towards the fireplace, and a few chairs by the walls; for the rest,
+desert spaces of flagged floor retreating into shadow. On the walls by
+the windows were five cages of canaries, and the small sharp movements
+of the birds made the room more strange in its desolation. When we
+began to talk the birds began to sing, till we were quite bewildered,
+for the little woman spoke Glasgow Scotch, and she had a hare lip. She
+rose and ran toward the cages, crying herself like some wild fowl, and
+flapping a duster at the warbling canaries.
+
+“Stop it, stop it!” she cried, shaking her thin weird body at them.
+“Silly little devils, fools, fools, fools!!” and she flapped the duster
+till the birds were subdued. Then she brought us delicious scones and
+apple jelly, urging us, almost nudging us with her thin elbows to make
+us eat.
+
+“Don’t you like ’em, don’t you? Well eat ’em, eat ’em then. Go on
+Emily, go on, eat some more. Only don’t tell Tom—don’t tell Tom when ’e
+comes in,”—she shook her head and laughed her shrilling, weird
+laughter.
+
+As we were going she came out with us, and went running on in front. We
+could not help noting how ragged and unkempt was her short black skirt.
+But she hastened around us, hither and thither like an excited fowl,
+talking in her high-pitched, unintelligible manner. I could not believe
+the brooding mill was in her charge. I could not think this was the
+Strelley Mill of a year ago. She fluttered up the steep orchard bank in
+front of us. Happening to turn round and see Emily and me smiling at
+each other she began to laugh her strident, weird laughter saying, with
+a leer:
+
+“Emily, he’s your sweetheart, your sweetheart Emily! You never told
+me!” and she laughed aloud.
+
+We blushed furiously. She came away from the edge of the sluice gully,
+nearer to us, crying:
+
+“You’ve been here o’ nights, haven’t you Emily—haven’t you?” and she
+laughed again. Then she sat down suddenly, and pointing above our
+heads, shrieked:
+
+“Ah, look there”—we looked and saw the mistletoe. “Look at her, look at
+her! How many kisses a night, Emily?—Ha! Ha! kisses all the year!
+Kisses o’ nights in a lonely place.”
+
+She went on wildly for a short time, then she dropped her voice and
+talked in low, pathetic tones. She pressed on us scones and jelly and
+oat-cakes, and we left her.
+
+When we were out on the road by the brook Emily looked at me with
+shamefaced, laughing eyes. I noticed a small movement of her lips, and
+in an instant I found myself kissing her, laughing with some of the
+little woman’s wildness.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE RAM
+
+
+George was very anxious to receive me at his home. The Ram had as yet
+only a six days licence, so on Sunday afternoon I walked over to tea.
+It was very warm and still and sunny as I came through Greymede. A few
+sweethearts were sauntering under the horse-chestnut trees, or crossing
+the road to go into the fields that lay smoothly carpeted after the
+hay-harvest.
+
+As I came round the flagged track to the kitchen door of the Inn I
+heard the slur of a baking tin and the bang of the oven door, and Meg
+saying crossly:
+
+“No, don’t you take him Emily—naughty little thing! Let his father hold
+him!”
+
+One of the babies was crying.
+
+I entered, and found Meg all flushed and untidy, wearing a large white
+apron, just rising from the oven. Emily, in a cream dress, was taking a
+red-haired, crying baby from out of the cradle. George sat in the small
+arm-chair, smoking and looking cross.
+
+“I can’t shake hands,” said Meg, rather flurried. “I am all floury. Sit
+down, will you——” and she hurried out of the room. Emily looked up from
+the complaining baby to me and smiled a woman’s rare, intimate smile,
+which says: “See, I am engaged thus for a moment, but I keep my heart
+for you all the time.”
+
+George rose and offered me the round arm-chair. It was the highest
+honour he could do me. He asked me what I would drink. When I refused
+everything, he sat down heavily on the sofa, frowning, and angrily
+cudgelling his wits for something to say—in vain.
+
+The room was large and comfortably furnished with rush-chairs, a
+glass-knobbed dresser, a cupboard with glass doors, perched on a shelf
+in the corner, and the usual large sofa whose cosy loose-bed and
+pillows were covered with red cotton stuff. There was a peculiar
+reminiscence of victuals and drink in the room; beer, and a touch of
+spirits, and bacon. Teenie, the sullen, black-browed servant girl came
+in carrying the other baby, and Meg called from the scullery to ask her
+if the child were asleep. Meg was evidently in a bustle and a flurry, a
+most uncomfortable state.
+
+“No,” replied Teenie, “he’s not for sleep this day.”
+
+“Mend the fire and see to the oven, and then put him his frock on,”
+replied Meg testily. Teenie set the black-haired baby in the second
+cradle. Immediately he began to cry, or rather to shout his
+remonstrance. George went across to him and picked up a white furry
+rabbit, which he held before the child:
+
+“Here, look at bun-bun! Have your nice rabbit! Hark at it squeaking!”
+
+The baby listened for a moment, then, deciding that this was only a
+put-off, began to cry again. George threw down the rabbit and took the
+baby, swearing inwardly. He dandled the child on his knee.
+
+“What’s up then?—What’s up wi’ thee? Have a ride
+then—dee-de-dee-de-dee!”
+
+But the baby knew quite well what was the father’s feeling towards him,
+and he continued to cry.
+
+“Hurry up, Teenie!” said George as the maid rattled the coal on the
+fire. Emily was walking about hushing her charge, and smiling at me, so
+that I had a peculiar pleasure in gathering for myself the honey of
+endearment which she shed on the lips of the baby. George handed over
+his child to the maid, and said to me with patient sarcasm:
+
+“Will you come in the garden?”
+
+I rose and followed him across the sunny flagged yard, along the path
+between the bushes. He lit his pipe and sauntered along as a man on his
+own estate does, feeling as if he were untrammeled by laws or
+conventions.
+
+“You know,” he said, “she’s a dam rotten manager.”
+
+I laughed, and remarked how full of plums the trees were.
+
+“Yes!” he replied heedlessly—“you know she ought to have sent the girl
+out with the kids this afternoon, and have got dressed directly. But
+no, she must sit gossiping with Emily all the time they were asleep,
+and then as soon as they wake up she begins to make cake——”
+
+“I suppose she felt she’d enjoy a pleasant chat, all quiet,” I
+answered.
+
+“But she knew quite well you were coming, and what it would be. But a
+woman’s no dam foresight.”
+
+“Nay, what does it matter!” said I.
+
+“Sunday’s the only day we can have a bit of peace, so she might keep
+’em quiet then.”
+
+“I suppose it was the only time, too, that she could have a quiet
+gossip,” I replied.
+
+“But you don’t know,” he said, “there seems to be never a minute of
+freedom. Teenie sleeps in now, and lives with us in the kitchen—Oswald
+as well—so I never know what it is to have a moment private. There
+doesn’t seem a single spot anywhere where I can sit quiet. It’s the
+kids all day, and the kids all night, and the servants, and then all
+the men in the house—I sometimes feel as if I should like to get away.
+I shall leave the pub as soon as I can—only Meg doesn’t want to.”
+
+“But if you leave the public-house—what then?”
+
+“I should like to get back on a farm. This is no sort of a place,
+really, for farming. I’ve always got some business on hand, there’s a
+traveller to see, or I’ve got to go to the brewers, or I’ve somebody to
+look at a horse, or something. Your life’s all messed up. If I had a
+place of my own, and farmed it in peace——”
+
+“You’d be as miserable as you could be,” I said.
+
+“Perhaps so,” he assented, in his old reflective manner. “Perhaps so!
+Anyhow, I needn’t bother, for I feel as if I never shall go back—to the
+land.”
+
+“Which means at the bottom of your heart you don’t intend to,” I said
+laughing.
+
+“Perhaps so!” he again yielded. “You see I’m doing pretty well
+here—apart from the public-house: I always think that’s Meg’s. Come and
+look in the stable. I’ve got a shire mare and two nags: pretty good. I
+went down to Melton Mowbray with Tom Mayhew, to a chap they’ve had
+dealings with. Tom’s all right, and he knows how to buy, but he is such
+a lazy careless devil, too lazy to be bothered to sell——”
+
+George was evidently interested. As we went round to the stables, Emily
+came out with the baby, which was dressed in a new silk frock. She
+advanced, smiling to me with dark eyes:
+
+“See, now he is good! Doesn’t he look pretty?”
+
+She held the baby for me to look at. I glanced at it, but I was only
+conscious of the near warmth of her cheek, and of the scent of her
+hair.
+
+“Who is he like?” I asked, looking up and finding myself full in her
+eyes. The question was quite irrelevant: her eyes spoke a whole clear
+message that made my heart throb; yet she answered.
+
+“Who is he? Why, nobody, of course! But he _will_ be like father, don’t
+you think?”
+
+The question drew my eyes to hers again, and again we looked each other
+the strange intelligence that made her flush and me breathe in as I
+smiled.
+
+“Ay! Blue eyes like your father’s—not like yours——”
+
+Again the wild messages in her looks.
+
+“No!” she answered very softly. “And I think he’ll be jolly, like
+father—they have neither of them our eyes, have they?”
+
+“No,” I answered, overcome by a sudden hot flush of tenderness. “No—not
+vulnerable. To have such soft, vulnerable eyes as you used makes one
+feel nervous and irascible. But you have clothed over the sensitiveness
+of yours, haven’t you?—like naked life, naked defenceless protoplasm
+they were, is it not so?”
+
+She laughed, and at the old painful memories she dilated in the old
+way, and I felt the old tremor at seeing her soul flung quivering on my
+pity.
+
+“And were mine like that?” asked George, who had come up.
+
+He must have perceived the bewilderment of my look as I tried to adjust
+myself to him. A slight shadow, a slight chagrin appeared on his face.
+
+“Yes,” I answered, “yes—but not so bad. You never gave yourself away so
+much—you were most cautious: but just as defenceless.”
+
+“And am I altered?” he asked, with quiet irony, as if he knew I was not
+interested in him.
+
+“Yes, more cautious. You keep in the shadow. But Emily has clothed
+herself, and can now walk among the crowd at her own gait.”
+
+It was with an effort I refrained from putting my lips to kiss her at
+that moment as she looked at me with womanly dignity and tenderness.
+Then I remembered, and said:
+
+“But you are taking me to the stable George! Come and see the horses
+too, Emily.”
+
+“I will. I admire them so much,” she replied, and thus we both indulged
+him.
+
+He talked to his horses and of them, laying his hand upon them, running
+over their limbs. The glossy, restless animals interested him more than
+anything. He broke into a little flush of enthusiasm over them. They
+were his new interest. They were quiet and yet responsive; he was their
+master and owner. This gave him real pleasure.
+
+But the baby became displeased again. Emily looked at me for sympathy
+with him.
+
+“He is a little wanderer,” she said, “he likes to be always moving.
+Perhaps he objects to the ammonia of stables too,” she added, frowning
+and laughing slightly, “it is not very agreeable, is it?”
+
+“Not particularly,” I agreed, and as she moved off I went with her,
+leaving him in the stables. When Emily and I were alone we sauntered
+aimlessly back to the garden. She persisted in talking to the baby, and
+in talking to me about the baby, till I wished the child in Jericho.
+This made her laugh, and she continued to tantalise me. The holly-hock
+flowers of the second whorl were flushing to the top of the spires. The
+bees, covered with pale crumbs of pollen, were swaying a moment outside
+the wide gates of the florets, then they swung in with excited hum, and
+clung madly to the fury white capitols, and worked riotously round the
+waxy bases. Emily held out the baby to watch, talking all the time in
+low, fond tones. The child stretched towards the bright flowers. The
+sun glistened on his smooth hair as on bronze dust, and the wondering
+blue eyes of the baby followed the bees. Then he made small sounds, and
+suddenly waved his hands, like rumpled pink holly-hock buds.
+
+“Look!” said Emily, “look at the little bees! Ah, but you mustn’t touch
+them, they bite. They’re coming!” she cried, with sudden laughing
+apprehension, drawing the child away. He made noises of remonstrance.
+She put him near to the flowers again till he knocked the spire with
+his hand and two indignant bees came sailing out. Emily drew back
+quickly crying in alarm, then laughing with excited eyes at me, as if
+she had just escaped a peril in my presence. Thus she teased me by
+flinging me all kinds of bright gages of love while she kept me aloof
+because of the child. She laughed with pure pleasure at this state of
+affairs, and delighted the more when I frowned, till at last I
+swallowed my resentment and laughed too, playing with the hands of the
+baby, and watching his blue eyes change slowly like a softly sailing
+sky.
+
+Presently Meg called us in to tea. She wore a dress of fine blue stuff
+with cream silk embroidery, and she looked handsome, for her hair was
+very hastily dressed.
+
+“What, have you had that child all this time?” she exclaimed, on seeing
+Emily. “Where is his father?”
+
+“I don’t know—we left him in the stable, didn’t we Cyril? But I like
+nursing him, Meg. I like it ever so much,” replied Emily.
+
+“Oh, yes, you may be sure George would get off it if he could. He’s
+always in the stable. As I tell him, he fair stinks of horses. He’s not
+that fond of the children, I can tell you. Come on, my pet—why, come to
+its mammy.”
+
+She took the baby and kissed it passionately, and made extravagant love
+to it. A clean shaven young man with thick bare arms went across the
+yard.
+
+“Here, just look and tell George as tea is ready,” said Meg.
+
+“Where is he?” asked Oswald, the sturdy youth who attended to the farm
+business.
+
+“You know where to find him,” replied Meg, with that careless freedom
+which was so subtly derogatory to her husband.
+
+George came hurrying from the out-building. “What, is it tea already?”
+he said.
+
+“It’s a wonder you haven’t been crying out for it this last hour,” said
+Meg.
+
+“It’s a marvel you’ve got dressed so quick,” he replied.
+
+“Oh, is it?” she answered—“well, it’s not with any of your help that
+I’ve done it, that is a fact. Where’s Teenie?”
+
+The maid, short, stiffly built, very dark and sullen looking, came
+forward from the gate.
+
+“Can you take Alfy as well, just while we have tea?” she asked. Teenie
+replied that she should think she could, whereupon she was given the
+ruddy-haired baby, as well as the dark one. She sat with them on a seat
+at the end of the yard. We proceeded to tea.
+
+It was a very great spread. There were hot cakes, three or four kinds
+of cold cakes, tinned apricots, jellies, tinned lobster, and trifles in
+the way of jam, cream, and rum.
+
+“I don’t know what those cakes are like,” said Meg. “I made them in
+such a fluster. Really, you have to do things as best you can when
+you’ve got children—especially when there’s two. I never seem to have
+time to do my hair up even—look at it now.”
+
+She put up her hands to her head, and I could not help noticing how
+grimy and rough were her nails.
+
+The tea was going on pleasantly when one of the babies began to cry.
+Teenie bent over it crooning gruffly. I leaned back and looked out of
+the door to watch her. I thought of the girl in Tchekoff’s story, who
+smothered her charge, and I hoped the grim Teenie would not be driven
+to such desperation. The other child joined in this chorus. Teenie rose
+from her seat and walked about the yard, gruffly trying to soothe the
+twins.
+
+“It’s a funny thing, but whenever anybody comes they’re sure to be
+cross,” said Meg, beginning to simmer.
+
+“They’re no different from ordinary,” said George, “it’s only that
+you’re forced to notice it then.”
+
+“No, it is not!” cried Meg in a sudden passion: “Is it now, Emily? Of
+course, he has to say something! Weren’t they as good as gold this
+morning, Emily?—and yesterday!—why they never murmured, as good as gold
+they were. But he wants them to be as dumb as fishes: he’d like them
+shutting up in a box as soon as they make a bit of noise.”
+
+“I was not saying anything about it,” he replied.
+
+“Yes, you were,” she retorted. “I don’t know what you call it then——”
+
+The babies outside continued to cry.
+
+“Bring Alfy to me,” called Meg, yielding to the mother feeling.
+
+“Oh, no, damn it!” said George, “let Oswald take him.”
+
+“Yes,” replied Meg bitterly, “let anybody take him so long as he’s out
+of your sight. You never ought to have children, you didn’t——”
+
+George murmured something about “to-day.”
+
+“Come then!” said Meg with a whole passion of tenderness, as she took
+the red-haired baby and held it to her bosom, “Why, what is it then,
+what is it, my precious? Hush then pet, hush then!”
+
+The baby did not hush. Meg rose from her chair and stood rocking the
+baby in her arms, swaying from one foot to the other.
+
+“He’s got a bit of wind,” she said.
+
+We tried to continue the meal, but everything was awkward and
+difficult.
+
+“I wonder if he’s hungry,” said Meg, “let’s try him.”
+
+She turned away and gave him her breast. Then he was still, so she
+covered herself as much as she could, and sat down again to tea. We had
+finished, so we sat and waited while she ate. This disjointing of the
+meal, by reflex action, made Emily and me more accurate. We were
+exquisitely attentive, and polite to a nicety. Our very speech was
+clipped with precision, as we drifted to a discussion of Strauss and
+Debussy. This of course put a breach between us two and our hosts, but
+we could not help it; it was our only way of covering over the
+awkwardness of the occasion. George sat looking glum and listening to
+us. Meg was quite indifferent. She listened occasionally, but her
+position as mother made her impregnable. She sat eating calmly, looking
+down now and again at her baby, holding us in slight scorn, babblers
+that we were. She was secure in her high maternity; she was mistress
+and sole authority. George, as father, was first servant; as an
+indifferent father, she humiliated him and was hostile to his wishes.
+Emily and I were mere intruders, feeling ourselves such. After tea we
+went upstairs to wash our hands. The grandmother had had a second
+stroke of paralysis, and lay inert, almost stupified. Her large bulk
+upon the bed was horrible to me, and her face, with the muscles all
+slack and awry, seemed like some cruel cartoon. She spoke a few thick
+words to me. George asked her if she felt all right, or should he rub
+her. She turned her old eyes slowly to him.
+
+“My leg—my leg a bit,” she said in her strange guttural.
+
+He took off his coat, and pushing his hand under the bed-clothes, sat
+rubbing the poor old woman’s limb patiently, slowly, for some time. She
+watched him for a moment, then without her turning her eyes from him,
+he passed out of her vision and she lay staring at nothing, in his
+direction.
+
+“There,” he said at last, “is that any better then, mother?”
+
+“Ay, that’s a bit better,” she said slowly.
+
+“Should I gi’e thee a drink?” he asked, lingering, wishing to minister
+all he could to her before he went.
+
+She looked at him, and he brought the cup. She swallowed a few drops
+with difficulty.
+
+“Doesn’t it make you miserable to have her always there?” I asked him,
+when we were in the next room. He sat down on the large white bed and
+laughed shortly.
+
+“We’re used to it—we never notice her, poor old gran’ma.”
+
+“But she must have made a difference to you—she must make a big
+difference at the bottom, even if you don’t know it,” I said.
+
+“She’d got such a strong character,” he said musing, “—she seemed to
+understand me. She was a real friend to me before she was so bad.
+Sometimes I happen to look at her—generally I never see her, you know
+how I mean—but sometimes I do—and then—it seems a bit rotten——”
+
+He smiled at me peculiarly, “—it seems to take the shine off things,”
+he added, and then, smiling again with ugly irony—“She’s our skeleton
+in the closet.” He indicated her large bulk.
+
+The church bells began to ring. The grey church stood on a rise among
+the fields not far away, like a handsome old stag looking over towards
+the inn. The five bells began to play, and the sound came beating upon
+the window.
+
+“I hate Sunday night,” he said restlessly.
+
+“Because you’ve nothing to do?” I asked.
+
+“I don’t know,” he said. “It seems like a gag, and you feel helpless. I
+don’t want to go to church, and hark at the bells, they make you feel
+uncomfortable.”
+
+“What do you generally do?” I asked.
+
+“Feel miserable—I’ve been down to Mayhew’s these last two Sundays, and
+Meg’s been pretty mad. She says it’s the only night I could stop with
+her, or go out with her. But if I stop with her, what can I do?—and if
+we go out, it’s only for half an hour. I hate Sunday night—it’s a dead
+end.”
+
+When we went downstairs, the table was cleared, and Meg was bathing the
+dark baby. Thus she was perfect. She handled the bonny, naked child
+with beauty of gentleness. She kneeled over him nobly. Her arms and her
+bosom and her throat had a nobility of roundness and softness. She
+drooped her head with the grace of a Madonna, and her movements were
+lovely, accurate and exquisite, like an old song perfectly sung. Her
+voice, playing and soothing round the curved limbs of the baby, was
+like water, soft as wine in the sun, running with delight.
+
+We watched humbly, sharing the wonder from afar.
+
+Emily was very envious of Meg’s felicity. She begged to be allowed to
+bathe the second baby. Meg granted her bounteous permission:
+
+“Yes, you can wash him if you like, but what about your frock?”
+
+Emily, delighted, began to undress the baby whose hair was like crocus
+petals. Her fingers trembled with pleasure as she loosed the little
+tapes. I always remember the inarticulate delight with which she took
+the child in her hands, when at last his little shirt was removed, and
+felt his soft white limbs and body. A distinct, glowing atmosphere
+seemed suddenly to burst out around her and the child, leaving me
+outside. The moment before she had been very near to me, her eyes
+searching mine, her spirit clinging timidly about me. Now I was put
+away, quite alone, neglected, forgotten, outside the glow which
+surrounded the woman and the baby.
+
+“Ha!—Ha-a-a!” she said with a deep throated vowel, as she put her face
+against the child’s small breasts, so round, almost like a girl’s,
+silken and warm and wonderful. She kissed him, and touched him, and
+hovered over him, drinking in his baby sweetnesses, the sweetness of
+the laughing little mouth’s wide, wet kisses, of the round, waving
+limbs, of the little shoulders so winsomely curving to the arms and the
+breasts, of the tiny soft neck hidden very warm beneath the chin,
+tasting deliciously with her lips and her cheeks all the exquisite
+softness, silkiness, warmth, and tender life of the baby’s body.
+
+A woman is so ready to disclaim the body of a man’s love; she yields
+him her own soft beauty with so much gentle patience and regret; she
+clings to his neck, to his head and his cheeks, fondling them for the
+soul’s meaning that is there, and shrinking from his passionate limbs
+and his body. It was with some perplexity, some anger and bitterness
+that I watched Emily moved almost to ecstasy by the baby’s small,
+innocuous person.
+
+“Meg never found any pleasure in me as she does in the kids,” said
+George bitterly, for himself.
+
+The child, laughing and crowing, caught his hands in Emily’s hair and
+pulled dark tresses down, while she cried out in remonstrance, and
+tried to loosen the small fists that were shut so fast. She took him
+from the water and rubbed him dry, with marvellous gentle little rubs,
+he kicking and expostulating. She brought his fine hair into one silken
+up-springing of ruddy gold like an aureole. She played with his tiny
+balls of toes, like wee pink mushrooms, till at last she dare detain
+him no longer, when she put on his flannel and his night-gown and gave
+him to Meg.
+
+Before carrying him to bed Meg took him to feed him. His mouth was
+stretched round the nipple as he sucked, his face was pressed close and
+closer to the breast, his fingers wandered over the fine white globe,
+blue veined and heavy, trying to hold it. Meg looked down upon him with
+a consuming passion of tenderness, and Emily clasped her hands and
+leaned forward to him. Even thus they thought him exquisite.
+
+When the twins were both asleep, I must tiptoe upstairs to see them.
+They lay cheek by cheek in the crib next the large white bed, breathing
+little, ruffling breaths, out of unison, so small and pathetic with
+their tiny shut fingers. I remembered the two larks.
+
+From the next room came a heavy sound of the old woman’s breathing. Meg
+went in to her. As in passing I caught sight of the large, prone figure
+in the bed, I thought of Guy de Maupassant’s “Toine,” who acted as an
+incubator.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+THE DOMINANT MOTIF OF SUFFERING
+
+
+The old woman lay still another year, then she suddenly sank out of
+life. George ceased to write to me, but I learned his news elsewhere.
+He became more and more intimate with the Mayhews. After old Mayhew’s
+bankruptcy, the two sons had remained on in the large dark house that
+stood off the Nottingham Road in Eberwich. This house had been
+bequeathed to the oldest daughter by the mother. Maud Mayhew, who was
+married and separated from her husband, kept house for her brothers.
+She was a tall, large woman with high cheek-bones and oily black hair
+looped over her ears. Tom Mayhew was also a handsome man, very dark and
+ruddy, with insolent bright eyes.
+
+The Mayhews’ house was called the “Hollies.” It was a solid building,
+of old red brick, standing fifty yards back from the Eberwich highroad.
+Between it and the road was an unkempt lawn, surrounded by very high
+black holly trees. The house seemed to be imprisoned among the
+bristling hollies. Passing through the large gate, one came immediately
+upon the bare side of the house and upon the great range of stables.
+Old Mayhew had in his day stabled thirty or more horses there. Now
+grass was between the red bricks, and all the bleaching doors were
+shut, save perhaps two or three which were open for George’s horses.
+
+The “Hollies” became a kind of club for the disconsolate, “better-off”
+men of the district. The large dining-room was gloomily and sparsely
+furnished, the drawing-room was a desert, but the smaller morning-room
+was comfortable enough, with wicker arm-chairs, heavy curtains, and a
+large sideboard. In this room George and the Mayhews met with several
+men two or three times a week. There they discussed horses and made
+mock of the authority of women. George provided the whisky, and they
+all gambled timidly at cards. These bachelor parties were the source of
+great annoyance to the wives of the married men who attended them.
+
+“He’s quite unbearable when he’s been at those Mayhews’,” said Meg.
+“I’m sure they do nothing but cry us down.”
+
+Maud Mayhew kept apart from these meetings, watching over her two
+children. She had been very unhappily married, and now was reserved,
+silent. The women of Eberwich watched her as she went swiftly along the
+street in the morning with her basket, and they gloried a little in her
+overthrow, because she was too proud to accept consolation, yet they
+were sorry in their hearts for her, and she was never touched with
+calumny. George saw her frequently, but she treated him coldly as she
+treated the other men, so he was afraid of her.
+
+He had more facilities now for his horse-dealing. When the grandmother
+died, in the October two years after the marriage of George she left
+him seven hundred pounds. To Meg she left the Inn, and the two houses
+she had built in Newerton, together with brewery shares to the value of
+nearly a thousand pounds. George and Meg felt themselves to be people
+of property. The result, however, was only a little further coldness
+between them. He was very careful that she had all that was hers. She
+said to him once when they were quarrelling, that he needn’t go feeding
+the Mayhews on the money that came out of her business. Thenceforward
+he kept strict accounts of all his affairs, and she must audit them,
+receiving her exact dues. This was a mortification to her woman’s
+capricious soul of generosity and cruelty.
+
+The Christmas after the grandmother’s death another son was born to
+them. For the time George and Meg became very good friends again.
+
+When in the following March I heard he was coming down to London with
+Tom Mayhew on business, I wrote and asked him to stay with me. Meg
+replied, saying she was so glad I had asked him: she did not want him
+going off with that fellow again; he had been such a lot better lately,
+and she was sure it was only those men at Mayhew’s made him what he
+was.
+
+He consented to stay with me. I wrote and told him Lettie and Leslie
+were in London, and that we should dine with them one evening. I met
+him at King’s Cross and we all three drove west. Mayhew was a
+remarkably handsome, well-built man; he and George made a notable
+couple. They were both in breeches and gaiters, but George still looked
+like a yeoman, while Mayhew had all the braggadocio of the stable. We
+made an impossible trio. Mayhew laughed and jested broadly for a short
+time, then he grew restless and fidgety. He felt restrained and awkward
+in my presence. Later, he told George I was a damned parson. On the
+other hand, I was content to look at his rather vulgar beauty—his teeth
+were blackened with smoking—and to listen to his ineffectual talk, but
+I could find absolutely no response. George was go-between. To me he
+was cautious and rather deferential, to Mayhew he was careless, and his
+attitude was tinged with contempt.
+
+When the son of the horse-dealer at last left us to go to some of his
+father’s old cronies, we were glad. Very uncertain, very sensitive and
+wavering, our old intimacy burned again like the fragile burning of
+alcohol. Closed together in the same blue flames, we discovered and
+watched the pageant of life in the town revealed wonderfully to us. We
+laughed at the tyranny of old romance. We scorned the faded procession
+of old years, and made mock of the vast pilgrimage of by-gone romances
+travelling farther into the dim distance. Were we not in the midst of
+the bewildering pageant of modern life, with all its confusion of
+bannerets and colours, with its infinite interweaving of sounds, the
+screech of the modern toys of haste striking like keen spray, the heavy
+boom of busy mankind gathering its bread, earnestly, forming the bed of
+all other sounds; and between these two the swiftness of songs, the
+triumphant tilt of the joy of life, the hoarse oboes of privation, the
+shuddering drums of tragedy, and the eternal scraping of the two
+deep-toned strings of despair?
+
+We watched the taxicabs coursing with their noses down to the street,
+we watched the rocking hansoms, and the lumbering stateliness of buses.
+In the silent green cavern of the park we stood and listened to the
+surging of the ocean of life. We watched a girl with streaming hair go
+galloping down the Row, a dark man, laughing and showing his white
+teeth, galloping more heavily at her elbow. We saw a squad of
+life-guards enter the gates of the park, erect and glittering with
+silver and white and red. They came near to us, and we thrilled a
+little as we watched the muscles of their white smooth thighs answering
+the movement of the horses, and their cheeks and their chins bending
+with proud manliness to the rhythm of the march. We watched the
+exquisite rhythm of the body of men moving in scarlet and silver
+further down the leafless avenue, like a slightly wavering spark of red
+life blown along. At the Marble Arch Corner we listened to a little
+socialist who was flaring fiercely under a plane tree. The hot stream
+of his words flowed over the old wounds that the knowledge of the
+unending miseries of the poor had given me, and I winced. For him the
+world was all East-end, and all the East-End was as a pool from which
+the waters are drained off, leaving the water-things to wrestle in the
+wet mud under the sun, till the whole of the city seems a heaving,
+shuddering struggle of black-mudded objects deprived of the elements of
+life. I felt a great terror of the little man, lest he should make me
+see all mud, as I had seen before. Then I felt a breathless pity for
+him, that his eyes should be always filled with mud, and never
+brightened. George listened intently to the speaker, very much moved by
+him.
+
+At night, after the theatre, we saw the outcasts sleep in a rank under
+the Waterloo bridge, their heads to the wall, their feet lying out on
+the pavement: a long, black, ruffled heap at the foot of the wall. All
+the faces were covered but two, that of a peaked, pale little man, and
+that of a brutal woman. Over these two faces, floating like uneasy pale
+dreams on their obscurity, swept now and again the trailing light of
+the tram cars. We picked our way past the line of abandoned feet,
+shrinking from the sight of the thin bare ankles of a young man, from
+the draggled edge of the skirts of a bunched-up woman, from the
+pitiable sight of the men who had wrapped their legs in newspaper for a
+little warmth, and lay like worthless parcels. It was raining. Some men
+stood at the edge of the causeway fixed in dreary misery, finding no
+room to sleep. Outside, on a seat in the blackness and the rain, a
+woman sat sleeping, while the water trickled and hung heavily at the
+ends of her loosened strands of hair. Her hands were pushed in the
+bosom of her jacket. She lurched forward in her sleep, started, and one
+of her hands fell out of her bosom. She sank again to sleep. George
+gripped my arm.
+
+“Give her something,” he whispered in panic. I was afraid. Then
+suddenly getting a florin from my pocket, I stiffened my nerves and
+slid it into her palm. Her hand was soft, and warm, and curled in
+sleep. She started violently, looking up at me, then down at her hand.
+I turned my face aside, terrified lest she should look in my eyes, and
+full of shame and grief I ran down the embankment to him. We hurried
+along under the plane trees in silence. The shining cars were drawing
+tall in the distance over Westminster Bridge, a fainter, yellow light
+running with them on the water below. The wet streets were spilled with
+golden liquor of light, and on the deep blackness of the river were the
+restless yellow slashes of the lamps.
+
+Lettie and Leslie were staying up at Hampstead with a friend of the
+Tempests, one of the largest shareholders in the firm of Tempest,
+Wharton & Co. The Raphaels had a substantial house, and Lettie
+preferred to go to them rather than to an hotel, especially as she had
+brought with her her infant son, now ten months old, with his nurse.
+They invited George and me to dinner on the Friday evening. The party
+included Lettie’s host and hostess, and also a Scottish poetess, and an
+Irish musician, composer of songs and pianoforte rhapsodies.
+
+Lettie wore a black lace dress in mourning for one of Leslie’s maternal
+aunts. This made her look older, otherwise there seemed to be no change
+in her. A subtle observer might have noticed a little hardness about
+her mouth, and disillusion hanging slightly on her eyes. She was,
+however, excited by the company in which she found herself, therefore
+she overflowed with clever speeches and rapid, brilliant observations.
+Certainly on such occasions she was admirable. The rest of the company
+formed, as it were, the orchestra which accompanied her.
+
+George was exceedingly quiet. He spoke a few words now and then to Mrs
+Raphael, but on the whole he was altogether silent, listening.
+
+“Really!” Lettie was saying, “I don’t see that one thing is worth doing
+any more than another. It’s like dessert: you are equally indifferent
+whether you have grapes, or pears, or pineapple.”
+
+“Have you already dined so far?” sang the Scottish poetess in her
+musical, plaintive manner.
+
+“The only thing worth doing is producing,” said Lettie.
+
+“Alas, that is what all the young folk are saying nowadays!” sighed the
+Irish musician.
+
+“That is the only thing one finds any pleasure in—that is to say, any
+satisfaction,” continued Lettie, smiling, and turning to the two
+artists.
+
+“Do you not think so?” she added.
+
+“You do come to a point at last,” said the Scottish poetess, “when your
+work is a real source of satisfaction.”
+
+“Do you write poetry then?” asked George of Lettie.
+
+“I! Oh, dear no! I have tried strenuously to make up a Limerick for a
+competition, but in vain. So you see, I am a failure there. Did you
+know I have a son, though?—a marvellous little fellow, is he not,
+Leslie?—he is my work. I am a wonderful mother, am I not, Leslie?”
+
+“Too devoted,” he replied.
+
+“There!” she exclaimed in triumph—“When I have to sign my name and
+occupation in a visitor’s book, it will be ‘——Mother’. I hope my
+business will flourish,” she concluded, smiling.
+
+There was a touch of ironical brutality in her now. She was, at the
+bottom, quite sincere. Having reached that point in a woman’s career
+when most, perhaps all of the things in life seem worthless and
+insipid, she had determined to put up with it, to ignore her own self,
+to empty her own potentialities into the vessel of another or others,
+and to live her life at second hand. This peculiar abnegation of self
+is the resource of a woman for the escaping of the responsibilities of
+her own development. Like a nun, she puts over her living face a veil,
+as a sign that the woman no longer exists for herself: she is the
+servant of God, of some man, of her children, or may be of some cause.
+As a servant, she is no longer responsible for her self, which would
+make her terrified and lonely. Service is light and easy. To be
+responsible for the good progress of one’s life is terrifying. It is
+the most insufferable form of loneliness, and the heaviest of
+responsibilities. So Lettie indulged her husband, but did not yield her
+independence to him; rather it was she who took much of the
+responsibility of him into her hands, and therefore he was so devoted
+to her. She had, however, now determined to abandon the charge of
+herself to serve her children. When the children grew up, either they
+would unconsciously fling her away, back upon herself again in
+bitterness and loneliness, or they would tenderly cherish her, chafing
+at her love-bonds occasionally.
+
+George looked and listened to all the flutter of conversation, and said
+nothing. It seemed to him like so much unreasonable rustling of pieces
+of paper, of leaves of books, and so on. Later in the evening Lettie
+sang, no longer Italian folk songs, but the fragmentary utterances of
+Debussy and Strauss. These also to George were quite meaningless, and
+rather wearisome. It made him impatient to see her wasting herself upon
+them.
+
+“Do you like those songs?” she asked in the frank, careless manner she
+affected.
+
+“Not much,” he replied, ungraciously.
+
+“Don’t you?” she exclaimed, adding with a smile, “Those are the most
+wonderful things in the world, those little things”—she began to hum a
+Debussy idiom. He could not answer her on the point, so he sat with the
+arrow sticking in him, and did not speak.
+
+She enquired of him concerning Meg and his children and the affairs of
+Eberwich, but the interest was flimsy, as she preserved a wide distance
+between them, although apparently she was so unaffected and friendly.
+We left before eleven.
+
+When we were seated in the cab and rushing down hill, he said:
+
+“You know, she makes me mad.”
+
+He was frowning, looking out of the window away from me.
+
+“Who, Lettie? Why, what riles you?” I asked.
+
+He was some time in replying.
+
+“Why, she’s so affected.”
+
+I sat still in the small, close space and waited.
+
+“Do you know——?” he laughed, keeping his face averted from me. “She
+makes my blood boil. I could hate her.”
+
+“Why?” I said gently.
+
+“I don’t know. I feel as if she’d insulted me. She does lie, doesn’t
+she?”
+
+“I didn’t notice it,” I said, but I knew he meant her shirking, her
+shuffling of her life.
+
+“And you think of those poor devils under the bridge—and then of her
+and them frittering away themselves and money in that idiocy——”
+
+He spoke with passion.
+
+“You are quoting Longfellow,” I said.
+
+“What?” he asked, looking at me suddenly.
+
+“‘Life is real, life is earnest——’”
+
+He flushed slightly at my good-natured gibe.
+
+“I don’t know what it is,” he replied. “But it’s a pretty rotten
+business, when you think of her fooling about wasting herself, and all
+the waste that goes on up there, and the poor devils rotting on the
+embankment—and——”
+
+“And you—and Mayhew—and me——” I continued.
+
+He looked at me very intently to see if I were mocking. He laughed. I
+could see he was very much moved.
+
+“Is the time quite out of joint?” I asked.
+
+“Why!”—he laughed. “No. But she makes me feel so angry—as if I should
+burst—I don’t know when I felt in such a rage. I wonder why. I’m sorry
+for him, poor devil. ‘Lettie and Leslie’—they seemed christened for one
+another, didn’t they?”
+
+“What if you’d had her?” I asked.
+
+“We should have been like a cat and dog; I’d rather be with Meg a
+thousand times—now!” he added significantly. He sat watching the lamps
+and the people and the dark buildings slipping past us.
+
+“Shall we go and have a drink?” I asked him, thinking we would call in
+Frascati’s to see the come-and-go.
+
+“I could do with a brandy,” he replied, looking at me slowly.
+
+We sat in the restaurant listening to the jigging of the music,
+watching the changing flow of the people. I like to sit a long time by
+the hollyhocks watching the throng of varied bees which poise and
+hesitate outside the wild flowers, then swing in with a hum which sets
+everything aquiver. But still more fascinating it is to watch the come
+and go of people weaving and intermingling in the complex mesh of their
+intentions, with all the subtle grace and mystery of their moving,
+shapely bodies.
+
+I sat still, looking out across the amphitheatre. George looked also,
+but he drank glass after glass of brandy.
+
+“I like to watch the people,” said I.
+
+“Ay—and doesn’t it seem an aimless, idiotic business—look at them!” he
+replied in tones of contempt. I looked instead at him, in some surprise
+and resentment His face was gloomy, stupid and unrelieved. The amount
+of brandy he had drunk had increased his ill humour.
+
+“Shall we be going?” I said. I did not want him to get drunk in his
+present state of mind.
+
+“Ay—in half a minute,” he finished the brandy, and rose. Although he
+had drunk a good deal, he was quite steady, only there was a
+disagreeable look always on his face, and his eyes seemed smaller and
+more glittering than I had seen them. We took a bus to Victoria. He sat
+swaying on his seat in the dim, clumsy vehicle, saying not a word. In
+the vast cavern of the station the theatre-goers were hastening,
+crossing the pale grey strand, small creatures scurrying hither and
+thither in the space beneath the lonely lamps. As the train crawled
+over the river we watched the far-flung hoop of diamond lights curving
+slowly round and striping with bright threads the black water. He sat
+looking with heavy eyes, seeming to shrink from the enormous
+unintelligible lettering of the poem of London.
+
+The town was too large for him, he could not take in its immense, its
+stupendous poetry. What did come home to him was its flagrant discords.
+The unintelligibility of the vast city made him apprehensive, and the
+crudity of its big, coarse contrasts wounded him unutterably.
+
+“What is the matter?” I asked him as we went along the silent pavement
+at Norwood.
+
+“Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing!” and I did not trouble him further.
+
+We occupied a large, two-bedded room—that looked down the hill and over
+to the far woods of Kent. He was morose and untalkative. I brought up a
+soda-syphon and whisky, and we proceeded to undress. When he stood in
+his pajamas he waited as if uncertain.
+
+“Do you want a drink?” he asked.
+
+I did not. He crossed to the table, and as I got into my bed I heard
+the brief fizzing of the syphon. He drank his glass at one draught,
+then switched off the light. In the sudden darkness I saw his pale
+shadow go across to the sofa in the window-space. The blinds were
+undrawn, and the stars looked in. He gazed out on the great bay of
+darkness wherein, far away and below, floated a few sparks of lamps
+like herring boats at sea.
+
+“Aren’t you coming to bed?” I asked.
+
+“I’m not sleepy—you go to sleep,” he answered, resenting having to
+speak at all.
+
+“Then put on a dressing gown—there’s one in that corner—turn the light
+on.”
+
+He did not answer, but fumbled for the garment in the darkness. When he
+had found it, he said:
+
+“Do you mind if I smoke?”
+
+I did not. He fumbled again in his pockets for cigarettes, always
+refusing to switch on the light. I watched his face bowed to the match
+as he lighted his cigarette. He was still handsome in the ruddy light,
+but his features were coarser. I felt very sorry for him, but I saw
+that I could get no nearer to him, to relieve him. For some time I lay
+in the darkness watching the end of his cigarette like a ruddy,
+malignant insect hovering near his lips, putting the timid stars
+immensely far away. He sat quite still, leaning on the sofa arm.
+Occasionally there was a little glow on his cheeks as the cigarette
+burned brighter, then again I could see nothing but the dull red bee.
+
+I suppose I must have dropped asleep. Suddenly I started as something
+fell to the floor. I heard him cursing under his breath.
+
+“What’s the matter?” I asked.
+
+“I’ve only knocked something down—cigarette case or something,” he
+replied, apologetically.
+
+“Aren’t you coming to bed?” I asked.
+
+“Yes, I’m coming,” he answered quite docile.
+
+He seemed to wander about and knock against things as he came. He
+dropped heavily into bed.
+
+“Are you sleepy now?” I asked.
+
+“I dunno—I shall be directly,” he replied.
+
+“What’s up with you?” I asked.
+
+“I dunno,” he answered. “I am like this sometimes, when there’s nothing
+I want to do, and nowhere I want to go, and nobody I want to be near.
+Then you feel so rottenly lonely, Cyril. You feel awful, like a vacuum,
+with a pressure on you, a sort of pressure of darkness, and you
+yourself—just nothing, a vacuum—that’s what it’s like—a little vacuum
+that’s not dark, all loose in the middle of a space of darkness, that’s
+pressing on you.”
+
+“Good gracious!” I exclaimed, rousing myself in bed. “That sounds bad!”
+
+He laughed slightly.
+
+“It’s all right,” he said, “it’s only the excitement of London, and
+that little man in the park, and that woman on the seat—I wonder where
+she is to-night, poor devil—and then Lettie. I seem thrown off my
+balance.—I think really, I ought to have made something of myself——”
+
+“What?” I asked, as he hesitated.
+
+“I don’t know,” he replied slowly, “—a poet or something, like Burns—I
+don’t know. I shall laugh at myself for thinking so, to-morrow. But I
+am born a generation too soon—I wasn’t ripe enough when I came. I
+wanted something I hadn’t got. I’m something short. I’m like corn in a
+wet harvest—full, but pappy, no good. Is’ll rot. I came too soon; or I
+wanted something that would ha’ made me grow fierce. That’s why I
+wanted Lettie—I think. But am I talking damn rot? What am I saying?
+What are you making me talk for? What are you listening for?”
+
+I rose and went across to him, saying: “I don’t want you to talk! If
+you sleep till morning things will look different.”
+
+I sat on his bed and took his hand. He lay quite still.
+
+“I’m only a kid after all, Cyril,” he said, a few moments later.
+
+“We all are,” I answered, still holding his hand. Presently he fell
+asleep.
+
+When I awoke the sunlight was laughing with the young morning in the
+room. The large blue sky shone against the window, and the birds were
+calling in the garden below, shouting to one another and making fun of
+life. I felt glad to have opened my eyes. I lay for a moment looking
+out on the morning as on a blue bright sea in which I was going to
+plunge.
+
+Then my eyes wandered to the little table near the couch. I noticed the
+glitter of George’s cigarette case, and then, with a start, the whisky
+decanter. It was nearly empty. He must have drunk three-quarters of a
+pint of liquor while I was dozing. I could not believe it. I thought I
+must have been mistaken as to the quantity the bottle contained. I
+leaned out to see what it was that had startled me by its fall the
+night before. It was the large, heavy drinking glass which he had
+knocked down but not broken. I could see no stain on the carpet.
+
+George was still asleep. He lay half uncovered, and was breathing
+quietly. His face looked inert like a mask. The pallid, uninspired clay
+of his features seemed to have sunk a little out of shape, so that he
+appeared rather haggard, rather ugly, with grooves of ineffectual
+misery along his cheeks. I wanted him to wake, so that his inert,
+flaccid features might be inspired with life again. I could not believe
+his charm and his beauty could have forsaken him so, and left his
+features dreary, sunken clay.
+
+As I looked he woke. His eyes opened slowly. He looked at me and turned
+away, unable to meet my eyes. He pulled the bedclothes up over his
+shoulders, as though to cover himself from me, and he lay with his back
+to me, quite still, as if he were asleep, although I knew he was quite
+awake; he was suffering the humiliation of lying waiting for his life
+to crawl back and inhabit his body. As it was, his vitality was not yet
+sufficient to inform the muscles of his face and give him an
+expression, much less to answer by challenge.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+PISGAH
+
+
+When her eldest boy was three years old Lettie returned to live at
+Eberwich. Old Mr. Tempest died suddenly, so Leslie came down to inhabit
+“Highclose.” He was a very much occupied man. Very often he was in
+Germany or in the South of England engaged on business. At home he was
+unfailingly attentive to his wife and his two children. He had
+cultivated a taste for public life. In spite of his pressure of
+business he had become a County Councillor, and one of the prominent
+members of the Conservative Association. He was very fond of answering
+or proposing toasts at some public dinner, of entertaining political
+men at “Highclose,” of taking the chair at political meetings, and
+finally, of speaking on this or that platform. His name was fairly
+often seen in the newspapers. As a mine owner, he spoke as an authority
+on the employment of labour, on royalties, land-owning and so on.
+
+At home he was quite tame. He treated his wife with respect, romped in
+the nursery, and domineered the servants royally. They liked him for
+it—her they did not like. He was noisy, but unobservant, she was quiet
+and exacting. He would swear and bluster furiously, but when he was
+round the corner they smiled. She gave her orders and passed very
+moderate censure, but they went away cursing to themselves. As Lettie
+was always a very good wife, Leslie adored her when he had the time,
+and when he had not, forgot her comfortably.
+
+She was very contradictory. At times she would write to me in terms of
+passionate dissatisfaction: she had nothing at all in her life, it was
+a barren futility.
+
+“I hope I shall have another child next spring,” she would write,
+“there is only that to take away the misery of this torpor. I seem full
+of passion and energy, and it all fizzles out in day to day
+domestics——”
+
+When I replied to her urging her to take some work that she could throw
+her soul into, she would reply indifferently. Then later:
+
+“You charge me with contradiction. Well, naturally. You see I wrote
+that screeching letter in a mood which won’t come again for some time.
+Generally I am quite content to take the rain and the calm days just as
+they come, then something flings me out of myself—and I am a trifle
+demented:—very, very blue, as I tell Leslie.”
+
+Like so many women, she seemed to live, for the most part contentedly,
+a small indoor existence with artificial light and padded upholstery.
+Only occasionally, hearing the winds of life outside, she clamoured to
+be out in the black, keen storm. She was driven to the door, she looked
+out and called into the tumult wildly, but feminine caution kept her
+from stepping over the threshold.
+
+George was flourishing in his horse-dealing.
+
+In the morning, processions of splendid shire horses, tied tail and
+head, would tramp grandly along the quiet lanes of Eberwich, led by
+George’s man, or by Tom Mayhew, while in the fresh clean sunlight
+George would go riding by, two restless nags dancing beside him.
+
+When I came home from France five years after our meeting in London I
+found him installed in the “Hollies.” He had rented the house from the
+Mayhews, and had moved there with his family, leaving Oswald in charge
+of the “Ram.” I called at the large house one afternoon, but George was
+out. His family surprised me. The twins were tall lads of six. There
+were two more boys, and Meg was nursing a beautiful baby-girl about a
+year old. This child was evidently mistress of the household. Meg, who
+was growing stouter, indulged the little creature in every way.
+
+“How is George?” I asked her.
+
+“Oh, he’s very well,” she replied. “He’s always got something on hand.
+He hardly seems to have a spare moment; what with his socialism, and
+one thing and another.”
+
+It was true, the outcome of his visit to London had been a wild
+devotion to the cause of the down-trodden. I saw a picture of Watt’s
+“Mammon,” on the walls of the morning-room, and the works of
+Blatchford, Masterman, and Chiozza Money on the side table. The
+socialists of the district used to meet every other Thursday evening at
+the “Hollies” to discuss reform. Meg did not care for these earnest
+souls.
+
+“They’re not my sort,” she said, “too jerky and bumptious. They think
+everybody’s slow-witted but them. There’s one thing about them, though,
+they don’t drink, so that’s a blessing.”
+
+“Why!” I said, “Have you had much trouble that way?”
+
+She lowered her voice to a pitch which was sufficiently mysterious to
+attract the attention of the boys.
+
+“I shouldn’t say anything if it wasn’t that you were like brothers,”
+she said. “But he did begin to have dreadful drinking bouts. You know
+it was always spirits, and generally brandy:—and that makes such work
+with them. You’ve no idea what he’s like when he’s evil-drunk.
+Sometimes he’s all for talk, sometimes he’s laughing at everything, and
+sometimes he’s just snappy. And then——” here her tones grew ominous,
+“——he’ll come home evil-drunk.”
+
+At the memory she grew serious.
+
+“You couldn’t imagine what it’s like, Cyril,” she said. “It’s like
+having Satan in the house with you, or a black tiger glowering at you.
+I’m sure nobody knows what I’ve suffered with him——”
+
+The children stood with large awful eyes and paling lips, listening.
+
+“But he’s better now?” I said.
+
+“Oh, yes—since Gertie came,”—she looked fondly at the baby in her
+arms—“He’s a lot better now. You see he always wanted a girl, and he’s
+very fond of her—isn’t he, pet?—are you your Dadda’s girlie?—and
+Mamma’s too, aren’t you?”
+
+The baby turned with sudden coy shyness, and clung to her mother’s
+neck. Meg kissed her fondly, then the child laid her cheek against her
+mother’s. The mother’s dark eyes, and the baby’s large, hazel eyes
+looked at me serenely. The two were very calm, very complete and
+triumphant together. In their completeness was a security which made me
+feel alone and ineffectual. A woman who has her child in her arms is a
+tower of strength, a beautiful, unassailable tower of strength that may
+in its turn stand quietly dealing death.
+
+I told Meg I would call again to see George. Two evenings later I asked
+Lettie to lend me a dog-cart to drive over to the “Hollies.” Leslie was
+away on one of his political jaunts, and she was restless. She proposed
+to go with me. She had called on Meg twice before in the new large
+home.
+
+We started about six o’clock. The night was dark and muddy. Lettie
+wanted to call in Eberwich village, so she drove the long way round
+Selsby. The horse was walking through the gate of the “Hollies” at
+about seven o’clock. Meg was upstairs in the nursery, the maid told me,
+and George was in the dining-room getting baby to sleep.
+
+“All right!” I said, “we will go in to him. Don’t bother to tell him.”
+
+As we stood in the gloomy, square hall we heard the rumble of a
+rocking-chair, the stroke coming slow and heavy to the tune of “Henry
+Martin,” one of our Strelley Mill folk songs. Then, through the man’s
+heavily-accented singing floated the long light crooning of the baby as
+she sang, in her quaint little fashion, a mischievous second to her
+father’s lullaby. He waxed a little louder; and without knowing why, we
+found ourselves smiling with piquant amusement. The baby grew louder
+too, till there was a shrill ring of laughter and mockery in her music.
+He sang louder and louder, the baby shrilled higher and higher, the
+chair swung in long, heavy beats. Then suddenly he began to laugh. The
+rocking stopped, and he said, still with laughter and enjoyment in his
+tones:
+
+“Now that is very wicked! Ah, naughty Girlie—go to boh, go to bohey!—at
+once.”
+
+The baby chuckled her small, insolent mockery.
+
+“Come, Mamma!” he said, “come and take Girlie to bohey!”
+
+The baby laughed again, but with an uncertain touch of appeal in her
+tone. We opened the door and entered. He looked up very much startled
+to see us. He was sitting in a tall rocking-chair by the fire,
+coatless, with white shirtsleeves. The baby, in her high-waisted, tight
+little night-gown, stood on his knee, her wide eyes fixed on us, wild
+wisps of her brown hair brushed across her forehead and glinting like
+puffs of bronze dust over her ears. Quickly she put her arms round his
+neck and tucked her face under his chin, her small feet poised on his
+thigh, the night-gown dropping upon them. He shook his head as the puff
+of soft brown hair tickled him. He smiled at us, saying:
+
+“You see I’m busy!”
+
+Then he turned again to the little brown head tucked under his chin,
+blew away the luminous cloud of hair, and rubbed his lips and his
+moustache on the small white neck, so warm and secret. The baby put up
+her shoulders, and shrank a little, bubbling in his neck with hidden
+laughter. She did not lift her face or loosen her arms.
+
+“She thinks she is shy,” he said. “Look up, young hussy, and see the
+lady and gentleman. She is a positive owl, she won’t go to bed—will
+you, young brown-owl?”
+
+He tickled her neck again with his moustache, and the child bubbled
+over with naughty, merry laughter.
+
+The room was very warm, with a red bank of fire up the chimney mouth.
+It was half lighted from a heavy bronze chandelier, black and gloomy,
+in the middle of the room. There was the same sombre, sparse furniture
+that the Mayhews had had. George looked large and handsome, the glossy
+black silk of his waistcoat fitting close to his sides, the roundness
+of the shoulder muscle filling the white linen of his sleeves.
+
+Suddenly the baby lifted her head and stared at us, thrusting into her
+mouth the dummy that was pinned to the breast of her night-gown. The
+faded pink sleeves of the night-gown were tight on her fat little
+wrists. She stood thus sucking her dummy, one arm round her father’s
+neck, watching us with hazel solemn eyes. Then she pushed her fat
+little fist up among the bush of small curls, and began to twist her
+fingers about her ear that was white like a camelia flower.
+
+“She is really sleepy,” said Lettie.
+
+“Come then!” said he, folding her for sleep against his breast. “Come
+and go to boh.”
+
+But the young rascal immediately began to cry her remonstrance. She
+stiffened herself, freed herself, and stood again on his knee, watching
+us solemnly, vibrating the dummy in her mouth as she suddenly sucked at
+it, twisting her father’s ear in her small fingers till he winced.
+
+“Her nails _are_ sharp,” he said, smiling.
+
+He began asking and giving the small information that pass between
+friends who have not met for a long time. The baby laid her head on his
+shoulder, keeping her tired, owl-like eyes fixed darkly on us. Then
+gradually the lids fluttered and sank, and she dropped on to his arm.
+
+“She is asleep,” whispered Lettie.
+
+Immediately the dark eyes opened again. We looked significantly at one
+another, continuing our subdued talk. After a while the baby slept
+soundly.
+
+Presently Meg came downstairs. She greeted us in breathless whispers of
+surprise, and then turned to her husband.
+
+“Has she gone?” she whispered, bending over the sleeping child in
+astonishment. “My, this is wonderful, isn’t it!”
+
+She took the sleeping drooping baby from his arms, putting her mouth
+close to its forehead, murmuring with soothing, inarticulate sounds.
+
+We stayed talking for some time when Meg had put the baby to bed.
+George had a new tone of assurance and authority. In the first place he
+was an established man, living in a large house, having altogether
+three men working for him. In the second place he had ceased to value
+the conventional treasures of social position and ostentatious
+refinement. Very, very many things he condemned as flummery and sickly
+waste of time. The life of an ordinary well-to-do person he set down as
+adorned futility, almost idiocy. He spoke passionately of the monstrous
+denial of life to the many by the fortunate few. He talked at Lettie
+most flagrantly.
+
+“Of course,” she said, “I have read Mr. Wells and Mr. Shaw, and even
+Niel Lyons and a Dutchman—what is his name, Querido? But what can I do?
+I think the rich have as much misery as the poor, and of quite as
+deadly a sort. What can I do? It is a question of life and the
+development of the human race. Society and its regulations is not a
+sort of drill that endless Napoleons have forced on us: it is the only
+way we have yet found of living together.”
+
+“Pah!” said he, “that is rank cowardice. It is feeble and futile to the
+last degree.”
+
+“We can’t grow consumption-proof in a generation, nor can we grow
+poverty-proof.”
+
+“We can begin to take active measures,” he replied contemptuously.
+
+“We can all go into a sanatorium and live miserably and dejectedly
+warding off death,” she said, “but life is full of goodliness for all
+that.”
+
+“It is fuller of misery,” he said.
+
+Nevertheless, she had shaken him. She still kept her astonishing power
+of influencing his opinions. All his passion, and heat, and rude
+speech, analysed out, was only his terror at her threatening of his
+life-interest.
+
+She was rather piqued by his rough treatment of her, and by his
+contemptuous tone. Moreover, she could never quite let him be. She felt
+a driving force which impelled her almost against her will to interfere
+in his life. She invited him to dine with them at Highclose. He was now
+quite possible. He had, in the course of his business, been
+sufficiently in the company of gentlemen to be altogether _“comme it
+faut”_ at a private dinner, and after dinner.
+
+She wrote me concerning him occasionally:
+
+“George Saxton was here to dinner yesterday. He and Leslie had
+frightful battles over the nationalisation of industries. George is
+rather more than a match for Leslie, which, in his secret heart, makes
+our friend gloriously proud. It is very amusing. I, of course, have to
+preserve the balance of power, and, of course, to bolster my husband’s
+dignity. At a crucial dangerous moment, when George is just going to
+wave his bloody sword and Leslie lies bleeding with rage, I step in and
+prick the victor under the heart with some little satire or some
+esoteric question, I raise Leslie and say his blood is luminous for the
+truth, and vous voilà! Then I abate for the thousandth time Leslie’s
+conservative crow, and I appeal once more to George—it is no use my
+arguing with him, he gets so angry—I make an abtruse appeal for all the
+wonderful, sad, and beautiful expressions on the countenance of life,
+expressions which he does not see or which he distorts by his oblique
+vision of socialism into grimaces—and there I am! I think I am
+something of a Machiavelli, but it is quite true, what I say——”
+
+Again she wrote:
+
+“We happened to be motoring from Derby on Sunday morning, and as we
+came to the top of the hill, we had to thread our way through quite a
+large crowd. I looked up, and whom should I see but our friend George,
+holding forth about the state endowment of mothers. I made Leslie stop
+while we listened. The market-place was quite full of people. George
+saw us, and became fiery. Leslie then grew excited, and although I
+clung to the skirts of his coat with all my strength, he jumped up and
+began to question. I must say it with shame and humility—he made an ass
+of himself. The men all round were jeering and muttering under their
+breath. I think Leslie is not very popular among them, he is such an
+advocate of machinery which will do the work of men. So they cheered
+our friend George when he thundered forth his replies and his
+demonstrations. He pointed his finger at us, and flung his hand at us,
+and shouted till I quailed in my seat. I cannot understand why he
+should become so frenzied as soon as I am within range. George had a
+triumph that morning, but when I saw him a few days later he seemed
+very uneasy, rather self-mistrustful——”
+
+Almost a year later I heard from her again on the same subject.
+
+“I have had such a lark. Two or three times I have been to the
+‘Hollies’; to socialist meetings. Leslie does not know. They are great
+fun. Of course, I am in sympathy with the socialists, but I cannot
+narrow my eyes till I see one thing only. Life is like a large, rather
+beautiful man who is young and full of vigour, but hairy, barbaric,
+with hands hard and dirty, the dirt ingrained. I know his hands are
+very ugly, I know his mouth is not firmly shapen, I know his limbs are
+hairy and brutal: but his eyes are deep and very beautiful. That is
+what I tell George.
+
+The people are so earnest, they make me sad. But then, they are so
+didactic, they hold forth so much, they are so cock-sure and so
+narrow-eyed, they make me laugh. George laughs too. I am sure we made
+such fun of a straight-haired goggle of a girl who had suffered in
+prison for the cause of women, that I am ashamed when I see my “Woman’s
+League” badge. At the bottom, you know, Cyril, I don’t care for
+anything very much, except myself. Things seem so frivolous. I am the
+only real thing, I and the children——”
+
+Gradually George fell out of the socialist movement. It wearied him. It
+did not feed him altogether. He began by mocking his friends of the
+confraternity. Then he spoke in bitter dislike of Hudson, the wordy,
+humorous, shallow leader of the movement in Eberwich; it was Hudson
+with his wriggling and his clap-trap who disgusted George with the
+cause. Finally the meetings at the ‘Hollies’ ceased, and my friend
+dropped all connection with his former associates.
+
+He began to speculate in land. A hosiery factory moved to Eberwich,
+giving the place a new stimulus to growth. George happened to buy a
+piece of land at the end of the street of the village. When he got it,
+it was laid out in allotment gardens. These were becoming valueless
+owing to the encroachment of houses. He took it, divided it up, and
+offered it as sites for a new row of shops. He sold at a good profit.
+
+Altogether he was becoming very well off. I heard from Meg that he was
+flourishing, that he did not drink “anything to speak of,” but that he
+was always out, she hardly saw anything of him. If getting-on was to
+keep him so much away from home, she would be content with a little
+less fortune. He complained that she was narrow, and that she would not
+entertain any sympathy with any of his ideas.
+
+“Nobody comes here to see me twice,” he said. “Because Meg receives
+them in such an off-hand fashion. I asked Jim Curtiss and his wife from
+Everley Hall one evening. We were uncomfortable all the time. Meg had
+hardly a word for anybody—‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and ‘Hm Hm!’—They’ll never
+come again.”
+
+Meg herself said:
+
+“Oh, I can’t stand stuck-up folks. They make me feel uncomfortable. As
+soon as they begin mincing their words I’m done for—I can no more talk
+than a lobster——”
+
+Thus their natures contradicted each other. He tried hard to gain a
+footing in Eberwich. As it was he belonged to no class of society
+whatsoever. Meg visited and entertained the wives of small shop-keepers
+and publicans: this was her set.
+
+George voted the women loud-mouthed, vulgar, and narrow—not without
+some cause. Meg, however, persisted. She visited when she thought fit,
+and entertained when he was out. He made acquaintance after
+acquaintance: Dr. Francis; Mr. Cartridge, the veterinary surgeon; Toby
+Heswall, the brewer’s son; the Curtisses, farmers of good standing from
+Everley Hall. But it was no good. George was by nature a family man. He
+wanted to be private and secure in his own rooms, then he was at ease.
+As Meg never went out with him, and as every attempt to entertain at
+the “Hollies” filled him with shame and mortification, he began to give
+up trying to place himself, and remained suspended in social isolation
+at the “Hollies.”
+
+The friendship between Lettie and himself had been kept up, in spite of
+all things. Leslie was sometimes jealous, but he dared not show it
+openly, for fear of his wife’s scathing contempt. George went to
+“Highclose” perhaps once in a fortnight, perhaps not so often. Lettie
+never went to the “Hollies,” as Meg’s attitude was too antagonistic.
+
+Meg complained very bitterly of her husband. He often made a beast of
+himself drinking, he thought more of himself than he ought, home was
+not good enough for him, he was selfish to the back-bone, he cared
+neither for her nor the children, only for himself.
+
+I happened to be at home for Lettie’s thirty-first birthday. George was
+then thirty-five. Lettie had allowed her husband to forget her
+birthday. He was now very much immersed in politics, foreseeing a
+general election in the following year, and intending to contest the
+seat in parliament. The division was an impregnable Liberal stronghold,
+but Leslie had hopes that he might capture the situation. Therefore he
+spent a great deal of time at the conservative club, and among the men
+of influence in the southern division. Lettie encouraged him in these
+affairs. It relieved her of him. It was thus that she let him forget
+her birthday, while, for some unknown reason, she let the intelligence
+slip to George. He was invited to dinner, as I was at home.
+
+George came at seven o’clock. There was a strange feeling of festivity
+in the house, although there were no evident signs. Lettie had dressed
+with some magnificence in a blackish purple gauze over soft satin of
+lighter tone, nearly the colour of double violets. She wore vivid green
+azurite ornaments on the fairness of her bosom, and her bright hair was
+bound by a band of the same colour. It was rather startling. She was
+conscious of her effect, and was very excited. Immediately George saw
+her his eyes wakened with a dark glow. She stood up as he entered, her
+hand stretched straight out to him, her body very erect, her eyes
+bright and rousing, like two blue pennants.
+
+“Thank you so much,” she said softly, giving his hand a last pressure
+before she let it go. He could not answer, so he sat down, bowing his
+head, then looking up at her in suspense. She smiled at her.
+
+Presently the children came in. They looked very quaint, like acolytes,
+in their long straight dressing-gowns of quilted blue silk. The boy,
+particularly, looked as if he were going to light the candles in some
+childish church in paradise. He was very tall and slender and fair,
+with a round fine head, and serene features. Both children looked
+remarkably, almost transparently clean: it is impossible to consider
+anything more fresh and fair. The girl was a merry, curly headed puss
+of six. She played with her mother’s green jewels and prattled
+prettily, while the boy stood at his mother’s side, a slender and
+silent acolyte in his pale blue gown. I was impressed by his patience
+and his purity. When the girl had bounded away into George’s arms, the
+lad laid his hand timidly on Lettie’s knee and looked with a little
+wonder at her dress.
+
+“How pretty those green stones are, mother!” he said.
+
+“Yes,” replied Lettie brightly, lifting them and letting their strange
+pattern fall again on her bosom. “I like them.”
+
+“Are you going to sing, mother?” he asked.
+
+“Perhaps. But why?” said Lettie, smiling.
+
+“Because you generally sing when Mr. Saxton comes.”
+
+He bent his head and stroked Lettie’s dress shyly.
+
+“Do I,” she said, laughing, “Can you hear?”
+
+“Just a little,” he replied. “Quite small, as if it were nearly lost in
+the dark.”
+
+He was hesitating, shy as boys are. Lettie laid her hand on his head
+and stroked his smooth fair hair.
+
+“Sing a song for us before we go, mother” he asked, almost shamefully.
+She kissed him.
+
+“You shall sing with me,” she said. “What shall it be?”
+
+She played without a copy of the music. He stood at her side, while
+Lucy, the little mouse, sat on her mother’s skirts, pressing Lettie’s
+silk slippers in turn upon the pedals. The mother and the boy sang
+their song.
+
+“Gaily the troubadour touched his guitar
+As he was hastening from the war.”
+
+
+The boy had a pure treble, clear as the flight of swallows in the
+morning. The light shone on his lips. Under the piano the girl child
+sat laughing, pressing her mother’s feet with all her strength, and
+laughing again. Lettie smiled as she sang.
+
+At last they kissed us a gentle “good-night,” and flitted out of the
+room. The girl popped her curly head round the door again. We saw the
+white cuff on the nurse’s wrist as she held the youngster’s arm.
+
+“You’ll come and kiss us when we’re in bed, Mum?” asked the rogue. Her
+mother laughed and agreed.
+
+Lucy was withdrawn for a moment; then we heard her, “Just a tick,
+nurse, just half-a-tick!”
+
+The curly head appeared round the door again.
+
+“And _one_ teenie sweetie,” she suggested, “only _one!_”
+
+“Go, you——!” Lettie clapped her hands in mock wrath. The child
+vanished, but immediately there appeared again round the door two blue
+laughing eyes and the snub tip of a nose.
+
+“A nice one, Mum—not a jelly-one!”
+
+Lettie rose with a rustle to sweep upon her. The child vanished with a
+glitter of laughter. We heard her calling breathlessly on the
+stairs—“Wait a bit, Freddie,—wait for me!”
+
+George and Lettie smiled at each other when the children had gone. As
+the smile died from their faces they looked down sadly, and until
+dinner was announced they were very still and heavy with melancholy.
+After dinner Lettie debated pleasantly which bon-bon she should take
+for the children. When she came down again she smoked a cigarette with
+us over coffee. George did not like to see her smoking, yet he
+brightened a little when he sat down after giving her a light, pleased
+with the mark of recklessness in her.
+
+“It is ten years to-day since my party at Woodside,” she said, reaching
+for the small Roman salt-cellar of green jade that she used as an
+ash-tray.
+
+“My Lord—ten years!” he exclaimed bitterly. “It seems a hundred.”
+
+“It does and it doesn’t,” she answered, smiling.
+
+“If I look straight back, and think of my excitement, it seems only
+yesterday. If I look between then and now, at all the days that lie
+between, it is an age.”
+
+“If I look at myself,” he said, “I think I am another person
+altogether.”
+
+“You have changed,” she agreed, looking at him sadly. “There is a great
+change—but you are not another person. I often think—there is one of
+his old looks, he is just the same at the bottom!”
+
+They embarked on a barge of gloomy recollections and drifted along the
+soiled canal of their past.
+
+“The worst of it is,” he said. “I have got a miserable carelessness, a
+contempt for things. You know I had such a faculty for reverence. I
+always believed in things.”
+
+“I know you did,” she smiled. “You were so humbly-minded—too
+humbly-minded, I always considered. You always thought things had a
+deep religious meaning, somewhere hidden, and you reverenced them. Is
+it different now?”
+
+“You know me very well,” he laughed. “What is there left for me to
+believe in, if not in myself?”
+
+“You have to live for your wife and children,” she said with firmness.
+
+“Meg has plenty to secure her and the children as long as they live,”
+he said, smiling. “So I don’t know that I’m essential.”
+
+“But you are,” she replied. “You are necessary as a father and a
+husband, if not as a provider.”
+
+“I think,” said he, “marriage is more of a duel than a duet. One party
+wins and takes the other captive, slave, servant—what you like. It is
+so, more or less.”
+
+“Well?” said Lettie.
+
+“Well!” he answered. “Meg is not like you. She wants me, part of me, so
+she’d kill me rather than let me go loose.”
+
+“Oh, no!” said Lettie, emphatically.
+
+“You know nothing about it,” he said quietly.
+
+“In the marital duel Meg is winning. The woman generally does; she has
+the children on her side. I can’t give her any of the real part of me,
+the vital part that she wants—I can’t, any more than you could give
+kisses to a stranger. And I feel that I’m losing—and don’t care.”
+
+“No,” she said, “you are getting morbid.”
+
+He put the cigarette between his lips, drew a deep breath, then slowly
+sent the smoke down his nostrils.
+
+“No,” he said.
+
+“Look here!” she said. “Let me sing to you, shall I, and make you
+cheerful again?”
+
+She sang from Wagner. It was the music of resignation and despair. She
+had not thought of it. All the time he listened he was thinking. The
+music stimulated his thoughts and illuminated the trend of his
+brooding. All the time he sat looking at her his eyes were dark with
+his thoughts. She finished the “Star of Eve” from Tannhäuser and came
+over to him.
+
+“Why are you so sad to-night, when it is my birthday?” she asked
+plaintively.
+
+“Am I slow?” he replied. “I am sorry.”
+
+“What is the matter?” she said, sinking onto the small sofa near to
+him.
+
+“Nothing!” he replied—“You are looking very beautiful.”
+
+“There, I wanted you to say that! You ought to be quite gay, you know,
+when I am so smart to-night.”
+
+“Nay,” he said, “I know I ought. But the to-morrow seems to have fallen
+in love with me. I can’t get out of its lean arms.”
+
+“Why!” she said. “To-morrow’s arms are not lean. They are white, like
+mine.” She lifted her arms and looked at them, smiling.
+
+“How do you know?” he asked, pertinently.
+
+“Oh, of course they are,” was her light answer.
+
+He laughed, brief and sceptical.
+
+“No!” he said. “It came when the children kissed us.”
+
+“What?” she asked.
+
+“These lean arms of tomorrow’s round me, and the white arms round you,”
+he replied, smiling whimsically. She reached out and clasped his hand.
+
+“You foolish boy,” she said.
+
+He laughed painfully, not able to look at her.
+
+“You know,” he said, and his voice was low and difficult “I have needed
+you for a light. You will soon be the only light again.”
+
+“Who is the other?” she asked.
+
+“My little girl!” he answered. Then he continued, “And you know, I
+couldn’t endure complete darkness, I couldn’t. It’s the solitariness.”
+
+“You mustn’t talk like this,” she said. “You know you mustn’t.” She put
+her hand on his head and ran her fingers through the hair he had so
+ruffled.
+
+“It is as thick as ever, your hair,” she said.
+
+He did not answer, but kept his face bent out of sight. She rose from
+her seat and stood at the back of his low arm-chair. Taking an amber
+comb from her hair, she bent over him, and with the translucent comb
+and her white fingers she busied herself with his hair.
+
+“I believe you _would_ have a parting,” she said softly.
+
+He laughed shortly at her playfulness. She continued combing, just
+touching, pressing the strands in place with the tips of her fingers.
+
+“I was only a warmth to you,” he said, pursuing the same train of
+thought. “So you could do without me. But you were like the light to
+me, and otherwise it was dark and aimless. Aimlessness is horrible.”
+
+She had finally smoothed his hair, so she lifted her hands and put back
+her head.
+
+“There!” she said. “It looks fair fine, as Alice would say. Raven’s
+wings are raggy in comparison.”
+
+He did not pay any attention to her.
+
+“Aren’t you going to look at yourself?” she said, playfully
+reproachful. She put her finger-tips under his chin. He lifted his head
+and they looked at each other, she smiling, trying to make him play, he
+smiling with his lips, but not with eyes, dark with pain.
+
+“We can’t go on like this, Lettie, can we?” he said softly.
+
+“Yes,” she answered him, “Yes; why not?”
+
+“It can’t!” he said, “It can’t, I couldn’t keep it up, Lettie.”
+
+“But don’t think about it,” she answered. “Don’t think of it.”
+
+“Lettie,” he said. “I have to set my teeth with loneliness.”
+
+“Hush!” she said. “No! There are the children. Don’t say anything—do
+not be serious, will you?”
+
+“No, there are the children,” he replied, smiling dimly.
+
+“Yes! Hush now! Stand up and look what a fine parting I have made in
+your hair. Stand up, and see if my style becomes you.”
+
+“It is no good, Lettie,” he said, “we can’t go on.”
+
+“Oh, but come, come, come!” she exclaimed. “We are not talking about
+going on; we are considering what a fine parting I have made you down
+the middle, like two wings of a spread bird——” she looked down, smiling
+playfully on him, just closing her eyes slightly in petition.
+
+He rose and took a deep breath, and set his shoulders.
+
+“No,” he said, and at the sound of his voice, Lettie went pale and also
+stiffened herself.
+
+“No!” he repeated. “It is impossible. I felt as soon as Fred came into
+the room—it must be one way or another.”
+
+“Very well then,” said Lettie, coldly. Her voice was “muted” like a
+violin.
+
+“Yes,” he replied, submissive. “The children.” He looked at her,
+contracting his lips in a smile of misery.
+
+“Are you sure it must be so final?” she asked, rebellious, even
+resentful. She was twisting the azurite jewels on her bosom, and
+pressing the blunt points into her flesh. He looked up from the
+fascination of her action when he heard the tone of her last question.
+He was angry.
+
+“Quite sure!” he said at last, simply, ironically.
+
+She bowed her head in assent. His face twitched sharply as he
+restrained himself from speaking again. Then he turned and quietly left
+the room. She did not watch him go, but stood as he had left her. When,
+after some time, she heard the grating of his dog-cart on the gravel,
+and then the sharp trot of hoofs down the frozen road, she dropped
+herself on the settee, and lay with her bosom against the cushions,
+looking fixedly at the wall.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+NETHERMTHE SCARP SLOPEERE
+
+
+Leslie won the conservative victory in the general election which took
+place a year or so after my last visit to “Highclose.”
+
+In the interim the Tempests had entertained a continuous stream of
+people. I heard occasionally from Lettie how she was busy, amused, or
+bored. She told me that George had thrown himself into the struggle on
+behalf of the candidate of the Labour Party; that she had not seen him,
+except in the streets, for a very long time.
+
+When I went down to Eberwich in the March succeeding the election, I
+found several people staying with my sister. She had under her wing a
+young literary fellow who affected the “Doady” style—Dora Copperfield’s
+“Doady.” He had bunches of half-curly hair, and a romantic black
+cravat; he played the impulsive part, but was really as calculating as
+any man on the stock-exchange. It delighted Lettie to “mother” him. He
+was so shrewd as to be less than harmless. His fellow guests, a woman
+much experienced in music and an elderly man who was in the artistic
+world without being of it, were interesting for a time. Bubble after
+bubble of floating fancy and wit we blew with our breath in the
+evenings. I rose in the morning loathing the idea of more
+bubble-blowing.
+
+I wandered around Nethermere, which had now forgotten me. The daffodils
+under the boat-house continued their golden laughter, and nodded to one
+another in gossip, as I watched them, never for a moment pausing to
+notice me. The yellow reflection of daffodils among the shadows of grey
+willow in the water trembled faintly as they told haunted tales in the
+gloom. I felt like a child left out of the group of my playmates. There
+was a wind running across Nethermere, and on the eager water blue and
+glistening grey shadows changed places swiftly. Along the shore the
+wild birds rose, flapping in expostulation as I passed, peewits mewing
+fiercely round my head, while two white swans lifted their glistening
+feathers till they looked like grand double water-lilies, laying back
+their orange beaks among the petals, and fronting me with haughty
+resentment, charging towards me insolently.
+
+I wanted to be recognised by something. I said to myself that the
+dryads were looking out for me from the wood’s edge. But as I advanced
+they shrank, and glancing wistfully, turned back like pale flowers
+falling in the shadow of the forest. I was a stranger, an intruder.
+Among the bushes a twitter of lively birds exclaimed upon me. Finches
+went leaping past in bright flashes, and a robin sat and asked rudely:
+“Hello! Who are you?”
+
+The bracken lay sere under the trees, broken and chavelled by the
+restless wild winds of the long winter.
+
+The trees caught the wind in their tall netted twigs, and the young
+morning wind moaned at its captivity. As I trod the discarded
+oak-leaves and the bracken they uttered their last sharp gasps, pressed
+into oblivion. The wood was roofed with a wide young sobbing sound, and
+floored with a faint hiss like the intaking of the last breath.
+Between, was all the glad out-peeping of buds and anemone flowers and
+the rush of birds. I, wandering alone, felt them all, the anguish of
+the bracken fallen face-down in defeat, the careless dash of the birds,
+the sobbing of the young wind arrested in its haste, the trembling,
+expanding delight of the buds. I alone among them could hear the whole
+succession of chords.
+
+The brooks talked on just the same, just as gladly, just as
+boisterously as they had done when I had netted small, glittering fish
+in the rest-pools. At Strelley Mill a servant girl in a white cap, and
+white apron-bands, came running out of the house with purple
+prayer-books, which she gave to the elder of two finicking girls who
+sat disconsolately with their black-silked mother in the governess cart
+at the gate, ready to go to church. Near Woodside there was barbed-wire
+along the path, and at the end of every riding it was tarred on the
+tree-trunks, “Private.”
+
+I had done with the valley of Nethermere. The valley of Nethermere had
+cast me out many years before, while I had fondly believed it cherished
+me in memory.
+
+I went along the road to Eberwich. The church bells were ringing
+boisterously, with the careless boisterousness of the brooks and the
+birds and the rollicking coltsfoots and celandines.
+
+A few people were hastening blithely to service. Miners and other
+labouring men were passing in aimless gangs, walking nowhere in
+particular, so long as they reached a sufficiently distant public
+house.
+
+I reached the ‘Hollies.’ It was much more spruce than it had been. The
+yard, however, and the stables had again a somewhat abandoned air. I
+asked the maid for George.
+
+“Oh, master’s not up yet,” she said, giving a little significant toss
+of her head, and smiling. I waited a moment.
+
+“But he rung for a bottle of beer about ten minutes since, so I should
+think——” she emphasised the word with some ironical contempt, “—he
+won’t be very long,” she added, in tones which conveyed that she was
+not by any means sure. I asked for Meg.
+
+“Oh, Missis is gone to church—and the children—But Miss Saxton is in,
+she might——”
+
+“Emily!” I exclaimed.
+
+The maid smiled.
+
+“She’s in the drawing-room. She’s engaged, but perhaps if I tell her——”
+
+“Yes, do,” said I, sure that Emily would receive me.
+
+I found my old sweetheart sitting in a low chair by the fire, a man
+standing on the hearthrug pulling his moustache. Emily and I both felt
+a thrill of old delight at meeting.
+
+“I can hardly believe it is really you,” she said, laughing me one of
+the old intimate looks. She had changed a great deal. She was very
+handsome, but she had now a new self-confidence, a fine, free
+indifference.
+
+“Let me introduce you. Mr. Renshaw, Cyril. Tom, you know who it is you
+have heard me speak often enough of Cyril. I am going to marry Tom in
+three weeks’ time,” she said, laughing.
+
+“The devil you are!” I exclaimed involuntarily.
+
+“If he will have me,” she added, quite as a playful afterthought.
+
+Tom was a well-built fair man, smoothly, almost delicately tanned.
+There was something soldierly in his bearing, something self-conscious
+in the way he bent his head and pulled his moustache, something
+charming and fresh in the way he laughed at Emily’s last preposterous
+speech.
+
+“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
+
+“Why didn’t you ask me?” she retorted, arching her brows.
+
+“Mr. Renshaw,” I said. “You have out-manoeuvred me all unawares, quite
+indecently.”
+
+“I am very sorry,” he said, giving one more twist to his moustache,
+then breaking into a loud, short laugh at his joke.
+
+“Do you really feel cross?” said Emily to me, knitting her brows and
+smiling quaintly.
+
+“I do!” I replied, with truthful emphasis.
+
+She laughed, and laughed again, very much amused.
+
+“It is such a joke,” she said. “To think you should feel cross now,
+when it is—how long is it ago——?
+
+“I will not count up,” said I.
+
+“Are you not sorry for me?” I asked of Tom Renshaw.
+
+He looked at me with his young blue eyes, eyes so bright, so naïvely
+inquisitive, so winsomely meditative. He did not know quite what to
+say, or how to take it.
+
+“Very!” he replied in another short burst of laughter, quickly twisting
+his moustache again and looking down at his feet.
+
+He was twenty-nine years old; had been a soldier in China for five
+years, was now farming his father’s farm at Papplewick, where Emily was
+schoolmistress. He had been at home eighteen months. His father was an
+old man of seventy who had had his right hand chopped to bits in the
+chopping machine. So they told me. I liked Tom for his handsome bearing
+and his fresh, winsome way. He was exceedingly manly: that is to say he
+did not dream of questioning or analysing anything. All that came his
+way was ready labelled nice or nasty, good or bad. He did not imagine
+that anything could be other than just what it appeared to be:—and with
+this appearance, he was quite content. He looked up to Emily as one
+wiser, nobler, nearer to God than himself.
+
+“I am a thousand years older than he,” she said to me, laughing. “Just
+as you are centuries older than I.”
+
+“And you love him for his youth?” I asked.
+
+“Yes,” she replied. “For that and—he is wonderfully sagacious—and so
+gentle.”
+
+“And I was never gentle, was I?” I said.
+
+“No! As restless and as urgent as the wind,” she said, and I saw a last
+flicker of the old terror.
+
+“Where is George?” I asked.
+
+“In bed,” she replies briefly. “He’s recovering from one of his orgies.
+If I were Meg I would not live with him.”
+
+“Is he so bad?” I asked.
+
+“Bad!” she replied. “He’s disgusting, and I’m sure he’s dangerous. I’d
+have him removed to an inebriate’s home.”
+
+“You’d have to persuade him to go,” said Tom, who had come into the
+room again. “He does have dreadful bouts, though! He’s killing himself,
+sure enough. I feel awfully sorry for the fellow.”
+
+“It seems so contemptible to me,” said Emily, “to become enslaved to
+one of your likings till it makes a beast of you. Look what a spectacle
+he is for his children, and what a disgusting disgrace for his wife.”
+
+“Well, if he can’t help it, he can’t, poor chap,” said Tom. “Though I
+do think a man should have more backbone.”
+
+We heard heavy noises from the room above.
+
+“He is getting up,” said Emily. “I suppose I’d better see if he’ll have
+any breakfast.” She waited, however. Presently the door opened, and
+there stood George with his hand on the knob, leaning, looking in.
+
+“I thought I heard three voices,” he said, as if it freed him from a
+certain apprehension. He smiled. His waistcoat hung open over his
+woollen shirt, he wore no coat and was slipperless. His hair and his
+moustache were dishevelled, his face pale and stupid with sleep, his
+eyes small. He turned aside from our looks as from a bright light. His
+hand as I shook it was flaccid and chill.
+
+“How do you come to be here, Cyril?” he said subduedly, faintly
+smiling.
+
+“Will you have any breakfast?” Emily asked him coldly.
+
+“I’ll have a bit if there’s any for me,” he replied.
+
+“It has been waiting for you long enough,” she answered. He turned and
+went with a dull thud of his stockinged feet across to the dining-room.
+Emily rang for the maid, I followed George, leaving the betrothed
+together. I found my host moving about the dining-room, looking behind
+the chairs and in the corners.
+
+“I wonder where the devil my slippers are!” he muttered explanatorily.
+Meanwhile he continued his search. I noticed he did not ring the bell
+to have them found for him. Presently he came to the fire, spreading
+his hands over it. As he was smashing the slowly burning coal the maid
+came in with the tray. He desisted, and put the poker carefully down.
+While the maid spread his meal on one corner of the table, he looked in
+the fire, paying her no heed. When she had finished:
+
+“It’s fried white-bait,” she said. “Shall you have that?”
+
+He lifted his head and looked at the plate.
+
+“Ay,” he said. “Have you brought the vinegar?”
+
+Without answering, she took the cruet from the sideboard and set it on
+the table. As she was closing the door, she looked back to say:
+
+“You’d better eat it now, while it’s hot.”
+
+He took no notice, but sat looking in the fire.
+
+“And how are you going on?” he asked me.
+
+“I? Oh, very well! And you——?”
+
+“As you see,” he replied, turning his head on one side with a little
+gesture of irony.
+
+“As I am very sorry to see,” I rejoined.
+
+He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, tapping the back of his
+hand with one finger, in monotonous two-pulse like heart-beats.
+
+“Aren’t you going to have breakfast?” I urged. The clock at that moment
+began to ring a sonorous twelve. He looked up at it with subdued
+irritation.
+
+“Ay, I suppose so,” he answered me, when the clock had finished
+striking. He rose heavily and went to the table. As he poured out a cup
+of tea he spilled it on the cloth, and stood looking at the stain. It
+was still some time before he began to eat. He poured vinegar freely
+over the hot fish, and ate with an indifference that made eating ugly,
+pausing now and again to wipe the tea off his moustache, or to pick a
+bit of fish from off his knee.
+
+“You are not married, I suppose?” he said in one of his pauses.
+
+“No,” I replied. “I expect I shall have to be looking round.”
+
+“You’re wiser not,” he replied, quiet and bitter.
+
+A moment or two later the maid came in with a letter.
+
+“This came this morning,” she said, as she laid it on the table beside
+him. He looked at it, then he said:
+
+“You didn’t give me a knife for the marmalade.”
+
+“Didn’t I?” she replied. “I thought you wouldn’t want it. You don’t as
+a rule.”
+
+“And do you know where my slippers are?” he asked.
+
+“They ought to be in their usual place.” She went and looked in the
+corner. “I suppose Miss Gertie’s put them somewhere. I’ll get you
+another pair.”
+
+As he waited for her he read the letter. He read it twice, then he put
+it back in the envelope, quietly, without any change of expression. But
+he ate no more breakfast, even after the maid had brought the knife and
+his slippers, and though he had had but a few mouthfuls.
+
+At half-past twelve there was an imperious woman’s voice in the house.
+Meg came to the door. As she entered the room, and saw me, she stood
+still. She sniffed, glanced at the table, and exclaimed, coming forward
+effusively:
+
+“Well I never, Cyril! Who’d a thought of seeing you here this morning!
+How are you?”
+
+She waited for the last of my words, then immediately she turned to
+George, and said:
+
+“I must say you’re in a nice state for Cyril to see you! Have you
+finished?—if you have, Kate can take that tray out. It smells quite
+sickly. Have you finished?”
+
+He did not answer, but drained his cup of tea and pushed it away with
+the back of his hand. Meg rang the bell, and having taken off her
+gloves, began to put the things on the tray, tipping the fragments of
+fish and bones from the edge of his plate to the middle with short,
+disgusted jerks of the fork. Her attitude and expression were of
+resentment and disgust. The maid came in.
+
+“Clear the table Kate, and open the window. Have you opened the bedroom
+windows?”
+
+“No’m—not yet,”—she glanced at George as if to say he had only been
+down a few minutes.
+
+“Then do it when you have taken the tray,” said Meg.
+
+“You don’t open this window,” said George churlishly. “It’s cold enough
+as it is.”
+
+“You should put a coat on then if you’re starved,” replied Meg
+contemptuously. “It’s warm enough for those that have got any life in
+their blood. You do not find it cold, do you Cyril?”
+
+“It is fresh this morning,” I replied.
+
+“Of course it is, not cold at all. And I’m sure this room needs
+airing.”
+
+The maid, however, folded the cloth and went out without approaching
+the windows.
+
+Meg had grown stouter, and there was a certain immovable confidence in
+her. She was authoritative, amiable, calm. She wore a handsome dress of
+dark green, and a toque with opulent ostrich feathers. As she moved
+about the room she seemed to dominate everything, particularly her
+husband, who sat ruffled and dejected, his waistcoat hanging loose over
+his shirt.
+
+A girl entered. She was proud and mincing in her deportment. Her face
+was handsome, but too haughty for a child. She wore a white coat, with
+ermine tippet, muff, and hat. Her long brown hair hung twining down her
+back.
+
+“Has dad only just had his breakfast?” she exclaimed in high censorious
+tones as she came in.
+
+“He has!” replied Meg.
+
+The girl looked at her father in calm, childish censure.
+
+“And we have been to church, and come home to dinner,” she said, as she
+drew off her little white gloves. George watched her with ironical
+amusement.
+
+“Hello!” said Meg, glancing at the opened letter which lay near his
+elbow. “Who is that from?”
+
+He glanced round, having forgotten it. He took the envelope, doubled it
+and pushed it in his waistcoat pocket.
+
+“It’s from William Housley,” he replied.
+
+“Oh! And what has he to say?” she asked.
+
+George turned his dark eyes at her.
+
+“Nothing!” he said.
+
+“Hm-Hm!” sneered Meg. “Funny letter, about nothing!”
+
+“I suppose,” said the child, with her insolent, high-pitched
+superiority, “It’s some money that he doesn’t want us to know about.”
+
+“That’s about it!” said Meg, giving a small laugh at the child’s
+perspicuity.
+
+“So’s he can keep it for himself, that’s what it is,” continued the
+child, nodding her head in rebuke at him.
+
+“I’ve no right to any money, have I?” asked the father sarcastically.
+
+“No, you haven’t,” the child nodded her head at him dictatorially, “you
+haven’t, because you only put it in the fire.”
+
+“You’ve got it wrong,” he sneered. “You mean it’s like giving a child
+fire to play with.”
+
+“Um!—and it is, isn’t it Mam?”—the small woman turned to her mother for
+corroboration. Meg had flushed at his sneer, when he quoted for the
+child its mother’s dictum.
+
+“And you’re very naughty!” preached Gertie, turning her back
+disdainfully on her father.
+
+“Is that what the parson’s been telling you?” he asked, a grain of
+amusement still in his bitterness.
+
+“No it isn’t!” retorted the youngster. “If you want to know you should
+go and listen for yourself. Everybody that goes to church looks nice——”
+she glanced at her mother and at herself, pruning herself proudly,
+“—and God loves them,” she added. She assumed a sanctified expression,
+and continued after a little thought: “Because they look nice and are
+meek.”
+
+“What!” exclaimed Meg, laughing, glancing with secret pride at me.
+
+“Because they’re meek!” repeated Gertie, with a superior little smile
+of knowledge.
+
+“You’re off the mark this time,” said George.
+
+“No, I’m not, am I Mam? Isn’t it right Mam? ‘The meek shall inevit the
+erf’?”
+
+Meg was too much amused to answer.
+
+“The meek shall have herrings on earth,” mocked the father, also
+amused. His daughter looked dubiously at him. She smelled impropriety.
+
+“It’s not, Mam, is it?” she asked, turning to her mother. Meg laughed.
+
+“The meek shall have herrings on earth,” repeated George with soft
+banter.
+
+“No it’s not Mam, is it?” cried the child in real distress.
+
+“Tell your father he’s always teaching you something wrong,” answered
+Meg.
+
+Then I said I must go. They pressed me to stay.
+
+“Oh, yes—do stop to dinner,” suddenly pleaded the child, smoothing her
+wild ravels of curls after having drawn off her hat. She asked me again
+and again, with much earnestness.
+
+“But why?” I asked.
+
+“So’s you can talk to us this afternoon—an’ so’s Dad won’t be so
+dis’greeable,” she replied plaintively, poking the black spots on her
+muff.
+
+Meg moved nearer to her daughter with a little gesture of compassion.
+
+“But,” said I, “I promised a lady I would be back for lunch, so I must.
+You have some more visitors, you know.”
+
+“Oh, well!” she complained, “They go in another room, and Dad doesn’t
+care about them.”
+
+“But come!” said I.
+
+“Well, he’s just as dis’greeable when Auntie Emily’s here—he is with
+her an’ all.”
+
+“You _are_ having your character given away,” said Meg brutally,
+turning to him.
+
+I bade them good-bye. He did me the honour of coming with me to the
+door. We could neither of us find a word to say, though we were both
+moved. When at last I held his hand and was looking at him as I said
+“Good-bye”, he looked back at me for the first time during our meeting.
+His eyes were heavy and as he lifted them to me, seemed to recoil in an
+agony of shame.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+A PROSPECT AMONG THE MARSHES OF LETHE
+
+
+George steadily declined from this time. I went to see him two years
+later. He was not at home. Meg wept to me as she told me of him, how he
+let the business slip, how he drank, what a brute he was in drink, and
+how unbearable afterwards. He was ruining his constitution, he was
+ruining her life and the children’s. I felt very sorry for her as she
+sat, large and ruddy, brimming over with bitter tears. She asked me if
+I did not think I might influence him. He was, she said, at the “Ram.”
+When he had an extra bad bout on he went up there, and stayed sometimes
+for a week at a time, with Oswald, coming back to the “Hollies” when he
+had recovered—“though,” said Meg, “he’s sick every morning and almost
+after every meal.”
+
+All the time Meg was telling me this, sat curled up in a large chair
+their youngest boy, a pale, sensitive, rather spoiled lad of seven or
+eight years, with a petulant mouth and nervous dark eyes. He sat
+watching his mother as she told her tale, heaving his shoulders and
+settling himself in a new position when his feelings were nearly too
+much for him. He was full of wild, childish pity for his mother, and
+furious, childish hate of his father, the author of all their trouble.
+I called at the “Ram” and saw George. He was half drunk.
+
+I went up to Highclose with a heavy heart. Lettie’s last child had been
+born, much to the surprise of everybody, some few months before I came
+down. There was a space of seven years between her youngest girl and
+this baby. Lettie was much absorbed in motherhood.
+
+When I went up to talk to her about George I found her in the bedroom
+nursing the baby, who was very good and quiet on her knee. She listened
+to me sadly, but her attention was caught away by each movement made by
+the child. As I was telling her of the attitude of George’s children
+towards their father and mother, she glanced from the baby to me, and
+exclaimed:
+
+“See how he watches the light flash across your spectacles when you
+turn suddenly—Look!”
+
+But I was weary of babies. My friends had all grown up and married and
+inflicted them on me. There were storms of babies. I longed for a place
+where they would be obsolete, and young, arrogant, impervious mothers
+might be a forgotten tradition. Lettie’s heart would quicken in answer
+to only one pulse, the easy, light ticking of the baby’s blood.
+
+I remembered, one day as I sat in the train hastening to Charing Cross
+on my way from France, that that was George’s birthday. I had the
+feeling of him upon me, heavily, and I could not rid myself of the
+depression. I put it down to travel fatigue, and tried to dismiss it.
+As I watched the evening sun glitter along the new corn-stubble in the
+fields we passed, trying to describe the effect to myself, I found
+myself asking: “But—what’s the matter? I’ve not had bad news, have I,
+to make my chest feel so weighted?”
+
+I was surprised when I reached my lodging in New Maiden to find no
+letters for me, save one fat budget from Alice. I knew her squat,
+saturnine handwriting on the envelope, and I thought I knew what
+contents to expect from the letter.
+
+She had married an old acquaintance who had been her particular
+aversion. This young man had got himself into trouble, so that the
+condemnations of the righteous pursued him like clouds of gnats on a
+summer evening. Alice immediately rose to sting back his vulgar
+enemies, and having rendered him a service, felt she could only wipe
+out the score by marrying him. They were fairly comfortable.
+Occasionally, as she said, there were displays of small fireworks in
+the back yard. He worked in the offices of some iron foundries just
+over the Erewash in Derbyshire. Alice lived in a dirty little place in
+the valley a mile and a half from Eberwich, not far from his work. She
+had no children, and practically no friends; a few young matrons for
+acquaintances. As wife of a superior clerk, she had to preserve her
+dignity among the work-people. So all her little crackling fires were
+sodded down with the sods of British respectability. Occasionally she
+smouldered a fierce smoke that made one’s eyes water. Occasionally,
+perhaps once a year, she wrote me a whole venomous budget, much to my
+amusement.
+
+I was not in any haste to open this fat letter until, after supper, I
+turned to it as a resource from my depression.
+
+“Oh dear Cyril, I’m in a bubbling state, I want to yell, not write. Oh,
+Cyril, why didn’t _you_ marry me, or why didn’t our Georgie Saxton, or
+somebody. I’m deadly sick. Percival Charles is enough to stop a clock.
+Oh, Cyril, he lives in an eternal Sunday suit, holy broadcloth and
+righteous three inches of cuffs! He goes to bed in it. Nay, he wallows
+in Bibles when he goes to bed. I can feel the brass covers of all his
+family Bibles sticking in my ribs as I lie by his side. I could weep
+with wrath, yet I put on my black hat and trot to chapel with him like
+a lamb.
+
+“Oh, Cyril, nothing’s happened. Nothing has happened to me all these
+years. I shall die of it. When I see Percival Charles at dinner, after
+having asked a blessing, I feel as if I should never touch a bit at his
+table again. In about an hour I shall hear him hurrying up the
+entry—prayers always make him hungry—and his first look will be on the
+table. But I’m not fair to him—he’s really a good fellow—I only wish he
+wasn’t.
+
+“It’s George Saxton who’s put this seidlitz powder in my marital cup of
+cocoa. Cyril, I must a tale unfold. It is fifteen years since our
+George married Meg. When I count up, and think of the future, it nearly
+makes me scream. But my tale, my tale!
+
+“Can you remember his faithful-dog, wounded-stag, gentle-gazelle eyes?
+Cyril, you can see the whisky or the brandy combusting in them. He’s
+got d—t’s, blue-devils—and I’ve seen him, and I’m swarming myself with
+little red devils after it. I went up to Eberwich on Wednesday
+afternoon for a pound of fry for Percival Charles’ Thursday dinner. I
+walked by that little path which you know goes round the back of the
+‘Hollies’—it’s as near as any way for me. I thought I heard a row in
+the paddock at the back of the stables, so I said I might as well see
+the fun. I went to the gate, basket in one hand, ninepence in coppers
+in the other, a demure deacon’s wife. I didn’t take in the scene at
+first.
+
+“There was our Georgie, in leggings and breeches as of yore, and a
+whip. He was flourishing, and striding, and yelling. ‘Go it old boy,’ I
+said, ‘you’ll want your stocking round your throat to-night.’ But
+Cyril, I had spoken too soon. Oh, lum! There came raking up the croft
+that long, wire-springy racehorse of his, ears flat, and, clinging to
+its neck, the pale-faced lad, Wilfred. The kid was white as death, and
+squealing ‘Mam! mam!’ I thought it was a bit rotten of Georgie trying
+to teach the kid to jockey. The race-horse, Bonny-Boy—Boney Boy I call
+him—came bouncing round like a spiral egg-whish. Then I saw our Georgie
+rush up screaming, nearly spitting the moustache off his face, and
+fetch the horse a cut with the whip. It went off like a flame along hot
+paraffin. The kid shrieked and clung. Georgie went rushing after him,
+running staggery, and swearing, fairly screaming,—awful—‘a lily-livered
+little swine!’ The high lanky race-horse went larroping round as if it
+was going mad. I was dazed. Then Meg came rushing, and the other two
+lads, all screaming. She went for George, but he lifted his whip like
+the devil. She daren’t go near him—she rushed at him, and stopped,
+rushed at him, and stopped, striking at him with her two fists. He
+waved his whip and kept her off, and the race-horse kept tearing along.
+Meg flew to stop it, he ran with his drunken totter-step, brandishing
+his whip. I flew as well. I hit him with my basket. The kid fell off,
+and Meg rushed to him. Some men came running. George stood fairly
+shuddering. You would never have known his face, Cyril. He was mad,
+demoniacal. I feel sometimes as if I should burst and shatter to bits
+like a sky-rocket when I think of it. I’ve got such a weal on my arm.
+
+“I lost Percival Charles’ ninepence and my nice white cloth out of the
+basket, and everything, besides having black looks on Thursday because
+it was mutton chops, which he hates. Oh, Cyril, ‘I wish I was a
+cassowary, on the banks of the Timbuctoo.’ When I saw Meg sobbing over
+that lad—thank goodness he wasn’t hurt—! I wished our Georgie was dead;
+I do now, also; I wish we only had to remember him. I haven’t been to
+see them lately—can’t stand Meg’s ikeyness. I wonder how it all will
+end.
+
+“There’s P. C. bidding ‘Good night and God Bless You’ to Brother Jakes,
+and no supper ready——”
+
+As soon as I could, after reading Alice’s letter, I went down to
+Eberwich to see how things were. Memories of the old days came over me
+again till my heart hungered for its old people.
+
+They told me at the “Hollies” that, after a bad attack of delirium
+tremens, George had been sent to Papplewick in the lonely country to
+stay with Emily. I borrowed a bicycle to ride the nine miles. The
+summer had been wet, and everything was late. At the end of September
+the foliage was heavy green, and the wheat stood dejectedly in stook. I
+rode through the still sweetness of an autumn morning. The mist was
+folded blue along the hedges; the elm trees loomed up along the dim
+walls of the morning, the horse-chestnut trees at hand flickered with a
+few yellow leaves like bright blossoms. As I rode through the tree
+tunnel by the church where, on his last night, the keeper had told me
+his story, I smelled the cold rotting of the leaves of the cloudy
+summer.
+
+I passed silently through the lanes, where the chill grass was weighed
+down with grey-blue seed-pearls of dew in the shadow, where the wet
+woollen spider-cloths of autumn were spread as on a loom. Brown birds
+rustled in flocks like driven leaves before me. I heard the far-off
+hooting of the “loose-all” at the pits, telling me it was half-past
+eleven, that the men and boys would be sitting in the narrow darkness
+of the mines eating their “snap,” while shadowy mice darted for the
+crumbs, and the boys laughed with red mouths rimmed with grime, as the
+bold little creatures peeped at them in the dim light of the lamps. The
+dogwood berries stood jauntily scarlet on the hedge-tops, the bunched
+scarlet and green berries of the convolvulus and bryony hung amid
+golden trails, the blackberries dropped ungathered. I rode slowly on,
+the plants dying around me, the berries leaning their heavy ruddy
+mouths, and languishing for the birds, the men imprisoned underground
+below me, the brown birds dashing in haste along the hedges.
+
+Swineshed Farm, where the Renshaws lived, stood quite alone among its
+fields, hidden from the highway and from everything. The lane leading
+up to it was deep and unsunned. On my right, I caught glimpses through
+the hedge of the corn-fields, where the shocks of wheat stood like
+small yellow-sailed ships in a widespread flotilla. The upper part of
+the field was cleared. I heard the clank of a wagon and the voices of
+men, and I saw the high load of sheaves go lurching, rocking up the
+incline to the stackyard.
+
+The lane debouched into a close-bitten field, and out of this empty
+land the farm rose up with its buildings like a huddle of old, painted
+vessels floating in still water. White fowls went stepping discreetly
+through the mild sunshine and the shadow. I leaned my bicycle against
+the grey, silken doors of the old coach-house. The place was breathing
+with silence. I hesitated to knock at the open door. Emily came. She
+was rich as always with her large beauty, and stately now with the
+stateliness of a strong woman six months gone with child.
+
+She exclaimed with surprise, and I followed her into the kitchen,
+catching a glimpse of the glistening pans and the white wood baths as I
+passed through the scullery. The kitchen was a good-sized, low room
+that through long course of years had become absolutely a home. The
+great beams of the ceiling bowed easily, the chimney-seat had a bit of
+dark-green curtain, and under the high mantel-piece was another low
+shelf that the men could reach with their hands as they sat in the
+ingle-nook. There the pipes lay. Many generations of peaceful men and
+fruitful women had passed through the room, and not one but had added a
+new small comfort; a chair in the right place, a hook, a stool, a
+cushion, a certain pleasing cloth for the sofa covers, a shelf of
+books. The room, that looked so quiet and crude, was a home evolved
+through generations to fit the large bodies of the men who dwelled in
+it, and the placid fancy of the women. At last, it had an
+individuality. It was the home of the Renshaws, warm, lovable, serene.
+Emily was in perfect accord with its brownness, its shadows, its ease.
+I, as I sat on the sofa under the window, felt rejected by the kind
+room. I was distressed with a sense of ephemerality, of pale, erratic
+fragility.
+
+Emily, in her full-blooded beauty, was at home. It is rare now to feel
+a kinship between a room and the one who inhabits it, a close bond of
+blood relation. Emily had at last found her place, and had escaped from
+the torture of strange, complex modern life. She was making a pie, and
+the flour was white on her brown arms. She pushed the tickling hair
+from her face with her arm, and looked at me with tranquil pleasure, as
+she worked the paste in the yellow bowl. I was quiet, subdued before
+her.
+
+“You are very happy?” I said.
+
+“Ah very!” she replied. “And you?—you are not, you look worn.”
+
+“Yes,” I replied. “I am happy enough. I am living my life.”
+
+“Don’t you find it wearisome?” she asked pityingly.
+
+She made me tell her all my doings, and she marvelled, but all the time
+her eyes were dubious and pitiful.
+
+“You have George here,” I said.
+
+“Yes. He’s in a poor state, but he’s not as sick as he was.”
+
+“What about the delirium tremens?”
+
+“Oh, he was better of that—very nearly—before he came here. He
+sometimes fancies they’re coming on again, and he’s terrified. Isn’t it
+awful! And he’s brought it all on himself. Tom’s very good to him.”
+
+“There’s nothing the matter with him—physically, is there?” I asked.
+
+“I don’t know,” she replied, as she went to the oven to turn a pie that
+was baking. She put her arm to her forehead and brushed aside her hair,
+leaving a mark of flour on her nose. For a moment or two she remained
+kneeling on the fender, looking into the fire and thinking. “He was in
+a poor way when he came here, could eat nothing, sick every morning. I
+suppose it’s his liver. They all end like that.” She continued to wipe
+the large black plums and put them in the dish.
+
+“Hardening of the liver?” I asked. She nodded.
+
+“And is he in bed?” I asked again.
+
+“Yes,” she replied. “It’s as I say, if he’d get up and potter about a
+bit, he’d get over it. But he lies there skulking.”
+
+“And what time will he get up?” I insisted.
+
+“I don’t know. He may crawl down somewhere towards tea-time. Do you
+want to see him? That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”
+
+She smiled at me with a little sarcasm, and added: “You always thought
+more of him than anybody, didn’t you? Ah, well, come up and see him.”
+
+I followed her up the back stairs, which led out of the kitchen, and
+which emerged straight in a bedroom. We crossed the hollow-sounding
+plaster-floor of this naked room and opened a door at the opposite
+side. George lay in bed watching us with apprehensive eyes.
+
+“Here is Cyril come to see you,” said Emily, “so I’ve brought him up,
+for I didn’t know when you’d be downstairs.”
+
+A small smile of relief came on his face, and he put out his hand from
+the bed. He lay with the disorderly clothes pulled up to his chin. His
+face was discoloured and rather bloated, his nose swollen.
+
+“Don’t you feel so well this morning?” asked Emily, softening with pity
+when she came into contact with his sickness.
+
+“Oh, all right,” he replied, wishing only to get rid of us.
+
+“You should try to get up a bit, it’s a beautiful morning, warm and
+soft—” she said gently. He did not reply, and she went downstairs.
+
+I looked round to the cold, whitewashed room, with its ceiling curving
+and sloping down the walls. It was sparsely furnished, and bare of even
+the slightest ornament. The only things of warm colour were the cow and
+horse skins on the floor. All the rest was white or grey or drab. On
+one side, the roof sloped down so that the window was below my knees,
+and nearly touching the floor, on the other side was a larger window,
+breast high. Through it one could see the jumbled, ruddy roofs of the
+sheds and the skies. The tiles were shining with patches of vivid
+orange lichen. Beyond was the corn-field, and the men, small in the
+distance, lifting the sheaves on the cart.
+
+“You will come back to farming again, won’t you?” I asked him, turning
+to the bed. He smiled.
+
+“I don’t know,” he answered dully.
+
+“Would you rather I went downstairs?” I asked.
+
+“No, I’m glad to see you,” he replied, in the same uneasy fashion.
+
+“I’ve only just come back from France,” I said.
+
+“Ah!” he replied, indifferent.
+
+“I am sorry you’re ill,” I said.
+
+He stared unmovedly at the opposite wall. I went to the window and
+looked out. After some time, I compelled myself to say, in a casual
+manner:
+
+“Won’t you get up and come out a bit?”
+
+“I suppose Is’ll have to,” he said, gathering himself slowly together
+for the effort. He pushed himself up in bed.
+
+When he took off the jacket of his pajamas to wash himself I turned
+away. His arms seemed thin, and he had bellied, and was bowed and
+unsightly. I remembered the morning we swam in the mill-pond. I
+remembered that he was now in the prime of his life. I looked at his
+bluish feeble hands as he laboriously washed himself. The soap once
+slipped from his fingers as he was picking it up, and fell, rattling
+the pot loudly. It startled us, and he seemed to grip the sides of the
+washstand to steady himself. Then he went on with his slow, painful
+toilet. As he combed his hair he looked at himself with dull eyes of
+shame.
+
+The men were coming in from the scullery when we got downstairs. Dinner
+was smoking on the table. I shook hands with Tom Renshaw, and with the
+old man’s hard, fierce left hand. Then I was introduced to Arthur
+Renshaw, a clean-faced, large, bashful lad of twenty. I nodded to the
+man, Jim, and to Jim’s wife, Annie. We all sat down to table.
+
+“Well, an’ ’ow are ter feelin’ by now, like?” asked the old man
+heartily of George. Receiving no answer, he continued, “Tha should ’a
+gor up an’ com’ an’ gen us a ’and wi’ th’ wheat, it ’ud ’a done thee
+good.”
+
+“You will have a bit of this mutton, won’t you?” Tom asked him, tapping
+the joint with the carving knife. George shook his head.
+
+“It’s quite lean and tender,” he said gently.
+
+“No, thanks,” said George.
+
+“Gi’e ’im a bit, gi’e ’im a bit!” cried the old man. “It’ll do ’im
+good—it’s what ’e wants, a bit o’ strengthenin’ nourishment.”
+
+“It’s no good if his stomach won’t have it,” said Tom, in mild reproof,
+as if he were speaking of a child. Arthur filled George’s glass with
+beer without speaking. The two young men were full of kind, gentle
+attention.
+
+“Let ’im ’a’e a spoonful o’ tonnup then,” persisted the old man. “I
+canna eat while ’is plate stands there emp’y.”
+
+So they put turnip and onion sauce on George’s plate, and he took up
+his fork and tasted a few mouthfuls. The men ate largely, and with
+zest. The sight of their grand satisfaction, amounting almost to gusto,
+sickened him.
+
+When at last the old man laid down the dessert spoon which he used in
+place of a knife and fork, he looked again at George’s plate, and said:
+
+“Why tha ’asna aten a smite, not a smite! Tha non goos th’ raight road
+to be better.”
+
+George maintained a stupid silence.
+
+“Don’t bother him, father,” said Emily.
+
+“Tha art an öwd whittle, feyther,” added Tom, smiling good-naturedly.
+He spoke to his father in dialect, but to Emily in good English.
+Whatever she said had Tom’s immediate support. Before serving us with
+pie, Emily gave her brother junket and damsons, setting the plate and
+the spoon before him as if he were a child. For this act of grace Tom
+looked at her lovingly, and stroked her hand as she passed.
+
+After dinner, George said, with a miserable struggle for an indifferent
+tone:
+
+“Aren’t you going to give Cyril a glass of whisky?”
+
+He looked up furtively, in a conflict of shame and hope. A silence fell
+on the room.
+
+“Ay!” said the old man softly. “Let ’im ’ave a drop.”
+
+“Yes!” added Tom, in submissive pleading.
+
+All the men in the room shrank a little, awaiting the verdict of the
+woman.
+
+“I don’t know,” she said clearly, “that Cyril wants a glass.”
+
+“I don’t mind.” I answered, feeling myself blush. I had not the courage
+to counteract her will directly. Not even the old man had that courage.
+We waited in suspense. After keeping us so for a few minutes, while we
+smouldered with mortification, she went into another room, and we heard
+her unlocking a door. She returned with a decanter containing rather
+less than half a pint of liquor. She put out five tumblers.
+
+“Tha nedna gi’e me none,” said the old man. “Ah’m non a proud chap.
+Ah’m not.”
+
+“Nor me neither,” said Arthur.
+
+“You will Tom?” she asked.
+
+“Do you want me to?” he replied, smiling.
+
+“I don’t,” she answered sharply. “I want nobody to have it, when you
+look at the results of it. But if Cyril is having a glass, you may as
+well have one with him.”
+
+Tom was pleased with her. She gave her husband and me fairly stiff
+glasses.
+
+“Steady, steady!” he said. “Give that George, and give me not so much.
+Two fingers, two of your fingers, you know.”
+
+But she passed him the glass. When George had had his share, there
+remained but a drop in the decanter.
+
+Emily watched the drunkard coldly as he took this remainder.
+
+George and I talked for a time while the men smoked. He, from his glum
+stupidity, broke into a harsh, almost imbecile loquacity.
+
+“Have you seen my family lately?” he asked, continuing. “Yes! Not badly
+set up, are they, the children? But the little devils are soft,
+mard-soft, every one of ’em. It’s their mother’s bringin’ up—she marded
+’em till they were soft, an’ would never let me have a say in it. I
+should ’a brought ’em up different, you know I should.”
+
+Tom looked at Emily, and, remarking her angry contempt, suggested that
+she should go out with him to look at the stacks. I watched the tall,
+square-shouldered man leaning with deference and tenderness towards his
+wife as she walked calmly at his side. She was the mistress, quiet and
+self-assured, he her rejoiced husband and servant.
+
+George was talking about himself. If I had not seen him, I should
+hardly have recognised the words as his. He was lamentably decayed. He
+talked stupidly, with vulgar contumely of others, and in weak praise of
+himself.
+
+The old man rose, with a:
+
+“Well, I suppose we mun ma’e another dag at it,” and the men left the
+house.
+
+George continued his foolish, harsh monologue, making gestures of
+emphasis with his head and his hands. He continued when we were walking
+round the buildings into the fields, the same babble of bragging and
+abuse. I was wearied and disgusted. He looked, and he sounded, so
+worthless.
+
+Across the empty cornfield the partridges were running. We walked
+through the September haze slowly, because he was feeble on his legs.
+As he became tired he ceased to talk. We leaned for some time on a
+gate, in the brief glow of the transient afternoon, and he was stupid
+again. He did not notice the brown haste of the partridges, he did not
+care to share with me the handful of ripe blackberries, and when I
+pulled the bryony ropes off the hedges, and held the great knots of red
+and green berries in my hand, he glanced at them without interest or
+appreciation.
+
+“Poison-berries, aren’t they?” he said dully.
+
+Like a tree that is falling, going soft and pale and rotten, clammy
+with small fungi, he stood leaning against the gate, while the dim
+afternoon drifted with a flow of thick sweet sunshine past him, not
+touching him.
+
+In the stackyard, the summer’s splendid monuments of wheat and grass
+were reared in gold and grey. The wheat was littered brightly round the
+rising stack. The loaded wagon clanked slowly up the incline, drew
+near, and rode like a ship at anchor against the scotches, brushing the
+stack with a crisp, sharp sound. Tom climbed the ladder and stood a
+moment there against the sky, amid the brightness and fragrance of the
+gold corn, and waved his arm to his wife who was passing in the shadow
+of the building. Then Arthur began to lift the sheaves to the stack,
+and the two men worked in an exquisite, subtle rhythm, their white
+sleeves and their dark heads gleaming, moving against the mild sky and
+the corn. The silence was broken only by the occasional lurch of the
+body of the wagon, as the teamer stepped to the front, or again to the
+rear of the load. Occasionally I could catch the blue glitter of the
+prongs of the forks. Tom, now lifted high above the small wagon load,
+called to his brother some question about the stack. The sound of his
+voice was strong and mellow.
+
+I turned to George, who also was watching, and said:
+
+“You ought to be like that.”
+
+We heard Tom calling, “All right!” and saw him standing high up on the
+tallest corner of the stack, as on the prow of a ship.
+
+George watched, and his face slowly gathered expression. He turned to
+me, his dark eyes alive with horror and despair.
+
+“I shall soon—be out of everybody’s way!” he said. His moment of fear
+and despair was cruel. I cursed myself for having roused him from his
+stupor.
+
+“You will be better,” I said.
+
+He watched again the handsome movement of the men at the stack.
+
+“I couldn’t team ten sheaves,” he said.
+
+“You will in a month or two,” I urged.
+
+He continued to watch, while Tom got on the ladder and came down the
+front of the stack.
+
+“Nay, the sooner I clear out, the better,” he repeated to himself.
+
+When we went in to tea, he was, as Tom said, “downcast.” The men talked
+uneasily with abated voices. Emily attended to him with a little,
+palpitating solicitude. We were all uncomfortably impressed with the
+sense of our alienation from him. He sat apart and obscure among us,
+like a condemned man.
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+Transcribers Notes:
+
+There is one obvious typesetter error which has been retained:
+
+1) “She smiled at her.” could have meant “She smiled at him.” or “He
+smiled at her.”
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE PEACOCK ***
+
+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. If you do not charge anything for
+copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
+easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
+of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
+Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may
+do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
+by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
+license, especially commercial redistribution.
+
+START: FULL LICENSE
+
+THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
+
+To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
+Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
+www.gutenberg.org/license.
+
+Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+
+1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
+destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
+possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
+Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
+by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
+person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
+1.E.8.
+
+1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
+paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
+agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
+
+1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
+Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
+of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
+works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
+States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
+United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
+claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
+displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
+all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
+that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
+free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
+works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
+Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
+comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
+same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
+you share it without charge with others.
+
+1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
+in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
+check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
+agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
+distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
+other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
+representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
+country other than the United States.
+
+1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+
+1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
+immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
+prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
+on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
+phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
+performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
+
+  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.
+
+1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
+derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
+contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
+copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
+the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
+redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
+either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
+obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
+trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
+additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
+will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
+posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
+beginning of this work.
+
+1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
+
+1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm License.
+
+1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
+any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
+to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
+other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
+version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website
+(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
+to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
+of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain
+Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the
+full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+
+1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+provided that:
+
+* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+  the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
+  you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
+  to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
+  agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
+  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
+  within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
+  legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
+  payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
+  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
+  Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
+  Literary Archive Foundation."
+
+* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+  you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+  does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+  License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
+  copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
+  all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
+  works.
+
+* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
+  any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+  electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
+  receipt of the work.
+
+* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+  distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
+are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
+from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
+the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
+forth in Section 3 below.
+
+1.F.
+
+1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
+Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
+contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
+or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
+intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
+other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
+cannot be read by your equipment.
+
+1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
+of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+
+1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
+with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
+with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
+lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
+or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
+opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
+the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
+without further opportunities to fix the problem.
+
+1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
+OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
+LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+
+1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
+damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
+violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
+agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
+limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
+unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
+remaining provisions.
+
+1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
+accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
+production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
+including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
+the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
+or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
+additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
+Defect you cause.
+
+Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
+computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
+exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
+from people in all walks of life.
+
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
+generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
+Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
+www.gutenberg.org
+
+Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation
+
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
+U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
+
+The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
+Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
+to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website
+and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
+
+Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without
+widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
+DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
+state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+
+Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
+donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
+freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
+distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
+volunteer support.
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
+the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
+necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
+edition.
+
+Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
+facility: www.gutenberg.org
+
+This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+
+
diff --git a/38561-0.zip b/38561-0.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..38d872b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/38561-0.zip
diff --git a/38561-h.zip b/38561-h.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..7b313a5
--- /dev/null
+++ b/38561-h.zip
diff --git a/38561-h/38561-h.htm b/38561-h/38561-h.htm
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..1c48a6e
--- /dev/null
+++ b/38561-h/38561-h.htm
@@ -0,0 +1,24521 @@
+<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
+"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
+<head>
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" />
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" />
+<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The White Peacock, by D.H. Lawrence</title>
+<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" />
+<style type="text/css">
+
+body { margin-left: 20%;
+       margin-right: 20%;
+       text-align: justify; }
+
+h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight:
+normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;}
+
+h1 {font-size: 300%;
+    margin-top: 0.6em;
+    margin-bottom: 0.6em;
+    letter-spacing: 0.12em;
+    word-spacing: 0.2em;
+    text-indent: 0em;}
+h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;}
+h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;}
+h4 {font-size: 120%;}
+h5 {font-size: 110%;}
+
+.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */
+
+div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;}
+
+hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;}
+
+p {text-indent: 1em;
+   margin-top: 0.25em;
+   margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
+
+.p2 {margin-top: 2em;}
+
+p.poem {text-indent: 0%;
+        margin-left: 10%;
+        font-size: 90%;
+        margin-top: 1em;
+        margin-bottom: 1em; }
+
+p.letter {text-indent: 0%;
+          margin-left: 10%;
+          margin-right: 10%;
+          margin-top: 1em;
+          margin-bottom: 1em; }
+
+p.right {text-align: right;
+         margin-right: 10%;
+         margin-top: 1em;
+         margin-bottom: 1em; }
+
+div.fig { display:block;
+          margin:0 auto;
+          text-align:center;
+          margin-top: 1em;
+          margin-bottom: 1em;}
+
+a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none}
+a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none}
+a:hover {color:red}
+
+</style>
+
+</head>
+
+<body>
+
+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The White Peacock, by D.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 White Peacock</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: January 13, 2012 [eBook #38561]<br />
+[Most recently updated: October 14, 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: Jim Adcock</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE PEACOCK ***</div>
+
+<div class="fig" style="width:70%;">
+<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="cover " />
+</div>
+
+<h1>THE WHITE PEACOCK</h1>
+
+<h2 class="no-break">By D. H. LAWRENCE</h2>
+
+<h4>LONDON<br/>
+WILLIAM HEINEMANN<br/>
+1911</h4>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p>
+“A book of real distinction both of style and thought. Many of the descriptive
+passages have an almost lyrical charm and the characterisation is generally
+speaking deft and life-like. ‘The White Peacock’ is a book not only worth
+reading but worth reckoning with, for we are inclined to think the author has
+come to stay.”&mdash;<i>The Morning Post.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That it has elements of greatness few will deny. Mr. Heinemann is, once again,
+to be congratulated on a writer of promise.”&mdash;<i>The Observer</i>.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>Contents</h2>
+
+<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto">
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#part01"><b>PART I</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I THE PEOPLE OF NETHERMERE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II DANGLING THE APPLE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III A VENDOR OF VISIONS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV THE FATHER</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V THE SCENT OF BLOOD</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI THE EDUCATION OF GEORGE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII LETTIE PULLS DOWN THE SMALL GOLD GRAPES</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII THE RIOT OF CHRISTMAS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX LETTIE COMES OF AGE</a><br/><br/></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#part02"><b>PART II</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER I STRANGE BLOSSOMS AND STRANGE NEW BUDDING</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER II A SHADOW IN SPRING</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER III THE IRONY OF INSPIRED MOMENTS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER IV KISS WHEN SHE’S RIPE FOR TEARS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER V AN ARROW FROM THE IMPATIENT GOD</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER VI THE COURTING</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER VII THE FASCINATION OF THE FORBIDDEN APPLE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER VIII A POEM OF FRIENDSHIP</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER IX PASTORALS AND PEONIES</a><br/><br/></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#part03"><b>PART III</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER I A NEW START IN LIFE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER II PUFFS OF WIND IN THE SAIL</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER III THE FIRST PAGES OF SEVERAL ROMANCES</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER IV DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE RAM</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER V THE DOMINANT MOTIF OF SUFFERING</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER VI PISGAH</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER VII THE SCARP SLOPE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER VIII A PROSPECT AMONG THE MARSHES OF LETHE</a><br/><br/></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap27">Transcriber’s Notes</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+</table>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="part01"></a>PART I</h2>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I<br/>
+THE PEOPLE OF NETHERMERE</h2>
+
+<p>
+I stood watching the shadowy fish slide through the gloom of the mill-pond.
+They were grey, descendants of the silvery things that had darted away from the
+monks, in the young days when the valley was lusty. The whole place was
+gathered in the musing of old age. The thick-piled trees on the far shore were
+too dark and sober to dally with the sun; the weeds stood crowded and
+motionless. Not even a little wind flickered the willows of the islets. The
+water lay softly, intensely still. Only the thin stream falling through the
+mill-race murmured to itself of the tumult of life which had once quickened the
+valley.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was almost startled into the water from my perch on the alder roots by a
+voice saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, what is there to look at?” My friend was a young farmer, stoutly built,
+brown eyed, with a naturally fair skin burned dark and freckled in patches. He
+laughed, seeing me start, and looked down at me with lazy curiosity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I was thinking the place seemed old, brooding over its past.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at me with a lazy indulgent smile, and lay down on his back on the
+bank, saying: “It’s all right for a doss&mdash;here.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Your life is nothing else but a doss. I shall laugh when somebody jerks you
+awake,” I replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He smiled comfortably and put his hands over his eyes because of the light.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why shall you laugh?” he drawled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because you’ll be amusing,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We were silent for a long time, when he rolled over and began to poke with his
+finger in the bank.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought,” he said in his leisurely fashion, “there was some cause for all
+this buzzing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I looked, and saw that he had poked out an old, papery nest of those pretty
+field bees which seem to have dipped their tails into bright amber dust. Some
+agitated insects ran round the cluster of eggs, most of which were empty now,
+the crowns gone; a few young bees staggered about in uncertain flight before
+they could gather power to wing away in a strong course. He watched the little
+ones that ran in and out among the shadows of the grass, hither and thither in
+consternation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come here&mdash;come here!” he said, imprisoning one poor little bee under a
+grass stalk, while with another stalk he loosened the folded blue wings.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t tease the little beggar,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It doesn’t hurt him&mdash;I wanted to see if it was because he couldn’t spread
+his wings that he couldn’t fly. There he goes&mdash;no, he doesn’t. Let’s try
+another.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Leave them alone,” said I. “Let them run in the sun. They’re only just out of
+the shells. Don’t torment them into flight.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He persisted, however, and broke the wing of the next.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, dear&mdash;pity!” said he, and he crushed the little thing between his
+fingers. Then he examined the eggs, and pulled out some silk from round the
+dead larva, and investigated it all in a desultory manner, asking of me all I
+knew about the insects. When he had finished he flung the clustered eggs into
+the water and rose, pulling out his watch from the depth of his breeches’
+pocket.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought it was about dinner-time,” said he, smiling at me. “I always know
+when it’s about twelve. Are you coming in?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m coming down at any rate,” said I as we passed along the pond bank, and
+over the plank-bridge that crossed the brow of the falling sluice. The bankside
+where the grey orchard twisted its trees, was a steep declivity, long and
+sharp, dropping down to the garden.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The stones of the large house were burdened with ivy and honey-suckle, and the
+great lilac-bush that had once guarded the porch now almost blocked the
+doorway. We passed out of the front garden into the farm-yard, and walked along
+the brick path to the back door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shut the gate, will you?” he said to me over his shoulder, as he passed on
+first.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went through the large scullery into the kitchen. The servant-girl was just
+hurriedly snatching the table-cloth out of the table drawer, and his mother, a
+quaint little woman with big, brown eyes, was hovering round the wide fireplace
+with a fork.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dinner not ready?” said he with a shade of resentment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, George,” replied his mother apologetically, “it isn’t. The fire wouldn’t
+burn a bit. You shall have it in a few minutes, though.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He dropped on the sofa and began to read a novel. I wanted to go, but his
+mother insisted on my staying.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Emily will be so glad if you stay,&mdash;and father
+will, I’m sure. Sit down, now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I sat down on a rush chair by the long window that looked out into the yard. As
+he was reading, and as it took all his mother’s powers to watch the potatoes
+boil and the meat roast, I was left to my thoughts. George, indifferent to all
+claims, continued to read. It was very annoying to watch him pulling his brown
+moustache, and reading indolently while the dog rubbed against his leggings and
+against the knee of his old riding-breeches. He would not even be at the
+trouble to play with Trip’s ears, he was so content with his novel and his
+moustache. Round and round twirled his thick fingers, and the muscles of his
+bare arm moved slightly under the red-brown skin. The little square window
+above him filtered a green light from the foliage of the great horse-chestnut
+outside and the glimmer fell on his dark hair, and trembled across the plates
+which Annie was reaching down from the rack, and across the face of the tall
+clock. The kitchen was very big; the table looked lonely, and the chairs
+mourned darkly for the lost companionship of the sofa; the chimney was a black
+cavern away at the back, and the inglenook seats shut in another little
+compartment ruddy with fire-light, where the mother hovered. It was rather a
+desolate kitchen, such a bare expanse of uneven grey flagstones, such far-away
+dark corners and sober furniture. The only gay things were the chintz coverings
+of the sofa and the arm-chair cushions, bright red in the bare sombre room;
+some might smile at the old clock, adorned as it was with remarkable and vivid
+poultry; in me it only provoked wonder and contemplation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a little while we heard the scraping of heavy boots outside, and the father
+entered. He was a big burly farmer, with his half-bald head sprinkled with
+crisp little curls.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hullo, Cyril,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve not forsaken us then,” and turning
+to his son:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you many more rows in the coppice close?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Finished!” replied George, continuing to read.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s all right&mdash;you’ve got on with ’em. The rabbits has bitten them
+turnips down, mother.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I expect so,” replied his wife, whose soul was in the saucepans. At last she
+deemed the potatoes cooked and went out with the steaming pan.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The dinner was set on the table and the father began to carve. George looked
+over his book to survey the fare then read until his plate was handed him. The
+maid sat at her little table near the window, and we began the meal. There came
+the treading of four feet along the brick path, and a little girl entered,
+followed by her grown-up sister. The child’s long brown hair was tossed wildly
+back beneath her sailor hat. She flung aside this article of her attire and sat
+down to dinner, talking endlessly to her mother. The elder sister, a girl of
+about twenty-one, gave me a smile and a bright look from her brown eyes, and
+went to wash her hands. Then she came and sat down, and looked disconsolately
+at the underdone beef on her plate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do hate this raw meat,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good for you,” replied her brother, who was eating industriously. “Give you
+some muscle to wallop the nippers.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She pushed it aside, and began to eat the vegetables. Her brother re-charged
+his plate and continued to eat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, our George, I do think you might pass a body that gravy,” said Mollie,
+the younger sister, in injured tones.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Certainly,” he replied. “Won’t you have the joint as well?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!” retorted the young lady of twelve, “I don’t expect you’ve done with it
+yet.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Clever!” he exclaimed across a mouthful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you think so?” said the elder sister Emily, sarcastically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” he replied complacently, “you’ve made her as sharp as yourself, I see,
+since you’ve had her in Standard Six. I’ll try a potato, mother, if you can
+find one that’s done.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, George, they seem mixed, I’m sure that was done that I tried.
+There&mdash;they are mixed&mdash;look at this one, it’s soft enough. I’m sure
+they were boiling long enough.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t explain and apologise to him,” said Emily irritably.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Perhaps the kids were too much for her this morning,” he said calmly, to
+nobody in particular.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” chimed in Mollie, “she knocked a lad across his nose and made it bleed.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Little wretch,” said Emily, swallowing with difficulty. “I’m glad I did! Some
+of my lads belong to&mdash;to&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To the devil,” suggested George, but she would not accept it from him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her father sat laughing; her mother with distress in her eyes, looked at her
+daughter, who hung her head and made patterns on the table-cloth with her
+finger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are they worse than the last lot?” asked the mother, softly, fearfully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;nothing extra,” was the curt answer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She merely felt like bashing ’em,” said George, calling, as he looked at the
+sugar bowl and at his pudding:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Fetch some more sugar, Annie.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The maid rose from her little table in the corner, and the mother also hurried
+to the cupboard. Emily trifled with her dinner and said bitterly to him:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I only wish you had a taste of teaching, it would cure your
+self-satisfaction.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pf!” he replied contemptuously, “I could easily bleed the noses of a handful
+of kids.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You wouldn’t sit there bleating like a fatted calf,” she continued.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This speech so tickled Mollie that she went off into a burst of laughter, much
+to the terror of her mother, who stood up in trembling apprehension lest she
+should choke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You made a joke, Emily,” he said, looking at his younger sister’s contortions.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily was too impatient to speak to him further, and left the table. Soon the
+two men went back to the fallow to the turnips, and I walked along the path
+with the girls as they were going to school.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He irritates me in everything he does and says,” burst out Emily with much
+heat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’s a pig sometimes,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is!” she insisted. “He irritates me past bearing, with his grand know-all
+way, and his heavy smartness&mdash;I can’t beat it. And the way mother humbles
+herself to him&mdash;&mdash;!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It makes you wild,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Wild!” she echoed, her voice vibrating with nervous passion. We walked on in
+silence, till she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you brought me those verses of yours?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;I’m so sorry&mdash;I’ve forgotten them again. As a matter of fact,
+I’ve sent them away.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you promised me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know what my promises are. I’m as irresponsible as a puff of wind.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She frowned with impatience and her disappointment was greater than necessary.
+When I left her at the corner of the lane I felt a sting of her deep reproach
+in my mind. I always felt the reproach when she had gone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I ran over the little bright brook that came from the weedy, bottom pond. The
+stepping-stones were white in the sun, and the water slid sleepily among them.
+One or two butterflies, indistinguishable against the blue sky, trifled from
+flower to flower and led me up the hill, across the field where the hot
+sunshine stood as in a bowl, and I was entering the caverns of the wood, where
+the oaks bowed over and saved us a grateful shade. Within, everything was so
+still and cool that my steps hung heavily along the path. The bracken held out
+arms to me, and the bosom of the wood was full of sweetness, but I journeyed
+on, spurred by the attacks of an army of flies which kept up a guerrilla
+warfare round my head till I had passed the black rhododendron bushes in the
+garden, where they left me, scenting no doubt Rebecca’s pots of vinegar and
+sugar.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The low red house, with its roof discoloured and sunken, dozed in sunlight, and
+slept profoundly in the shade thrown by the massive maples encroaching from the
+wood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was no one in the dining-room, but I could hear the whirr of a
+sewing-machine coming from the little study, a sound as of some great,
+vindictive insect buzzing about, now louder, now softer, now settling. Then
+came a jingling of four or five keys at the bottom of the keyboard of the
+drawing-room piano, continuing till the whole range had been covered in little
+leaps, as if some very fat frog had jumped from end to end.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That must be mother dusting the drawing-room,” I thought. The unaccustomed
+sound of the old piano startled me. The vocal chords behind the green silk
+bosom,&mdash;you only discovered it was not a bronze silk bosom by poking a
+fold aside,&mdash;had become as thin and tuneless as a dried old woman’s. Age
+had yellowed the teeth of my mother’s little piano, and shrunken its spindle
+legs. Poor old thing, it could but screech in answer to Lettie’s fingers flying
+across it in scorn, so the prim, brown lips were always closed save to admit
+the duster.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now, however, the little old maidish piano began to sing a tinkling Victorian
+melody, and I fancied it must be some demure little woman with curls like
+bunches of hops on either side of her face, who was touching it. The coy little
+tune teased me with old sensations, but my memory would give me no assistance.
+As I stood trying to fix my vague feelings, Rebecca came in to remove the cloth
+from the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who is playing, Beck?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Your mother, Cyril.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But she never plays. I thought she couldn’t.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah,” replied Rebecca, “you forget when you was a little thing sitting playing
+against her frock with the prayer-book, and she singing to you. <i>You</i>
+can’t remember her when her curls was long like a piece of brown silk.
+<i>You</i> can’t remember her when she used to play and sing, before Lettie
+came and your father was&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Rebecca turned and left the room. I went and peeped in the drawing-room. Mother
+sat before the little brown piano, with her plump, rather stiff fingers moving
+across the keys, a faint smile on her lips. At that moment Lettie came flying
+past me, and flung her arms round mother’s neck, kissing her and saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, my Dear, fancy my Dear playing the piano! Oh, Little Woman, we never knew
+you could!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nor can I,” replied mother laughing, disengaging herself. “I only wondered if
+I could just strum out this old tune; I learned it when I was quite a girl, on
+this piano. It was a cracked one then; the only one I had.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But play again, dearie, do play again. It was like the clinking of lustre
+glasses, and you look so quaint at the piano. Do play, my dear!” pleaded
+Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay,” said my mother, “the touch of the old keys on my fingers is making me
+sentimental&mdash;you wouldn’t like to see me reduced to the tears of old age?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Old age!” scolded Lettie, kissing her again. “You are young enough to play
+little romances. Tell us about it mother.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“About what, child?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When you used to play.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Before my fingers were stiff with fifty odd years? Where have you been, Cyril,
+that you weren’t in to dinner?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Only down to Strelley Mill,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course,” said mother coldly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why ‘of course’?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you came away as soon as Em went to school?” said Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I did,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They were cross with me, these two women. After I had swallowed my little
+resentment I said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They would have me stay to dinner.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My mother vouchsafed no reply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And has the great George found a girl yet?” asked Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” I replied, “he never will at this rate. Nobody will ever be good enough
+for him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sure I don’t know what you can find in any of them to take you there so
+much,” said my mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t be so mean, Mater,” I answered, nettled. “You know I like them.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I know you like <i>her</i>” said my mother sarcastically. “As for
+him&mdash;he’s an unlicked cub. What can you expect when his mother has spoiled
+him as she has. But I wonder you are so interested in licking him.” My mother
+sniffed contemptuously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is rather good looking,” said Lettie with a smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>“You</i> could make a man of him, I am sure,” I said, bowing satirically to
+her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>“I</i> am not interested,” she replied, also satirical.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then she tossed her head, and all the fine hairs that were free from bonds made
+a mist of yellow light in the sun.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What frock shall I wear Mater?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay, don’t ask me,” replied her mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think I’ll wear the heliotrope&mdash;though this sun will fade it,” she said
+pensively. She was tall, nearly six feet in height, but slenderly formed. Her
+hair was yellow, tending towards a dun brown. She had beautiful eyes and brows,
+but not a nice nose. Her hands were very beautiful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where are you going?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did not answer me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To Tempest’s!” I said. She did not reply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well I don’t know what you can see in <i>him</i>,” I continued.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Indeed!” said she. “He’s as good as most folk&mdash;&mdash;” then we both
+began to laugh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not,” she continued blushing, “that I think anything about him. I’m merely
+going for a game of tennis. Are you coming?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What shall you say if I agree?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh!” she tossed her head. “We shall all be very pleased I’m sure.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ooray!” said I with fine irony.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She laughed at me, blushed, and ran upstairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Half an hour afterwards she popped her head in the study to bid me good-bye,
+wishing to see if I appreciated her. She was so charming in her fresh linen
+frock and flowered hat, that I could not but be proud of her. She expected me
+to follow her to the window, for from between the great purple rhododendrons
+she waved me a lace mitten, then glinted on like a flower moving brightly
+through the green hazels. Her path lay through the wood in the opposite
+direction from Strelley Mill, down the red drive across the tree-scattered
+space to the highroad. This road ran along the end of our lakelet, Nethermere,
+for about a quarter of a mile. Nethermere is the lowest in a chain of three
+ponds. The other two are the upper and lower mill ponds at Strelley: this is
+the largest and most charming piece of water, a mile long and about a quarter
+of a mile in width. Our wood runs down to the water’s edge. On the opposite
+side, on a hill beyond the farthest corner of the lake, stands Highclose. It
+looks across the water at us in Woodside with one eye as it were, while our
+cottage casts a sidelong glance back again at the proud house, and peeps coyly
+through the trees.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I could see Lettie like a distant sail stealing along the water’s edge, her
+parasol flowing above. She turned through the wicket under the pine clump,
+climbed the steep field, and was enfolded again in the trees beside Highclose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leslie was sprawled on a camp-chair, under a copper beech on the lawn, his
+cigar glowing. He watched the ash grow strange and grey in the warm daylight,
+and he felt sorry for poor Nell Wycherley, whom he had driven that morning to
+the station, for would she not be frightfully cut up as the train whirled her
+further and further away? These girls are so daft with a fellow! But she was a
+nice little thing&mdash;he’d get Marie to write to her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At this point he caught sight of a parasol fluttering along the drive, and
+immediately he fell into a deep sleep, with just a tiny slit in his slumber to
+allow him to see Lettie approach. She, finding her watchman ungallantly asleep,
+and his cigar, instead of his lamp untrimmed, broke off a twig of syringa whose
+ivory buds had not yet burst with luscious scent. I know not how the end of his
+nose tickled in anticipation before she tickled him in reality, but he kept
+bravely still until the petals swept him. Then, starting from his sleep, he
+exclaimed: “Lettie! I was dreaming of kisses!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“On the bridge of your nose?” laughed she&mdash;“But whose were the kisses?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who produced the sensation?” he smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Since I only tapped your nose you should dream of&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go on!” said he, expectantly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of Doctor Slop,” she replied, smiling to herself as she closed her parasol.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do not know the gentleman,” he said, afraid that she was laughing at him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;your nose is quite classic,” she answered, giving him one of those
+brief intimate glances with which women flatter men so cleverly. He radiated
+with pleasure.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II<br/>
+DANGLING THE APPLE</h2>
+
+<p>
+The long-drawn booming of the wind in the wood and the sobbing and moaning in
+the maples and oaks near the house, had made Lettie restless. She did not want
+to go anywhere, she did not want to do anything, so she insisted on my just
+going out with her as far as the edge of the water. We crossed the tangle of
+fern and bracken, bramble and wild raspberry canes that spread in the open
+space before the house, and we went down the grassy slope to the edge of
+Nethermere. The wind whipped up noisy little wavelets, and the cluck and
+clatter of these among the pebbles, the swish of the rushes and the freshening
+of the breeze against our faces, roused us.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The tall meadow-sweet was in bud along the tiny beach and we walked knee-deep
+among it, watching the foamy race of the ripples and the whitening of the
+willows on the far shore. At the place where Nethermere narrows to the upper
+end, and receives the brook from Strelley, the wood sweeps down and stands with
+its feet washed round with waters. We broke our way along the shore, crushing
+the sharp-scented wild mint, whose odour checks the breath, and examining here
+and there among the marshy places ragged nests of water-fowl, now deserted.
+Some slim young lap-wings started at our approach, and sped lightly from us,
+their necks outstretched in straining fear of that which could not hurt them.
+One, two, fled cheeping into cover of the wood; almost instantly they coursed
+back again to where we stood, to dart off from us at an angle, in an ecstasy of
+bewilderment and terror.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What has frightened the crazy little things?” asked Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know. They’ve cheek enough sometimes; then they go whining, skelping
+off from a fancy as if they had a snake under their wings.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie however paid small attention to my eloquence. She pushed aside an elder
+bush, which graciously showered down upon her myriad crumbs from its flowers
+like slices of bread, and bathed her in a medicinal scent. I followed her,
+taking my dose, and was startled to hear her sudden, “Oh, Cyril!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the bank before us lay a black cat, both hindpaws torn and bloody in a trap.
+It had no doubt been bounding forward after its prey when it was caught. It was
+gaunt and wild; no wonder it frightened the poor lap-wings into cheeping
+hysteria. It glared at us fiercely, growling low.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How cruel&mdash;oh, how cruel!” cried Lettie, shuddering.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I wrapped my cap and Lettie’s scarf over my hands and bent to open the trap.
+The cat struck with her teeth, tearing the cloth convulsively. When it was
+free, it sprang away with one bound, and fell panting, watching us.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I wrapped the creature in my jacket, and picked her up, murmuring:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poor Mrs. Nickie Ben&mdash;we always prophesied it of you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What will you do with it?” asked Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is one of the Strelley Mill cats,” said I, “and so I’ll take her home.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The poor animal moved and murmured and I carried her, but we brought her home.
+They stared, on seeing me enter the kitchen coatless, carrying a strange
+bundle, while Lettie followed me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I have brought poor Mrs. Nickie Ben,” said I, unfolding my burden.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, what a shame!” cried Emily, putting out her hand to touch the cat, but
+drawing quickly back, like the pee-wits.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“This is how they all go,” said the mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish keepers had to sit two or three days with their bare ankles in a trap,”
+said Mollie in vindictive tones.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We laid the poor brute on the rug, and gave it warm milk. It drank very little,
+being too feeble, Mollie, full of anger, fetched Mr. Nickie Ben, another fine
+black cat, to survey his crippled mate. Mr. Nickie Ben looked, shrugged his
+sleek shoulders, and walked away with high steps. There was a general feminine
+outcry on masculine callousness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George came in for hot water. He exclaimed in surprise on seeing us, and his
+eyes became animated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look at Mrs. Nickie Ben,” cried Mollie. He dropped on his knees on the rug and
+lifted the wounded paws.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Broken,” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How awful!” said Emily, shuddering violently, and leaving the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Both?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Only one&mdash;look!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are hurting her!” cried Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s no good,” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mollie and the mother hurried out of the kitchen into the parlour.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What are you going to do?” asked Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Put her out of her misery,” he replied, taking up the poor cat. We followed
+him into the barn.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The quickest way,” said he, “is to swing her round and knock her head against
+the wall.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You make me sick,” exclaimed Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll drown her then,” he said with a smile. We watched him morbidly, as he
+took a length of twine and fastened a noose round the animal’s neck, and near
+it an iron goose; he kept a long piece of cord attached to the goose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’re not coming, are you?” said he. Lettie looked at him; she had grown
+rather white.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’ll make you sick,” he said. She did not answer, but followed him across the
+yard to the garden. On the bank of the lower mill-pond he turned again to us
+and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now for it!&mdash;you are chief mourners.” As neither of us replied, he
+smiled, and dropped the poor writhing cat into the water, saying, “Good-bye,
+Mrs. Nickie Ben.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We waited on the bank some time. He eyed us curiously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Cyril,” said Lettie quietly, “isn’t it cruel?&mdash;isn’t it awful?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I had nothing to say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you mean me?” asked George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not you in particular&mdash;everything! If we move the blood rises in our
+heel-prints.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at her seriously, with dark eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I had to drown her out of mercy,” said he, fastening the cord he held to an
+ash-pole. Then he went to get a spade, and with it, he dug a grave in the old
+black earth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If,” said he, “the poor old cat had made a prettier corpse, you’d have thrown
+violets on her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He had struck the spade into the ground, and hauled up the cat and the iron
+goose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” he said, surveying the hideous object, “haven’t her good looks gone!
+She was a fine cat.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Bury it and have done,” Lettie replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did so asking: “Shall you have bad dreams after it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dreams do not trouble me,” she answered, turning away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went indoors, into the parlour, where Emily sat by a window, biting her
+finger. The room was long and not very high; there was a great rough beam
+across the ceiling. On the mantel-piece, and in the fireplace, and over the
+piano were wild flowers and fresh leaves plentifully scattered; the room was
+cool with the scent of the woods.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Has he done it?” asked Emily&mdash;“and did you watch him? If I had seen it I
+should have hated the sight of him, and I’d rather have touched a maggot than
+him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shouldn’t be particularly pleased if he touched me,” said Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There is something so loathsome about callousness and brutality,” said Emily.
+“He fills me with disgust.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Does he?” said Lettie, smiling coldly. She went across to the old piano. “He’s
+only healthy. He’s never been sick, not anyway, yet.” She sat down and played
+at random, letting the numbed notes fall like dead leaves from the haughty,
+ancient piano.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily and I talked on by the window, about books and people. She was intensely
+serious, and generally succeeded in reducing me to the same state.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After a while, when the milking and feeding were finished, George came in.
+Lettie was still playing the piano. He asked her why she didn’t play something
+with a tune in it, and this caused her to turn round in her chair to give him a
+withering answer. His appearance, however, scattered her words like startled
+birds. He had come straight from washing in the scullery, to the parlour, and
+he stood behind Lettie’s chair unconcernedly wiping the moisture from his arms.
+His sleeves were rolled up to the shoulder, and his shirt was opened wide at
+the breast. Lettie was somewhat taken aback by the sight of him standing with
+legs apart, dressed in dirty leggings and boots, and breeches torn at the knee,
+naked at the breast and arms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why don’t you play something with a tune in it?” he repeated, rubbing the
+towel over his shoulders beneath the shirt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A tune!” she echoed, watching the swelling of his arms as he moved them, and
+the rise and fall of his breasts, wonderfully solid and white. Then having
+curiously examined the sudden meeting of the sunhot skin with the white flesh
+in his throat, her eyes met his, and she turned again to the piano, while the
+colour grew in her ears, mercifully sheltered by a profusion of bright curls.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What shall I play?” she asked, fingering the keys somewhat confusedly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He dragged out a book of songs from a little heap of music, and set it before
+her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Which do you want to sing?” she asked thrilling a little as she felt his arms
+so near her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Anything you like.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A love song?” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you like&mdash;yes, a love song&mdash;&mdash;” he laughed with clumsy
+insinuation that made the girl writhe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did not answer, but began to play Sullivan’s “Tit Willow.” He had a
+passable bass voice, not of any great depth, and he sang with gusto. Then she
+gave him “Drink to me only with thine eyes.” At the end she turned and asked
+him if he liked the words. He replied that he thought them rather daft. But he
+looked at her with glowing brown eyes, as if in hesitating challenge.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s because you have no wine in your eyes to pledge with,” she replied,
+answering his challenge with a blue blaze of her eyes. Then her eyelashes
+drooped on to her cheek. He laughed with a faint ring of consciousness, and
+asked her how could she know.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because,” she said slowly, looking up at him with pretended scorn, “because
+there’s no change in your eyes when I look at you. I always think people who
+are worth much talk with their eyes. That’s why you are forced to respect many
+quite uneducated people. Their eyes are so eloquent, and full of knowledge.”
+She had continued to look at him as she spoke&mdash;watching his faint
+appreciation of her upturned face, and her hair, where the light was always
+tangled, watching his brief self-examination to see if he could feel any truth
+in her words, watching till he broke into a little laugh which was rather more
+awkward and less satisfied than usual. Then she turned away, smiling also.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s nothing in this book nice to sing,” she said, turning over the leaves
+discontentedly. I found her a volume, and she sang “Should he upbraid.” She had
+a fine soprano voice, and the song delighted him. He moved nearer to her, and
+when at the finish she looked round with a flashing, mischievous air, she found
+him pledging her with wonderful eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You like that,” said she with the air of superior knowledge, as if, dear me,
+all one had to do was to turn over to the right page of the vast volume of
+one’s soul to suit these people.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do,” he answered emphatically, thus acknowledging her triumph.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’d rather ‘dance and sing’ round ‘wrinkled care’ than carefully shut the door
+on him, while I slept in the chimney wouldn’t you?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed, and began to consider what she meant before he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As you do,” she added.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Keep half your senses asleep&mdash;half alive.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do I?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course you do;&mdash;‘bos-bovis; an ox.’ You are like a stalled ox, food
+and comfort, no more. Don’t you love comfort?” she smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you?” he replied, smiling shamefaced.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course. Come and turn over for me while I play this piece. Well, I’ll nod
+when you must turn&mdash;bring a chair.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She began to play a romance of Schubert’s. He leaned nearer to her to take hold
+of the leaf of music; she felt her loose hair touch his face, and turned to him
+a quick, laughing glance, while she played. At the end of the page she nodded,
+but he was oblivious; “Yes!” she said, suddenly impatient, and he tried to get
+the leaf over; she quickly pushed his hand aside, turned the page herself and
+continued playing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sorry!” said he, blushing actually.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t bother,” she said, continuing to play without observing him. When she
+had finished:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There!” she said, “now tell me how you felt while I was playing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;a fool!”&mdash;he replied, covered with confusion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m glad to hear it,” she said&mdash;“but I didn’t mean that. I meant how did
+the music make you feel?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know&mdash;whether&mdash;it made me feel anything,” he replied
+deliberately, pondering over his answer, as usual.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I tell you,” she declared, “you’re either asleep or stupid. Did you really see
+nothing in the music? But what did you think about?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed&mdash;and thought awhile&mdash;and laughed again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why!” he admitted, laughing, and trying to tell the exact truth, “I thought
+how pretty your hands are&mdash;and what they are like to touch&mdash;and I
+thought it was a new experience to feel somebody’s hair tickling my cheek.”
+When he had finished his deliberate account she gave his hand a little knock,
+and left him saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are worse and worse.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She came across the room to the couch where I was sitting talking to Emily, and
+put her arm around my neck.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Isn’t it time to go home, Pat?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Half past eight&mdash;quite early,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I believe&mdash;I think I ought to be home now,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t go,” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Stay to supper,” urged Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I believe&mdash;&mdash;” she hesitated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She has another fish to fry,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am not sure&mdash;&mdash;” she hesitated again. Then she flashed into sudden
+wrath, exclaiming, “Don’t be so mean and nasty, Cyril!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Were you going somewhere?” asked George humbly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why&mdash;no!” she said, blushing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then stay to supper&mdash;will you?” he begged. She laughed, and yielded. We
+went into the kitchen. Mr. Saxton was sitting reading. Trip, the big bull
+terrier, lay at his feet pretending to sleep; Mr. Nickie Ben reposed calmly on
+the sofa; Mrs. Saxton and Mollie were just going to bed. We bade them
+good-night, and sat down. Annie, the servant, had gone home, so Emily prepared
+the supper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nobody can touch that piano like you,” said Mr. Saxton to Lettie, beaming upon
+her with admiration and deference. He was proud of the stately, mumbling old
+thing, and used to say that it was full of music for those that liked to ask
+for it. Lettie laughed, and said that so few folks ever tried it, that her
+honour was not great.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you think of our George’s singing?” asked the father proudly, but with
+a deprecating laugh at the end.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I tell him, when he’s in love he’ll sing quite well,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When he’s in love!” echoed the father, laughing aloud, very pleased.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she said, “when he finds out something he wants and can’t have.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George thought about it, and he laughed also.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily, who was laying the table said, “There is hardly any water in the pippin,
+George.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, dash!” he exclaimed, “I’ve taken my boots off.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s not a very big job to put them on again,” said his sister.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why couldn’t Annie fetch it&mdash;what’s she here for?” he said angrily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily looked at us, tossed her head, and turned her back on him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll go, I’ll go, after supper,” said the father in a comforting tone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“After supper!” laughed Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George got up and shuffled out. He had to go into the spinney near the house to
+a well, and being warm disliked turning out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We had just sat down to supper when Trip rushed barking to the door. “Be
+quiet,” ordered the father, thinking of those in bed, and he followed the dog.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was Leslie. He wanted Lettie to go home with him at once. This she refused
+to do, so he came indoors, and was persuaded to sit down at table. He swallowed
+a morsel of bread and cheese, and a cup of coffee, talking to Lettie of a
+garden party which was going to be arranged at Highclose for the following
+week.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is it for then?” interrupted Mr. Saxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“For?” echoed Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it for the missionaries, or the unemployed, or something?” explained Mr.
+Saxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a garden-party, not a bazaar,” said Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;a private affair. I thought it would be some church matter of your
+mother’s. She’s very big at the church, isn’t she?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is interested in the church&mdash;yes!” said Leslie, then proceeding to
+explain to Lettie that he was arranging a tennis tournament in which she was to
+take part. At this point he became aware that he was monopolising the
+conversation, and turned to George, just as the latter was taking a piece of
+cheese from his knife with his teeth, asking:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you play tennis, Mr. Saxton?&mdash;I know Miss Saxton does not.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” said George, working the piece of cheese into his cheek. “I never learned
+any ladies’ accomplishments.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leslie turned to Emily, who had nervously been pushing two plates over a stain
+in the cloth, and who was very startled when she found herself addressed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My mother would be so glad if you would come to the party, Miss Saxton.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I cannot. I shall be at school. Thanks very much.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah&mdash;it’s very good of you,” said the father, beaming. But George smiled
+contemptuously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When supper was over Leslie looked at Lettie to inform her that he was ready to
+go. She, however, refused to see his look, but talked brightly to Mr. Saxton,
+who was delighted. George, flattered, joined in the talk with gusto. Then
+Leslie’s angry silence began to tell on us all. After a dull lapse, George
+lifted his head and said to his father:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised if that little red heifer calved to-night.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie’s eyes flashed with a sparkle of amusement at this thrust.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” assented the father, “I thought so myself.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After a moment’s silence, George continued deliberately, “I felt her
+gristles&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“George!” said Emily sharply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We will go,” said Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George looked up sideways at Lettie and his black eyes were full of sardonic
+mischief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lend me a shawl, will you, Emily?” said Lettie. “I brought nothing, and I
+think the wind is cold.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily, however, regretted that she had no shawl, and so Lettie must needs wear
+a black coat over her summer dress. It fitted so absurdly that we all laughed,
+but Leslie was very angry that she should appear ludicrous before them. He
+showed her all the polite attentions possible, fastened the neck of her coat
+with his pearl scarf-pin, refusing the pin Emily discovered, after some search.
+Then we sallied forth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we were outside, he offered Lettie his arm with an air of injured dignity.
+She refused it and he began to remonstrate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I consider you ought to have been home as you promised.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pardon me,” she replied, “but I did not promise.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you knew I was coming,” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;you found me,” she retorted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” he assented. “I did find you; flirting with a common fellow,” he
+sneered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” she returned. “He did&mdash;it is true&mdash;call a heifer, a heifer.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And I should think you liked it,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I didn’t mind,” she said, with galling negligence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought your taste was more refined,” he replied sarcastically. “But I
+suppose you thought it romantic.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very! Ruddy, dark, and really thrilling eyes,” said she.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hate to hear a girl talk rot,” said Leslie. He himself had crisp hair of the
+“ginger” class.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I mean it,” she insisted, aggravating his anger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leslie was angry. “I’m glad he amuses you!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course, I’m not hard to please,” she said pointedly. He was stung to the
+quick.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then there’s some comfort in knowing I don’t please you,” he said coldly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! but you do! You amuse me also,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After that he would not speak, preferring, I suppose, <i>not</i> to amuse her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie took my arm, and with her disengaged hand held her skirts above the wet
+grass. When he had left us at the end of the riding in the wood, Lettie said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What an infant he is!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A bit of an ass,” I admitted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But really!” she said, “he’s more agreeable on the whole than&mdash;than my
+Taurus.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Your bull!” I repeated laughing.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III<br/>
+A VENDOR OF VISIONS</h2>
+
+<p>
+The Sunday following Lettie’s visit to the mill, Leslie came up in the morning,
+admirably dressed, and perfected by a grand air. I showed him into the dark
+drawing-room, and left him. Ordinarily he would have wandered to the stairs,
+and sat there calling to Lettie; to-day he was silent. I carried the news of
+his arrival to my sister, who was pinning on her brooch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And how is the dear boy?” she asked. “I have not inquired,” said I. She
+laughed, and loitered about till it was time to set off for church before she
+came downstairs. Then she also assumed the grand air and bowed to him with a
+beautiful bow. He was somewhat taken aback and had nothing to say. She rustled
+across the room to the window, where the white geraniums grew magnificently. “I
+must adorn myself,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was Leslie’s custom to bring her flowers. As he had not done so this day,
+she was piqued. He hated the scent and chalky whiteness of the geraniums. So
+she smiled at him as she pinned them into the bosom of her dress, saying: “They
+are very fine, are they not?” He muttered that they were. Mother came
+downstairs, greeted him warmly, and asked him if he would take her to church.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you will allow me,” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are modest to-day,” laughed mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To-day!” he repeated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hate modesty in a young man,” said mother&mdash;“Come, we shall be late.”
+Lettie wore the geraniums all day&mdash;till evening. She brought Alice Gall
+home to tea, and bade me bring up “Mon Taureau,” when his farm work was over.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The day had been hot and close. The sun was reddening in the west as we leaped
+across the lesser brook. The evening scents began to awake, and wander unseen
+through the still air. An occasional yellow sunbeam would slant through the
+thick roof of leaves and cling passionately to the orange clusters of
+mountain-ash berries. The trees were silent, drawing together to sleep. Only a
+few pink orchids stood palely by the path, looking wistfully out at the ranks
+of red-purple bugle, whose last flowers, glowing from the top of the bronze
+column, yearned darkly for the sun.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We sauntered on in silence, not breaking the first hush of the woodlands. As we
+drew near home we heard a murmur from among the trees, from the lover’s seat,
+where a great tree had fallen and remained mossed and covered with fragile
+growth. There a crooked bough made a beautiful seat for two.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Fancy being in love and making a row in such a twilight,” said I as we
+continued our way. But when we came opposite the fallen tree, we saw no lovers
+there, but a man sleeping, and muttering through his sleep. The cap had fallen
+from his grizzled hair, and his head leaned back against a profusion of the
+little wild geraniums that decorated the dead bough so delicately. The man’s
+clothing was good, but slovenly and neglected. His face was pale and worn with
+sickness and dissipation. As he slept, his grey beard wagged, and his loose
+unlovely mouth moved in indistinct speech. He was acting over again some part
+of his life, and his features twitched during the unnatural sleep. He would
+give a little groan, gruesome to hear and then talk to some woman. His features
+twitched as if with pain, and he moaned slightly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The lips opened in a grimace showing the yellow teeth behind the beard. Then he
+began again talking in his throat, thickly, so that we could only tell part of
+what he said. It was very unpleasant. I wondered how we should end it. Suddenly
+through the gloom of the twilight-haunted woods came the scream of a rabbit
+caught by a weasel. The man awoke with a sharp “Ah!”&mdash;he looked round in
+consternation, then sinking down again wearily, said, “I was dreaming again.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You don’t seem to have nice dreams,” said George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man winced then looking at us said, almost sneering:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And who are you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We did not answer, but waited for him to move. He sat still, looking at us.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So!” he said at last, wearily, “I do dream. I do, I do.” He sighed heavily.
+Then he added, sarcastically: “Were you interested?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” said I. “But you are out of your way surely. Which road did you want?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You want me to clear out,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” I said laughing in deprecation. “I don’t mind your dreaming. But this
+is not the way to anywhere.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where may you be going then?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I? Home,” I replied with dignity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are a Beardsall?” he queried, eyeing me with bloodshot eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am!” I replied with more dignity, wondering who the fellow could be.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat a few moments looking at me. It was getting dark in the wood. Then he
+took up an ebony stick with a gold head, and rose. The stick seemed to catch at
+my imagination. I watched it curiously as we walked with the old man along the
+path to the gate. We went with him into the open road. When we reached the
+clear sky where the light from the west fell full on our faces, he turned again
+and looked at us closely. His mouth opened sharply, as if he would speak, but
+he stopped himself, and only said “Good-bye&mdash;Good-bye.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shall you be all right?” I asked, seeing him totter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;all right&mdash;good-bye, lad.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He walked away feebly into the darkness. We saw the lights of a vehicle on the
+high-road: after a while we heard the bang of a door, and a cab rattled away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;whoever’s he?” said George laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know,” said I, “it’s made me feel a bit rotten.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay?” he laughed, turning up the end of the exclamation with indulgent
+surprise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went back home, deciding to say nothing to the women. They were sitting in
+the window seat watching for us, mother and Alice and Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You <i>have</i> been a long time!” said Lettie. “We’ve watched the sun go
+down&mdash;it set splendidly&mdash;look&mdash;the rim of the hill is
+smouldering yet. What have you been doing?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Waiting till your Taurus finished work.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now be quiet,” she said hastily, and&mdash;turning to him, “You have come to
+sing hymns?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Anything you like,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How nice of you, George!” exclaimed Alice, ironically. She was a short, plump
+girl, pale, with daring, rebellious eyes. Her mother was a Wyld, a family
+famous either for shocking lawlessness, or for extreme uprightness. Alice, with
+an admirable father, and a mother who loved her husband passionately, was wild
+and lawless on the surface, but at heart very upright and amenable. My mother
+and she were fast friends, and Lettie had a good deal of sympathy with her. But
+Lettie generally deplored Alice’s outrageous behaviour, though she relished
+it&mdash;if “superior” friends were not present. Most men enjoyed Alice in
+company, but they fought shy of being alone with her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Would you say the same to me?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It depends what you’d answer,” he said, laughingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, you’re so bloomin’ cautious. I’d rather have a tack in my shoe than a
+cautious man, wouldn’t you Lettie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;it depends how far I had to walk,” was Lettie’s reply&mdash;“but if
+I hadn’t to limp too far&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Alice turned away from Lettie, whom she often found rather irritating.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You do look glum, Sybil,” she said to me, “did somebody want to kiss you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I laughed&mdash;on the wrong side, understanding her malicious feminine
+reference&mdash;and answered:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If they had, I should have looked happy.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dear boy, smile now then,”&mdash;and she tipped me under the chin. I drew
+away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Gum&mdash;we are solemn! What’s the matter with you? Georgy&mdash;say
+something&mdash;else I’s’ll begin to feel nervous.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What shall I say?” he asked, shifting his feet and resting his elbows on his
+knees. “Oh, Lor!” she cried in great impatience. He did not help her, but sat
+clasping his hands, smiling on one side of his face. He was nervous. He looked
+at the pictures, the ornaments, and everything in the room; Lettie got up to
+settle some flowers on the mantel-piece, and he scrutinised her closely. She
+was dressed in some blue foulard stuff, with lace at the throat, and lace cuffs
+to the elbow. She was tall and supple; her hair had a curling fluffiness very
+charming. He was no taller than she, and looked shorter, being strongly built.
+He too had a grace of his own, but not as he sat stiffly on a horse-hair chair.
+She was elegant in her movements.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After a little while mother called us in to supper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come,” said Lettie to him, “take me in to supper.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He rose, feeling very awkward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Give me your arm,” said she to tease him. He did so, and flushed under his
+tan, afraid of her round arm half hidden by lace, which lay among his sleeve.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we were seated she flourished her spoon and asked him what he would have.
+He hesitated, looked at the strange dishes and said he would have some cheese.
+They insisted on his eating new, complicated meats.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sure you like tantafflins, don’t you Georgie?” said Alice, in her mocking
+fashion. He was <i>not</i> sure. He could not analyse the flavours, he felt
+confused and bewildered even through his sense of taste! Alice begged him to
+have salad.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, thanks,” said he. “I don’t like it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, George!” she said, “How <i>can</i> you say so when I’m <i>offering</i> it
+you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;I’ve only had it once,” said he, “and that was when I was working
+with Flint, and he gave us fat bacon and bits of lettuce soaked in
+vinegar&mdash;‘’Ave a bit more salit,’ he kept saying, but I’d had enough.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But all our lettuce,” said Alice with a wink, “is as sweet as a nut, no
+vinegar about our lettuce.” George laughed in much confusion at her pun on my
+sister’s name.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I believe you,” he said, with pompous gallantry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Think of that!” cried Alice. “Our Georgie believes me. Oh, I am so, so
+pleased!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He smiled painfully. His hand was resting on the table, the thumb tucked tight
+under the fingers, his knuckles white as he nervously gripped his thumb. At
+last supper was finished, and he picked up his serviette from the floor and
+began to fold it. Lettie also seemed ill at ease. She had teased him till the
+sense of his awkwardness had become uncomfortable. Now she felt sorry, and a
+trifle repentant, so she went to the piano, as she always did to dispel her
+moods. When she was angry she played tender fragments of Tschaïkowsky, when she
+was miserable, Mozart. Now she played Handel in a manner that suggested the
+plains of heaven in the long notes, and in the little trills as if she were
+waltzing up the ladder of Jacob’s dream like the damsels in Blake’s pictures. I
+often told her she flattered herself scandalously through the piano; but
+generally she pretended not to understand me, and occasionally she surprised me
+by a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. For George’s sake, she played Gounod’s
+“Ave Maria,” knowing that the sentiment of the chant would appeal to him, and
+make him sad, forgetful of the petty evils of this life. I smiled as I watched
+the cheap spell working. When she had finished, her fingers lay motionless for
+a minute on the keys, then she spun round, and looked him straight in the eyes,
+giving promise of a smile. But she glanced down at her knee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are tired of music,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” he replied, shaking his head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Like it better than salad?” she asked with a flash of raillery.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked up at her with a sudden smile, but did not reply. He was not
+handsome; his features were too often in a heavy repose; but when he looked up
+and smiled unexpectedly, he flooded her with an access of tenderness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then you’ll have a little more,” said she, and she turned again to the piano.
+She played soft, wistful morsels, then suddenly broke off in the midst of one
+sentimental plaint, and left the piano, dropping into a low chair by the fire.
+There she sat and looked at him. He was conscious that her eyes were fixed on
+him, but he dared not look back at her, so he pulled his moustache.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are only a boy, after all,” she said to him quietly. Then he turned and
+asked her why.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is a boy that you are,” she repeated, leaning back in her chair, and
+smiling lazily at him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I never thought so,” he replied seriously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Really?” she said, chuckling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” said he, trying to recall his previous impressions.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She laughed heartily, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’re growing up.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Growing up,” she repeated, still laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I’m sure I was never boyish,” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m teaching you,” said she, “and when you’re boyish you’ll be a very decent
+man. A mere man daren’t be a boy for fear of tumbling off his manly dignity,
+and then he’d be a fool, poor thing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed, and sat still to think about it, as was his way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you like pictures?” she asked suddenly, being tired of looking at him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Better than anything,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Except dinner, and a warm hearth and a lazy evening,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at her suddenly, hardening at her insult, and biting his lips at the
+taste of this humiliation. She repented, and smiled her plaintive regret to
+him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll show you some,” she said, rising and going out of the room. He felt he
+was nearer her. She returned, carrying a pile of great books.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Jove&mdash;you’re pretty strong!” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are charming in your compliment,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He glanced at her to see if she were mocking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s the highest you could say of me, isn’t it?” she insisted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it?” he asked, unwilling to compromise himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“For sure,” she answered&mdash;and then, laying the books on the table, “I know
+how a man will compliment me by the way he looks at me”&mdash;she kneeled
+before the fire. “Some look at my hair, some watch the rise and fall of my
+breathing, some look at my neck, and a few,&mdash;not you among
+them,&mdash;look me in the eyes for my thoughts. To you, I’m a fine specimen,
+strong! Pretty strong! You primitive man!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat twisting his fingers; she was very contrary.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Bring your chair up,” she said, sitting down at the table and opening a book.
+She talked to him of each picture, insisting on hearing his opinion. Sometimes
+he disagreed with her and would not be persuaded. At such times she was piqued.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If,” said she, “an ancient Briton in his skins came and contradicted me as you
+do, wouldn’t you tell him not to make an ass of himself?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then you ought to,” she replied. “You know nothing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How is it you ask me then?” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She began to laugh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why&mdash;that’s a pertinent question. I think you might be rather nice, you
+know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thank you,” he said, smiling ironically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh!” she said. “I know, you think you’re perfect, but you’re not, you’re very
+annoying.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” exclaimed Alice, who had entered the room again, dressed ready to
+depart. “He’s so blooming slow! Great whizz! Who wants fellows to carry cold
+dinners? Shouldn’t you like to shake him Lettie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t feel concerned enough,” replied the other calmly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did you ever carry a boiled pudding Georgy?” asked Alice with innocent
+interest, punching me slyly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Me!&mdash;why?&mdash;what makes you ask?” he replied, quite at a loss.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I only wondered if your people needed any indigestion mixture&mdash;pa
+mixes it&mdash;1/1 ½ a bottle.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t see&mdash;&mdash;” he began.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ta&mdash;ta, old boy, I’ll give you time to think about it. Good-night,
+Lettie. Absence makes the heart grow fonder&mdash;Georgy&mdash;of someone else.
+Farewell. Come along, Sybil love, the moon is shining&mdash;Good-night all,
+good-night!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I escorted her home, while they continued to look at the pictures. He was a
+romanticist. He liked Copley, Fielding, Cattermole and Birket Foster; he could
+see nothing whatsoever in Girtin or David Cox. They fell out decidedly over
+George Clausen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But,” said Lettie, “he is a real realist, he makes common things beautiful, he
+sees the mystery and magnificence that envelops us even when we work menially.
+I <i>do</i> know and I <i>can</i> speak. If I hoed in the fields beside
+you&mdash;&mdash;” This was a very new idea for him, almost a shock to his
+imagination, and she talked unheeded. The picture under discussion was a
+water-colour&mdash;“Hoeing” by Clausen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’d be just that colour in the sunset,” she said, thus bringing him back to
+the subject, “and if you looked at the ground you’d find there was a sense of
+warm gold fire in it, and once you’d perceived the colour, it would strengthen
+till you’d see nothing else. You are blind; you are only half-born; you are
+gross with good living and heavy sleeping. You are a piano which will only play
+a dozen common notes. Sunset is nothing to you&mdash;it merely happens
+anywhere. Oh, but you make me feel as if I’d like to make you suffer. If you’d
+ever been sick; if you’d ever been born into a home where there was something
+oppressed you, and you couldn’t understand; if ever you’d believed, or even
+doubted, you might have been a man by now. You never grow up, like bulbs which
+spend all summer getting fat and fleshy, but never wakening the germ of a
+flower. As for me, the flower is born in me, but it wants bringing forth.
+Things don’t flower if they’re overfed. You have to suffer before you blossom
+in this life. When death is just touching a plant, it forces it into a passion
+of flowering. You wonder how I have touched death. You don’t know. There’s
+always a sense of death in this home. I believe my mother hated my father
+before I was born. That was death in her veins for me before I was born. It
+makes a difference&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As he sat listening, his eyes grew wide and his lips were parted, like a child
+who feels the tale but does not understand the words. She, looking away from
+herself at last, saw him, began to laugh gently, and patted his hand saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! my dear heart, are you bewildered? How amiable of you to listen to
+me&mdash;there isn’t any meaning in it all&mdash;there isn’t really!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But,” said he, “why do you say it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, the question!” she laughed. “Let us go back to our muttons, we’re gazing
+at each other like two dazed images.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They turned on, chatting casually, till George suddenly exclaimed, “There!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was Maurice Griffinhagen’s “Idyll.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What of it?” she asked, gradually flushing. She remembered her own enthusiasm
+over the picture.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Wouldn’t it be fine?” he exclaimed, looking at her with glowing eyes, his
+teeth showing white in a smile that was not amusement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” she asked, dropping her head in confusion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That&mdash;a girl like that&mdash;half afraid&mdash;and passion!” He lit up
+curiously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She may well be half afraid, when the barbarian comes out in his glory, skins
+and all.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But don’t you like it?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She shrugged her shoulders, saying, “Make love to the next girl you meet, and
+by the time the poppies redden the field, she’ll hang in your arms. She’ll have
+need to be more than half afraid, won’t she?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She played with the leaves of the book, and did not look at him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But,” he faltered, his eyes glowing, “it would be&mdash;rather&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t, sweet lad, don’t!” she cried laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I shouldn’t&mdash;” he insisted, “I don’t know whether I should like any
+girl I know to&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Precious Sir Galahad,” she said in a mock caressing voice, and stroking his
+cheek with her finger, “You ought to have been a monk&mdash;a martyr, a
+Carthusian.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed, taking no notice. He was breathlessly quivering under the new
+sensation of heavy, unappeased fire in his breast, and in the muscles of his
+arms. He glanced at her bosom and shivered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you studying just how to play the part?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;but&mdash;&mdash;” he tried to look at her, but failed. He shrank,
+laughing, and dropped his head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” she asked with vibrant curiosity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Having become a few degrees calmer, he looked up at her now, his eyes wide and
+vivid with a declaration that made her shrink back as if flame had leaped
+towards her face. She bent down her head and picked at her dress.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Didn’t you know the picture before?” she said, in a low, toneless voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He shut his eyes and shrank with shame.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, I’ve never seen it before,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m surprised,” she said. “It is a very common one.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it?” he answered, and this make-belief conversation fell. She looked up,
+and found his eyes. They gazed at each other for a moment before they hid their
+faces again. It was a torture to each of them to look thus nakedly at the
+other, a dazzled, shrinking pain that they forced themselves to undergo for a
+moment, that they might the moment after tremble with a fierce sensation that
+filled their veins with fluid, fiery electricity. She sought almost in panic,
+for something to say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I believe it’s in Liverpool, the picture,” she contrived to say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He dared not kill this conversation, he was too self-conscious. He forced
+himself to reply, “I didn’t know there was a gallery in Liverpool.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes, a very good one,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Their eyes met in the briefest flash of a glance, then both turned their faces
+aside. Thus averted, one from the other, they made talk. At last she rose,
+gathered the books together, and carried them off. At the door she turned. She
+must steal another keen moment: “Are you admiring my strength?” she asked. Her
+pose was fine. With her head thrown back, the roundness of her throat ran
+finely down to the bosom which swelled above the pile of books held by her
+straight arms. He looked at her. Their lips smiled curiously. She put back her
+throat as if she were drinking. They felt the blood beating madly in their
+necks. Then, suddenly breaking into a slight trembling, she turned round and
+left the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While she was out, he sat twisting his moustache. She came back along the hall
+talking madly to herself in French. Having been much impressed by Sarah
+Bernhardt’s “Dame aux Camelias” and “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” Lettie had caught
+something of the weird tone of this great actress, and her raillery and mockery
+came out in little wild waves. She laughed at him, and at herself, and at men
+in general, and at love in particular. Whatever he said to her, she answered in
+the same mad clatter of French, speaking high and harshly. The sound was
+strange and uncomfortable. There was a painful perplexity in his brow, such as
+I often perceived afterwards, a sense of something hurting, something he could
+not understand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, well, well, well!” she exclaimed at last. “We must be mad sometimes, or
+we should be getting aged, Hein?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish I could understand,” he said plaintively.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poor dear!” she laughed. “How sober he is! And will you really go? They will
+think we’ve given you no supper, you look so sad.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I have supped&mdash;full&mdash;&mdash;” he began, his eyes dancing with a
+smile as he ventured upon a quotation. He was very much excited.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of horrors!” she cried completing it. “Now that is worse than anything I have
+given you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it?” he replied, and they smiled at each other.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Far worse,” she answered. They waited in suspense for some moments. He looked
+at her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand. Her voice was full of insurgent
+tenderness. He looked at her again, his eyes flickering. Then he took her hand.
+She pressed his fingers, holding them a little while. Then ashamed of her
+display of feeling, she looked down. He had a deep cut across his thumb.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a gash!” she exclaimed, shivering, and clinging a little tighter to his
+fingers before she released them. He gave a little laugh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Does it hurt you?” she asked very gently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed again&mdash;“No!” he said softly, as if his thumb were not worthy of
+consideration.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They smiled again at each other, and, with a blind movement, he broke the spell
+and was gone.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV<br/>
+THE FATHER</h2>
+
+<p>
+Autumn set in, and the red dahlias which kept the warm light alive in their
+bosoms so late into the evening died in the night, and the morning had nothing
+but brown balls of rottenness to show.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They called me as I passed the post-office door in Eberwich one evening, and
+they gave me a letter for my mother. The distorted, sprawling handwriting
+perplexed me with a dim uneasiness; I put the letter away, and forgot it. I
+remembered it later in the evening, when I wished to recall something to
+interest my mother. She looked at the handwriting, and began hastily and
+nervously to tear open the envelope; she held it away from her in the light of
+the lamp, and with eyes drawn half closed, tried to scan it. So I found her
+spectacles, but she did not speak her thanks, and her hand trembled. She read
+the short letter quickly; then she sat down, and read it again, and continued
+to look at it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is it mother?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did not answer, but continued staring at the letter. I went up to her, and
+put my hand on her shoulder, feeling very uncomfortable. She took no notice of
+me, beginning to murmur: “Poor Frank&mdash;Poor Frank.” That was my father’s
+name.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But what is it mother?&mdash;tell me what’s the matter!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She turned and looked at me as if I were a stranger; she got up, and began to
+walk about the room; then she left the room, and I heard her go out of the
+house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The letter had fallen on to the floor. I picked it up. The handwriting was very
+broken. The address gave a village some few miles away; the date was three days
+before.
+</p>
+
+<p></p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+“My Dear Lettice:<br/>
+    “You will want to know I am gone. I can hardly last a day or two&mdash;my
+kidneys are nearly gone.<br/>
+    “I came over one day. I didn’t see you, but I saw the girl by the window, and I
+had a few words with the lad. He never knew, and he felt nothing. I think the
+girl might have done. If you knew how awfully lonely I am, Lettice&mdash;how
+awfully I have been, you might feel sorry.<br/>
+    “I have saved what I could, to pay you back. I have had the worst of it
+Lettice, and I’m glad the end has come. I have had the worst of it.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+“Good-bye&mdash;for ever&mdash;your husband,<br/>
+“FRANK BEARDSALL.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was numbed by this letter of my father’s. With almost agonised effort I
+strove to recall him, but I knew that my image of a tall, handsome, dark man
+with pale grey eyes was made up from my mother’s few words, and from a portrait
+I had once seen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The marriage had been unhappy. My father was of frivolous, rather vulgar
+character, but plausible, having a good deal of charm. He was a liar, without
+notion of honesty, and he had deceived my mother thoroughly. One after another
+she discovered his mean dishonesties and deceits, and her soul revolted from
+him, and because the illusion of him had broken into a thousand vulgar
+fragments, she turned away with the scorn of a woman who finds her romance has
+been a trumpery tale. When he left her for other pleasures&mdash;Lettie being a
+baby of three years, while I was five&mdash;she rejoiced bitterly. She had
+heard of him indirectly&mdash;and of him nothing good, although he
+prospered&mdash;but he had never come to see her or written to her in all the
+eighteen years.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a while my mother came in. She sat down, pleating up the hem of her black
+apron, and smoothing it out again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know,” she said, “he had a right to the children, and I’ve kept them all
+the time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He could have come,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I set them against him, I have kept them from him, and he wanted them. I ought
+to be by him now&mdash;I ought to have taken you to him long ago.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But how could you, when you knew nothing of him?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He would have come&mdash;he wanted to come&mdash;I have felt it for years. But
+I kept him away. I know I have kept him away. I have felt it, and he has. Poor
+Frank&mdash;he’ll see his mistakes now. He would not have been as cruel as I
+have been&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay, mother, it is only the shock that makes you say so.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“This makes me know. I have felt in myself a long time that he was suffering; I
+have had the feeling of him in me. I knew, yes, I did know he wanted me, and
+you, I felt it. I have had the feeling of him upon me this last three months
+especially . . . I have been cruel to him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;we’ll go to him now, shall we?” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To-morrow&mdash;to-morrow,” she replied, noticing me really for the first
+time. “I go in the morning.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And I’ll go with you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;in the morning. Lettie has her party to Chatsworth&mdash;don’t tell
+her&mdash;we won’t tell her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Shortly after, my mother went upstairs. Lettie came in rather late from
+Highclose; Leslie did not come in. In the morning they were going with a motor
+party into Matloch and Chatsworth, and she was excited, and did not observe
+anything.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After all, mother and I could not set out until the warm tempered afternoon.
+The air was full of a soft yellowness when we stepped down from the train at
+Cossethay. My mother insisted on walking the long two miles to the village. We
+went slowly along the road, lingering over the little red flowers in the high
+hedge-bottom up the hillside. We were reluctant to come to our destination. As
+we came in sight of the little grey tower of the church, we heard the sound of
+braying, brassy music. Before us, filling a little croft, the Wakes was in full
+swing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Some wooden horses careered gaily round, and the swingboats leaped into the
+mild blue sky. We sat upon the stile, my mother and I, and watched. There were
+booths, and cocoanut shies and round-abouts scattered in the small field.
+Groups of children moved quietly from attraction to attraction. A deeply tanned
+man came across the field swinging two dripping buckets of water. Women looked
+from the doors of their brilliant caravans, and lean dogs rose lazily and
+settled down again under the steps. The fair moved slowly, for all its noise. A
+stout lady, with a husky masculine voice invited the excited children into her
+peep show. A swarthy man stood with his thin legs astride on the platform of
+the roundabouts, and sloping backwards, his mouth distended with a row of
+fingers, he whistled astonishingly to the coarse row of the organ, and his
+whistling sounded clear, like the flight of a wild goose high over the chimney
+tops, as he was carried round and round. A little fat man with an ugly swelling
+on his chest stood screaming from a filthy booth to a crowd of urchins, bidding
+them challenge a big, stolid young man who stood with folded arms, his fists
+pushing out his biceps. On being asked if he would undertake any of these
+prospective challenges, this young man nodded, not having yet attained a
+talking stage:&mdash;yes he would take two at a time, screamed the little fat
+man with the big excrescence on his chest, pointing at the cowering lads and
+girls. Further off, Punch’s quaint voice could be heard when the cocoanut man
+ceased grinding out screeches from his rattle. The cocoanut man was wroth, for
+these youngsters would not risk a penny shy, and the rattle yelled like a
+fiend. A little girl came along to look at us, daintily licking an ice-cream
+sandwich. We were uninteresting, however, so she passed on to stare at the
+caravans.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We had almost gathered courage to cross the wakes, when the cracked bell of the
+church sent its note falling over the babble.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“One&mdash;two&mdash;three”&mdash;had it really sounded three! Then it rang on
+a lower bell&mdash;“One&mdash;two&mdash;three.” A passing bell for a man! I
+looked at my mother&mdash;she turned away from me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The organ flared on&mdash;the husky woman came forward to make another appeal.
+Then there was a lull. The man with the lump on his chest had gone inside the
+rag to spar with the solid fellow. The cocoanut man had gone to the “Three
+Tunns” in fury, and a brazen girl of seventeen or so was in charge of the nuts.
+The horses careered round, carrying two frightened boys.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly the quick, throbbing note of the low bell struck again through the
+din. I listened&mdash;but could not keep count. One, two, three, four&mdash;for
+the third time that great lad had determined to go on the horses, and they had
+started while his foot was on the step, and he had been foiled&mdash;eight,
+nine, ten&mdash;no wonder that whistling man had such a big Adam’s
+apple&mdash;I wondered if it hurt his neck when he talked, being so
+pointed&mdash;nineteen, twenty&mdash;the girl was licking more ice-cream, with
+precious, tiny licks&mdash;twenty-five, twenty-six&mdash;I wondered if I did
+count to twenty-six mechanically. At this point I gave it up, and watched for
+Lord Tennyson’s bald head to come spinning round on the painted rim of the
+round-abouts, followed by a red-faced Lord Roberts, and a villainous looking
+Disraeli.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Fifty-one&mdash;&mdash;” said my mother. “Come&mdash;come along.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We hurried through the fair, towards the church; towards a garden where the
+last red sentinels looked out from the top of the holly-hock spires. The garden
+was a tousled mass of faded pink chrysanthemums, and weak-eyed Michaelmas
+daisies, and spectre stalks of holly-hock. It belonged to a low, dark house,
+which crouched behind a screen of yews. We walked along to the front. The
+blinds were down, and in one room we could see the stale light of candles
+burning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is this Yew Cottage?” asked my mother of a curious lad.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s Mrs. May’s,” replied the boy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Does she live alone?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She ’ad French Carlin&mdash;but he’s dead&mdash;an she’s letten th’ candles
+ter keep th’ owd lad off’n ’im.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went to the house and knocked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“An ye come about him?” hoarsely whispered a bent old woman, looking up with
+very blue eyes, nodding her old head with its velvet net significantly towards
+the inner room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;&mdash;” said my mother, “we had a letter.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay, poor fellow&mdash;he’s gone, missis,” and the old lady shook her head.
+Then she looked at us curiously, leaned forward, and, putting her withered old
+hand on my mother’s arm, her hand with its dark blue veins, she whispered in
+confidence, “and the candles ’as gone out twice. ’E wor a funny feller, very
+funny!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I must come in and settle things&mdash;I am his nearest relative,” said my
+mother, trembling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;I must ’a dozed, for when I looked up, it wor black darkness.
+Missis, I dursn’t sit up wi’ ’im no more, an’ many a one I’ve laid out. Eh, but
+his sufferin’s, Missis&mdash;poor feller&mdash;eh, Missis!”&mdash;she lifted
+her ancient hands, and looked up at my mother, with her eyes so intensely blue.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know where he kept his papers?” asked my mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yis, I axed Father Burns about it; he said we mun pray for ’im. I bought him
+candles out o’ my own pocket. He wor a rum feller, he wor!” and again she shook
+her grey head mournfully. My mother took a step forward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did ye want to see ’im?” asked the old woman with half timid questioning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” replied my mother, with a vigorous nod. She perceived now that the old
+lady was deaf.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We followed the woman into the kitchen, a long, low room, dark, with drawn
+blinds.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sit ye down,” said the old lady in the same low tone, as if she were speaking
+to herself:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ye are his sister, ’appen?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My mother shook her head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;his brother’s wife!” persisted the old lady.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We shook our heads.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Only a cousin?” she guessed, and looked at us appealingly. I nodded assent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sit ye there a minute,” she said, and trotted off. She banged the door, and
+jarred a chair as she went. When she returned, she set down a bottle and two
+glasses with a thump on the table in front of us. Her thin, skinny wrist seemed
+hardly capable of carrying the bottle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s one as he’d only just begun of&mdash;’ave a drop to keep ye up&mdash;do
+now, poor thing,” she said, pushing the bottle to my mother and hurrying off,
+returning with the sugar and the kettle. We refused.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“’E won’t want it no more, poor feller&mdash;an it’s good, Missis, he allers
+drank it good. Ay&mdash;an’ ’e ’adn’t a drop the last three days, poor man,
+poor feller, not a drop. Come now, it’ll stay ye, come now.” We refused.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“’T’s in there,” she whispered, pointing to a closed door in a dark corner of
+the gloomy kitchen. I stumbled up a little step, and went plunging against a
+rickety table on which was a candle in a tall brass candlestick. Over went the
+candle, and it rolled on the floor, and the brass holder fell with much
+clanging.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Eh!&mdash;Eh! Dear&mdash;Lord, Dear&mdash;Heart. Dear&mdash;Heart!” wailed the
+old woman. She hastened trembling round to the other side of the bed, and relit
+the extinguished candle at the taper which was still burning. As she returned,
+the light glowed on her old, wrinkled face, and on the burnished knobs of the
+dark mahogany bedstead, while a stream of wax dripped down on to the floor. By
+the glimmering light of the two tapers we could see the outlined form under the
+counterpane. She turned back the hem and began to make painful wailing sounds.
+My heart was beating heavily, and I felt choked. I did not want to
+look&mdash;but I must. It was the man I had seen in the woods&mdash;with the
+puffiness gone from his face. I felt the great wild pity, and a sense of
+terror, and a sense of horror, and a sense of awful littleness and loneliness
+among a great empty space. I felt beyond myself as if I were a mere fleck
+drifting unconsciously through the dark. Then I felt my mother’s arm round my
+shoulders, and she cried pitifully, “Oh, my son, my son!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I shivered, and came back to myself. There were no tears in my mother’s face,
+only a great pleading. “Never mind, mother&mdash;never mind,” I said
+incoherently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She rose and covered the face again, and went round to the old lady, and held
+her still, and stayed her little wailings. The woman wiped from her cheeks the
+few tears of old age, and pushed her grey hair smooth under the velvet network.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where are all his things?” asked mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Eh?” said the old lady, lifting up her ear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are all his things here?” repeated mother in a louder tone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here?”&mdash;the woman waved her hand round the room. It contained the great
+mahogany bedstead naked of hangings, a desk, and an oak chest, and two or three
+mahogany chairs. “I couldn’t get him upstairs; he’s only been here about a
+three week.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where’s the key to the desk?” said my mother loudly in the woman’s ear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she replied&mdash;“it’s his desk.” She looked at us, perplexed and
+doubtful, fearing she had misunderstood us. This was dreadful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Key!” I shouted. “Where is the key?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her old face was full of trouble as she shook her head. I took it that she did
+not know.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where are his clothes? <i>Clothes</i>” I repeated pointing to my coat. She
+understood, and muttered, “I’ll fetch ’em ye.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We should have followed her as she hurried upstairs through a door near the
+head of the bed, had we not heard a heavy footstep in the kitchen, and a voice
+saying: “Is the old lady going to drink with the Devil? Hullo, Mrs. May, come
+and drink with me!” We heard the tinkle of the liquor poured into a glass, and
+almost immediately the light tap of the empty tumbler on the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll see what the old girl’s up to,” he said, and the heavy tread came towards
+us. Like me, he stumbled at the little step, but escaped collision with the
+table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Damn that fool’s step,” he said heartily. It was the doctor&mdash;for he kept
+his hat on his head, and did not hesitate to stroll about the house. He was a
+big, burly, red-faced man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I beg your pardon,” he said, observing my mother. My mother bowed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mrs. Beardsall?” he asked, taking off his hat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My mother bowed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I posted a letter to you. You are a relative of his&mdash;of poor old
+Carlin’s?”&mdash;he nodded sideways towards the bed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The nearest,” said my mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poor fellow&mdash;he was a bit stranded. Comes of being a bachelor, Ma’am.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I was very much surprised to hear from him,” said my mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, I guess he’s not been much of a one for writing to his friends. He’s had
+a bad time lately. You have to pay some time or other. We bring them on
+ourselves&mdash;silly devils as we are.&mdash;I beg your pardon.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a moment of silence, during which the doctor sighed, and then began
+to whistle softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;we might be more comfortable if we had the blind up,” he said,
+letting daylight in among the glimmer of the tapers as he spoke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“At any rate,” he said, “you won’t have any trouble settling up&mdash;no debts
+or anything of that. I believe there’s a bit to leave&mdash;so it’s not so bad.
+Poor devil&mdash;he was very down at the last; but we have to pay at one end or
+the other. What on earth is the old girl after?” he asked, looking up at the
+raftered ceiling, which was rumbling and thundering with the old lady’s violent
+rummaging.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We wanted the key of his desk,” said my mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;I can find you that&mdash;and the will. He told me where they were,
+and to give them you when you came. He seemed to think a lot of you. Perhaps he
+might ha’ done better for himself&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here we heard the heavy tread of the old lady coming downstairs. The doctor
+went to the foot of the stairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hello, now&mdash;be careful!” he bawled. The poor old woman did as he
+expected, and trod on the braces of the trousers she was trailing, and came
+crashing into his arms. He set her tenderly down, saying, “Not hurt, are
+you?&mdash;no!” and he smiled at her and shook his head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Eh, doctor&mdash;Eh, doctor&mdash;bless ye, I’m thankful ye’ve come. Ye’ll see
+to ’em now, will ye?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;” he nodded in his bluff, winning way, and hurrying into the
+kitchen, he mixed her a glass of whisky, and brought one for himself, saying to
+her, “There you are&mdash;’twas a nasty shaking for you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The poor old woman sat in a chair by the open door of the staircase, the pile
+of clothing tumbled about her feet. She looked round pitifully at us and at the
+daylight struggling among the candle light, making a ghostly gleam on the bed
+where the rigid figure lay unmoved; her hand trembled so that she could
+scarcely hold her glass.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The doctor gave us the keys, and we rifled the desk and the drawers, sorting
+out all the papers. The doctor sat sipping and talking to us all the time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” he said, “he’s only been here about two years. Felt himself beginning to
+break up then, I think. He’d been a long time abroad; they always called him
+Frenchy.” The doctor sipped and reflected, and sipped again, “Ay&mdash;he’d run
+the rig in his day&mdash;used to dream dreadfully. Good thing the old woman was
+so deaf. Awful, when a man gives himself away in his sleep; played the deuce
+with him, knowing it.” Sip, sip, sip&mdash;and more reflections&mdash;and
+another glass to be mixed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But he was a jolly decent fellow&mdash;generous, open-handed. The folks didn’t
+like him, because they couldn’t get to the bottom of him; they always hate a
+thing they can’t fathom. He was close, there’s no mistake&mdash;save when he
+was asleep sometimes.” The doctor looked at his glass and sighed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“However&mdash;we shall miss him&mdash;shan’t we, Mrs. May?” he bawled
+suddenly, startling us, making us glance at the bed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He lit his pipe and puffed voluminously in order to obscure the attraction of
+his glass. Meanwhile we examined the papers. There were very few
+letters&mdash;one or two addressed to Paris. There were many bills, and
+receipts, and notes&mdash;business, all business.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was hardly a trace of sentiment among all the litter. My mother sorted
+out such papers as she considered valuable; the others, letters and missives
+which she glanced at cursorily and put aside, she took into the kitchen and
+burned. She seemed afraid to find out too much.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The doctor continued to colour his tobacco smoke with a few pensive words.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay,” he said, “there are two ways. You can burn your lamp with a big draught,
+and it’ll flare away, till the oil’s gone, then it’ll stink and smoke itself
+out. Or you can keep it trim on the kitchen table, dirty your fingers
+occasionally trimming it up, and it’ll last a long time, and sink out mildly.”
+Here he turned to his glass, and finding it empty, was awakened to reality.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Anything I can do, Madam?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, thank you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay, I don’t suppose there’s much to settle. Nor many tears to shed&mdash;when
+a fellow spends his years an’ his prime on the Lord knows who, you can’t expect
+those that remember him young to feel his loss too keenly. He’d had his fling
+in his day, though, ma’am. Ay&mdash;must ha’ had some rich times. No lasting
+satisfaction in it though&mdash;always wanting, craving. There’s nothing like
+marrying&mdash;you’ve got your dish before you then, and you’ve got to eat it.”
+He lapsed again into reflection, from which he did not rouse till we had locked
+up the desk, burned the useless papers, put the others into my pockets and the
+black bag, and were standing ready to depart. Then the doctor looked up
+suddenly and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But what about the funeral?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then he noticed the weariness of my mother’s look, and he jumped up, and
+quickly seized his hat, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come across to my wife and have a cup of tea. Buried in these dam holes a
+fellow gets such a boor. Do come&mdash;my little wife is lonely&mdash;come just
+to see her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My mother smiled and thanked him. We turned to go. My mother hesitated in her
+walk; on the threshold of the room she glanced round at the bed, but she went
+on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Outside, in the fresh air of the fading afternoon, I could not believe it was
+true. It was not true, that sad, colourless face with grey beard, wavering in
+the yellow candle-light. It was a lie,&mdash;that wooden bedstead, that deaf
+woman, they were fading phrases of the untruth. That yellow blaze of little
+sunflowers was true, and the shadow from the sun-dial on the warm old
+almshouses&mdash;that was real. The heavy afternoon sunlight came round us warm
+and reviving; we shivered, and the untruth went out of our veins, and we were
+no longer chilled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The doctor’s house stood sweetly among the beech trees, and at the iron fence
+in front of the little lawn a woman was talking to a beautiful Jersey cow that
+pushed its dark nose through the fence from the field beyond. She was a little,
+dark woman with vivid colouring; she rubbed the nose of the delicate animal,
+peeped right into the dark eyes, and talked in a lovable Scottish speech;
+talked as a mother talks softly to her child.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When she turned round in surprise to greet us there was still the softness of a
+rich affection in her eyes. She gave us tea, and scones, and apply jelly, and
+all the time we listened with delight to her voice, which was musical as bees
+humming in the lime trees. Though she said nothing significant we listened to
+her attentively.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her husband was merry and kind. She glanced at him with quick glances of
+apprehension, and her eyes avoided him. He, in his merry, frank way, chaffed
+her, and praised her extravagantly, and teased her again. Then he became a
+trifle uneasy. I think she was afraid he had been drinking; I think she was
+shaken with horror when she found him tipsy, and bewildered and terrified when
+she saw him drunk. They had no children. I noticed he ceased to joke when she
+became a little constrained. He glanced at her often, and looked somewhat
+pitiful when she avoided his looks, and he grew uneasy, and I could see he
+wanted to go away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I had better go with you to see the vicar, then,” he said to me, and we left
+the room, whose windows looked south, over the meadows, the room where dainty
+little water-colours, and beautiful bits of embroidery, and empty flower vases,
+and two dirty novels from the town library, and the closed piano, and the odd
+cups, and the chipped spout of the teapot causing stains on the cloth&mdash;all
+told one story.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went to the joiner’s and ordered the coffin, and the doctor had a glass of
+whisky on it; the graveyard fees were paid, and the doctor sealed the
+engagement with a drop of brandy; the vicar’s port completed the doctor’s
+joviality, and we went home.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This time the disquiet in the little woman’s dark eyes could not dispel the
+doctor’s merriment. He rattled away, and she nervously twisted her wedding
+ring. He insisted on driving us to the station, in spite of our alarm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you will be quite safe with him,” said his wife, in her caressing Highland
+speech. When she shook hands at parting I noticed the hardness of the little
+palm;&mdash;and I have always hated an old, black alpaca dress.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is such a long way home from the station at Eberwich. We rode part way in
+the bus; then we walked. It is a very long way for my mother, when her steps
+are heavy with trouble.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Rebecca was out by the rhododendrons looking for us. She hurried to us all
+solicitous, and asked mother if she had had tea.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you’ll do with another cup,” she said, and ran back into the house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She came into the dining-room to take my mother’s bonnet and coat. She wanted
+us to talk; she was distressed on my mother’s behalf; she noticed the blackness
+that lay under her eyes, and she fidgeted about, unwilling to ask anything, yet
+uneasy and anxious to know.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lettie has been home,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And gone back again?” asked mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She only came to change her dress. She put the green poplin on. She wondered
+where you’d gone.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What did you tell her?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I said you’d just gone out a bit. She said she was glad. She was as lively as
+a squirrel.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Rebecca looked wistfully at my mother. At length the latter said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’s dead, Rebecca. I have seen him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now thank God for that&mdash;no more need to worry over him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well!&mdash;He died all alone, Rebecca&mdash;all alone.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He died as you’ve lived,” said Becky with some asperity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I’ve had the children, I’ve had the children&mdash;we won’t tell Lettie,
+Rebecca.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No ’m.” Rebecca left the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You and Lettie will have the money,” said mother to me. There was a sum of
+four thousand pounds or so. It was left to my mother; or, in default to Lettie
+and me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, mother&mdash;if it’s ours, it’s yours.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was silence for some minutes, then she said, “You might have had a
+father&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We’re thankful we hadn’t, mother. You spared us that.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But how can you tell?” said my mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can,” I replied. “And I am thankful to you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If ever you feel scorn for one who is near you rising in your throat, try and
+be generous, my lad.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;&mdash;” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she replied, “we’ll say no more. Sometime you must tell Lettie&mdash;you
+tell her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I did tell her, a week or so afterwards.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who knows?” she asked, her face hardening.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother, Becky, and ourselves.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nobody else?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then it’s a good thing he is out of the way if he was such a nuisance to
+mother. Where is she?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Upstairs.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie ran to her.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V<br/>
+THE SCENT OF BLOOD</h2>
+
+<p>
+The death of the man who was our father changed our lives. It was not that we
+suffered a great grief; the chief trouble was the unanswered crying of failure.
+But we were changed in our feelings and in our relations; there was a new
+consciousness, a new carefulness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We had lived between the woods and the water all our lives, Lettie and I, and
+she had sought the bright notes in everything. She seemed to hear the water
+laughing, and the leaves tittering and giggling like young girls; the aspen
+fluttered like the draperies of a flirt, and the sound of the wood-pigeons was
+almost foolish in its sentimentality.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lately, however, she had noticed again the cruel pitiful crying of a hedgehog
+caught in a gin, and she had noticed the traps for the fierce little murderers,
+traps walled in with a small fence of fir, and baited with the guts of a killed
+rabbit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On an afternoon a short time after our visit to Cossethay, Lettie sat in the
+window seat. The sun clung to her hair, and kissed her with passionate splashes
+of colour brought from the vermilion, dying creeper outside. The sun loved
+Lettie, and was loath to leave her. She looked out over Nethermere to
+Highclose, vague in the September mist. Had it not been for the scarlet light
+on her face, I should have thought her look was sad and serious. She nestled up
+to the window, and leaned her head against the wooden shaft. Gradually she
+drooped into sleep. Then she became wonderfully childish again&mdash;it was the
+girl of seventeen sleeping there, with her full pouting lips slightly apart,
+and the breath coming lightly. I felt the old feeling of responsibility; I must
+protect her, and take care of her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a crunch of the gravel. It was Leslie coming. He lifted his hat to
+her, thinking she was looking. He had that fine, lithe physique, suggestive of
+much animal vigour; his person was exceedingly attractive; one watched him move
+about, and felt pleasure. His face was less pleasing than his person. He was
+not handsome; his eyebrows were too light, his nose was large and ugly, and his
+forehead, though high and fair, was without dignity. But he had a frank,
+good-natured expression, and a fine, wholesome laugh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He wondered why she did not move. As he came nearer he saw. Then he winked at
+me and came in. He tiptoed across the room to look at her. The sweet
+carelessness of her attitude, the appealing, half-pitiful girlishness of her
+face touched his responsive heart, and he leaned forward and kissed her cheek
+where already was a crimson stain of sunshine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She roused half out of her sleep with a little, petulant “Oh!” as an awakened
+child. He sat down behind her, and gently drew her head against him, looking
+down at her with a tender, soothing smile. I thought she was going to fall
+asleep thus. But her eyelids quivered, and her eyes beneath them flickered into
+consciousness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Leslie!&mdash;oh!&mdash;Let me go!” she exclaimed, pushing him away. He loosed
+her, and rose, looking at her reproachfully. She shook her dress, and went
+quickly to the mirror to arrange her hair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are mean!” she exclaimed, looking very flushed, vexed, and dishevelled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed indulgently, saying, “You shouldn’t go to sleep then and look so
+pretty. Who could help?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is not nice!” she said, frowning with irritation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We are not ‘nice’&mdash;are we? I thought we were proud of our
+unconventionality. Why shouldn’t I kiss you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because it is a question of me, not of you alone.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dear me, you <i>are</i> in a way!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother is coming.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is she? You had better tell her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mother was very fond of Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, sir,” she said, “why are you frowning?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He broke into a laugh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lettie is scolding me for kissing her when she was playing ‘Sleeping Beauty.’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The conceit of the boy, to play Prince!” said my mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, but it appears I was sadly out of character,” he said ruefully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie laughed and forgave him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” he said, looking at her and smiling, “I came to ask you to go out.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is a lovely afternoon,” said mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She glanced at him, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I feel dreadfully lazy.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Never mind!” he replied, “you’ll wake up. Go and put your hat on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sounded impatient. She looked at him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He seemed to be smiling peculiarly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She lowered her eyes and went out of the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She’ll come all right,” he said to himself, and to me. “She likes to play you
+on a string.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She must have heard him. When she came in again, drawing on her gloves, she
+said quietly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You come as well, Pat.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He swung round and stared at her in angry amazement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I had rather stay and finish this sketch,” I said, feeling uncomfortable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, but do come, there’s a dear.” She took the brush from my hand, and drew me
+from my chair. The blood flushed into his cheeks. He went quietly into the hall
+and brought my cap.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All right!” he said angrily. “Women like to fancy themselves Napoleons.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They do, dear Iron Duke, they do,” she mocked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yet, there’s a Waterloo in all their histories,” he said, since she had
+supplied him with the idea.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Say Peterloo, my general, say Peterloo.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay, Peterloo,” he replied, with a splendid curl of the lip&mdash;“Easy
+conquests!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘He came, he saw, he conquered,’” Lettie recited.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you coming?” he said, getting more angry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When you bid me,” she replied, taking my arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went through the wood, and through the dishevelled border-land to the high
+road, through the border-land that should have been park-like, but which was
+shaggy with loose grass and yellow mole-hills, ragged with gorse and bramble
+and briar, with wandering old thorn-trees, and a queer clump of Scotch firs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the highway the leaves were falling, and they chattered under our steps. The
+water was mild and blue, and the corn stood drowsily in “stook.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We climbed the hill behind Highclose, and walked on along the upland, looking
+across towards the hills of arid Derbyshire, and seeing them not, because it
+was autumn. We came in sight of the head-stocks of the pit at Selsby, and of
+the ugly village standing blank and naked on the brow of the hill.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie was in very high spirits. She laughed and joked continually. She picked
+bunches of hips and stuck them in her dress. Having got a thorn in her finger
+from a spray of blackberries, she went to Leslie to have it squeezed out. We
+were all quite gay as we turned off the high road and went along the bridle
+path, with the woods on our right, the high Strelley hills shutting in our
+small valley in front, and the fields and the common to the left. About half
+way down the lane we heard the slurr of the scythestone on the scythe. Lettie
+went to the hedge to see. It was George mowing the oats on the steep hillside
+where the machine could not go. His father was tying up the corn into sheaves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Straightening his back, Mr. Saxton saw us, and called to us to come and help.
+We pushed through a gap in the hedge and went up to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now then,” said the father to me, “take that coat off,” and to Lettie: “Have
+you brought us a drink? No;&mdash;come, that sounds bad! Going a walk I guess.
+You see what it is to get fat,” and he pulled a wry face as he bent over to tie
+the corn. He was a man beautifully ruddy and burly, in the prime of life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Show me, I’ll do some,” said Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay,” he answered gently, “it would scratch your wrists and break your stays.
+Hark at my hands”&mdash;he rubbed them together&mdash;“like sandpaper!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George had his back to us, and had not noticed us. He continued to mow. Leslie
+watched him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s a fine movement!” he exclaimed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” replied the father, rising very red in the face from the tying, “and our
+George enjoys a bit o’ mowing. It puts you in fine condition when you get over
+the first stiffness.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We moved across to the standing corn. The sun being mild, George had thrown off
+his hat, and his black hair was moist and twisted into confused half-curls.
+Firmly planted, he swung with a beautiful rhythm from the waist. On the hip of
+his belted breeches hung the scythestone; his shirt, faded almost white, was
+torn just above the belt, and showed the muscles of his back playing like
+lights upon the white sand of a brook. There was something exceedingly
+attractive in the rhythmic body.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I spoke to him, and he turned round. He looked straight at Lettie with a
+flashing, betraying smile. He was remarkably handsome. He tried to say some
+words of greeting, then he bent down and gathered an armful of corn, and
+deliberately bound it up.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Like him, Lettie had found nothing to say. Leslie, however, remarked:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should think mowing is a nice exercise.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is,” he replied, and continued, as Leslie picked up the scythe, “but it
+will make you sweat, and your hands will be sore.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leslie tossed his head a little, threw off his coat, and said briefly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How do you do it?” Without waiting for a reply he proceeded. George said
+nothing, but turned to Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are picturesque,” she said, a trifle awkwardly, “Quite fit for an Idyll.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you?” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She shrugged her shoulders, laughed, and turned to pick up a scarlet pimpernel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How do you bind the corn?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He took some long straws, cleaned them, and showed her the way to hold them.
+Instead of attending, she looked at his hands, big, hard, inflamed by the
+snaith of the scythe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t think I could do it,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” he replied quietly, and watched Leslie mowing. The latter who was
+wonderfully ready at everything, was doing fairly well, but he had not the
+invincible sweep of the other, nor did he make the same crisp crunching music.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I bet he’ll sweat,” said George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you?” she replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A bit&mdash;but I’m not dressed up.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know,” she said suddenly, “your arms tempt me to touch them. They are
+such a fine brown colour, and they look so hard.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He held out one arm to her. She hesitated, then she swiftly put her finger tips
+on the smooth brown muscle, and drew them along. Quickly she hid her hand into
+the folds of her skirt, blushing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed a low, quiet laugh, at once pleasant and startling to hear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish I could work here,” she said, looking away at the standing corn, and
+the dim blue woods. He followed her look, and laughed quietly, with indulgent
+resignation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do!” she said emphatically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You feel so fine,” he said, pushing his hand through his open shirt front, and
+gently rubbing the muscles of his side. “It’s a pleasure to work or to stand
+still. It’s a pleasure to yourself&mdash;your own physique.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked at him, full at his physical beauty, as if he were some great firm
+bud of life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leslie came up, wiping his brow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Jove,” said he, “I do perspire.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George picked up his coat and helped him into it; saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You may take a chill.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a jolly nice form of exercise,” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George, who had been feeling one finger tip, now took out his pen-knife and
+proceeded to dig a thorn from his hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a hide you must have,” said Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie said nothing, but she recoiled slightly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The father, glad of an excuse to straighten his back and to chat, came to us.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’d soon had enough,” he said, laughing to Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George startled us with a sudden, “Holloa.” We turned, and saw a rabbit, which
+had burst from the corn, go coursing through the hedge, dodging and bounding
+the sheaves. The standing corn was a patch along the hill-side some fifty paces
+in length, and ten or so in width.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I didn’t think there’d have been any in,” said the father, picking up a short
+rake, and going to the low wall of the corn. We all followed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Watch!” said the father, “if you see the heads of the corn shake!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We prowled round the patch of corn.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hold! Look out!” shouted the father excitedly, and immediately after a rabbit
+broke from the cover.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay&mdash;Ay&mdash;Ay,” was the shout, “turn him&mdash;turn him!” We set off
+full pelt. The bewildered little brute, scared by Leslie’s wild running and
+crying, turned from its course, and dodged across the hill, threading its
+terrified course through the maze of lying sheaves, spurting on in a painful
+zigzag, now bounding over an untied bundle of corn, now swerving from the sound
+of a shout. The little wretch was hard pressed; George rushed upon it. It
+darted into some fallen corn, but he had seen it, and had fallen on it. In an
+instant he was up again, and the little creature was dangling from his hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We returned, panting, sweating, our eyes flashing, to the edge of the standing
+corn. I heard Lettie calling, and turning round saw Emily and the two children
+entering the field as they passed from school.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s another!” shouted Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I saw the oat-tops quiver. “Here! Here!” I yelled. The animal leaped out, and
+made for the hedge. George and Leslie, who were on that side, dashed off,
+turned him, and he coursed back our way. I headed him off to the father who
+swept in pursuit for a short distance, but who was too heavy for the work. The
+little beast made towards the gate, but this time Mollie, with her hat in her
+hand and her hair flying, whirled upon him, and she and the little fragile lad
+sent him back again. The rabbit was getting tired. It dodged the sheaves badly,
+running towards the top hedge. I went after it. If I could have let myself fall
+on it I could have caught it, but this was impossible to me, and I merely
+prevented its dashing through the hole into safety. It raced along the hedge
+bottom. George tore after it. As he was upon it, it darted into the hedge. He
+fell flat, and shot his hand into the gap. But it had escaped. He lay there,
+panting in great sobs, and looking at me with eyes in which excitement and
+exhaustion struggled like flickering light and darkness. When he could speak,
+he said, “Why didn’t you fall on top of it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I couldn’t,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We returned again. The two children were peering into the thick corn also. We
+thought there was nothing more. George began to mow. As I walked round I caught
+sight of a rabbit skulking near the bottom corner of the patch. Its ears lay
+pressed against its back; I could see the palpitation of the heart under the
+brown fur, and I could see the shining dark eyes looking at me. I felt no pity
+for it, but still I could not actually hurt it. I beckoned to the father. He
+ran up, and aimed a blow with the rake. There was a sharp little cry which sent
+a hot pain through me as if I had been cut. But the rabbit ran out, and
+instantly I forgot the cry, and gave pursuit, fairly feeling my fingers stiffen
+to choke it. It was all lame. Leslie was upon it in a moment, and he almost
+pulled its head off in his excitement to kill it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I looked up. The girls were at the gate, just turning away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There are no more,” said the father.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At that instant Mary shouted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s one down this hole.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The hole was too small for George to get his hand in, so we dug it out with the
+rake handle. The stick went savagely down the hole, and there came a squeak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mice!” said George, and as he said it the mother slid out. Somebody knocked
+her on the back, and the hole was opened out. Little mice seemed to swarm
+everywhere. It was like killing insects. We counted nine little ones lying
+dead.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poor brute,” said George, looking at the mother, “What a job she must have had
+rearing that lot!” He picked her up, handled her curiously and with pity. Then
+he said, “Well, I may as well finish this to-night!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His father took another scythe from off the hedge, and together they soon laid
+the proud, quivering heads low. Leslie and I tied up as they mowed, and soon
+all was finished.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The beautiful day was flushing to die. Over in the west the mist was gathering
+bluer. The intense stillness was broken by the rhythmic hum of the engines at
+the distant coal-mine, as they drew up the last bantles of men. As we walked
+across the fields the tubes of stubble tinkled like dulcimers. The scent of the
+corn began to rise gently. The last cry of the pheasants came from the wood,
+and the little clouds of birds were gone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I carried a scythe, and we walked, pleasantly weary, down the hill towards the
+farm. The children had gone home with the rabbits.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we reached the mill, we found the girls just rising from the table. Emily
+began to carry away the used pots, and to set clean ones for us. She merely
+glanced at us and said her formal greeting. Lettie picked up a book that lay in
+the ingle seat, and went to the window. George dropped into a chair. He had
+flung off his coat, and had pushed back his hair. He rested his great brown
+arms on the table and was silent for a moment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Running like that,” he said to me, passing his hand over his eyes, “makes you
+more tired than a whole day’s work. I don’t think I shall do it again.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The sport’s exciting while it lasts,” said Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It does you more harm than the rabbits do us good,” said Mrs. Saxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I don’t know, mother,” drawled her son, “it’s a couple of shillings.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And a couple of days off your life.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What be that!” he replied, taking a piece of bread and butter, and biting a
+large piece from it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pour us a drop of tea,” he said to Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know that I shall wait on such brutes,” she replied, relenting, and
+flourishing the teapot.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh,” said he, taking another piece of bread and butter, “I’m not all alone in
+my savageness this time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Men are all brutes,” said Lettie, hotly, without looking up from her book.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You can tame us,” said Leslie, in mighty good humour.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did not reply. George began, in that deliberate voice that so annoyed
+Emily:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It does make you mad, though, to touch the fur, and not be able to grab
+him”&mdash;he laughed quietly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily moved off in disgust. Lettie opened her mouth sharply to speak, but
+remained silent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” said Leslie. “When it comes to killing it goes against the
+stomach.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you can run,” said George, “you should be able to run to death. When your
+blood’s up, you don’t hang half way.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think a man is horrible,” said Lettie, “who can tear the head off a little
+mite of a thing like a rabbit, after running it in torture over a field.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When he is nothing but a barbarian to begin with&mdash;&mdash;” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you began to run yourself&mdash;you’d be the same,” said George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, women are cruel enough,” said Leslie, with a glance at Lettie. “Yes,” he
+continued, “they’re cruel enough in their way”&mdash;another look, and a
+comical little smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” said George, “what’s the good finicking! If you feel like doing a
+thing&mdash;you’d better do it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Unless you haven’t courage,” said Emily, bitingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked up at her with dark eyes, suddenly full of anger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But,” said Lettie&mdash;she could not hold herself from asking, “Don’t you
+think it’s brutal, now&mdash;that you <i>do</i> think&mdash;isn’t it degrading
+and mean to run the poor little things down?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Perhaps it is,” he replied, “but it wasn’t an hour ago.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You have no feeling,” she said bitterly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed deprecatingly, but said nothing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We finished tea in silence, Lettie reading, Emily moving about the house.
+George got up and went out at the end. A moment or two after we heard him
+across the yard with the milk-buckets, singing “The Ash Grove.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He doesn’t care a scrap for anything,” said Emily with accumulated bitterness.
+Lettie looked out of the window across the yard, thinking. She looked very
+glum.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After a while we went out also, before the light faded altogether from the
+pond. Emily took us into the lower garden to get some ripe plums. The old
+garden was very low. The soil was black. The cornbind and goosegrass were
+clutching at the ancient gooseberry bushes, which sprawled by the paths. The
+garden was not very productive, save of weeds, and perhaps, tremendous lank
+artichokes or swollen marrows. But at the bottom, where the end of the farm
+buildings rose high and grey, there was a plum-tree which had been crucified to
+the wall, and which had broken away and leaned forward from bondage. Now under
+the boughs were hidden great mist-bloomed, crimson treasures, splendid globes.
+I shook the old, ragged trunk, green, with even the fresh gum dulled over, and
+the treasures fell heavily, thudding down among the immense rhubarb leaves
+below. The girls laughed, and we divided the spoil, and turned back to the
+yard. We went down to the edge of the garden, which skirted the bottom pond, a
+pool chained in a heavy growth of weeds. It was moving with rats, the father
+had said. The rushes were thick below us; opposite, the great bank fronted us,
+with orchard trees climbing it like a hillside. The lower pond received the
+overflow from the upper by a tunnel from the deep black sluice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two rats ran into the black culvert at our approach. We sat on some piled,
+mossy stones to watch. The rats came out again, ran a little way, stopped, ran
+again, listened, were reassured, and slid about freely, dragging their long
+naked tails. Soon six or seven grey beasts were playing round the mouth of the
+culvert, in the gloom. They sat and wiped their sharp faces, stroking their
+whiskers. Then one would give a little rush and a little squirm of excitement
+and would jump vertically into the air, alighting on four feet, running,
+sliding into the black shadow. One dropped with an ugly plop into the water,
+and swam toward us, the hoary imp, his sharp snout and his wicked little eyes
+moving at us. Lettie shuddered. I threw a stone into the dead pool, and
+frightened them all. But we had frightened ourselves more, so we hurried away,
+and stamped our feet in relief on the free pavement of the yard.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leslie was looking for us. He had been inspecting the yard and the stock under
+Mr. Saxton’s supervision.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Were you running away from me?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” she replied. “I have been to fetch you a plum. Look!” And she showed him
+two in a leaf.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They are too pretty to eat!” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You have not tasted yet,” she laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come,” he said, offering her his arm. “Let us go up to the water.” She took
+his arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a splendid evening, with the light all thick and yellow lying on the
+smooth pond. Lettie made him lift her on to a leaning bough of willow. He sat
+with his head resting against her skirts. Emily and I moved on. We heard him
+murmur something, and her voice reply, gently, caressingly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;let us be still&mdash;it is all so still&mdash;I love it best of all
+now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily and I talked, sitting at the base of the alders, a little way on. After
+an excitement, and in the evening, especially in autumn, one is inclined to be
+sad and sentimental. We had forgotten that the darkness was weaving. I heard in
+the little distance Leslie’s voice begin to murmur like a flying beetle that
+comes not too near. Then, away down in the yard George began singing the old
+song, “I sowed the seeds of love.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This interrupted the flight of Leslie’s voice, and as the singing came nearer,
+the hum of low words ceased. We went forward to meet George. Leslie sat up,
+clasping his knees, and did not speak. George came near, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The moon is going to rise.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me get down,” said Lettie, lifting her hands to him to help her. He,
+mistaking her wish, put his hands under her arms, and set her gently down, as
+one would a child. Leslie got up quickly, and seemed to hold himself separate,
+resenting the intrusion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought you were all four together,” said George quietly. Lettie turned
+quickly at the apology:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So we were. So we are&mdash;five now. Is it there the moon will rise?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;I like to see it come over the wood. It lifts slowly up to stare at
+you. I always think it wants to know something, and I always think I have
+something to answer, only I don’t know what it is,” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Where the sky was pale in the east over the rim of wood came the forehead of
+the yellow moon. We stood and watched in silence. Then, as the great disc,
+nearly full, lifted and looked straight upon us, we were washed off our feet in
+a vague sea of moonlight. We stood with the light like water on our faces.
+Lettie was glad, a little bit exalted; Emily was passionately troubled; her
+lips were parted, almost beseeching; Leslie was frowning, oblivious, and George
+was thinking, and the terrible, immense moonbeams braided through his feeling.
+At length Leslie said softly, mistakenly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come along, dear”&mdash;and he took her arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She let him lead her along the bank of the pond, and across the plank over the
+sluice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know,” she said, as we were carefully descending the steep bank of the
+orchard, “I feel as if I wanted to laugh, or dance&mdash;something rather
+outrageous.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Surely not like that <i>now</i>,” Leslie replied in a low voice, feeling
+really hurt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do though! I will race you to the bottom.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, no, dear!” He held her back. When he came to the wicket leading on to the
+front lawns, he said something to her softly, as he held the gate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I think he wanted to utter his half finished proposal, and so bind her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She broke free, and, observing the long lawn which lay in grey shadow between
+the eastern and western glows, she cried:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Polka!&mdash;a polka&mdash;one can dance a polka when the grass is smooth and
+short&mdash;even if there are some fallen leaves. Yes, yes&mdash;how jolly!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She held out her hand to Leslie, but it was too great a shock to his mood. So
+she called to me, and there was a shade of anxiety in her voice, lest after all
+she should be caught in the toils of the night’s sentiment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pat&mdash;you’ll dance with me&mdash;Leslie hates a polka.” I danced with her.
+I do not know the time when I could not polka&mdash;it seems innate in one’s
+feet, to dance that dance. We went flying round, hissing through the dead
+leaves. The night, the low hung yellow moon, the pallor of the west, the blue
+cloud of evening overhead went round and through the fantastic branches of the
+old laburnum, spinning a little madness. You cannot tire Lettie; her feet are
+wings that beat the air. When at last I stayed her she laughed as fresh as
+ever, as she bound her hair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There!” she said to Leslie, in tones of extreme satisfaction, “that was
+lovely. Do you come and dance now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not a polka,” said he, sadly, feeling the poetry in his heart insulted by the
+jigging measure.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But one cannot dance anything else on wet grass, and through shuffling dead
+leaves. You, George?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Emily says I jump,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on&mdash;come on”&mdash;and in a moment they were bounding across the
+grass. After a few steps she fell in with him, and they spun round the grass.
+It was true, he leaped, sprang with large strides, carrying her with him. It
+was a tremendous, irresistible dancing. Emily and I must join, making an inner
+ring. Now and again there was a sense of something white flying near, and wild
+rustle of draperies, and a swish of disturbed leaves as they whirled past us.
+Long after we were tired they danced on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the end, he looked big, erect, nerved with triumph, and she was exhilarated
+like a Bacchante.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you finished?” Leslie asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She knew she was safe from his question that day.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she panted. “You should have danced. Give me my hat, please. Do I look
+very disgraceful?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He took her hat and gave it to her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Disgraceful?” he repeated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, you <i>are</i> solemn to-night! What is it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, what is it?” he repeated ironically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It must be the moon. Now, is my hat straight? Tell me now&mdash;you’re not
+looking. Then put it level. Now then! Why, your hands are quite cold, and mine
+so hot! I feel so impish,” and she laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There&mdash;now I’m ready. Do you notice those little chrysanthemums trying to
+smell sadly; when the old moon is laughing and winking through those boughs.
+What business have they with their sadness!” She took a handful of petals and
+flung them into the air: “There&mdash;if they sigh they ask for sorrow&mdash;I
+like things to wink and look wild.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI<br/>
+THE EDUCATION OF GEORGE</h2>
+
+<p>
+As I have said, Strelley Mill lies at the north end of the long Nethermere
+valley. On the northern slopes lay its pasture and arable lands. The shaggy
+common, now closed and part of the estate, covered the western slope, and the
+cultivated land was bounded on the east by the sharp dip of the brook course, a
+thread of woodland broadening into a spinney and ending at the upper pond;
+beyond this, on the east, rose the sharp, wild, grassy hillside, scattered with
+old trees, ruinous with the gaunt, ragged bones of old hedge-rows, grown into
+thorn trees. Along the rim of the hills, beginning in the northwest, were dark
+woodlands, which swept round east and south till they raced down in riot to the
+very edge of southern Nethermere, surrounding our house. From the eastern hill
+crest, looking straight across, you could see the spire of Selsby Church, and a
+few roofs, and the head-stocks of the pit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So on three sides the farm was skirted by woods, the dens of rabbits, and the
+common held another warren.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now the squire of the estate, head of an ancient, once even famous, but now
+decayed house, loved his rabbits. Unlike the family fortunes, the family tree
+flourished amazingly; Sherwood could show nothing comparable. Its ramifications
+were stupendous; it was more like a banyan than a British oak. How was the good
+squire to nourish himself and his lady, his name, his tradition, and his
+thirteen lusty branches on his meagre estates? An evil fortune discovered to
+him that he could sell each of his rabbits, those bits of furry vermin, for a
+shilling or thereabouts in Nottingham; since which time the noble family
+subsisted by rabbits.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Farms were gnawed away; corn and sweet grass departed from the face of the
+hills; cattle grew lean, unable to eat the defiled herbage. Then the farm
+became the home of a keeper, and the country was silent, with no sound of
+cattle, no clink of horses, no barking of lusty dogs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But the squire loved his rabbits. He defended them against the snares of the
+despairing farmer, protected them with gun and notices to quit. How he glowed
+with thankfulness as he saw the dishevelled hillside heave when the gnawing
+hosts moved on!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are they not quails and manna?” said he to his sporting guest, early one
+Monday morning, as the high meadow broke into life at the sound of his gun.
+“Quails and manna&mdash;in this wilderness?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They are, by Jove!” assented the sporting guest as he took another gun, while
+the saturnine keeper smiled grimly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meanwhile, Strelley Mill began to suffer under this gangrene. It was the
+outpost in the wilderness. It was an understood thing that none of the squire’s
+tenants had a gun.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” said the squire to Mr. Saxton, “you have the land for next to
+nothing&mdash;next to nothing&mdash;at a rent really absurd. Surely the little
+that the rabbits eat&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s not a little&mdash;come and look for yourself,” replied the farmer. The
+squire made a gesture of impatience.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What <i>do</i> you want?” he inquired.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will you wire me off?” was the repeated request.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Wire is&mdash;what does Halkett say&mdash;so much per yard&mdash;and it would
+come to&mdash;what did Halkett tell me now?&mdash;but a large sum. No, I can’t
+do it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I can’t live like this.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have another glass of whisky? Yes, yes, I want another glass myself, and I
+can’t drink alone&mdash;so if I am to enjoy my glass.&mdash;That’s it! Now
+surely you exaggerate a little. It’s not so bad.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t go on like it, I’m sure.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, we’ll see about compensation&mdash;we’ll see. I’ll have a talk with
+Halkett, and I’ll come down and have a look at you. We all find a pinch
+somewhere&mdash;it’s nothing but humanity’s heritage.”
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+I was born in September, and love it best of all the months. There is no heat,
+no hurry, no thirst and weariness in corn harvest as there is in the hay. If
+the season is late, as is usual with us, then mid-September sees the corn still
+standing in stook. The mornings come slowly. The earth is like a woman married
+and fading; she does not leap up with a laugh for the first fresh kiss of dawn,
+but slowly, quietly, unexpectantly lies watching the waking of each new day.
+The blue mist, like memory in the eyes of a neglected wife, never goes from the
+wooded hill, and only at noon creeps from the near hedges. There is no bird to
+put a song in the throat of morning; only the crow’s voice speaks during the
+day. Perhaps there is the regular breathing hush of the scythe&mdash;even the
+fretful jar of the mowing machine. But next day, in the morning, all is still
+again. The lying corn is wet, and when you have bound it, and lift the heavy
+sheaf to make the stook, the tresses of oats wreathe round each other and droop
+mournfully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I worked with my friend through the still mornings we talked endlessly. I
+would give him the gist of what I knew of chemistry, and botany, and
+psychology. Day after day I told him what the professors had told me; of life,
+of sex and its origins; of Schopenhauer and William James. We had been friends
+for years, and he was accustomed to my talk. But this autumn fruited the first
+crop of intimacy between us. I talked a great deal of poetry to him, and of
+rudimentary metaphysics. He was very good stuff. He had hardly a single dogma,
+save that of pleasing himself. Religion was nothing to him. So he heard all I
+had to say with an open mind, and understood the drift of things very rapidly,
+and quickly made these ideas part of himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We tramped down to dinner with only the clinging warmth of the sunshine for a
+coat. In this still, enfolding weather a quiet companionship is very grateful.
+Autumn creeps through everything. The little damsons in the pudding taste of
+September, and are fragrant with memory. The voices of those at table are
+softer and more reminiscent than at haytime.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Afternoon is all warm and golden. Oat sheaves are lighter; they whisper to each
+other as they freely embrace. The long, stout stubble tinkles as the foot
+brushes over it; the scent of the straw is sweet. When the poor, bleached
+sheaves are lifted out of the hedge, a spray of nodding wild raspberries is
+disclosed, with belated berries ready to drop; among the damp grass lush
+blackberries may be discovered. Then one notices that the last bell hangs from
+the ragged spire of fox-glove. The talk is of people, an odd book; of one’s
+hopes&mdash;and the future; of Canada, where work is strenuous, but not life;
+where the plains are wide, and one is not lapped in a soft valley, like an
+apple that falls in a secluded orchard. The mist steals over the face of the
+warm afternoon. The tying-up is all finished, and it only remains to rear up
+the fallen bundles into shocks. The sun sinks into a golden glow in the west.
+The gold turns to red, the red darkens, like a fire burning low, the sun
+disappears behind the bank of milky mist, purple like the pale bloom on blue
+plums, and we put on our coats and go home. </p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+In the evening, when the milking was finished, and all the things fed, then we
+went out to look at the snares. We wandered on across the stream and up the
+wild hillside. Our feet rattled through black patches of devil’s-bit scabius;
+we skirted a swim of thistle-down, which glistened when the moon touched it. We
+stumbled on through wet, coarse grass, over soft mole-hills and black
+rabbit-holes. The hills and woods cast shadows; the pools of mist in the
+valleys gathered the moonbeams in cold, shivery light.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We came to an old farm that stood on the level brow of the hill. The woods
+swept away from it, leaving a great clearing of what was once cultivated land.
+The handsome chimneys of the house, silhouetted against a light sky, drew my
+admiration. I noticed that there was no light or glow in any window, though the
+house had only the width of one room, and though the night was only at eight
+o’clock. We looked at the long, impressive front. Several of the windows had
+been bricked in, giving a pitiful impression of blindness; the places where the
+plaster had fallen off the walls showed blacker in the shadow. We pushed open
+the gate, and as we walked down the path, weeds and dead plants brushed our
+ankles. We looked in at a window. The room was lighted also by a window from
+the other side, through which the moonlight streamed on to the flagged floor,
+dirty, littered with paper, and wisps of straw. The hearth lay in the light,
+with all its distress of grey ashes, and piled cinders of burnt paper, and a
+child’s headless doll, charred and pitiful. On the border-line of shadow lay a
+round fur cap&mdash;a game-keeper’s cap. I blamed the moonlight for entering
+the desolate room; the darkness alone was decent and reticent. I hated the
+little roses on the illuminated piece of wallpaper, I hated that fireside.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With farmer’s instinct George turned to the outhouse. The cow-yard startled me.
+It was a forest of the tallest nettles I have ever seen&mdash;nettles far
+taller than my six feet. The air was soddened with the dank scent of nettles.
+As I followed George along the obscure brick path, I felt my flesh creep. But
+the buildings, when we entered them, were in splendid condition; they had been
+restored within a small number of years; they were well-timbered, neat, and
+cosy. Here and there we saw feathers, bits of animal wreckage, even the
+remnants of a cat, which we hastily examined by the light of a match. As we
+entered the stable there was an ugly noise, and three great rats half rushed at
+us and threatened us with their vicious teeth. I shuddered, and hurried back,
+stumbling over a bucket, rotten with rust, and so filled with weeds that I
+thought it part of the jungle. There was a silence made horrible by the faint
+noises that rats and flying bats give out. The place was bare of any vestige of
+corn or straw or hay, only choked with a growth of abnormal weeds. When I found
+myself free in the orchard I could not stop shivering. There were no apples to
+be seen overhead between us and the clear sky. Either the birds had caused them
+to fall, when the rabbits had devoured them, or someone had gathered the crop.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“This,” said George bitterly, “is what the mill will come to.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“After your time,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My time&mdash;my time. I shall never have a time. And I shouldn’t be surprised
+if father’s time isn’t short&mdash;with rabbits and one thing and another. As
+it is, we depend on the milk-round, and on the carting which I do for the
+council. You can’t call it farming. We’re a miserable mixture of farmer,
+milkman, greengrocer, and carting contractor. It’s a shabby business.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You have to live,” I retorted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;but it’s rotten. And father won’t move&mdash;and he won’t change his
+methods.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;what about you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Me! What should I change for?&mdash;I’m comfortable at home. As for my future,
+it can look after itself, so long as nobody depends on me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Laissez faire,” said I, smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“This is no laissez faire,” he replied, glancing round, “this is pulling the
+nipple out of your lips, and letting the milk run away sour. Look there!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Through the thin veil of moonlit mist that slid over the hillside we could see
+an army of rabbits bunched up, or hopping a few paces forward, feeding.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We set off at a swinging pace down the hill, scattering the hosts. As we
+approached the fence that bounded the Mill fields, he exclaimed,
+“Hullo!”&mdash;and hurried forward. I followed him, and observed the dark
+figure of a man rise from the hedge. It was a game-keeper. He pretended to be
+examining his gun. As we came up he greeted us with a calm “Good-evenin’!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George replied by investigating the little gap in the hedge.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll trouble you for that snare,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will yer?” answered Annable, a broad, burly, black-faced fellow. “An’ <i>I</i>
+should like ter know what you’re doin’ on th’ wrong side th’ ’edge?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You can see what we’re doing&mdash;hand over my snare&mdash;<i>and</i> the
+rabbit,” said George angrily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What rabbit?” said Annable, turning sarcastically to me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know well enough&mdash;an’ you can hand it over&mdash;or&mdash;&mdash;”
+George replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Or what? Spit it out! The sound won’t kill me”&mdash;the man grinned with
+contempt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hand over here!” said George, stepping up to the man in a rage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now don’t!” said the keeper, standing stock still, and looking unmovedly at
+the proximity of George:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’d better get off home&mdash;both you an’ ’im. You’ll get neither snare nor
+rabbit&mdash;see!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We <i>will</i> see!” said George, and he made a sudden move to get hold of the
+man’s coat. Instantly he went staggering back with a heavy blow under the left
+ear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Damn brute!” I ejaculated, bruising my knuckles against the fellow’s jaw. Then
+I too found myself sitting dazedly on the grass, watching the great skirts of
+his velveteens flinging round him as if he had been a demon, as he strode away.
+I got up, pressing my chest where I had been struck. George was lying in the
+hedge-bottom. I turned him over, and rubbed his temples, and shook the drenched
+grass on his face. He opened his eyes and looked at me, dazed. Then he drew his
+breath quickly, and put his hand to his head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He&mdash;he nearly stunned me,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The devil!” I answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wasn’t ready.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did he knock me down?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay&mdash;me too.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was silent for some time, sitting limply. Then he pressed his hand against
+the back of his head, saying, “My head does sing!” He tried to get up, but
+failed. “Good God!&mdash;being knocked into this state by a damned keeper!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on,” I said, “let’s see if we can’t get indoors.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!” he said quickly, “we needn’t tell them&mdash;don’t let them know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I sat thinking of the pain in my own chest, and wishing I could remember
+hearing Annable’s jaw smash, and wishing that my knuckles were more bruised
+than they were&mdash;though that was bad enough. I got up, and helped George to
+rise. He swayed, almost pulling me over. But in a while he could walk unevenly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Am I,” he said, “covered with clay and stuff?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not much,” I replied, troubled by the shame and confusion with which he spoke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Get it off,” he said, standing still to be cleaned.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I did my best. Then we walked about the fields for a time, gloomy, silent, and
+sore.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly, as we went by the pond-side, we were startled by great, swishing
+black shadows that swept just above our heads. The swans were flying up for
+shelter, now that a cold wind had begun to fret Nethermere. They swung down on
+to the glassy mill-pond, shaking the moonlight in flecks across the deep
+shadows; the night rang with the clacking of their wings on the water; the
+stillness and calm were broken; the moonlight was furrowed and scattered, and
+broken. The swans, as they sailed into shadow, were dim, haunting spectres; the
+wind found us shivering.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t&mdash;you won’t say anything?” he asked as I was leaving him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nothing at all&mdash;not to anybody?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-night.”
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+About the end of September, our countryside was alarmed by the harrying of
+sheep by strange dogs. One morning, the squire, going the round of his fields
+as was his custom, to his grief and horror found two of his sheep torn and dead
+in the hedge-bottom, and the rest huddled in a corner swaying about in terror,
+smeared with blood. The squire did not recover his spirits for days.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a report of two grey wolvish dogs. The squire’s keeper had heard
+yelping in the fields of Dr. Collins of the Abbey, about dawn. Three sheep lay
+soaked in blood when the labourer went to tend the flocks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then the farmers took alarm. Lord, of the White House farm, intended to put his
+sheep in pen, with his dogs in charge. It was Saturday, however, and the lads
+ran off to the little travelling theatre that had halted at Westwold. While
+they sat open-mouthed in the theatre, gloriously nicknamed the “Blood-Tub,”
+watching heroes die with much writhing and heaving, and struggling up to say a
+word, and collapsing without having said it, six of their silly sheep were
+slaughtered in the field. At every house it was enquired of the dog; nowhere
+had one been loose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Saxton had some thirty sheep on the Common. George determined that the
+easiest thing was for him to sleep out with them. He built a shelter of hurdles
+interlaced with brushwood, and in the sunny afternoon we collected piles of
+bracken, browning to the ruddy winter-brown now. He slept there for a week, but
+that week aged his mother like a year. She was out in the cold morning twilight
+watching, with her apron over her head, for his approach. She did not rest with
+the thought of him out on the Common.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Therefore, on Saturday night he brought down his rugs, and took up Gyp to watch
+in his stead. For some time we sat looking at the stars over the dark hills.
+Now and then a sheep coughed, or a rabbit rustled beneath the brambles, and Gyp
+whined. The mist crept over the gorse-bushes, and the webs on the brambles were
+white;&mdash;the devil throws his net over the blackberries as soon as
+September’s back is turned, they say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I saw two fellows go by with bags and nets,” said George, as we sat looking
+out of his little shelter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poachers,” said I. “Did you speak to them?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;they didn’t see me. I was dropping asleep when a rabbit rushed under
+the blanket, all of a shiver, and a whippet dog after it. I gave the whippet a
+punch in the neck, and he yelped off. The rabbit stopped with me quite a long
+time&mdash;then it went.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How did you feel?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I didn’t care. I don’t care much what happens just now. Father could get along
+without me, and mother has the children. I think I shall emigrate.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why didn’t you before?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I don’t know. There are a lot of little comforts and interests at home
+that one would miss. Besides, you feel somebody in your own countryside, and
+you’re nothing in a foreign part, I expect.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you’re going?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is there to stop here for? The valley is all running wild and
+unprofitable. You’ve no freedom for thinking of what the other folks think of
+you, and everything round you keeps the same, and so you can’t change
+yourself&mdash;because everything you look at brings up the same old feeling,
+and stops you from feeling fresh things. And what is there that’s worth
+anything?&mdash;What’s worth having in my life?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought,” said I, “your comfort was worth having.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat still and did not answer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What’s shaken you out of your nest?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know. I’ve not felt the same since that row with Annable. And Lettie
+said to me: ‘Here, you can’t live as you like&mdash;in any way or circumstance.
+You’re like a bit out of those coloured marble mosaics in the hall, you have to
+fit in your own set, fit into your own pattern, because you’re put there from
+the first. But you don’t want to be like a fixed bit of a mosaic&mdash;you want
+to fuse into life, and melt and mix with the rest of folk, to have some things
+burned out of you&mdash;&mdash;’ She was downright serious.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, you need not believe her. When did you see her?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She came down on Wednesday, when I was getting the apples in the morning. She
+climbed a tree with me, and there was a wind, that was why I was getting all
+the apples, and it rocked us, me right up at the top, she sitting half way down
+holding the basket. I asked her didn’t she think that free kind of life was the
+best, and that was how she answered me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You should have contradicted her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It seemed true. I never thought of it being wrong, in fact.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come&mdash;that sounds bad.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;I thought she looked down on us&mdash;on our way of life. I thought
+she meant I was like a toad in a hole.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You should have shown her different.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How could I when I could see no different?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It strikes me you’re in love.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed at the idea, saying, “No, but it is rotten to find that there isn’t
+a single thing you have to be proud of.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“This is a new tune for you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He pulled the grass moodily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And when do you think of going?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;I don’t know&mdash;I’ve said nothing to mother. Not yet,&mdash;at any
+rate not till spring.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not till something has happened,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Something decisive.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know what can happen&mdash;unless the Squire turns us out.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No?” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You should make things happen,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t make me feel a worse fool, Cyril,” he replied despairingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Gyp whined and jumped, tugging her chain to follow us. The grey blurs among the
+blackness of the bushes were resting sheep. A chill, dim mist crept along the
+ground.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But, for all that, Cyril,” he said, “to have her laugh at you across the
+table; to hear her sing as she moved about, before you are washed at night,
+when the fire’s warm, and you’re tired; to have her sit by you on the hearth
+seat, close and soft. . . .”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“In Spain,” I said. “In Spain.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He took no notice, but turned suddenly, laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know, when I was stooking up, lifting the sheaves, it felt like having
+your arm round a girl. It was quite a sudden sensation.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’d better take care,” said I, “you’ll mesh yourself in the silk of dreams,
+and then&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed, not having heard my words.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The time seems to go like lightning&mdash;thinking” he confessed&mdash;“I seem
+to sweep the mornings up in a handful.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Lord!” said I. “Why don’t you scheme forgetting what you want, instead of
+dreaming fulfilments?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” he replied. “If it was a fine dream, wouldn’t you want to go on
+dreaming?” and with that he finished, and I went home.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I sat at my window looking out, trying to get things straight. Mist rose, and
+wreathed round Nethermere, like ghosts meeting and embracing sadly. I thought
+of the time when my friend should not follow the harrow on our own snug valley
+side, and when Lettie’s room next mine should be closed to hide its emptiness,
+not its joy. My heart clung passionately to the hollow which held us all; how
+could I bear that it should be desolate! I wondered what Lettie would do.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the morning I was up early, when daybreak came with a shiver through the
+woods. I went out, while the moon still shone sickly in the west. The world
+shrank from the morning. It was then that the last of the summer things died.
+The wood was dark,&mdash;and smelt damp and heavy with autumn. On the paths the
+leaves lay clogged.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I came near the farm I heard the yelling of dogs. Running, I reached the
+Common, and saw the sheep huddled and scattered in groups, something leaped
+round them. George burst into sight pursuing. Directly, there was the bang,
+bang of a gun. I picked up a heavy piece of sandstone and ran forwards. Three
+sheep scattered wildly before me. In the dim light I saw their grey shadows
+move among the gorse bushes. Then a dog leaped, and I flung my stone with all
+my might. I hit. There came a high-pitched howling yelp of pain; I saw the
+brute make off, and went after him, dodging the prickly bushes, leaping the
+trailing brambles. The gunshots rang out again, and I heard the men shouting
+with excitement. My dog was out of sight, but I followed still, slanting down
+the hill. In a field ahead I saw someone running. Leaping the low hedge, I
+pursued, and overtook Emily, who was hurrying as fast as she could through the
+wet grass. There was another gunshot and great shouting. Emily glanced round,
+saw me, and started.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s gone to the quarries,” she panted. We walked on, without saying a word.
+Skirting the spinney, we followed the brook course, and came at last to the
+quarry fence. The old excavations were filled now with trees. The steep walls,
+twenty feet deep in places, were packed with loose stones, and trailed with
+hanging brambles. We climbed down the steep bank of the brook, and entered the
+quarries by the bed of the stream. Under the groves of ash and oak a pale
+primrose still lingered, glimmering wanly beside the hidden water. Emily found
+a smear of blood on a beautiful trail of yellow convolvulus. We followed the
+tracks on to the open, where the brook flowed on the hard rock bed, and the
+stony floor of the quarry was only a tangle of gorse and bramble and
+honeysuckle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Take a good stone,” said I, and we pressed on, where the grove in the great
+excavation darkened again, and the brook slid secretly under the arms of the
+bushes and the hair of the long grass. We beat the cover almost to the road. I
+thought the brute had escaped, and I pulled a bunch of mountain-ash berries,
+and stood tapping them against my knee. I was startled by a snarl and a little
+scream. Running forward, I came upon one of the old, horse-shoe lime kilns that
+stood at the head of the quarry. There, in the mouth of one of the kilns, Emily
+was kneeling on the dog, her hands buried in the hair of its throat, pushing
+back its head. The little jerks of the brute’s body were the spasms of death;
+already the eyes were turning inward, and the upper lip was drawn from the
+teeth by pain.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good Lord, Emily! But he is dead!” exclaimed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Has he hurt you?” I drew her away. She shuddered violently, and seemed to feel
+a horror of herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;no,” she said, looking at herself, with blood all on her skirt, where
+she had knelt on the wound which I had given the dog, and pressed the broken
+rib into the chest. There was a trickle of blood on her arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did he bite you?” I asked, anxious.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;oh, no&mdash;I just peeped in, and he jumped. But he had no strength,
+and I hit him back with my stone, and I lost my balance, and fell on him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me wash your arm.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh!” she exclaimed, “isn’t it horrible! Oh, I think it is so awful.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” said I, busy bathing her arm in the cold water of the brook.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“This&mdash;this whole brutal affair.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It ought to be cauterised,” said I, looking at a score on her arm from the
+dog’s tooth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That scratch&mdash;that’s nothing! Can you get that off my skirt&mdash;I feel
+hateful to myself.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I washed her skirt with my handkerchief as well as I could, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me just sear it for you; we can go to the Kennels. Do&mdash;you
+ought&mdash;I don’t feel safe otherwise.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Really,” she said, glancing up at me, a smile coming into her fine dark eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;come along.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ha, ha!” she laughed. “You look so serious.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I took her arm and drew her away. She linked her arm in mine and leaned on me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is just like Lorna Doone,” she said as if she enjoyed it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you will let me do it,” said I, referring to the cauterising.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You make me; but I shall feel&mdash;ugh, I daren’t think of it. Get me some of
+those berries.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I plucked a few bunches of guelder-rose fruits, transparent, ruby berries. She
+stroked them softly against her lips and cheek, caressing them. Then she
+murmured to herself:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I have always wanted to put red berries in my hair.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The shawl she had been wearing was thrown across her shoulders, and her head
+was bare, and her black hair, soft and short and ecstatic, tumbled wildly into
+loose light curls. She thrust the stalks of the berries under her combs. Her
+hair was not heavy or long enough to have held them. Then, with the ruby
+bunches glowing through the black mist of curls, she looked up at me, brightly,
+with wide eyes. I looked at her, and felt the smile winning into her eyes. Then
+I turned and dragged a trail of golden-leaved convolvulus from the hedge, and I
+twisted it into a coronet for her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There!” said I, “you’re crowned.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She put back her head, and the low laughter shook in her throat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What!” she asked, putting all the courage and recklessness she had into the
+question, and in her soul trembling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not Chloë, not Bacchante. You have always got your soul in your eyes, such an
+earnest, troublesome soul.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The laughter faded at once, and her great seriousness looked out again at me,
+pleading.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are like Burne-Jones’ damsels. Troublesome shadows are always crowding
+across your eyes, and you cherish them. You think the flesh of the apple is
+nothing, nothing. You only care for the eternal pips. Why don’t you snatch your
+apple and eat it, and throw the core away?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked at me sadly, not understanding, but believing that I in my wisdom
+spoke truth, as she always believed when I lost her in a maze of words. She
+stooped down, and the chaplet fell from her hair, and only one bunch of berries
+remained. The ground around us was strewn with the four-lipped burrs of
+beechnuts, and the quaint little nut-pyramids were scattered among the ruddy
+fallen leaves. Emily gathered a few nuts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I love beechnuts,” she said, “but they make me long for my childhood again
+till I could almost cry out. To go out for beechnuts before breakfast; to
+thread them for necklaces before supper;&mdash;to be the envy of the others at
+school next day! There was as much pleasure in a beech necklace then as there
+is in the whole autumn now&mdash;and no sadness. There are no more unmixed joys
+after you have grown up.” She kept her face to the ground as she spoke, and she
+continued to gather the fruits.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you find any with nuts in?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not many&mdash;here&mdash;here are two, three. You have them. No&mdash;I don’t
+care about them.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I stripped one of its horny brown coat and gave it to her. She opened her mouth
+slightly to take it, looking up into my eyes. Some people, instead of bringing
+with them clouds of glory, trail clouds of sorrow; they are born with “the gift
+of sorrow”; “sorrows” they proclaim “alone are real. The veiled grey angels of
+sorrow work out slowly the beautiful shapes. Sorrow is beauty, and the supreme
+blessedness.” You read it in their eyes, and in the tones of their voices.
+Emily had the gift of sorrow. It fascinated me, but it drove me to rebellion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We followed the soft, smooth-bitten turf road under the old beeches. The
+hillside fell away, dishevelled with thistles and coarse grass. Soon we were in
+sight of the Kennels, the red old Kennels which had been the scene of so much
+animation in the time of Lord Byron. They were empty now, overgrown with weeds.
+The barred windows of the cottages were grey with dust; there was no need now
+to protect the windows from cattle, dog or man. One of the three houses was
+inhabited. Clear water trickled through a wooden runnel into a great stone
+trough outside near the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come here,” said I to Emily. “Let me fasten the back of your dress.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it undone?” she asked, looking quickly over her shoulder, and blushing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I was engaged in my task, a girl came out of the cottage with a black kettle
+and a tea-cup. She was so surprised to see me thus occupied that she forgot her
+own duty, and stood open-mouthed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“S’r Ann! S’r Ann,” called a voice from inside. “Are ter goin’ ter come in an’
+shut that door?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sarah Ann hastily poured a few cupfuls of water into the kettle, then she put
+down both utensils and stood holding her bare arms to warm them. Her chief
+garment consisted of a skirt with grey bodice and red flannel skirt, very much
+torn. Her black hair hung in wild tails on to her shoulders.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We must go in here,” said I, approaching the girl. She, however, hastily
+seized the kettle and ran indoors with an “Oh, mother!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A woman came to the door. One breast was bare, and hung over her blouse, which,
+like a dressing-jacket, fell loose over her skirt. Her fading, red-brown hair
+was all frowsy from the bed. In the folds of her skirt clung a swarthy urchin
+with a shockingly short shirt. He stared at us with big black eyes, the only
+portion of his face undecorated with egg and jam. The woman’s blue eyes
+questioned us languidly. I told her our errand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come in&mdash;come in,” she said, “but dunna look at th’ ’ouse. Th’ childers
+not been long up. Go in, Billy, wi’ nowt on!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We entered, taking the forgotten kettle lid. The kitchen was large, but
+scantily furnished save, indeed, for children. The eldest, a girl of twelve or
+so, was standing toasting a piece of bacon with one hand, and holding back her
+nightdress in the other. As the toast hand got scorched, she transferred the
+bacon to the other, gave the hot fingers a lick to cool them, and then held
+back her nightdress again. Her auburn hair hung in heavy coils down her gown. A
+boy sat on the steel fender, catching the dropping fat on a piece of bread.
+“One, two, three, four, five, six drops,” and he quickly bit off the tasty
+corner, and resumed the task with the other hand. When we entered he tried to
+draw his shirt over his knees, which caused the fat to fall wasted. A fat baby,
+evidently laid down from the breast, lay kicking on the squab, purple in the
+face, while another lad was pushing bread and butter into its mouth. The mother
+swept to the sofa, poked out the bread and butter, pushed her finger into the
+baby’s throat, lifted the child up, punched its back, and was highly relieved
+when it began to yell. Then she administered a few sound spanks to the naked
+buttocks of the crammer. He began to howl, but stopped suddenly on seeing us
+laughing. On the sack-cloth which served as hearth rug sat a beautiful child
+washing the face of a wooden doll with tea, and wiping it on her nightgown. At
+the table, an infant in a high chair sat sucking a piece of bacon, till the
+grease ran down his swarthy arms, oozing through his fingers. An old lad stood
+in the big arm-chair, whose back was hung with a calf-skin, and was
+industriously pouring the dregs of the teacups into a basin of milk. The mother
+whisked away the milk, and made a rush for the urchin, the baby hanging over
+her arm the while.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I could half kill thee,” she said, but he had slid under the table,&mdash;and
+sat serenely unconcerned.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Could you”&mdash;I asked when the mother had put her bonny baby again to her
+breast&mdash;“could you lend me a knitting needle?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Our S’r Ann, wheer’s thy knittin’ needles?” asked the woman, wincing at the
+same time, and putting her hand to the mouth of the sucking child. Catching my
+eye, she said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You wouldn’t credit how he bites. ’E’s nobbut two teeth, but they like six
+needles.” She drew her brows together and pursed her lips, saying to the child,
+“Naughty lad, naughty lad! Tha’ shanna hae it, no, not if ter bites thy mother
+like that.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The family interest was now divided between us and the private concerns in
+process when we entered;&mdash;save, however, that the bacon sucker had sucked
+on stolidly, immovable, all the time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Our Sam, wheer’s my knittin’, tha’s ’ad it?” cried S’r Ann after a little
+search.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“’A ’e na,” replied Sam from under the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, tha’ ’as,” said the mother, giving a blind prod under the table with her
+foot.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“’A ’e na then!” persisted Sam.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The mother suggested various possible places of discovery, and at last the
+knitting was found at the back of the table drawer, among forks and old wooden
+skewers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I ’an ter tell yer wheer ivrythink is,” said the mother in mild reproach. S’r
+Ann, however, gave no heed to her parent. Her heart was torn for her knitting,
+the fruit of her labours; it was a red woollen cuff for the winter; a corkscrew
+was bored through the web, and the ball of red wool was bristling with skewers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a’ thee, our Sam,” she wailed. “I know it’s a’ thee an’ thy A. B. C.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Samuel, under the table, croaked out in a voice of fierce monotony:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“P. is for Porkypine, whose bristles so strong<br/>
+Kill the bold lion by pricking ’is tongue.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The mother began to shake with quiet laughter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“His father learnt him that&mdash;made it all up,” she whispered proudly to
+us&mdash;and to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tell us what ‘B’ is Sam.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shonna,” grunted Sam.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go on, there’s a duckie; an’ I’ll ma’ ’e a treacle puddin’.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Today?” asked S’r Ann eagerly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go on, Sam, my duck,” persisted the mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tha’ ’as na got no treacle,” said Sam conclusively.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The needle was in the fire; the children stood about watching.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will you do it yourself?” I asked Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I!” she exclaimed, with wide eyes of astonishment, and she shook her head
+emphatically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then I must.” I took out the needle, holding it in my handkerchief. I took her
+hand and examined the wound. But when she saw the hot glow of the needle, she
+snatched away her hand, and looked into my eyes, laughing in a half-hysterical
+fear and shame. I was very serious, very insistent. She yielded me her hand
+again, biting her lips in imagination of the pain, and looking at me. While my
+eyes were looking into hers she had courage; when I was forced to pay attention
+to my cauterising, she glanced down, and with a sharp “Ah!” ending in a little
+laugh, she put her hands behind her, and looked again up at me with wide brown
+eyes, all quivering with apprehension, and a little shame, and a laughter that
+held much pleading.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One of the children began to cry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is no good,” said I, throwing the fast cooling needle on to the hearth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I gave the girls all the pennies I had&mdash;then I offered Sam, who had crept
+out of the shelter of the table, a sixpence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shonna a’e that,” he said, turning from the small coin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;I have no more pennies, so nothing will be your share.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I gave the other boy a rickety knife I had in my pocket. Sam looked fiercely at
+me. Eager for revenge, he picked up the “porkypine quill” by the hot end. He
+dropped it with a shout of rage, and, seizing a cup off the table, flung it at
+the fortunate Jack. It smashed against the fire-place. The mother grabbed at
+Sam, but he was gone. A girl, a little girl, wailed, “Oh, that’s my rosey
+mug&mdash;my rosey mug.” We fled from the scene of confusion. Emily had hardly
+noticed it. Her thoughts were of herself, and of me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am an awful coward,” said she humbly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I can’t help it&mdash;&mdash;” she looked beseechingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Never mind,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All my flesh seems to jump from it. You don’t know how I feel.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;never mind.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I couldn’t help it, not for my life.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wonder,” said I, “if anything could possibly disturb that young
+bacon-sucker? He didn’t even look round at the smash.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” said she, biting the tip of her finger moodily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Further conversation was interrupted by howls from the rear. Looking round we
+saw Sam careering after us over the close-bitten turf, howling scorn and
+derision at us. “Rabbit-tail, rabbit-tail,” he cried, his bare little legs
+twinkling, and his little shirt fluttering in the cold morning air.
+Fortunately, at last he trod on a thistle or a thorn, for when we looked round
+again to see why he was silent, he was capering on one leg, holding his wounded
+foot in his hands.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII<br/>
+LETTIE PULLS DOWN THE SMALL GOLD GRAPES</h2>
+
+<p>
+During the falling of the leaves Lettie was very wilful. She uttered many
+banalities concerning men, and love, and marriage; she taunted Leslie and
+thwarted his wishes. At last he stayed away from her. She had been several
+times down to the mill, but because she fancied they were very familiar,
+receiving her on to their rough plane like one of themselves, she stayed away.
+Since the death of our father she had been restless; since inheriting her
+little fortune she had become proud, scornful, difficult to please. Difficult
+to please in every circumstance; she, who had always been so rippling in
+thoughtless life, sat down in the window sill to think, and her strong teeth
+bit at her handkerchief till it was torn in holes. She would say nothing to me;
+she read all things that dealt with modern women.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One afternoon Lettie walked over to Eberwich. Leslie had not been to see us for
+a fortnight. It was a grey, dree afternoon. The wind drifted a clammy fog
+across the hills, and the roads were black and deep with mud. The trees in the
+wood slouched sulkily. It was a day to be shut out and ignored if possible. I
+heaped up the fire, and went to draw the curtains and make perfect the room.
+Then I saw Lettie coming along the path quickly, very erect. When she came in
+her colour was high.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tea not laid?” she said briefly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Rebecca has just brought in the lamp,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie took off her coat and furs, and flung them on the couch. She went to the
+mirror, lifted her hair, all curled by the fog, and stared haughtily at
+herself. Then she swung round, looked at the bare table, and rang the bell.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was so rare a thing for us to ring the bell from the dining-room, that
+Rebecca went first to the outer door. Then she came in the room saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did you ring?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought tea would have been ready,” said Lettie coldly. Rebecca looked at
+me, and at her, and replied:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is but half-past four. I can bring it in.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mother came down hearing the clink of the tea-cups.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” she said to Lettie, who was unlacing her boots, “and did you find it a
+pleasant walk?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Except for the mud,” was the reply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, I guess you wished you had stayed at home. What a state for your
+boots!&mdash;and your skirts too, I know. Here, let me take them into the
+kitchen.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let Rebecca take them,” said Lettie&mdash;but mother was out of the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When mother had poured out the tea, we sat silently at table. It was on the tip
+of our tongues to ask Lettie what ailed her, but we were experienced and we
+refrained. After a while she said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know, I met Leslie Tempest.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh,” said mother tentatively, “Did he come along with you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He did not look at me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh!” exclaimed mother, and it was speaking volumes; then, after a moment, she
+resumed:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Perhaps he did not see you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Or was it a stony Britisher?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He saw me,” declared Lettie, “or he wouldn’t have made such a babyish show of
+being delighted with Margaret Raymond.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It may have been no show&mdash;he still may not have seen you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I felt at once that he had; I could see his animation was extravagant. He need
+not have troubled himself, I was not going to run after him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You seem very cross,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Indeed I am not. But he knew I had to walk all this way home, and he could
+take up Margaret, who has only half the distance.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Was he driving?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“In the dog-cart.” She cut her toast into strips viciously. We waited
+patiently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was mean of him, wasn’t it mother?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, my girl, you have treated him badly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a baby! What a mean, manly baby! Men are great infants.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And girls,” said mother, “do not know what they want.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A grown-up quality,” I added.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nevertheless,” said Lettie, “he is a mean fop, and I detest him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She rose and sorted out some stitchery. Lettie never stitched unless she were
+in a bad humour. Mother smiled at me, sighed, and proceeded to Mr. Gladstone
+for comfort; her breviary and missal were Morley’s Life of Gladstone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I had to take a letter to Highclose to Mrs. Tempest&mdash;from my mother,
+concerning a bazaar in process at the church. “I will bring Leslie back with
+me,” said I to myself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The night was black and hateful. The lamps by the road from Eberwich ended at
+Nethermere; their yellow blur on the water made the cold, wet inferno of the
+night more ugly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leslie and Marie were both in the library&mdash;half a library, half a business
+office; used also as a lounge room, being cosy. Leslie lay in a great armchair
+by the fire, immune among clouds of blue smoke. Marie was perched on the steps,
+a great volume on her knee. Leslie got up in his cloud, shook hands, greeted me
+curtly, and vanished again. Marie smiled me a quaint, vexed smile, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Cyril, I’m so glad you’ve come. I’m so worried, and Leslie says he’s not a
+pastry cook, though I’m sure I don’t want him to be one, only he need not be a
+bear.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What’s the matter?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She frowned, gave the big volume a little smack and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, I do so much want to make some of those Spanish tartlets of your mother’s
+that are so delicious, and of course Mabel knows nothing of them, and they’re
+not in my cookery book, and I’ve looked through page upon page of the
+encyclopedia, right through ‘Spain,’ and there’s nothing yet, and there are
+fifty pages more, and Leslie won’t help me, though I’ve got a headache, because
+he’s frabous about something.” She looked at me in comical despair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you want them for the bazaar?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;for to-morrow. Cook has done the rest, but I had fairly set my heart
+on these. Don’t you think they are lovely?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Exquisitely lovely. Suppose I go and ask mother.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you would. But no, oh no, you can’t make all that journey this terrible
+night. We are simply besieged by mud. The men are both out&mdash;William has
+gone to meet father&mdash;and mother has sent George to carry some things to
+the vicarage. I can’t ask one of the girls on a night like this. I shall have
+to let it go&mdash;and the cranberry tarts too&mdash;it cannot be helped. I am
+so miserable.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ask Leslie,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is too cross,” she replied, looking at him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not deign a remark.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will you Leslie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go across to Woodside for me?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What for?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A recipe. Do, there’s a dear boy.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where are the men?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They are both engaged&mdash;they are out.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Send a girl, then.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“At night like this? Who would go?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Cissy.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shall not ask her. Isn’t he mean, Cyril? Men are mean.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will come back,” said I. “There is nothing at home to do. Mother is reading,
+and Lettie is stitching. The weather disagrees with her, as it does with
+Leslie.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But it is not fair&mdash;&mdash;” she said, looking at me softly. Then she put
+away the great book and climbed down.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Won’t you go, Leslie?” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Women!” he said, rising as if reluctantly. “There’s no end to their wants and
+their caprices.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought he would go,” said she warmly. She ran to fetch his overcoat. He put
+one arm slowly in the sleeve, and then the other, but he would not lift the
+coat on to his shoulders.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well!” she said, struggling on tiptoe, “You are a great creature! Can’t you
+get it on, naughty child?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Give her a chair to stand on,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She shook the collar of the coat sharply, but he stood like a sheep, impassive.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Leslie, you are too bad. I can’t get it on, you stupid boy.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I took the coat and jerked it on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There,” she said, giving him his cap. “Now don’t be long.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a damned dirty night!” said he, when we were out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The town, anywhere’s better than this hell of a country.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ha! How did you enjoy yourself?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He began a long history of three days in the metropolis. I listened, and heard
+little. I heard more plainly the cry of some night birds over Nethermere, and
+the peevish, wailing, yarling cry of some beast in the wood. I was thankful to
+slam the door behind me, to stand in the light of the hall.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Leslie!” exclaimed mother, “I am glad to see you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thank you,” he said, turning to Lettie, who sat with her lap full of work, her
+head busily bent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You see I can’t get up,” she said, giving him her hand, adorned as it was by
+the thimble. “How nice of you to come! We did not know you were back.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But!” he exclaimed, then he stopped.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose you enjoyed yourself,” she went on calmly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Immensely, thanks.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Snap, snap, snap went her needle through the new stuff. Then, without looking
+up, she said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, no doubt. You have the air of a man who has been enjoying himself.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How do you mean?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A kind of guilty&mdash;or shall I say embarrassed&mdash;look. Don’t you notice
+it mother?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do!” said my mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose it means we may not ask him questions,” Lettie concluded, always
+very busily sewing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed. She had broken her cotton, and was trying to thread the needle
+again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What have you been doing this miserable weather?” he enquired awkwardly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, we have sat at home desolate. ‘Ever of thee I’m fo-o-ondly
+dre&#x113;aming’&mdash;and so on. Haven’t we mother?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” said mother, “I don’t know. We imagined him all sorts of lions up
+there.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a shame we may not ask him to roar his old roars over for us,” said
+Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What are they like?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How should I know? Like a sucking dove, to judge from your present voice. ‘A
+monstrous little voice.’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed uncomfortably.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She went on sewing, suddenly beginning to sing to herself:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“Pussy cat, Pussy cat, where have you been?<br/>
+I’ve been up to London to see the fine queen:<br/>
+Pussy cat, Pussy cat, what did you there&mdash;&mdash;<br/>
+I frightened a little mouse under a stair.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose,” she added, “that may be so. Poor mouse!&mdash;but I guess she’s
+none the worse. You did not see the queen, though?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She was not in London,” he replied sarcastically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You don’t&mdash;&mdash;” she said, taking two pins from between her teeth. “I
+suppose you don’t mean by that, she was in Eberwich&mdash;your queen?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know where she was,” he answered angrily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh!” she said, very sweetly, “I thought perhaps you had met her in Eberwich.
+When did you come back?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Last night,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;why didn’t you come and see us before?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve been at the offices all day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve been up to Eberwich,” she said innocently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes. And I feel so cross because of it. I thought I might see you. I felt as
+if you were at home.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stitched a little, and glanced up secretly to watch his face redden, then
+she continued innocently,
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;I felt you had come back. It is funny how one has a feeling
+occasionally that someone is near; when it is someone one has a sympathy with.”
+She continued to stitch, then she took a pin from her bosom, and fixed her
+work, all without the least suspicion of guile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought I might meet you when I was out&mdash;&mdash;” another pause,
+another fixing, a pin to be taken from her lips&mdash;” but I didn’t.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I was at the office till rather late,” he said quickly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stitched away calmly, provokingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She took the pin from her mouth again, fixed down a fold of stuff, and said
+softly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You little liar.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mother had gone out of the room for her recipe book.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat on his chair dumb with mortification. She stitched swiftly and
+unerringly. There was silence for some moments. Then he spoke:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I did not know you wanted me for the pleasure of plucking this crow,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wanted you!” she exclaimed, looking up for the first time, “Who said I
+wanted you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No one. If you didn’t want me I may as well go.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sound of stitching alone broke the silence for some moments, then she said
+deliberately:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What made you think I wanted you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t care a damn whether you wanted me or whether you didn’t.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It seems to upset you! And don’t use bad language. It is the privilege of
+those near and dear to one.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s why you begin it, I suppose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I cannot remember&mdash;&mdash;” she said loftily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed sarcastically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;if you’re so beastly cut up about it&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He put this tentatively, expecting the soft answer. But she refused to speak,
+and went on stitching. He fidgeted about, twisted his cap uncomfortably, and
+sighed. At last he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;you&mdash;have we done then?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had the vast superiority, in that she was engaged in ostentatious work. She
+could fix the cloth, regard it quizzically, rearrange it, settle down and begin
+to sew before she replied. This humbled him. At last she said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought so this afternoon.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But, good God, Lettie, can’t you drop it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And then?”&mdash;the question startled him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why!&mdash;forget it,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well?”&mdash;she spoke softly, gently. He answered to the call like an eager
+hound. He crossed quickly to her side as she sat sewing, and said, in a low
+voice:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You do care something for me, don’t you, Lettie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,”&mdash;it was modulated kindly, a sort of promise of assent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You have treated me rottenly, you know, haven’t you? You know I&mdash;well, I
+care a good bit.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is a queer way of showing it.” Her voice was now a gentle reproof, the
+sweetest of surrenders and forgiveness. He leaned forward, took her face in his
+hands, and kissed her, murmuring:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are a little tease.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She laid her sewing in her lap, and looked up.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+The next day, Sunday, broke wet and dreary. Breakfast was late, and about ten
+o’clock we stood at the window looking upon the impossibility of our going to
+church.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a driving drizzle of rain, like a dirty curtain before the landscape.
+The nasturtium leaves by the garden walk had gone rotten in a frost, and the
+gay green discs had given place to the first black flags of winter, hung on
+flaccid stalks, pinched at the neck. The grass plot was strewn with fallen
+leaves, wet and brilliant: scarlet splashes of Virginia creeper, golden drift
+from the limes, ruddy brown shawls under the beeches, and away back in the
+corner, the black mat of maple leaves, heavy soddened; they ought to have been
+a vivid lemon colour. Occasionally one of these great black leaves would loose
+its hold, and zigzag down, staggering in the dance of death.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There now!” said Lettie suddenly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I looked up in time to see a crow close his wings and clutch the topmost bough
+of an old grey holly tree on the edge of the clearing. He flapped again,
+recovered his balance, and folded himself up in black resignation to the
+detestable weather.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why has the old wretch settled just over our noses,” said Lettie petulantly.
+“Just to blot the promise of a sorrow.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Your’s or mine?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is looking at me, I declare.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You can see the wicked pupil of his eye at this distance,” I insinuated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” she replied, determined to take this omen unto herself. “I saw him
+first.”
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“‘One for sorrow, two for joy,<br/>
+Three for a letter, four for a boy,<br/>
+Five for silver, six for gold,<br/>
+And seven for a secret never told.’
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“&mdash;You may bet he’s only a messenger in advance. There’ll be three more
+shortly, and you’ll have your four,” said I, comforting.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know,” she said, “it is very funny, but whenever I’ve particularly
+noticed one crow, I’ve had some sorrow or other.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And when you notice four?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You should have heard old Mrs. Wagstaffe,” was her reply. “She declares an old
+crow croaked in their apple tree every day for a week before Jerry got
+drowned.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Great sorrow for her,” I remarked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, but she wept abundantly. I felt like weeping too, but somehow I laughed.
+She hoped he had gone to heaven&mdash;but&mdash;I’m sick of that word
+‘but’&mdash;it is always tangling one’s thoughts.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But, Jerry!” I insisted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, she lifted up her forehead, and the tears dripped off her nose. He must
+have been an old nuisance, Syb. I can’t understand why women marry such men. I
+felt downright glad to think of the drunken old wretch toppling into the canal
+out of the way.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She pulled the thick curtain across the window, and nestled down in it, resting
+her cheek against the edge, protecting herself from the cold window pane. The
+wet, grey wind shook the half naked trees, whose leaves dripped and shone
+sullenly. Even the trunks were blackened, trickling with the rain which drove
+persistently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Whirled down the sky like black maple leaves caught up aloft, came two more
+crows. They swept down and clung hold of the trees in front of the house,
+staying near the old forerunner. Lettie watched them, half amused, half
+melancholy. One bird was carried past. He swerved round and began to battle up
+the wind, rising higher, and rowing laboriously against the driving wet
+current.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here comes your fourth,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did not answer, but continued to watch. The bird wrestled heroically, but
+the wind pushed him aside, tilted him, caught under his broad wings and bore
+him down. He swept in level flight down the stream, outspread and still, as if
+fixed in despair. I grieved for him. Sadly two of his fellows rose and were
+carried away after him, like souls hunting for a body to inhabit, and
+despairing. Only the first ghoul was left on the withered, silver-grey skeleton
+of the holly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He won’t even say ‘Nevermore’,” I remarked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He has more sense,” replied Lettie. She looked a trifle lugubrious. Then she
+continued: “Better say ‘Nevermore’ than ‘Evermore.’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I don’t know. Fancy this ‘Evermore.’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had been sure in her own soul that Leslie would come&mdash;now she began to
+doubt:&mdash;things were very perplexing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The bell in the kitchen jangled; she jumped up. I went and opened the door. He
+came in. She gave him one bright look of satisfaction. He saw it, and
+understood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Helen has got some people over&mdash;I have been awfully rude to leave them
+now,” he said quietly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a dreadful day!” said mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, fearful! Your face <i>is</i> red, Lettie! What have you been doing?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Looking into the fire.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What did you see?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The pictures wouldn’t come plain&mdash;nothing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed. We were silent for some time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You were expecting me?” he murmured.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;I knew you’d come.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They were left alone. He came up to her and put his arm around her, as she
+stood with her elbow on the mantelpiece.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You do want me,” he pleaded softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she murmured.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He held her in his arms and kissed her repeatedly, again and again, till she
+was out of breath, and put up her hand, and gently pushed her face away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are a cold little lover&mdash;you are a shy bird,” he said, laughing into
+her eyes. He saw her tears rise, swimming on her lids, but not falling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, my love, my darling&mdash;why!”&mdash;he put his face to her’s and took
+the tear on his cheek:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I know you love me,” he said, gently, all tenderness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know,” he murmured. “I can positively feel the tears rising up from my
+heart and throat. They are quite painful gathering, my love. There&mdash;you
+can do anything with me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They were silent for some time. After a while, a rather long while, she came
+upstairs and found mother&mdash;and at the end of some minutes I heard my
+mother go to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I sat by my window and watched the low clouds reel and stagger past. It seemed
+as if everything were being swept along&mdash;I myself seemed to have lost my
+substance, to have become detached from concrete things and the firm trodden
+pavement of everyday life. Onward, always onward, not knowing where, nor why,
+the wind, the clouds, the rain and the birds and the leaves, everything
+whirling along&mdash;why?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All this time the old crow sat motionless, though the clouds tumbled, and were
+rent and piled, though the trees bent, and the window-pane shivered with
+running water. Then I found it had ceased to rain; that there was a sickly
+yellow gleam of sunlight, brightening on some great elm-leaves near at hand
+till they looked like ripe lemons hanging. The crow looked at me&mdash;I was
+certain he looked at me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you think of it all?” I asked him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He eyed me with contempt: great featherless, half winged bird as I was,
+incomprehensible, contemptible, but awful. I believe he hated me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But,” said I, “if a raven could answer, why won’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked wearily away. Nevertheless my gaze disquieted him. He turned
+uneasily; he rose, waved his wings as if for flight, poised, then settled
+defiantly down again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are no good,” said I, “you won’t help even with a word.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat stolidly unconcerned. Then I heard the lapwings in the meadow crying,
+crying. They seemed to seek the storm, yet to rail at it. They wheeled in the
+wind, yet never ceased to complain of it. They enjoyed the struggle, and
+lamented it in wild lament, through which came a sound of exultation. All the
+lapwings cried, cried the same tale, “Bitter, bitter, the struggle&mdash;for
+nothing, nothing, nothing,”&mdash;and all the time they swung about on their
+broad wings, revelling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There,” said I to the crow, “they try it, and find it bitter, but they
+wouldn’t like to miss it, to sit still like you, you old corpse.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He could not endure this. He rose in defiance, flapped his wings, and launched
+off, uttering one “Caw” of sinister foreboding. He was soon whirled away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I discovered that I was very cold, so I went downstairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Twisting a curl round his finger, one of those loose curls that always dance
+free from the captured hair, Leslie said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look how fond your hair is of me; look how it twines round my finger. Do you
+know, your hair&mdash;the light in it is like&mdash;oh&mdash;buttercups in the
+sun.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is like me&mdash;it won’t be kept in bounds,” she replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shame if it were&mdash;like this, it brushes my face&mdash;so&mdash;and sets
+me tingling like music.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Behave! Now be still, and I’ll tell you what sort of music you make.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;well&mdash;tell me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Like the calling of throstles and blackies, in the evening, frightening the
+pale little wood-anemones, till they run panting and swaying right up to our
+wall. Like the ringing of bluebells when the bees are at them; like Hippomenes,
+out-of-breath, laughing because he’d won.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He kissed her with rapturous admiration.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Marriage music, sir,” she added.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What golden apples did I throw?” he asked lightly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What!” she exclaimed, half mocking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“This Atalanta,” he replied, looking lovingly upon her, “this Atalanta&mdash;I
+believe she just lagged at last on purpose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You have it,” she cried, laughing, submitting to his caresses. “It was
+you&mdash;the apples of your firm heels&mdash;the apples of your eyes&mdash;the
+apples Eve bit&mdash;that won me&mdash;hein!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That was it&mdash;you are clever, you are rare. And I’ve won, won the ripe
+apples of your cheeks, and your breasts, and your very fists&mdash;they can’t
+stop me&mdash;and&mdash;and&mdash;all your roundness and warmness and
+softness&mdash;I’ve won you, Lettie.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She nodded wickedly, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All those&mdash;those&mdash;yes.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All&mdash;she admits it&mdash;everything!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh!&mdash;but let me breathe. Did you claim everything?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, and you gave it me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not yet. Everything though?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Every atom.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But&mdash;now you look&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did I look aside?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“With the inward eye. Suppose now we were two angels&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, dear&mdash;a sloppy angel!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;don’t interrupt now&mdash;suppose I were one&mdash;like the
+‘Blessed Damosel.’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“With a warm bosom&mdash;&mdash;!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t be foolish, now&mdash;I a ‘Blessed Damosel’ and you kicking the brown
+beech leaves below thinking&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What <i>are</i> you driving at?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Would you be thinking&mdash;thoughts like prayers?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What on earth do you ask that for? Oh&mdash;I think I’d be cursing&mdash;eh?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;saying fragrant prayers&mdash;that your thin soul might mount
+up&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hang thin souls, Lettie! I’m not one of your souly sort. I can’t stand
+Pre-Raphaelities. You&mdash;You’re not a Burne-Jonesess&mdash;you’re an Albert
+Moore. I think there’s more in the warm touch of a soft body than in a prayer.
+I’ll pray with kisses.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And when you can’t?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll wait till prayer-time again. By Jove, I’d rather feel my arms full of
+you; I’d rather touch that red mouth&mdash;you grudger!&mdash;than sing hymns
+with you in any heaven.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m afraid you’ll never sing hymns with me in heaven.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;I have you here&mdash;yes, I have you now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Our life is but a fading dawn?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Liar!&mdash;Well, you called me! Besides, I don’t care; ‘Carpe diem’, my
+rosebud, my fawn. There’s a nice Carmen about a fawn. ‘Time to leave its
+mother, and venture into a warm embrace.’ Poor old Horace&mdash;I’ve forgotten
+him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then poor old Horace.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ha! Ha!&mdash;Well, I shan’t forget <i>you</i>. What’s that queer look in your
+eyes?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay&mdash;you tell me. You are such a tease, there’s no getting to the bottom
+of you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You can fathom the depth of a kiss&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will&mdash;I will&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After a while he asked:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When shall we be properly engaged, Lettie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, wait till Christmas&mdash;till I am twenty-one.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nearly three months! Why on earth&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It will make no difference. I shall be able to choose thee of my own free
+choice then.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But three months!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shall consider thee engaged&mdash;it doesn’t matter about other people.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought we should be married in three months.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah&mdash;married in haste&mdash;&mdash;. But what will your mother say?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Say! Oh, she’ll say it’s the first wise thing I’ve done. You’ll make a fine
+wife, Lettie, able to entertain, and all that.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You will flutter brilliantly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We will.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;you’ll be the moth&mdash;I’ll paint your wings&mdash;gaudy
+feather-dust. Then when you lose your coloured dust, when you fly too near the
+light, or when you play dodge with a butterfly net&mdash;away goes my
+part&mdash;you can’t fly&mdash;I&mdash;alas, poor me! What becomes of the
+feather-dust when the moth brushes his wings against a butterfly net?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What are you making so many words about? You don’t know now, do you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;that I don’t.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then just be comfortable. Let me look at myself in your eyes.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Narcissus, Narcissus!&mdash;Do you see yourself well? Does the image flatter
+you?&mdash;Or is it a troubled stream, distorting your fair lineaments.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t see anything&mdash;only feel you looking&mdash;you are laughing at
+me.&mdash;What have you behind there&mdash;what joke?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I&mdash;I’m thinking you’re just like Narcissus&mdash;a sweet, beautiful
+youth.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Be serious&mdash;do.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It would be dangerous. You’d die of it, and I&mdash;I should&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Be just like I am now&mdash;serious.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked proudly, thinking she referred to the earnestness of her love.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+In the wood the wind rumbled and roared hoarsely overhead, but not a breath
+stirred among the saddened bracken. An occasional raindrop was shaken out of
+the trees; I slipped on the wet paths. Black bars striped the grey tree-trunks,
+where water had trickled down; the bracken was overthrown, its yellow ranks
+broken. I slid down the steep path to the gate, out of the wood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Armies of cloud marched in rank across the sky, heavily laden, almost brushing
+the gorse on the common. The wind was cold and disheartening. The ground sobbed
+at every step. The brook was full, swirling along, hurrying, talking to itself,
+in absorbed intent tones. The clouds darkened; I felt the rain. Careless of the
+mud, I ran, and burst into the farm kitchen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The children were painting, and they immediately claimed my help.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Emily&mdash;and George&mdash;are in the front room,” said the mother quietly,
+for it was Sunday afternoon. I satisfied the little ones; I said a few words to
+the mother, and sat down to take off my clogs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the parlour, the father, big and comfortable, was sleeping in an arm-chair.
+Emily was writing at the table&mdash;she hurriedly hid her papers when I
+entered. George was sitting by the fire, reading. He looked up as I entered,
+and I loved him when he looked up at me, and as he lingered on his quiet
+“Hullo!” His eyes were beautifully eloquent&mdash;as eloquent as a kiss.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We talked in subdued murmurs, because the father was asleep, opulently asleep,
+his tanned face as still as a brown pear against the wall. The clock itself
+went slowly, with languid throbs. We gathered round the fire, and talked
+quietly, about nothing&mdash;blissful merely in the sound of our voices, a
+murmured, soothing sound&mdash;a grateful, dispassionate love trio.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last George rose, put down his book&mdash;looked at his father&mdash;and
+went out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the barn there was a sound of the pulper crunching the turnips. The crisp
+strips of turnip sprinkled quietly down onto a heap of gold which grew beneath
+the pulper. The smell of pulped turnips, keen and sweet, brings back to me the
+feeling of many winter nights, when frozen hoof-prints crunch in the yard, and
+Orion is in the south; when a friendship was at its mystical best.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pulping on Sunday!” I exclaimed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Father didn’t do it yesterday; it’s his work; and I didn’t notice it. You
+know&mdash;Father often forgets&mdash;he doesn’t like to have to work in the
+afternoon, now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cattle stirred in their stalls; the chains rattled round the posts; a cow
+coughed noisily. When George had finished pulping, and it was quiet enough for
+talk, just as he was spreading the first layers of chop and turnip and
+meal&mdash;in ran Emily, with her hair in silken, twining confusion, her eyes
+glowing&mdash;to bid us go in to tea before the milking was begun. It was the
+custom to milk before tea on Sunday&mdash;but George abandoned it without
+demur&mdash;his father willed it so, and his father was master, not to be
+questioned on farm matters, however one disagreed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The last day in October had been dreary enough; the night could not come too
+early. We had tea by lamplight, merrily, with the father radiating comfort as
+the lamp shone yellow light. Sunday tea was imperfect without a visitor; with
+me, they always declared, it was perfect. I loved to hear them say so. I
+smiled, rejoicing quietly into my teacup when the Father said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It seems proper to have Cyril here at Sunday tea, it seems natural.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was most loath to break the delightful bond of the lamp-lit tea-table; he
+looked up with a half-appealing glance when George at last pushed back his
+chair and said he supposed he’d better make a start.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay,” said the father in a mild, conciliatory tone, “I’ll be out in a minute.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The lamp hung against the barn-wall, softly illuminating the lower part of the
+building, where bits of hay and white dust lay in the hollows between the
+bricks, where the curled chips of turnip scattered orange gleams over the
+earthen floor; the lofty roof, with its swallows’ nests under the tiles, was
+deep in shadow, and the corners were full of darkness, hiding, half hiding, the
+hay, the chopper, the bins. The light shone along the passages before the
+stalls, glistening on the moist noses of the cattle, and on the whitewash of
+the walls.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George was very cheerful; but I wanted to tell him my message. When he had
+finished the feeding, and had at last sat down to milk, I said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I told you Leslie Tempest was at our house when I came away.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat with the bucket between his knees, his hands at the cow’s udder, about
+to begin to milk. He looked up a question at me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They are practically engaged now,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not turn his eyes away, but he ceased to look at me. As one who is
+listening for a far-off noise, he sat with his eyes fixed. Then he bent his
+head, and leaned it against the side of the cow, as if he would begin to milk.
+But he did not. The cow looked round and stirred uneasily. He began to draw the
+milk, and then to milk mechanically. I watched the movement of his hands,
+listening to the rhythmic clang of the jets of milk on the bucket, as a relief.
+After a while the movement of his hands became slower, thoughtful&mdash;then
+stopped.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She has really said yes?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I nodded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And what does your mother say?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is pleased.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He began to milk again. The cow stirred uneasily, shifting her legs. He looked
+at her angrily, and went on milking. Then, quite upset, she shifted again, and
+swung her tail in his face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Stand still!” he shouted, striking her on the haunch. She seemed to cower like
+a beaten woman. He swore at her, and continued to milk. She did not yield much
+that night; she was very restive; he took the stool from beneath him and gave
+her a good blow; I heard the stool knock on her prominent hip bone. After that
+she stood still, but her milk soon ceased to flow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When he stood up, he paused before he went to the next beast, and I thought he
+was going to talk. But just then the father came along with his bucket. He
+looked in the shed, and, laughing in his mature, pleasant way, said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So you’re an onlooker to-day, Cyril&mdash;I thought you’d have milked a cow or
+two for me by now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay,” said I, “Sunday is a day of rest&mdash;and milking makes your hands
+ache.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You only want a bit more practice,” he said, joking in his ripe fashion. “Why
+George, is that all you’ve got from Julia?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“H’m&mdash;she’s soon going dry. Julia, old lady, don’t go and turn skinny.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When he had gone, and the shed was still, the air seemed colder. I heard his
+good-humoured “Stand over, old lass,” from the other shed, and the drum-beats
+of the first jets of milk on the pail.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He has a comfortable time,” said George, looking savage. I laughed. He still
+waited.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You really expected Lettie to have <i>him,</i>” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose so,” he replied, “then she’d made up her mind to it. It didn’t
+matter&mdash;what she wanted&mdash;at the bottom.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You?” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If it hadn’t been that he was a prize&mdash;with a ticket&mdash;she’d have
+had&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You!” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She was afraid&mdash;look how she turned and kept away&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“From you?” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should like to squeeze her till she screamed.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You should have gripped her before, and kept her,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She&mdash;she’s like a woman, like a cat&mdash;running to comforts&mdash;she
+strikes a bargain. Women are all tradesmen.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t generalise, it’s no good.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She’s like a prostitute&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s banal! I believe she loves him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He started, and looked at me queerly. He looked quite childish in his doubt and
+perplexity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She, what&mdash;&mdash;?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Loves him&mdash;honestly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She’d ’a loved me better,” he muttered, and turned to his milking. I left him
+and went to talk to his father. When the latter’s four beasts were finished,
+George’s light still shone in the other shed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went and found him at the fifth, the last cow. When at length he had finished
+he put down his pail, and going over to poor Julia, stood scratching her back,
+and her poll, and her nose, looking into her big, startled eye and murmuring.
+She was afraid; she jerked her head, giving him a good blow on the cheek with
+her horn.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You can’t understand them,” he said sadly, rubbing his face, and looking at me
+with his dark, serious eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I never knew I couldn’t understand them. I never thought about
+it&mdash;&mdash;till. But you know, Cyril, she led me on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I laughed at his rueful appearance.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br/>
+THE RIOT OF CHRISTMAS</h2>
+
+<p>
+For some weeks, during the latter part of November and the beginning of
+December, I was kept indoors by a cold. At last came a frost which cleared the
+air and dried the mud. On the second Saturday before Christmas the world was
+transformed; tall, silver and pearl-grey trees rose pale against a dim-blue
+sky, like trees in some rare, pale Paradise; the whole woodland was as if
+petrified in marble and silver and snow; the holly-leaves and long leaves of
+the rhododendron were rimmed and spangled with delicate tracery.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the night came clear and bright, with a moon among the hoar-frost, I
+rebelled against confinement, and the house. No longer the mists and dank
+weather made the home dear; tonight even the glare of the distant little iron
+works was not visible, for the low clouds were gone, and pale stars blinked
+from beyond the moon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie was staying with me; Leslie was in London again. She tried to
+remonstrate in a sisterly fashion when I said I would go out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Only down to the Mill,” said I. Then she hesitated a while&mdash;said she
+would come too. I suppose I looked at her curiously, for she said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;if you would rather go alone&mdash;&mdash;!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come&mdash;come&mdash;yes, come!” said I, smiling to myself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie was in her old animated mood. She ran, leaping over rough places,
+laughing, talking to herself in French. We came to the Mill. Gyp did not bark.
+I opened the outer door and we crept softly into the great dark scullery,
+peeping into the kitchen through the crack of the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The mother sat by the hearth, where was a big bath half full of soapy water,
+and at her feet, warming his bare legs at the fire, was David, who had just
+been bathed. The mother was gently rubbing his fine fair hair into a cloud.
+Mollie was combing out her brown curls, sitting by her father, who, in the
+fire-seat, was reading aloud in a hearty voice, with quaint precision. At the
+table sat Emily and George: she was quickly picking over a pile of little
+yellow raisins, and he, slowly, with his head sunk, was stoning the large
+raisins. David kept reaching forward to play with the sleepy
+cat&mdash;interrupting his mother’s rubbing. There was no sound but the voice
+of the father, full of zest; I am afraid they were not all listening carefully.
+I clicked the latch and entered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lettie!” exclaimed George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Cyril!” cried Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Cyril, ’ooray!” shouted David.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hullo, Cyril!” said Mollie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Six large brown eyes, round with surprise, welcomed me. They overwhelmed me
+with questions, and made much of us. At length they were settled and quiet
+again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, I am a stranger,” said Lettie, who had taken off her hat and furs and
+coat. “But you do not expect me often, do you? I may come at times, eh?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We are only too glad,” replied the mother. “Nothing all day long but the sound
+of the sluice&mdash;and mists, and rotten leaves. I am thankful to hear a fresh
+voice.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is Cyril really better, Lettie?” asked Emily softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’s a spoiled boy&mdash;I believe he keeps a little bit ill so that we can
+cade him. Let me help you&mdash;let me peel the apples&mdash;yes, yes&mdash;I
+will.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She went to the table, and occupied one side with her apple-peeling. George had
+not spoken to her. So she said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I won’t help you&mdash;George, because I don’t like to feel my fingers so
+sticky, and because I love to see you so domesticated.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ll enjoy the sight a long time, then, for these things are numberless.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You should eat one now and then&mdash;I always do.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I ate one I should eat the lot.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then you may give me your one.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He passed her a handful without speaking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That is too many, your mother is looking. Let me just finish this apple.
+There, I’ve not broken the peel!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stood up, holding up a long curling strip of peel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How many times must I swing it, Mrs. Saxton?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Three times&mdash;but it’s not All Hallows’ Eve.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Never mind! Look!&mdash;&mdash;” she carefully swung the long band of green
+peel over her head three times, letting it fall the third. The cat pounced on
+it, but Mollie swept him off again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is it?” cried Lettie, blushing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“G,” said the father, winking and laughing&mdash;the mother looked daggers at
+him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It isn’t nothink,” said David naïvely, forgetting his confusion at being in
+the presence of a lady in his shirt. Mollie remarked in her cool way:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It might be a ‘hess’&mdash;if you couldn’t write.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Or an ‘L’,” I added. Lettie looked over at me imperiously, and I was angry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you say, Emily?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay,” said Emily, “It’s only you can see the right letter.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tell us what’s the right letter,” said George to her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I!” exclaimed Lettie, “who can look into the seeds of Time?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Those who have set ’em and watched ’em sprout,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She flung the peel into the fire, laughing a short laugh, and went on with her
+work.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Saxton leaned over to her daughter and said softly, so that he should not
+hear, that George was pulling the flesh out of the raisins.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“George!” said Emily sharply, “You’re leaving nothing but the husks.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He too was angry:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘And he would fain fill his belly with the husks that the swine did eat.’” he
+said quietly, taking a handful of the fruit he had picked and putting some in
+his mouth. Emily snatched away the basin:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is too bad!” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here,” said Lettie, handing him an apple she had peeled. “You may have an
+apple, greedy boy.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He took it and looked at it. Then a malicious smile twinkled round his
+eyes,&mdash;as he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you give me the apple, to whom will you give the peel?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The swine,” she said, as if she only understood his first reference to the
+Prodigal Son. He put the apple on the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you want it?” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother,” he said comically, as if jesting. “She is offering me the apple like
+Eve.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Like a flash, she snatched the apple from him, hid it in her skirts a moment,
+looking at him with dilated eyes, and then she flung it at the fire. She
+missed, and the father leaned forward and picked it off the hob, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The pigs may as well have it. You were slow, George&mdash;when a lady offers
+you a thing you don’t have to make mouths.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A ce qu’il parait,” she cried, laughing now at her ease, boisterously:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is she making love, Emily?” asked the father, laughing suggestively.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She says it too fast for me,” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George was leaning back in his chair, his hands in his breeches pockets.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We shall have to finish his raisins after all, Emily,” said Lettie brightly.
+“Look what a lazy animal he is.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He likes his comfort,” said Emily, with irony.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The picture of content&mdash;solid, healthy, easy-moving
+content&mdash;&mdash;” continued Lettie. As he sat thus, with his head thrown
+back against the end of the ingle-seat, coatless, his red neck seen in repose,
+he did indeed look remarkably comfortable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shall never fret my fat away,” he said stolidly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;you and I&mdash;we are not like Cyril. We do not burn our bodies in
+our heads&mdash;or our hearts, do we?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We have it in common,” said he, looking at her indifferently beneath his
+lashes, as his head was tilted back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie went on with the paring and coring of her apples&mdash;then she took the
+raisins. Meanwhile, Emily was making the house ring as she chopped the suet in
+a wooden bowl. The children were ready for bed. They kissed us all
+“Good-night”&mdash;save George. At last they were gone, accompanied by their
+mother. Emily put down her chopper, and sighed that her arm was aching, so I
+relieved her. The chopping went on for a long time, while the father read,
+Lettie worked, and George sat tilted back looking on. When at length the
+mincemeat was finished we were all out of work. Lettie helped to clear
+away&mdash;sat down&mdash;talked a little with effort&mdash;jumped up and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I’m too excited to sit still&mdash;it’s so near Christmas&mdash;let us
+play at something.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A dance?” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A dance&mdash;a dance!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He suddenly sat straight and got up:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on!” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He kicked off his slippers, regardless of the holes in his stocking feet, and
+put away the chairs. He held out his arm to her&mdash;she came with a laugh,
+and away they went, dancing over the great flagged kitchen at an incredible
+speed. Her light flying steps followed his leaps; you could hear the quick
+light tap of her toes more plainly than the thud of his stockinged feet. Emily
+and I joined in. Emily’s movements are naturally slow, but we danced at great
+speed. I was hot and perspiring, and she was panting, when I put her in a
+chair. But they whirled on in the dance, on and on till I was giddy, till the
+father laughing, cried that they should stop. But George continued the dance;
+her hair was shaken loose, and fell in a great coil down her back; her feet
+began to drag; you could hear a light slur on the floor; she was
+panting&mdash;I could see her lips murmur to him, begging him to stop; he was
+laughing with open mouth, holding her tight; at last her feet trailed; he
+lifted her, clasping her tightly, and danced twice round the room with her
+thus. Then he fell with a crash on the sofa, pulling her beside him. His eyes
+glowed like coals; he was panting in sobs, and his hair was wet and glistening.
+She lay back on the sofa, with his arm still around her, not moving; she was
+quite overcome. Her hair was wild about her face. Emily was anxious; the father
+said, with a shade of inquietude:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ve overdone it&mdash;it is very foolish.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When at last she recovered her breath and her life, she got up, and laughing in
+a queer way, began to put up her hair. She went into the scullery where were
+the brush and combs, and Emily followed with a candle. When she returned,
+ordered once more, with a little pallor succeeding the flush, and with a great
+black stain of sweat on her leathern belt where his hand had held her, he
+looked up at her from his position on the sofa, with a peculiar glance of
+triumph, smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You great brute,” she said, but her voice was not as harsh as her words. He
+gave a deep sigh, sat up, and laughed quietly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Another?” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will you dance with <i>me</i>?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“At your pleasure.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come then&mdash;a minuet.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t know it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nevertheless, you must dance it. Come along.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He reared up, and walked to her side. She put him through the steps, even
+dragging him round the waltz. It was very ridiculous. When it was finished she
+bowed him to his seat, and, wiping her hands on her handkerchief, because his
+shirt where her hand had rested on his shoulders was moist, she thanked him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hope you enjoyed it,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ever so much,” she replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You made me look a fool&mdash;so no doubt you did.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you think you could look a fool? Why you are ironical! Ca marche! In other
+words, you have come on. But it is a sweet dance.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at her, lowered his eyelids, and said nothing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, well,” she laughed, “some are bred for the minuet, and some
+for&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“&mdash;Less tomfoolery,” he answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah&mdash;you call it tomfoolery because you cannot do it. Myself, I like
+it&mdash;so&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And I can’t do it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Could you? Did you? You are not built that way.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sort of Clarence MacFadden,” he said, lighting a pipe as if the conversation
+did not interest him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;what ages since we sang that!
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+‘Clarence MacFadden he wanted to dance<br/>
+But his feet were not gaited that way . . .’
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I remember we sang it after one corn harvest&mdash;we had a fine time. I never
+thought of you before as Clarence. It is very funny. By the way&mdash;will you
+come to our party at Christmas?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When? Who’s coming?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The twenty-sixth.&mdash;Oh!&mdash;only the old people&mdash;Alice&mdash;Tom
+Smith&mdash;Fanny&mdash;those from Highclose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And what will you do?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sing charades&mdash;dance a little&mdash;anything you like.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Polka?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And minuets&mdash;and valetas. Come and dance a valeta, Cyril.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She made me take her through a valeta, a minuet, a mazurka, and she danced
+elegantly, but with a little of Carmen’s ostentation&mdash;her dash and
+devilry. When we had finished, the father said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very pretty&mdash;very pretty, indeed! They do look nice, don’t they, George?
+I wish I was young.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As I am&mdash;&mdash;” said George, laughing bitterly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Show me how to do them&mdash;some time, Cyril,” said Emily, in her pleading
+way, which displeased Lettie so much.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why don’t you ask me?” said the latter quickly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;but you are not often here.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am here now. Come&mdash;&mdash;” and she waved Emily imperiously to the
+attempt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie, as I have said, is tall, approaching six feet; she is lissome, but
+firmly moulded, by nature graceful; in her poise and harmonious movement are
+revealed the subtle sympathies of her artist’s soul. The other is shorter, much
+heavier. In her every motion you can see the extravagance of her emotional
+nature. She quivers with feeling; emotion conquers and carries havoc through
+her, for she has not a strong intellect, nor a heart of light humour; her
+nature is brooding and defenceless; she knows herself powerless in the tumult
+of her feelings, and adds to her misfortunes a profound mistrust of herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As they danced together, Lettie and Emily, they showed in striking contrast. My
+sister’s ease and beautiful poetic movement was exquisite; the other could not
+control her movements, but repeated the same error again and again. She gripped
+Lettie’s hand fiercely, and glanced up with eyes full of humiliation and terror
+of her continued failure, and passionate, trembling, hopeless desire to
+succeed. To show her, to explain, made matters worse. As soon as she trembled
+on the brink of an action, the terror of not being able to perform it properly
+blinded her, and she was conscious of nothing but that she must do
+something&mdash;in a turmoil. At last Lettie ceased to talk, and merely swung
+her through the dances haphazard. This way succeeded better. So long as Emily
+need not think about her actions, she had a large, free grace; and the swing
+and rhythm and time were imparted through her senses rather than through her
+intelligence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was time for supper. The mother came down for a while, and we talked
+quietly, at random. Lettie did not utter a word about her engagement, not a
+suggestion. She made it seem as if things were just as before, although I am
+sure she had discovered that I had told George. She intended that we should
+play as if ignorant of her bond.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After supper, when we were ready to go home, Lettie said to him:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“By the way&mdash;you must send us some mistletoe for the party&mdash;with
+plenty of berries, you know. Are there many berries on your mistletoe this
+year?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do not know&mdash;I have never looked. We will go and see&mdash;if you
+like,” George answered. “But will you come out into the cold?” He pulled on his
+boots, and his coat, and twisted a scarf round his neck. The young moon had
+gone. It was very dark&mdash;the liquid stars wavered. The great night filled
+us with awe. Lettie caught hold of my arm, and held it tightly. He passed on in
+front to open the gates. We went down into the front garden, over the turf
+bridge where the sluice rushed coldly under, on to the broad slope of the bank.
+We could just distinguish the gnarled old appletrees leaning about us. We bent
+our heads to avoid the boughs, and followed George. He hesitated a moment,
+saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me see&mdash;I think they are there&mdash;the two trees with mistletoe
+on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We again followed silently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” he said, “Here they are!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went close and peered into the old trees. We could just see the dark bush of
+the mistletoe between the boughs of the tree. Lettie began to laugh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have we come to count the berries?” she said. “I can’t even see the
+mistletoe.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She leaned forwards and upwards to pierce the darkness; he, also straining to
+look, felt her breath on his cheek, and turning, saw the pallor of her face
+close to his, and felt the dark glow of her eyes. He caught her in his arms,
+and held her mouth in a kiss. Then, when he released her, he turned away,
+saying something incoherent about going to fetch the lantern to look. She
+remained with her back towards me, and pretended to be feeling among the
+mistletoe for the berries. Soon I saw the swing of the hurricane lamp below.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is bringing the lantern,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When he came up, he said, and his voice was strange and subdued:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now we can see what it’s like.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He went near, and held up the lamp, so that it illuminated both their faces,
+and the fantastic boughs of the trees, and the weird bush of mistletoe sparsely
+pearled with berries. Instead of looking at the berries they looked into each
+other’s eyes; his lids flickered, and he flushed, in the yellow light of the
+lamp looking warm and handsome; he looked upwards in confusion and said: “There
+are plenty of berries.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As a matter of fact there were very few.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She too looked up, and murmured her assent. The light seemed to hold them as in
+a globe, in another world, apart from the night in which I stood. He put up his
+hand and broke off a sprig of mistletoe, with berries, and offered it to her.
+They looked into each other’s eyes again. She put the mistletoe among her furs,
+looking down at her bosom. They remained still, in the centre of light, with
+the lamp uplifted; the red and black scarf wrapped loosely round his neck gave
+him a luxurious, generous look. He lowered the lamp and said, affecting to
+speak naturally:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;there is plenty this year.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You will give me some,” she replied, turning away and finally breaking the
+spell.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When shall I cut it?”&mdash;He strode beside her, swinging the lamp, as we
+went down the bank to go home. He came as far as the brooks without saying
+another word. Then he bade us good-night. When he had lighted her over the
+stepping-stones, she did not take my arm as we walked home.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+During the next two weeks we were busy preparing for Christmas, ranging the
+woods for the reddest holly, and pulling the gleaming ivy-bunches from the
+trees. From the farms around came the cruel yelling of pigs, and in the evening
+later, was a scent of pork-pies. Far-off on the high-way could be heard the
+sharp trot of ponies hastening with Christmas goods.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There the carts of the hucksters dashed by to the expectant villagers,
+triumphant with great bunches of light foreign mistletoe, gay with oranges
+peeping through the boxes, and scarlet intrusion of apples, and wild confusion
+of cold, dead poultry. The hucksters waved their whips triumphantly, the little
+ponies rattled bravely under the sycamores, towards Christmas.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the late afternoon of the 24th, when dust was rising under the hazel brake,
+I was walking with Lettie. All among the mesh of twigs overhead was tangled a
+dark red sky. The boles of the trees grew denser&mdash;almost blue.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tramping down the riding we met two boys, fifteen or sixteen years old. Their
+clothes were largely patched with tough cotton moleskin; scarves were knotted
+round their throats, and in their pockets rolled tin bottles full of tea, and
+the white knobs of their knotted snap-bags.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why!” said Lettie. “Are you going to work on Christmas eve?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It looks like it, don’t it?” said the elder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And what time will you be coming back?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“About ’alf past töw.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Christmas morning!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ll be able to look out for the herald Angels and the Star,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They’d think we was two dirty little uns,” said the younger lad, laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They’ll ’appen ’a done before we get up ter th’ top,” added the elder
+boy&mdash; “an’ they’ll none venture down th’ shaft.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If they did,” put in the other, “You’d ha’e ter bath ’em after. I’d gi’e ’em a
+bit o’ my pasty.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on,” said the elder sulkily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They tramped off, slurring their heavy boots.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Merry Christmas!” I called after them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“In th’ mornin’,” replied the elder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Same to you,” said the younger, and he began to sing with a tinge of bravado.
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“In the fields with their flocks abiding.<br/>
+They lay on the dewy ground&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Fancy,” said Lettie, “those boys are working for me!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We were all going to the party at Highclose. I happened to go into the kitchen
+about half past seven. The lamp was turned low, and Rebecca sat in the shadows.
+On the table, in the light of the lamp, I saw a glass vase with five or six
+very beautiful Christmas roses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hullo, Becka, who’s sent you these?” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They’re not sent,” replied Rebecca from the depth of the shadow, with
+suspicion of tears in her voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why! I never saw them in the garden.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Perhaps not. But I’ve watched them these three weeks, and kept them under
+glass.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“For Christmas? They are beauties. I thought some one must have sent them to
+you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s little as ’as ever been sent me,” replied Rebecca, “an’ less as will be.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why&mdash;what’s the matter?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nothing. Who’m I, to have anything the matter! Nobody&mdash;nor ever was, nor
+ever will be. And I’m getting old as well.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Something’s upset you, Becky.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What does it matter if it has? What are my feelings? A bunch o’ fal-de-rol
+flowers as a gardener clips off wi’ never a thought is preferred before mine as
+I’ve fettled after this three-week. I can sit at home to keep my flowers
+company&mdash;nobody wants ’em.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I remembered that Lettie was wearing hot-house flowers; she was excited and
+full of the idea of the party at Highclose; I could imagine her quick “Oh no
+thank you, Rebecca. I have had a spray sent to me&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Never mind, Becky,” said I, “she is excited to-night.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“An’ I’m easy forgotten.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So are we all, Becky&mdash;tant mieux.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At Highclose Lettie made a stir. Among the little belles of the countryside,
+she was decidedly the most distinguished. She was brilliant, moving as if in a
+drama. Leslie was enraptured, ostentatious in his admiration, proud of being so
+well infatuated. They looked into each other’s eyes when they met, both
+triumphant, excited, blazing arch looks at one another. Lettie was enjoying her
+public demonstration immensely; it exhilarated her into quite a vivid love for
+him. He was magnificent in response. Meanwhile, the honoured lady of the house,
+pompous and ample, sat aside with my mother conferring her patronage on the
+latter amiable little woman, who smiled sardonically and watched Lettie. It was
+a splendid party; it was brilliant, it was dazzling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I danced with several ladies, and honourably kissed each under the
+mistletoe&mdash;except that two of them kissed me first, it was all done in a
+most correct manner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You wolf,” said Miss Wookey archly. “I believe you are a wolf&mdash;a
+veritable rôdeur des femmes&mdash;and you look such a lamb too&mdash;such a
+dear.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Even my bleat reminds you of Mary’s pet.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you are not my pet&mdash;at least&mdash;it is well that my Golaud doesn’t
+hear you&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If he is so very big&mdash;&mdash;” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is really; he’s beefy. I’ve engaged myself to him, somehow or other. One
+never knows how one does those things, do they?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I couldn’t speak from experience,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Cruel man! I suppose I felt Christmasy, and I’d just been reading
+Maeterlinck&mdash;and he really is big.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;He, of course. My Golaud. I can’t help admiring men who are a bit
+avoirdupoisy. It is unfortunate they can’t dance.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Perhaps fortunate,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can see you hate him. Pity I didn’t think to ask him if he
+danced&mdash;before&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Would it have influenced you very much?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;of course&mdash;one can be free to dance all the more with the
+really nice men whom one never marries.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why not?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;you can only marry one&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There he is&mdash;he’s coming for me! Oh, Frank, you leave me to the tender
+mercies of the world at large. I thought you’d forgotten me, Dear.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought the same,” replied her Golaud, a great fat fellow with a childish
+bare face. He smiled awesomely, and one never knew what he meant to say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We drove home in the early Christmas morning. Lettie, warmly wrapped in her
+cloak, had had a little stroll with her lover in the shrubbery. She was still
+brilliant, flashing in her movements. He, as he bade her good-bye, was almost
+beautiful in his grace and his low musical tone. I nearly loved him myself. She
+was very fond towards him. As we came to the gate where the private road
+branched from the highway, we heard John say “Thank you”&mdash;and looking out,
+saw our two boys returning from the pit. They were very grotesque in the dark
+night as the lamplight fell on them, showing them grimy, flecked with bits of
+snow. They shouted merrily, their good wishes. Lettie leaned out and waved to
+them, and they cried “’ooray!” Christmas came in with their acclamations.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX<br/>
+LETTIE COMES OF AGE</h2>
+
+<p>
+Lettie was twenty-one on the day after Christmas. She woke me in the morning
+with cries of dismay. There was a great fall of snow, multiplying the cold
+morning light, startling the slow-footed twilight. The lake was black like the
+open eyes of a corpse; the woods were black like the beard on the face of a
+corpse. A rabbit bobbed out, and floundered in much consternation; little birds
+settled into the depth, and rose in a dusty whirr, much terrified at the
+universal treachery of the earth. The snow was eighteen inches deep, and
+drifted in places.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They will never come!” lamented Lettie, for it was the day of her party.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“At any rate&mdash;Leslie will,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“One!” she exclaimed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That one is all, isn’t it?” said I. “And for sure George will come, though
+I’ve not seen him this fortnight. He’s not been in one night, they say, for a
+fortnight.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why not?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I cannot say.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie went away to ask Rebecca for the fiftieth time if she thought they would
+come. At any rate the extra woman-help came.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was not more than ten o’clock when Leslie arrived, ruddy, with shining eyes,
+laughing like a boy. There was much stamping in the porch, and knocking of
+leggings with his stick, and crying of Lettie from the kitchen to know who had
+come, and loud, cheery answers from the porch bidding her come and see. She
+came, and greeted him with effusion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ha, my little woman!” he said kissing her. “I declare you are a woman. Look at
+yourself in the glass now&mdash;&mdash;” She did so&mdash;“What do you see?” he
+asked laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You&mdash;mighty gay, looking at me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, but look at yourself. There! I declare you’re more afraid of your own eyes
+than of mine, aren’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am,” she said, and he kissed her with rapture.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s your birthday,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I know,” she replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So do I. You promised me something.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here&mdash;see if you like it,”&mdash;he gave her a little case. She opened
+it, and instinctively slipped the ring on her finger. He made a movement of
+pleasure. She looked up, laughing breathlessly at him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now!” said he, in tones of finality.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah!” she exclaimed in a strange, thrilled voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He caught her in his arms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After a while, when they could talk rationally again, she said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you think they will come to my party?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hope not&mdash;By Heaven!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But&mdash;oh, yes! We have made all preparations.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What does that matter! Ten thousand folks here to-day&mdash;&mdash;!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not ten thousand&mdash;only five or six. I shall be wild if they can’t come.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You want them?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We have asked them&mdash;and everything is ready&mdash;and I do want us to
+have a party one day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But to-day&mdash;damn it all, Lettie!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I did want my party to-day. Don’t you think they’ll come?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They won’t if they’ve any sense!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You might help me&mdash;&mdash;” she pouted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well I’ll be&mdash;! and you’ve set your mind on having a houseful of people
+to-day?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know how we look forward to it&mdash;my party. At any rate&mdash;I know
+Tom Smith will come&mdash;and I’m almost sure Emily Saxton will.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He bit his moustache angrily, and said at last:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then I suppose I’d better send John round for the lot.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It wouldn’t be much trouble, would it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No <i>trouble</i> at all.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know,” she said, twisting the ring on her finger. “It makes me feel as
+if I tied something round my finger to remember by. It somehow remains in my
+consciousness all the time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“At any rate,” said he, “I have got you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After dinner, when we were alone, Lettie sat at the table, nervously fingering
+her ring.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is pretty, mother, isn’t it?” she said a trifle pathetically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, very pretty. I have always liked Leslie,” replied my mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But it feels so heavy&mdash;it fidgets me. I should like to take it off.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are like me, I never could wear rings. I hated my wedding ring for
+months.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did you, mother?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I longed to take it off and put it away. But after a while I got used to it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m glad this isn’t a wedding ring.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Leslie says it is as good,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah well, yes! But still it is different&mdash;” She put the jewels round under
+her finger, and looked at the plain gold band&mdash;then she twisted it back
+quickly, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m glad it’s not&mdash;not yet. I begin to feel a woman, little
+mother&mdash;I feel grown up to-day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My mother got up suddenly and went and kissed Lettie fervently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me kiss my girl good-bye,” she said, and her voice was muffled with tears.
+Lettie clung to my mother, and sobbed a few quiet sobs, hidden in her bosom.
+Then she lifted her face, which was wet with tears, and kissed my mother,
+murmuring:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, mother&mdash;no&mdash;o&mdash;!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+About three o’clock the carriage came with Leslie and Marie. Both Lettie and I
+were upstairs, and I heard Marie come tripping up to my sister.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Lettie, he is in such a state of excitement, you never knew. He took me
+with him to buy it&mdash;let me see it on. I think it’s awfully lovely. Here,
+let me help you to do your hair&mdash;all in those little rolls&mdash;it will
+look charming. You’ve really got beautiful hair&mdash;there’s so much life in
+it&mdash;it’s a pity to twist it into a coil as you do. I wish my hair were a
+bit longer&mdash;though really, it’s all the better for this
+fashion&mdash;don’t you like it?&mdash;it’s ‘so chic’&mdash;I think these
+little puffs are just fascinating&mdash;it is rather long for them&mdash;but it
+will look ravishing. Really, my eyes, and eyebrows, and eyelashes are my best
+features, don’t you think?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Marie, the delightful, charming little creature, twittered on. I went
+downstairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leslie started when I entered the room, but seeing only me, he leaned forward
+again, resting his arms on his knees, looking in the fire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What the Dickens is she doing?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dressing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then we may keep on waiting. Isn’t it a deuced nuisance, these people coming?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, we generally have a good time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;it’s all very well&mdash;we’re not in the same boat, you and me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Fact,” said I laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“By Jove, Cyril, you don’t know what it is to be in love. I never
+thought&mdash;I couldn’t ha’ believed I should be like it. All the time when it
+isn’t at the top of your blood, it’s at the bottom:&mdash;‘the Girl, the
+Girl.’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stared into the fire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It seems pressing you, pressing you on. Never leaves you alone a moment.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again he lapsed into reflection.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then, all at once, you remember how she kissed you, and all your blood jumps
+afire.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He mused again for awhile&mdash;or rather, he seemed fiercely to con over his
+sensations.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know,” he said, “I don’t think she feels for me as I do for her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Would you want her to?” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know. Perhaps not&mdash;but&mdash;still I don’t think she
+feels&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At this he lighted a cigarette to soothe his excited feelings, and there was
+silence for some time. Then the girls came down. We could hear their light
+chatter. Lettie entered the room. He jumped up and surveyed her. She was
+dressed in soft, creamy, silken stuff; her neck was quite bare; her hair was,
+as Marie promised, fascinating; she was laughing nervously. She grew warm, like
+a blossom in the sunshine, in the glow of his admiration. He went forward and
+kissed her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are splendid!” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She only laughed for answer. He drew her away to the great arm-chair, and made
+her sit in it beside him. She was indulgent and he radiant. He took her hand
+and looked at it, and at his ring which she wore.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It looks all right!” he murmured.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Anything would,” she replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do they mean&mdash;sapphires and diamonds&mdash;for I don’t know?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nor do I. Blue for hope, because Speranza in ‘Fairy Queen’ had a blue
+gown&mdash;and diamonds for&mdash;the crystalline clearness of my nature.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Its glitter and hardness, you mean&mdash;You are a hard little mistress. But
+why Hope?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why?&mdash;No reason whatever, like most things. No, that’s not right. Hope!
+Oh&mdash;Blindfolded&mdash;hugging a silly harp with no strings. I wonder why
+she didn’t drop her harp framework over the edge of the globe, and take the
+handkerchief off her eyes, and have a look round! But of course she was a
+woman&mdash;and a man’s woman. Do you know I believe most women can sneak a
+look down their noses from underneath the handkerchief of hope they’ve tied
+over their eyes. They could take the whole muffler off&mdash;but they don’t do
+it, the dears.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t believe you know what you’re talking about, and I’m sure I don’t.
+Sapphires reminded me of your eyes&mdash;and&mdash;isn’t it ‘Blue that kept the
+faith?’ I remember something about it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here,” said she, pulling off the ring, “you ought to wear it yourself,
+Faithful One, to keep me in constant mind.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Keep it on, keep it on. It holds you faster than that fair damsel tied to a
+tree in Millais’ picture&mdash;I believe it’s Millais.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She sat shaking with laughter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a comparison! Who’ll be the brave knight to rescue
+me&mdash;discreetly&mdash;from behind?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah,” he answered, “it doesn’t matter. You don’t want rescuing, do you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not yet,” she replied, teasing him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They continued to talk half nonsense, making themselves eloquent by quick looks
+and gestures, and communion of warm closeness. The ironical tones went out of
+Lettie’s voice, and they made love.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Marie drew me away into the dining room, to leave them alone.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+Marie is a charming little maid, whose appearance is neatness, whose face is
+confident little goodness. Her hair is dark, and lies low upon her neck in wavy
+coils. She does not affect the fashion in coiffure, and generally is a little
+behind the fashion in dress. Indeed she is a half-opened bud of a matron,
+conservative, full of proprieties, and of gentle indulgence. She now smiled at
+me with a warm delight in the romance upon which she had just shed her grace,
+but her demureness allowed nothing to be said. She glanced round the room, and
+out of the window, and observed:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I always love Woodside, it is restful&mdash;there is something about
+it&mdash;oh&mdash;assuring&mdash;really&mdash;it comforts one&mdash;I’ve been
+reading Maxim Gorky.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You shouldn’t,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dadda reads them&mdash;but I don’t like them&mdash;I shall read no more. I
+like Woodside&mdash;it makes you feel&mdash;really at home&mdash;it soothes one
+like the old wood does. It seems right&mdash;life is proper here&mdash;not
+ulcery&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Just healthy living flesh,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, I don’t mean that, because one feels&mdash;oh, as if the world were old
+and good, not old and bad.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Young, and undisciplined, and mad,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;but here, you, and Lettie, and Leslie, and me&mdash;it is so nice for
+us, and it seems so natural and good. Woodside is so old, and so sweet and
+serene&mdash;it does reassure one.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” said I, “we just live, nothing abnormal, nothing cruel and
+extravagant&mdash;just natural&mdash;like doves in a dovecote.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh!&mdash;doves!&mdash;they are so&mdash;so mushy.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They are dear little birds, doves. You look like one yourself, with the black
+band round your neck. You a turtle-dove, and Lettie a wood-pigeon.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lettie is splendid, isn’t she? What a swing she has&mdash;what a mastery! I
+wish I had her strength&mdash;she just marches straight through in the right
+way&mdash;I think she’s fine.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I laughed to see her so enthusiastic in her admiration of my sister. Marie is
+such a gentle, serious little soul. She went to the window. I kissed her, and
+pulled two berries off the mistletoe. I made her a nest in the heavy curtains,
+and she sat there looking out on the snow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is lovely,” she said reflectively. “People must be ill when they write like
+Maxim Gorky.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They live in town,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;but then look at Hardy&mdash;life seems so terrible&mdash;it isn’t,
+is it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you don’t feel it, it isn’t&mdash;if you don’t see it. I don’t see it for
+myself.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s lovely enough for heaven.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Eskimo’s heaven perhaps. And we’re the angels eh? And I’m an archangel.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, you’re a vain, frivolous man. Is that&mdash;? What is that moving through
+the trees?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Somebody coming,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+It was a big, burly fellow moving curiously through the bushes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Doesn’t he walk funnily?” exclaimed Marie. He did. When he came near enough we
+saw he was straddled upon Indian snow-shoes. Marie peeped, and laughed, and
+peeped, and hid again in the curtains laughing. He was very red, and looked
+very hot, as he hauled the great meshes, shuffling over the snow; his body
+rolled most comically. I went to the door and admitted him, while Marie stood
+stroking her face with her hands to smooth away the traces of her laughter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He grasped my hand in a very large and heavy glove, with which he then wiped
+his perspiring brow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, Beardsall, old man,” he said, “and how’s things? God, I’m not ’alf hot!
+Fine idea though&mdash;&mdash;” He showed me his snow-shoes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ripping! ain’t they? I’ve come like an Indian brave&mdash;&mdash;” He rolled
+his “r’s”, and lengthened out his “ah’s” tremendously&mdash;“brra-ave”.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Couldn’t resist it though,” he continued. “Remember your party last
+year&mdash;Girls turned up? On the war-path, eh?” He pursed up his childish
+lips and rubbed his fat chin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Having removed his coat, and the white wrap which protected his collar, not to
+mention the snowflakes, which Rebecca took almost as an insult to
+herself&mdash;he seated his fat, hot body on a chair, and proceeded to take off
+his gaiters and his boots. Then he donned his dancing pumps, and I led him
+upstairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lord, I skimmed here like a swallow!” he continued&mdash;and I looked at his
+corpulence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Never met a soul, though they’ve had a snow-plough down the road. I saw the
+marks of a cart up the drive, so I guessed the Tempests were here. So Lettie’s
+put her nose in Tempest’s nosebag&mdash;leaves nobody a chance, that&mdash;some
+women have rum taste&mdash;only they’re like ravens, they go for the
+gilding&mdash;don’t blame ’em&mdash;only it leaves nobody a chance. Madie
+Howitt’s coming, I suppose?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I ventured something about the snow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She’ll come,” he said, “if it’s up to the neck. Her mother saw me go past.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He proceeded with his toilet. I told him that Leslie had sent the carriage for
+Alice and Madie. He slapped his fat legs, and exclaimed:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Miss Gall&mdash;I smell sulphur! Beardsall, old boy, there’s fun in the wind.
+Madie, and the coy little Tempest, and&mdash;&mdash;” he hissed a line of a
+music-hall song through his teeth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+During all this he had straightened his cream and lavender waistcoat:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Little pink of a girl worked it for me&mdash;a real juicy little
+peach&mdash;chipped somehow or other”&mdash;he had arranged his white
+bow&mdash;he had drawn forth two rings, one a great signet, the other gorgeous
+with diamonds, and had adjusted them on his fat white fingers; he had run his
+fingers delicately, through his hair, which rippled backwards a trifle
+tawdrily&mdash;being fine and somewhat sapless; he had produced a box,
+containing a cream carnation with suitable greenery; he had flicked himself
+with a silk handkerchief, and had dusted his patent-leather shoes; lastly, he
+had pursed up his lips and surveyed himself with great satisfaction in the
+mirror. Then he was ready to be presented.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Couldn’t forget to-day, Lettie. Wouldn’t have let old Pluto and all the bunch
+of ’em keep me away. I skimmed here like a ‘Brra-ave’ on my snow-shoes, like
+Hiawatha coming to Minnehaha.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah&mdash;that was famine,” said Marie softly. “And this is a feast, a gorgeous
+feast, Miss Tempest,” he said, bowing to Marie, who laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You have brought some music?” asked mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Wish I was Orpheus,” he said, uttering his words with exaggerated enunciation,
+a trick he had caught from his singing I suppose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I see you’re in full feather, Tempest. Is she kind as she is fair?’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Will pursed up his smooth sensuous face that looked as if it had never needed
+shaving. Lettie went out with Marie, hearing the bell ring.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She’s an houri!” exclaimed William. “Gad, I’m almost done for! She’s a
+lotus-blossom!&mdash;But is that your ring she’s wearing, Tempest?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Keep off,” said Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And don’t be a fool,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, O-O-Oh!” drawled Will, “so we must look the other way! ‘Le bel homme sans
+merci!’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sighed profoundly, and ran his fingers through his hair, keeping one eye on
+himself in the mirror as he did so. Then he adjusted his rings and went to the
+piano. At first he only splashed about brilliantly. Then he sorted the music,
+and took a volume of Tchaikowsky’s songs. He began the long opening of one
+song, was unsatisfied, and found another, a serenade of Don Juan. Then at last
+he began to sing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His voice is a beautiful tenor, softer, more mellow, less strong and brassy
+than Leslie’s. Now it was raised that it might be heard upstairs. As the
+melting gush poured forth, the door opened. William softened his tones, and
+sang ‘dolce,’ but he did not glance round.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Rapture!&mdash;Choir of Angels,” exclaimed Alice, clasping her hands and
+gazing up at the lintel of the door like a sainted virgin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Persephone&mdash;Europa&mdash;&mdash;” murmured Madie, at her side, getting
+tangled in her mythology.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Alice pressed her clasped hands against her bosom in ecstasy as the notes rose
+higher.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hold me, Madie, or I shall rush to extinction in the arms of this siren.” She
+clung to Madie. The song finished, and Will turned round.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Take it calmly, Miss Gall,” he said. “I hope you’re not hit too badly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;how can you say ‘take it calmly’&mdash;how can the savage beast be
+calm!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sorry for you,” said Will.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are the cause of my trouble, dear boy,” replied Alice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I never thought you’d come,” said Madie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Skimmed here like an Indian ‘brra-ave,’” said Will. “Like Hiawatha towards
+Minnehaha. I knew you were coming.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know,” simpered Madie, “It gave me quite a flutter when I heard the piano.
+It is a year since I saw you. How did you get here?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I came on snow-shoes,” said he. “Real Indian,&mdash;came from
+Canada&mdash;they’re just ripping.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;Aw-w <i>do</i> go and put them on and show
+us&mdash;<i>do!&mdash;do</i> perform for us, Billy dear!” cried Alice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Out in the cold and driving sleet&mdash;no fear,” said he, and he turned to
+talk to Madie. Alice sat chatting with mother. Soon Tom Smith came, and took a
+seat next to Marie; and sat quietly looking over his spectacles with his sharp
+brown eyes, full of scorn for William, full of misgiving for Leslie and Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Shortly after, George and Emily came in. They were rather nervous. When they
+had changed their clogs, and Emily had taken off her brown-paper leggings, and
+he his leather ones, they were not anxious to go into the drawing room. I was
+surprised&mdash;and so was Emily&mdash;to see that he had put on dancing shoes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily, ruddy from the cold air, was wearing a wine coloured dress, which suited
+her luxurious beauty. George’s clothes were well made&mdash;it was a point on
+which he was particular, being somewhat self-conscious. He wore a jacket and a
+dark bow. The other men were in evening dress.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We took them into the drawing-room, where the lamp was not lighted, and the
+glow of the fire was becoming evident in the dusk. We had taken up the
+carpet&mdash;the floor was all polished&mdash;and some of the furniture was
+taken away&mdash;so that the room looked large and ample.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was general hand shaking, and the newcomers were seated near the fire.
+First mother talked to them&mdash;then the candles were lighted at the piano,
+and Will played to us. He is an exquisite pianist, full of refinement and
+poetry. It is astonishing, and it is a fact. Mother went out to attend to the
+tea, and after a while, Lettie crossed over to Emily and George, and, drawing
+up a low chair, sat down to talk to them. Leslie stood in the window bay,
+looking out on the lawn where the snow grew bluer and bluer and the sky almost
+purple.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie put her hands on Emily’s lap, and said softly, “Look&mdash;do you like
+it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What! engaged? exclaimed Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am of age, you see,” said Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is a beauty, isn’t it. Let me try it on, will you? Yes, I’ve never had a
+ring. There, it won’t go over my knuckle&mdash;no&mdash;I thought not. Aren’t
+my hands red?&mdash;it’s the cold&mdash;yes, it’s too small for me. I do like
+it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George sat watching the play of the four hands in his sister’s lap, two hands
+moving so white and fascinating in the twilight, the other two rather red, with
+rather large bones, looking so nervous, almost hysterical. The ring played
+between the four hands, giving an occasional flash from the twilight or
+candlelight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You must congratulate me,” she said, in a very low voice, and two of us knew
+she spoke to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As, yes,” said Emily, “I do.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you?” she said, turning to him who was silent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you want me to say?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Say what you like.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+ “Sometime, when I’ve thought about it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Cold dinners!” laughed Lettie, awaking Alice’s old sarcasm at his slowness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” he exclaimed, looking up suddenly at her taunt. She knew she was
+playing false; she put the ring on her finger and went across the room to
+Leslie, laying her arm over his shoulder, and leaning her head against him,
+murmuring softly to him. He, poor fellow, was delighted with her, for she did
+not display her fondness often.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went in to tea. The yellow shaded lamp shone softly over the table, where
+Christmas roses spread wide open among some dark-coloured leaves; where the
+china and silver and the coloured dishes shone delightfully. We were all very
+gay and bright; who could be otherwise, seated round a well-laid table, with
+young company, and the snow outside. George felt awkward when he noticed his
+hands over the table, but for the rest, we enjoyed ourselves exceedingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The conversation veered inevitably to marriage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But what have you to say about it, Mr. Smith?” asked little Marie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nothing yet,” replied he in his peculiar grating voice. “My marriage is in the
+unanalysed solution of the future&mdash;when I’ve done the analysis I’ll tell
+you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But what do you think about it&mdash;?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you remember Lettie,” said Will Bancroft, “that little red-haired girl who
+was in our year at college? She has just married old Craven out of Physic’s
+department.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish her joy of it!” said Lettie; “wasn’t she an old flame of yours?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Among the rest,” he replied smiling. “Don’t you remember you were one of them;
+you had your day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a joke that was!” exclaimed Lettie, “we used to go in the arboretum at
+dinner-time. You lasted half one autumn. Do you remember when we gave a
+concert, you and I, and Frank Wishaw, in the small lecture theatre?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When the Prinny was such an old buck, flattering you,” continued Will. “And
+that night Wishaw took you to the station&mdash;sent old Gettim for a cab and
+saw you in, large as life&mdash;never was such a thing before. Old Wishaw won
+you with that cab, didn’t he?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, how I swelled!” cried Lettie. “There were you all at the top of the steps
+gazing with admiration! But Frank Wishaw was not a nice fellow, though he
+played the violin beautifully. I never liked his eyes&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” added Will. “He didn’t last long, did he?&mdash;though long enough to
+oust me. We had a giddy ripping time in Coll., didn’t we?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was not bad,” said Lettie. “Rather foolish. I’m afraid I wasted my three
+years.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think,” said Leslie, smiling, “you improved the shining hours to great
+purpose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It pleased him to think what a flirt she had been, since the flirting had been
+harmless, and only added to the glory of his final conquest. George felt very
+much left out during these reminiscences.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+When we had finished tea, we adjourned to the drawing-room. It was in darkness,
+save for the fire light. The mistletoe had been discovered, and was being
+appreciated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Georgie, Sybil, Sybil, Georgie, come and kiss me,” cried Alice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Will went forward to do her the honour. She ran to me, saying, “Get away, you
+fat fool&mdash;keep on your own preserves. Now Georgie dear, come and kiss me,
+’cause you haven’t got nobody else but me, no y’ ave n’t. Do you want to run
+away, like Georgy-Porgy apple-pie? Shan’t cry, sure I shan’t, if you are ugly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She took him and kissed him on either cheek, saying softly, “You shan’t be so
+serious, old boy&mdash;buck up, there’s a good fellow.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We lighted the lamp, and charades were proposed, Leslie and Lettie, Will and
+Madie and Alice went out to play. The first scene was an elopement to Gretna
+Green&mdash;with Alice a maid servant, a part that she played wonderfully well
+as a caricature. It was very noisy, and extremely funny. Leslie was in high
+spirits. It was remarkable to observe that, as he became more animated, more
+abundantly energetic, Lettie became quieter. The second scene, which they were
+playing as excited melodrama, she turned into small tragedy with her
+bitterness. They went out, and Lettie blew us kisses from the doorway.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Doesn’t she act well?” exclaimed Marie, speaking to Tom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Quite realistic,” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She could always play a part well,” said mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should think,” said Emily, “she could take a role in life and play up to
+it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I believe she could,” mother answered, “there would only be intervals when she
+would see herself in a mirror acting.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And what then?” said Marie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She would feel desperate, and wait till the fit passed off,” replied my
+mother, smiling significantly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The players came in again. Lettie kept her part subordinate. Leslie played with
+brilliance; it was rather startling how he excelled. The applause was
+loud&mdash;but we could not guess the word. Then they laughed, and told us. We
+clamoured for more.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do go, dear,” said Lettie to Leslie, “and I will be helping to arrange the
+room for the dances. I want to watch you&mdash;I am rather tired&mdash;it is so
+exciting&mdash;Emily will take my place.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They went. Marie and Tom, and Mother and I played bridge in one corner. Lettie
+said she wanted to show George some new pictures, and they bent over a
+portfolio for some time. Then she bade him help her to clear the room for the
+dances.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, you have had time to think,” she said to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A short time,” he replied. “What shall I say?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tell me what you’ve been thinking.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;about you&mdash;&mdash;” he answered, smiling foolishly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What about me?” she asked, venturesome.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“About you, how you were at college,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! I had a good time. I had plenty of boys. I liked them all, till I found
+there was nothing in them; then they tired me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poor boys!” he said laughing. “Were they all alike?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All alike,” she replied, “and they are still.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pity,” he said, smiling. “It’s hard lines on you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It leaves you nobody to care for&mdash;&mdash;” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How very sarcastic you are. You make one reservation.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do I?” he answered, smiling. “But you fire sharp into the air, and then say
+we’re all blank cartridges&mdash;except one, of course.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You?” she queried, ironically&mdash;“oh, you would forever hang fire.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘Cold dinners!’” he quoted in bitterness. “But you knew I loved you. You knew
+well enough.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Past tense,” she replied, “thanks&mdash;make it perfect next time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s you who hang fire&mdash;it’s you who make me,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And so from the retort circumstantial to the retort direct,’” she replied,
+smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You see&mdash;you put me off,” he insisted, growing excited. For reply, she
+held out her hand and showed him the ring. She smiled very quietly. He stared
+at her with darkening anger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will you gather the rugs and stools together, and put them in that corner?”
+she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He turned away to do so, but he looked back again, and said, in low, passionate
+tones:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You never counted me. I was a figure naught in the counting all along.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“See&mdash;there is a chair that will be in the way,” she replied calmly; but
+she flushed, and bowed her head. She turned away, and he dragged an armful of
+rugs into a corner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the actors came in, Lettie was moving a vase of flowers. While they
+played, she sat looking on, smiling, clapping her hands. When it was finished
+Leslie came and whispered to her, whereon she kissed him unobserved, delighting
+and exhilarating him more than ever. Then they went out to prepare the next
+act.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George did not return to her till she called him to help her. Her colour was
+high in her cheeks.
+</p>
+
+<p></p>
+
+<p>
+“How do you know you did not count?” she said nervously, unable to resist the
+temptation to play this forbidden game.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed, and for a moment could not find any reply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do!” he said. “You knew you could have me any day, so you didn’t care.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then we’re behaving in quite the traditional fashion,” she answered with
+irony.
+</p>
+
+<p></p>
+
+<p>
+“But you know,” he said, “you began it. You played with me, and showed me heaps
+of things&mdash;and those mornings&mdash;when I was binding corn, and when I
+was gathering the apples, and when I was finishing the straw-stack&mdash;you
+came then&mdash;I can never forget those mornings&mdash;things will never be
+the same&mdash;You have awakened my life&mdash;I imagine things that I couldn’t
+have done.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah!&mdash;I am very sorry, I am so sorry.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t be!&mdash;don’t say so. But what of me?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” she asked rather startled. He smiled again; he felt the situation, and
+was a trifle dramatic, though deadly in earnest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” said he, “you start me off&mdash;then leave me at a loose end. What am
+I going to do?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are a man,” she replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed. “What does that mean?” he said contemptuously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You can go on&mdash;which way you like,” she answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, well,” he said, “we’ll see.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you think so?” she asked, rather anxious.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know&mdash;we’ll see,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They went out with some things. In the hall, she turned to him, with a break in
+her voice, saying: “Oh, I am so sorry&mdash;I am so sorry.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He said, very low and soft,&mdash;“Never mind&mdash;never mind.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She heard the laughter of those preparing the charade. She drew away and went
+in the drawing room, saying aloud:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now I think everything is ready&mdash;we can sit down now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the actors had played the last charade, Leslie came and claimed her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now, Madam&mdash;are you glad to have me back?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That I am,” she said. “Don’t leave me again, will you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I won’t,” he replied, drawing her beside him. “I have left my handkerchief in
+the dining-room,” he continued; and they went out together.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mother gave me permission for the men to smoke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know,” said Marie to Tom, “I am surprised that a scientist should smoke.
+Isn’t it a waste of time?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come and light me,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay,” she replied, “let science light you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Science does&mdash;Ah, but science is nothing without a girl to set it
+going&mdash;Yes&mdash;Come on&mdash;now, don’t burn my precious nose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poor George!” cried Alice. “Does he want a ministering angel?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was half lying in a big arm chair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do,” he replied. “Come on, be my box of soothing ointment. My matches are
+all loose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll strike it on my heel, eh? Now, rouse up, or I shall have to sit on your
+knee to reach you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poor dear&mdash;he shall beluxurious,” and the dauntless girl perched on his
+knee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What if I singe your whiskers&mdash;would you send an Armada?
+Aw&mdash;aw&mdash;pretty!&mdash;You do look sweet&mdash;doesn’t he suck
+prettily?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you envy me?” he asked, smiling whimsically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ra&mdash;ther!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shame to debar you,” he said, almost with tenderness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Smoke with me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He offered her the cigarette from his lips. She was surprised, and exceedingly
+excited by his tender tone. She took the cigarette.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll make a heifer&mdash;like Mrs. Daws,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t call yourself a cow,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nasty thing&mdash;let me go,” she exclaimed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;you fit me&mdash;don’t go,” he replied, holding her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then you must have growed. Oh&mdash;what great hands&mdash;let go. Lettie,
+come and pinch him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What’s the matter?” asked my sister.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He won’t let me go.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’ll be tired first,” Lettie answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Alice was released, but she did not move. She sat with wrinkled forehead trying
+his cigarette. She blew out little tiny whiffs of smoke, and thought about it;
+she sent a small puff down her nostrils, and rubbed her nose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s not as nice as it looks,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed at her with masculine indulgence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pretty boy,” she said, stroking his chin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Am I?” he murmured languidly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Cheek!” she cried, and she boxed his ears. Then “Oh, pore fing!” she said, and
+kissed him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She turned round to wink at my mother and at Lettie. She found the latter
+sitting in the old position with Leslie, two in a chair. He was toying with her
+arm; holding it and stroking it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Isn’t it lovely?” he said, kissing the forearm, “so warm and yet so white.
+Io&mdash;it reminds one of Io.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Somebody else talking about heifers,” murmured Alice to George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Can you remember,” said Leslie, speaking low, “that man in Merimée who wanted
+to bite his wife and taste her blood?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do,” said Lettie. “Have you a strain of wild beast too?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Perhaps,” he laughed, “I wish these folks had gone. Your hair is all loose in
+your neck&mdash;it looks lovely like that though&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Alice, the mocker, had unbuttoned the cuff of the thick wrist that lay idly on
+her knee, and had pushed his sleeve a little way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah!” she said. “What a pretty arm, brown as an overbaked loaf!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He watched her smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hard as a brick,” she added.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you like it?” he drawled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” she said emphatically, in a tone that meant “yes.” “It makes me feel
+shivery.” He smiled again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She superposed her tiny pale, flower-like hands on his.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He lay back looking at them curiously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you feel as if your hands were full of silver?” she asked almost wistfully,
+mocking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Better than that,” he replied gently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And your heart full of gold?” she mocked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of hell!” he replied briefly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Alice looked at him searchingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And am I like a blue-bottle buzzing in your window to keep your company?” she
+asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-bye,” she said, slipping down and leaving him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t go,” he said&mdash;but too late.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+The irruption of Alice into the quiet, sentimental party was like taking a
+bright light into a sleeping hen-roost. Everybody jumped up and wanted to do
+something. They cried out for a dance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Emily&mdash;play a waltz&mdash;you won’t mind, will you, George? What! You
+don’t dance, Tom? Oh, Marie!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t mind, Lettie,” protested Marie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dance with me, Alice,” said George, smiling “and Cyril will take Miss
+Tempest.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Glory!&mdash;come on&mdash;do or die!” said Alice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We began to dance. I saw Lettie watching, and I looked round. George was
+waltzing with Alice, dancing passably, laughing at her remarks. Lettie was not
+listening to what her lover was saying to her; she was watching the laughing
+pair. At the end she went to George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why!” she said, “You can&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did you think I couldn’t?” he said. “You are pledged for a minuet and a valeta
+with me&mdash;you remember?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You promise?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes. But&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I went to Nottingham and learned.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why&mdash;because?&mdash;Very well, Leslie, a mazurka. Will you play it,
+Emily&mdash;Yes, it is quite easy. Tom, you look quite happy talking to the
+Mater.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We danced the mazurka with the same partners. He did it better than I
+expected&mdash;without much awkwardness&mdash;but stiffly. However, he moved
+quietly through the dance, laughing and talking abstractedly all the time with
+Alice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then Lettie cried a change of partners, and they took their valeta. There was a
+little triumph in his smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you congratulate me?” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am surprised,” she answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So am I. But I congratulate myself.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you? Well, so do I.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thanks! You’re beginning at last.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To believe in me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t begin to talk again,” she pleaded sadly, “nothing vital.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you like dancing with me?” he asked
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now, be quiet&mdash;<i>that’s</i> real,” she replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“By Heaven, Lettie, you make me laugh!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do I?” she said&mdash;“What if you married Alice&mdash;soon.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I&mdash;Alice!&mdash;Lettie!! Besides, I’ve only a hundred pounds in the
+world, and no prospects whatever. That’s why&mdash;well&mdash;I shan’t marry
+anybody&mdash;unless its somebody with money.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve a couple of thousand or so of my own&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you? It would have done nicely,” he said smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are different to-night,” she said, leaning on him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Am I?” he replied&mdash;“It’s because things are altered too. They’re settled
+one way now&mdash;for the present at least.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t forget the two steps this time,” said she smiling, and adding seriously,
+“You see, I couldn’t help it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, why not?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Things! I have been brought up to expect it&mdash;everybody expected
+it&mdash;and you’re bound to do what people expect you to do&mdash;you can’t
+help it. We can’t help ourselves, we’re all chess-men,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay,” he agreed, but doubtfully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wonder where it will end,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lettie!” he cried, and his hand closed in a grip on her’s.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t&mdash;don’t say anything&mdash;it’s no good now, it’s too late. It’s
+done; and what is done, is done. If you talk any more, I shall say I’m tired
+and stop the dance. Don’t say another word.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not&mdash;at least to her. Their dance came to an end. Then he took
+Marie who talked winsomely to him. As he waltzed with Marie he regained his
+animated spirits. He was very lively the rest of the evening, quite astonishing
+and reckless. At supper he ate everything, and drank much wine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have some more turkey, Mr. Saxton.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thanks&mdash;but give me some of that stuff in brown jelly, will you? It’s new
+to me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have some of this trifle, Georgie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will&mdash;you are a jewel.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So will you be&mdash;a yellow topaz tomorrow!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah! tomorrow’s tomorrow!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After supper was over, Alice cried:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Georgie, dear&mdash;have you finished?&mdash;don’t die the death of a
+king&mdash;King John&mdash;I can’t spare you, pet.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you so fond of me?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am&mdash;Aw! I’d throw my best Sunday hat under a milk-cart for you, I
+would!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No; throw yourself into the milk-cart&mdash;some Sunday, when I’m driving.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;come and see us,” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How nice! Tomorrow you won’t want me, Georgie dear, so I’ll come. Don’t you
+wish Pa would make Tono-Bungay? Wouldn’t you marry me then?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I would,” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the cart came, and Alice, Madie, Tom and Will departed, Alice bade Lettie
+a long farewell&mdash;blew Georgie many kisses&mdash;promised to love him
+faithful and true&mdash;and was gone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George and Emily lingered a short time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now the room seemed empty and quiet, and all the laughter seemed to have gone.
+The conversation dribbled away; there was an awkwardness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” said George heavily, at last. “To-day is nearly gone&mdash;it will soon
+be tomorrow. I feel a bit drunk! We had a good time to-night.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am glad,” said Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They put on their clogs and leggings, and wrapped themselves up, and stood in
+the hall.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We must go,” said George, “before the clock strikes,&mdash;like
+Cinderella&mdash;look at my glass slippers&mdash;” he pointed to his clogs.
+“Midnight, and rags, and fleeing. Very appropriate. I shall call myself
+Cinderella who wouldn’t fit. I believe I’m a bit drunk&mdash;the world looks
+funny.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We looked out at the haunting wanness of the hills beyond Nethermere.
+“Good-bye, Lettie; good-bye.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They were out in the snow, which peered pale and eerily from the depths of the
+black wood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-bye,” he called out of the darkness. Leslie slammed the door, and drew
+Lettie away into the drawing-room. The sound of his low, vibrating satisfaction
+reached us, as he murmured to her, and laughed low. Then he kicked the door of
+the room shut. Lettie began to laugh and mock and talk in a high strained
+voice. The sound of their laughter mingled was strange and incongruous. Then
+her voice died down.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Marie sat at the little piano&mdash;which was put in the
+dining-room&mdash;strumming and tinkling the false, quavering old notes. It was
+a depressing jingling in the deserted remains of the feast, but she felt
+sentimental, and enjoyed it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This was a gap between to-day and tomorrow, a dreary gap, where one sat and
+looked at the dreary comedy of yesterdays, and the grey tragedies of dawning
+tomorrows, vacantly, missing the poignancy of an actual to-day.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cart returned.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Leslie, Leslie, John is here, come along!” called Marie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was no answer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Leslie&mdash;John is waiting in the snow.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All right.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you must come at once.” She went to the door and spoke to him. Then he
+came out looking rather sheepish, and rather angry at the interruption. Lettie
+followed, tidying her hair. She did not laugh and look confused, as most girls
+do on similar occasions; she seemed very tired.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last Leslie tore himself away, and after more returns for a farewell kiss,
+mounted the carriage, which stood in a pool of yellow light, blurred and
+splotched with shadows, and drove away, calling something about tomorrow.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="part02"></a>PART II</h2>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER I<br/>
+STRANGE BLOSSOMS AND STRANGE NEW BUDDING</h2>
+
+<p>
+Winter lay a long time prostrate on the earth. The men in the mines of Tempest,
+Warrall and Co. came out on strike on a question of the rearranging of the
+working system down below. The distress was not awful, for the men were on the
+whole wise and well-conditioned, but there was a dejection over the face of the
+country-side, and some suffered keenly. Everywhere, along the lanes and in the
+streets, loitered gangs of men, unoccupied and spiritless. Week after week went
+on, and the agents of the Miner’s Union held great meetings, and the ministers
+held prayer-meetings, but the strike continued. There was no rest. Always the
+crier’s bell was ringing in the street; always the servants of the company were
+delivering handbills, stating the case clearly, and always the people talked
+and filled the months with bitter, and then hopeless, resenting. Schools gave
+breakfasts, chapels gave soup, well-to-do people gave teas&mdash;the children
+enjoyed it. But we, who knew the faces of the old men and the privations of the
+women, breathed a cold, disheartening atmosphere of sorrow and trouble.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Determined poaching was carried on in the Squire’s woods and warrens. Annable
+defended his game heroically. One man was at home with a leg supposed to be
+wounded by a fall on the slippery roads&mdash;but really, by a man-trap in the
+woods. Then Annable caught two men, and they were sentenced to two months’
+imprisonment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On both the lodge gates of Highclose&mdash;on our side and on the far Eberwich
+side&mdash;were posted notices that trespassers on the drive or in the grounds
+would be liable to punishment. These posters were soon mudded over, and fresh
+ones fixed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The men loitering on the road by Nethermere, looked angrily at Lettie as she
+passed, in her black furs which Leslie had given her, and their remarks were
+pungent. She heard them, and they burned in her heart. From my mother she
+inherited democratic views, which she now proceeded to debate warmly with her
+lover.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then she tried to talk to Leslie about the strike. He heard her with mild
+superiority, smiled, and said she did not know. Women jumped to conclusions at
+the first touch of feeling; men must look at a thing all round, then make a
+decision&mdash;nothing hasty and impetuous&mdash;careful, long-thought-out,
+correct decisions. Women could not be expected to understand these things,
+business was not for them; in fact, their mission was above
+business&mdash;etc., etc., Unfortunately Lettie was the wrong woman to treat
+thus.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So!” said she, with a quiet, hopeless tone of finality.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There now, you understand, don’t you, Minnehaha, my Laughing Water&mdash;So
+laugh again, darling, and don’t worry about these things. We will not talk
+about them any more, eh?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No more.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No more&mdash;that’s right&mdash;you are as wise as an angel. Come
+here&mdash;pooh, the wood is thick and lonely! Look, there is nobody in the
+world but us, and you are my heaven and earth!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And hell?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah&mdash;if you are so cold&mdash;how cold you are!&mdash;it gives me little
+shivers when you look so&mdash;and I am always hot&mdash;Lettie!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are cruel! Kiss me&mdash;now&mdash;No, I don’t want your cheek&mdash;kiss
+me yourself. Why don’t you say something?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What for? What’s the use of saying anything when there’s nothing immediate to
+say?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are offended!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It feels like snow to-day,” she answered.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+At last, however, winter began to gather her limbs, to rise, and drift with
+saddened garments northward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The strike was over. The men had compromised. It was a gentle way of telling
+them they were beaten. But the strike was over.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The birds fluttered and dashed; the catkins on the hazel loosened their winter
+rigidity, and swung soft tassels. All through the day sounded long, sweet
+whistlings from the brushes; then later, loud, laughing shouts of bird triumph
+on every hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I remember a day when the breast of the hills was heaving in a last quick
+waking sigh, and the blue eyes of the waters opened bright. Across the infinite
+skies of March great rounded masses of cloud had sailed stately all day, domed
+with a white radiance, softened with faint, fleeting shadows as if companies of
+angels were gently sweeping past; adorned with resting, silken shadows like
+those of a full white breast. All day the clouds had moved on to their vast
+destination, and I had clung to the earth yearning and impatient. I took a
+brush and tried to paint them, then I raged at myself. I wished that in all the
+wild valley where cloud shadows were travelling like pilgrims, something would
+call me forth from my rooted loneliness. Through all the grandeur of the white
+and blue day, the poised cloud masses swung their slow flight, and left me
+unnoticed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At evening they were all gone, and the empty sky, like a blue bubble over us,
+swam on its pale bright rims.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leslie came, and asked his betrothed to go out with him, under the darkening
+wonderful bubble. She bade me accompany her, and, to escape from myself, I
+went.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was warm in the shelter of the wood and in the crouching hollows of the
+hills. But over the slanting shoulders of the hills the wind swept, whipping
+the redness into our faces.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Get me some of those alder catkins, Leslie,” said Lettie, as we came down to
+the stream.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, those, where they hang over the brook. They are ruddy like new blood
+freshening under the skin. Look, tassels of crimson and gold!” She pointed to
+the dusty hazel catkins mingled with the alder on her bosom. Then she began to
+quote Christina Rossetti’s “A Birthday.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m glad you came to take me a walk,” she continued&mdash;“Doesn’t Strelley
+Mill look pretty? Like a group of orange and scarlet fungi in a fairy picture.
+Do you know, I haven’t been, no, not for quite a long time. Shall we call now?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The daylight will be gone if we do. It is half past five&mdash;more! I saw
+him&mdash;the son&mdash;the other morning.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He was carting manure&mdash;I made haste by.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did he speak to you&mdash;did you look at him?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, he said nothing. I glanced at him&mdash;he’s just the same, brick
+colour&mdash;stolid. Mind that stone&mdash;it rocks. I’m glad you’ve got strong
+boots on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Seeing that I usually wear them&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stood poised a moment on a large stone, the fresh spring brook hastening
+towards her, deepening, sidling round her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You won’t call and see them, then?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No. I like to hear the brook tinkling, don’t you?” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, yes&mdash;it’s full of music.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shall we go on?” he said, impatient but submissive.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll catch up in a minute,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went in and found Emily putting some bread into the oven.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come out for a walk,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now? Let me tell mother&mdash;I was longing&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She ran and put on her long grey coat and her red tam-o-shanter. As we went
+down the yard, George called to me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll come back,” I shouted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He came to the crew-yard gate to see us off. When we came out onto the path, we
+saw Lettie standing on the top bar of the stile, balancing with her hand on
+Leslie’s head. She saw us, she saw George, and she waved to us. Leslie was
+looking up at her anxiously. She waved again, then we could hear her laughing,
+and telling him excitedly to stand still, and steady her while she turned. She
+turned round, and leaped with a great flutter, like a big bird launching, down
+from the top of the stile to the ground and into his arms. Then we climbed the
+steep hill-side&mdash;Sunny Bank, that had once shone yellow with wheat, and
+now waved black tattered ranks of thistles where the rabbits ran. We passed the
+little cottages in the hollow scooped out of the hill, and gained the highlands
+that look out over Leicestershire to Charnwood on the left, and away into the
+mountain knob of Derbyshire straight in front and towards the right.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The upper road is all grassy, fallen into long disuse. It used to lead from the
+Abbey to the Hall; but now it ends blindly on the hill-brow. Half way along is
+the old White House farm, with its green mounting steps mouldering outside.
+Ladies have mounted here and ridden towards the Vale of Belvoir&mdash;but now a
+labourer holds the farm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We came to the quarries, and looked in at the lime-kilns.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let us go right into the wood out of the quarry,” said Leslie. “I have not
+been since I was a little lad.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is trespassing,” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We don’t trespass,” he replied grandiloquently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So we went along by the hurrying brook, which fell over little cascades in its
+haste, never looking once at the primroses that were glimmering all along its
+banks. We turned aside, and climbed the hill through the woods. Velvety green
+sprigs of dog-mercury were scattered on the red soil. We came to the top of a
+slope, where the wood thinned. As I talked to Emily I became dimly aware of a
+whiteness over the ground. She exclaimed with surprise, and I found that I was
+walking, in the first shades of twilight, over clumps of snowdrops. The hazels
+were thin, and only here and there an oak tree uprose. All the ground was white
+with snowdrops, like drops of manna scattered over the red earth, on the
+grey-green clusters of leaves. There was a deep little dell, sharp sloping like
+a cup, and white sprinkling of flowers all the way down, with white flowers
+showing pale among the first inpouring of shadow at the bottom. The earth was
+red and warm, pricked with the dark, succulent green of bluebell sheaths, and
+embroidered with grey-green clusters of spears, and many white flowerets. High
+above, above the light tracery of hazel, the weird oaks tangled in the sunset.
+Below, in the first shadows, drooped hosts of little white flowers, so silent
+and sad; it seemed like a holy communion of pure wild things, numberless,
+frail, and folded meekly in the evening light. Other flower companies are glad;
+stately barbaric hordes of bluebells, merry-headed cowslip groups, even light,
+tossing wood-anemones; but snowdrops are sad and mysterious. We have lost their
+meaning. They do not belong to us, who ravish them. The girls bent among them,
+touching them with their fingers, and symbolising the yearning which I felt.
+Folded in the twilight, these conquered flowerets are sad like forlorn little
+friends of dryads.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do they mean, do you think?” said Lettie in a low voice, as her white
+fingers touched the flowers, and her black furs fell on them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There are not so many this year,” said Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They remind me of mistletoe, which is never ours, though we wear it,” said
+Emily to me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you think they say&mdash;what do they make you think, Cyril?” Lettie
+repeated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know. Emily says they belong to some old wild lost religion. They were
+the symbol of tears, perhaps, to some strange hearted Druid folk before us.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“More than tears,” said Lettie. “More than tears, they are so still. Something
+out of an old religion, that we have lost. They make me feel afraid.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What should you have to fear?” asked Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I knew I shouldn’t fear,” she answered. “Look at all the
+snowdrops”&mdash;they hung in dim, strange flecks among the dusky
+leaves&mdash;“look at them&mdash;closed up, retreating, powerless. They belong
+to some knowledge we have lost, that I have lost and that I need. I feel
+afraid. They seem like something in fate. Do you think, Cyril, we can lose
+things off the earth&mdash;like mastodons, and those old
+monstrosities&mdash;but things that matter&mdash;wisdom?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is against my creed,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I believe I have lost something,” said she.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come,” said Leslie, “don’t trouble with fancies. Come with me to the bottom of
+this cup, and see how strange it will be, with the sky marked with branches
+like a filigree lid.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She rose and followed him down the steep side of the pit, crying, “Ah, you are
+treading on the flowers.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” said he, “I am being very careful.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They sat down together on a fallen tree at the bottom. She leaned forward, her
+fingers wandering white among the shadowed grey spaces of leaves, plucking, as
+if it were a rite, flowers here and there. He could not see her face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you care for me?” he asked softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You?”&mdash;she sat up and looked at him, and laughed strangely. “You do not
+seem real to me,” she replied, in a strange voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For some time they sat thus, both bowed and silent. Birds “skirred” off from
+the bushes, and Emily looked up with a great start as a quiet, sardonic voice
+said above us:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A dove-cot, my eyes if it ain’t! It struck me I ’eered a cooin’, an’ ’ere’s
+th’ birds. Come on, sweethearts, it’s th’ wrong place for billin’ an’ cooin’,
+in th’ middle o’ these ’ere snowdrops. Let’s ’ave yer names, come on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Clear off, you fool!” answered Leslie from below, jumping up in anger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We all four turned and looked at the keeper. He stood in the rim of light,
+darkly; fine, powerful form, menacing us. He did not move, but like some
+malicious Pan looked down on us and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very pretty&mdash;pretty! Two&mdash;and two makes four. ’Tis true, two and two
+makes four. Come on, come on out o’ this ’ere bridal bed, an’ let’s ’ave a look
+at yer.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Can’t you use your eyes, you fool,” replied Leslie, standing up and helping
+Lettie with her furs. “At any rate you can see there are ladies here.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very sorry, Sir! You can’t tell a lady from a woman at this distance at dusk.
+Who may you be, Sir?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Clear out! Come along, Lettie, you can’t stay here now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They climbed into the light.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, very sorry, Mr. Tempest&mdash;when yer look down on a man he never looks
+the same. I thought it was some young fools come here dallyin’&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Damn you&mdash;shut up!” exclaimed Leslie&mdash;“I beg your pardon, Lettie.
+Will you have my arm?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They looked very elegant, the pair of them. Lettie was wearing a long coat
+which fitted close; she had a small hat whose feathers flushed straight back
+with her hair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The keeper looked at them. Then, smiling, he went down the dell with great
+strides, and returned, saying, “Well, the lady might as well take her gloves.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She took them from him, shrinking to Leslie. Then she started, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me fetch my flowers.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She ran for the handful of snowdrops that lay among the roots of the trees. We
+all watched her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sorry I made such a mistake&mdash;a lady!” said Annable. “But I’ve nearly
+forgot the sight o’ one&mdash;save the squire’s daughters, who are never out o’
+nights.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should think you never have seen many&mdash;unless&mdash;! Have you ever
+been a groom?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No groom but a bridegroom, Sir, and then I think I’d rather groom a horse than
+a lady, for I got well bit&mdash;if you will excuse me, Sir.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you deserved it&mdash;no doubt.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I got it&mdash;an’ I wish you better luck, Sir. One’s more a man here in th’
+wood, though, than in my lady’s parlour, it strikes me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A lady’s parlour!” laughed Leslie, indulgent in his amusement at the facetious
+keeper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes! ‘Will you walk into my parlour&mdash;&mdash;’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’re very smart for a keeper.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes Sir&mdash;I was once a lady’s man. But I’d rather watch th’ rabbits
+an’ th’ birds; an’ it’s easier breeding brats in th’ Kennels than in th’ town.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They are yours, are they?” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know ’em, do you, Sir? Aren’t they a lovely little litter?&mdash;aren’t
+they a pretty bag o’ ferrets?&mdash;natural as weasels&mdash;that’s what I said
+they should be&mdash;bred up like a bunch o’ young foxes, to run as they
+would.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily had joined Lettie, and they kept aloof from the man they instinctively
+hated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They’ll get nicely trapped, one of these days,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They’re natural&mdash;they can fend for themselves like wild beasts do,” he
+replied, grinning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are not doing your duty, it strikes me,” put in Leslie sententiously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Duties of parents!&mdash;tell me, I’ve need of it. I’ve nine&mdash;that is
+eight, and one not far off. She breeds well, the ow’d lass&mdash;one every two
+years&mdash;nine in fourteen years&mdash;done well, hasn’t she?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ve done pretty badly, I think.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I&mdash;why? It’s natural! When a man’s more than nature he’s a devil. Be a
+good animal, says I, whether it’s man or woman. You, Sir, a good natural male
+animal; the lady there&mdash;a female un&mdash;that’s proper as long as yer
+enjoy it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And what then?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do as th’ animals do. I watch my brats&mdash;I let ’em grow. They’re beauties,
+they are&mdash;sound as a young ash pole, every one. They shan’t learn to dirty
+themselves wi’ smirking deviltry&mdash;not if I can help it. They can be like
+birds, or weasels, or vipers, or squirrels, so long as they ain’t human rot,
+that’s what I say.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s one way of looking at things,” said Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay. Look at the women looking at us. I’m something between a bull and a couple
+of worms stuck together, I am. See that spink!” he raised his voice for the
+girls to hear. “Pretty, isn’t he? What for?&mdash;And what for do you wear a
+fancy vest and twist your moustache, Sir! What for, at the bottom!
+Ha&mdash;tell a woman not to come in a wood till she can look at natural
+things&mdash;she might see something&mdash;Good night, Sir.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He marched off into the darkness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Coarse fellow, that,” said Leslie when he had rejoined Lettie, “but he’s a
+character.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He makes you shudder,” she replied. “But yet you are interested in him. I
+believe he has a history.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He seems to lack something,” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought him rather a fine fellow,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Splendidly built fellow, but callous&mdash;no soul,” remarked Leslie,
+dismissing the question.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” assented Emily. “No soul&mdash;and among the snowdrops.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie was thoughtful, and I smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a beautiful evening, still, with red, shaken clouds in the west. The
+moon in heaven was turning wistfully back to the east. Dark purple woods lay
+around us, painting out the distance. The near, wild, ruined land looked sad
+and strange under the pale afterglow. The turf path was fine and springy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let us run!” said Lettie, and joining hands we raced wildly along, with a
+flutter and a breathless laughter, till we were happy and forgetful. When we
+stopped we exclaimed at once, “Hark!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A child!” said Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“At the Kennels,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We hurried forward. From the house came the mad yelling and yelping of
+children, and the wild hysterical shouting of a woman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tha’ little devil&mdash;tha’ little devil&mdash;tha’ shanna&mdash;that tha’
+shanna!” and this was accompanied by the hollow sound of blows, and a
+pandemonium of howling. We rushed in, and found the woman in a tousled frenzy
+belabouring a youngster with an enamelled pan. The lad was rolled up like a
+young hedgehog&mdash;the woman held him by the foot, and like a flail came the
+hollow utensil thudding on his shoulders and back. He lay in the firelight and
+howled, while scattered in various groups, with the leaping firelight twinkling
+over their tears and their open mouths, were the other children, crying too.
+The mother was in a state of hysteria; her hair streamed over her face, and her
+eyes were fixed in a stare of overwrought irritation. Up and down went her long
+arm like a windmill sail. I ran and held it. When she could hit no more, the
+woman dropped the pan from her nerveless hand, and staggered, trembling, to the
+squab. She looked desperately weary and fordone&mdash;she clasped and unclasped
+her hands continually. Emily hushed the children, while Lettie hushed the
+mother, holding her hard, cracked hands as she swayed to and fro. Gradually the
+mother became still, and sat staring in front of her; then aimlessly she began
+to finger the jewels on Lettie’s finger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily was bathing the cheek of a little girl, who lifted up her voice and wept
+loudly when she saw the speck of blood on the cloth. But presently she became
+quiet too, and Emily could empty the water from the late instrument of
+castigation, and at last light the lamp.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I found Sam under the table in a little heap. I put out my hand for him, and he
+wriggled away, like a lizard, into the passage. After a while I saw him in a
+corner, lying whimpering with little savage cries of pain. I cut off his
+retreat and captured him, bearing him struggling into the kitchen. Then, weary
+with pain, he became passive.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We undressed him, and found his beautiful white body all discoloured with
+bruises. The mother began to sob again, with a chorus of babies. The girls
+tried to soothe the weeping, while I rubbed butter into the silent, wincing
+boy. Then his mother caught him in her arms, and kissed him passionately, and
+cried with abandon. The boy let himself be kissed&mdash;then he too began to
+sob, till his little body was all shaken. They folded themselves together, the
+poor dishevelled mother and the half-naked boy, and wept themselves still. Then
+she took him to bed, and the girls helped the other little ones into their
+nightgowns, and soon the house was still.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I canna manage ’em, I canna,” said the mother mournfully. “They growin’ beyont
+me&mdash;I dunna know what to do wi’ ’em. An’ niver a ’and does ’e lift ter
+’elp me&mdash;no&mdash;’e cares not a thing for me&mdash;not a thing&mdash;nowt
+but makes a mock an’ a sludge o’ me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, baby!” said Lettie, setting the bonny boy on his feet, and holding up his
+trailing nightgown behind him, “do you want to walk to your mother&mdash;go
+then&mdash;Ah!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The child, a handsome little fellow of some sixteen months, toddled across to
+his mother, waving his hands as he went, and laughing, while his large hazel
+eyes glowed with pleasure. His mother caught him, pushed the silken brown hair
+back from his forehead, and laid his cheek against hers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah!” she said, “Tha’s got a funny Dad, tha’ has, not like another man, no, my
+duckie. ’E’s got no ’art ter care for nobody, ’e ’asna, ma
+pigeon&mdash;no,&mdash;lives like a stranger to his own flesh an’ blood.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl with the wounded cheek had found comfort in Leslie. She was seated on
+his knee, looking at him with solemn blue eyes, her solemnity increased by the
+quaint round head, whose black hair was cut short.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“’S my chalk, yes it is, ’n our Sam says as it’s ’issen, an’ ’e ta’es it and
+marks it all gone, so I wouldna gie ’t ’im,”&mdash;she clutched in her fat
+little hand a piece of red chalk. “My Dad gen it me, ter mark my dolly’s face
+red, what’s on’y wood&mdash;I’ll show yer.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She wriggled down, and holding up her trailing gown with one hand, trotted to a
+corner piled with a child’s rubbish, and hauled out a hideous carven caricature
+of a woman, and brought it to Leslie. The face of the object was streaked with
+red.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“’Ere sh’ is, my dolly, what my Dad make me&mdash;’er name’s Lady Mima.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it?” said Lettie, “and are these her cheeks? She’s not pretty, is she?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Um&mdash;sh’ is. My Dad says sh’ is&mdash;like a lady.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And he gave you her rouge, did he?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Rouge!” she nodded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you wouldn’t let Sam have it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;an’ mi mower says, Dun gie ’t ’im’&mdash;’n ’e bite me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What will your father say?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Me Dad?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“’E’d nobbut laugh,” put in the mother, “an’ say as a bite’s bett’r’n a kiss.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Brute!” said Leslie feelingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, but ’e never laid a finger on ’em&mdash;nor me neither. But ’e’s not like
+another man&mdash;niver tells yer nowt. He’s more a stranger to me this day
+than ’e wor th’ day I first set eyes on ’im.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where was that?” asked Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When I wor a lass at th’ ’All&mdash;an’ ’im a new man come&mdash;fair a
+gentleman, an’ a, an’ a! An even now can read an’ talk like a
+gentleman&mdash;but ’e tells me nothing&mdash;Oh no&mdash;what am I in ’is eyes
+but a sludge bump?&mdash;’e’s above me, ’e is, an’ above ’is own childer. God
+a-mercy, ’e ’ll be in in a minute. Come on ’ere!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She hustled the children to bed, swept the litter into a corner, and began to
+lay the table. The cloth was spotless, and she put him a silver spoon in the
+saucer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We had only just got out of the house when he drew near. I saw his massive
+figure in the doorway, and the big, prolific woman moved subserviently about
+the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hullo, Proserpine&mdash;had visitors?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I never axed ’em&mdash;they come in ’earin’ th’ childer cryin’. I never
+encouraged ’em&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We hurried away into the night. “Ah, it’s always the woman bears the burden,”
+said Lettie bitterly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If he’d helped her&mdash;wouldn’t she have been a fine woman
+now&mdash;splendid? But she’s dragged to bits. Men are brutes&mdash;and
+marriage just gives scope to them,” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, you wouldn’t take that as a fair sample of marriage,” replied Leslie.
+“Think of you and me, Minnehaha.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;I meant to tell you&mdash;what do you think of Greymede old vicarage
+for us?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a lovely old place!” exclaimed Lettie, and we passed out of hearing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We stumbled over the rough path. The moon was bright, and we stepped
+apprehensively on the shadows thrown from the trees, for they lay so black and
+substantial. Occasionally a moonbeam would trace out a suave white branch that
+the rabbits had gnawed quite bare in the hard winter. We came out of the woods
+into the full heavens. The northern sky was full of a gush of green light; in
+front, eclipsed Orion leaned over his bed, and the moon followed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When the northern lights are up,” said Emily, “I feel so strange&mdash;half
+eerie&mdash;they do fill you with awe, don’t they?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” said I, “they make you wonder, and look, and expect something.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you expect?” she said softly, and looked up, and saw me smiling, and
+she looked down again, biting her lips.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we came to the parting of the roads, Emily begged them just to step into
+the mill&mdash;just for a moment&mdash;and Lettie consented.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The kitchen window was uncurtained, and the blind, as usual, was not drawn. We
+peeped in through the cords of budding honeysuckle. George and Alice were
+sitting at the table playing chess; the mother was mending a coat, and the
+father, as usual, was reading. Alice was talking quietly, and George was bent
+on the game. His arms lay on the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We made a noise at the door, and entered. George rose heavily, shook hands, and
+sat down again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hullo, Lettie Beardsall, you are a stranger,” said Alice. “Are you <i>so</i>
+much engaged?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay&mdash;we don’t see much of her nowadays,” added the father in his jovial
+way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And isn’t she a toff, in her fine hat and furs and snowdrops. Look at her,
+George, you’ve never looked to see what a toff she is.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He raised his eyes, and looked at her apparel and at her flowers, but not at
+her face:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay, she is fine,” he said, and returned to the chess.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We have been gathering snowdrops,” said Lettie, fingering the flowers in her
+bosom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They are pretty&mdash;give me some, will you?” said Alice, holding out her
+hand. Lettie gave her the flowers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Check!” said George deliberately.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Get out!” replied his opponent, “I’ve got some snowdrops&mdash;don’t they suit
+me, an innocent little soul like me? Lettie won’t wear them&mdash;she’s not
+meek and mild and innocent like me. Do you want some?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you like&mdash;what for?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To make you pretty, of course, and to show you an innocent little meekling.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’re in check,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where can you wear them?&mdash;there’s only your shirt.
+Aw!&mdash;there!”&mdash;she stuck a few flowers in his ruffled black
+hair&mdash;“Look, Lettie, isn’t he sweet?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie laughed with a strained little laugh:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’s like Bottom and the ass’s head,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then I’m Titania&mdash;don’t I make a lovely fairy queen, Bully
+Bottom?&mdash;and who’s jealous Oberon?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He reminds me of that man in Hedda Gabler&mdash;crowned with vine
+leaves&mdash;oh, yes, vine leaves,” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How’s your mare’s sprain, Mr. Tempest?” George asked, taking no notice of the
+flowers in his hair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;she’ll soon be all right, thanks.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah&mdash;George told me about it,” put in the father, and he held Leslie in
+conversation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Am I in check, George?” said Alice, returning to the game. She knitted her
+brows and cogitated:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pooh!” she said, “that’s soon remedied!”&mdash;she moved her piece, and said
+triumphantly, “Now, Sir!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He surveyed the game, and, with deliberation moved. Alice pounced on him; with
+a leap of her knight she called “check!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I didn’t see it&mdash;you may have the game now,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Beaten, my boy!&mdash;don’t crow over a woman any more. Stale-mate&mdash;with
+flowers in your hair!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He put his hand to his head, and felt among his hair, and threw the flowers on
+the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Would you believe it&mdash;&mdash;!” said the mother, coming into the room
+from the dairy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” we all asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nickie Ben’s been and eaten the sile cloth. Yes! When I went to wash it, there
+sat Nickie Ben gulping, and wiping the froth off his whiskers.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George laughed loudly and heartily. He laughed till he was tired. Lettie looked
+and wondered when he would be done.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I imagined,” he gasped, “how he’d feel with half a yard of muslin creeping
+down his throttle.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This laughter was most incongruous. He went off into another burst. Alice
+laughed too&mdash;it was easy to infect her with laughter. Then the father
+began&mdash;and in walked Nickie Ben, stepping disconsolately&mdash;we all
+roared again, till the rafters shook. Only Lettie looked impatiently for the
+end. George swept his bare arms across the table, and the scattered little
+flowers fell broken to the ground.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;what a shame!” exclaimed Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” said he, looking round. “Your flowers? Do you feel sorry for
+them?&mdash;you’re too tender hearted; isn’t she, Cyril?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Always was&mdash;for dumb animals, and things,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you wish you was a little dumb animal, Georgie?” said Alice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He smiled, putting away the chess-men.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shall we go, dear?” said Lettie to Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you are ready,” he replied, rising with alacrity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am tired,” she said plaintively.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He attended to her with little tender solicitations.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have we walked too far?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, it’s not that. No&mdash;it’s the snowdrops, and the man, and the
+children&mdash;and everything. I feel just a bit exhausted.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She kissed Alice, and Emily, and the mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-night, Alice,” she said. “It’s not altogether my fault we’re strangers.
+You know&mdash;really&mdash;I’m just the same&mdash;really. Only you imagine,
+and then what can I do?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She said farewell to George, and looked at him through a quiver of suppressed
+tears.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George was somewhat flushed with triumph over Lettie: She had gone home with
+tears shaken from her eyes unknown to her lover; at the farm George laughed
+with Alice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We escorted Alice home to Eberwich&mdash;“Like a blooming little monkey
+dangling from two boughs,” as she put it, when we swung her along on our arms.
+We laughed and said many preposterous things. George wanted to kiss her at
+parting, but she tipped him under the chin and said, “Sweet!” as one does to a
+canary. Then she laughed with her tongue between her teeth, and ran indoors.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is a little devil,” said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We took the long way home by Greymede, and passed the dark schools.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on,” said he, “let’s go in the ‘Ram Inn,’ and have a look at my cousin
+Meg.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was half past ten when he marched me across the road and into the sanded
+passage of the little inn. The place had been an important farm in the days of
+George’s grand-uncle, but since his decease it had declined, under the
+governance of the widow and a man-of-all-work. The old grand-aunt was propped
+and supported by a splendid grand-daughter. The near kin of Meg were all in
+California, so she, a bonny delightful girl of twenty-four, stayed near her
+grand-ma.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As we tramped grittily down the passage, the red head of Bill poked out of the
+bar, and he said as he recognised George:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-ev’nin’&mdash;go forward&mdash;’er’s non abed yit.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went forward, and unlatched the kitchen door. The great-aunt was seated in
+her little, round-backed armchair, sipping her “night-cap.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, George, my lad!” she cried, in her querulous voice. “Tha’ niver says
+it’s thai, does ter? That’s com’n for summat, for sure, else what brings thee
+ter see me?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” he said. “Ah’n com ter see thee, nowt else. Wheer’s Meg?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah!&mdash;Ha&mdash;Ha&mdash;Ah!&mdash;Me, did ter say?&mdash;come ter see
+me?&mdash;Ha&mdash;wheer’s Meg!&mdash;an’ who’s this young gentleman?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was formally introduced, and shook the clammy corded hand of the old lady.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tha’ looks delikit,” she observed, shaking her cap and its scarlet geraniums
+sadly: “Cum now, sit thee down, an’ dunna look so long o’ th’ leg.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I sat down on the sofa, on the cushions covered with blue and red checks. The
+room was very hot, and I stared about uncomfortably. The old lady sat peering
+at nothing, in reverie. She was a hard-visaged, bosomless dame, clad in thick
+black cloth-like armour, and wearing an immense twisted gold brooch in the lace
+at her neck.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We heard heavy, quick footsteps above.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Er’s commin’,” remarked the old lady, rousing from her apathy. The footsteps
+came downstairs&mdash;quickly, then cautiously round the bend. Meg appeared in
+the doorway. She started with surprise, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I ’eered sumbody, but I never thought it was you.” More colour still
+flamed into her glossy cheeks, and she smiled in her fresh, frank way. I think
+I have never seen a woman who had more physical charm; there was a voluptuous
+fascination in her every outline and movement; one never listened to the words
+that came from her lips, one watched the ripe motion of those red fruits.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Get ’em a drop o’ whiskey, Meg&mdash;you’ll ’a’e a drop?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I declined firmly, but did not escape.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay,” declared the old dame. “I s’ll ha’e none o’ thy no’s. Should ter like it
+’ot?&mdash;Say th’ word, an’ tha’ ’as it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I did not say the word.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then gi’e ’im claret,” pronounced my hostess, “though it’s thin-bellied stuff
+ter go to ter bed on”&mdash;and claret it was.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg went out again to see about closing. The grand-aunt sighed, and sighed
+again, for no perceptible reason but the whiskey.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s well you’ve come ter see me now,” she moaned, “for you’ll none ’a’e a
+chance next time you come’n;&mdash;No&mdash;I’m all gone but my
+cap&mdash;&mdash;” She shook that geraniumed erection, and I wondered what
+sardonic fate left it behind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“An’ I’m forced ter say it, I s’ll be thankful to be gone,” she added, after a
+few sighs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This weariness of the flesh was touching. The cruel truth is, however, that the
+old lady clung to life like a louse to a pig’s back. Dying, she faintly, but
+emphatically declared herself, “a bit better&mdash;a bit better. I s’ll be up
+to-morrow.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should a gone before now,” she continued, “but for that blessed
+wench&mdash;I canna abear to think o’ leavin ’er&mdash;come drink up, my lad,
+drink up&mdash;nay, tha’ ’rt nobbut young yet, tha’ ’rt none topped up wi’ a
+thimbleful.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I took whiskey in preference to the acrid stuff.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay,” resumed the grand-aunt. “I canna go in peace till ’er’s settled&mdash;an’
+’er’s that tickle o’ choosin’. Th’ right sort ’asn’t th’ gumption ter ax’ er.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She sniffed, and turned scornfully to her glass. George grinned and looked
+conscious; as he swallowed a gulp of whiskey it crackled in his throat. The
+sound annoyed the old lady.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tha’ might be scar’d at summat,” she said. “Tha’ niver ’ad six drops o’ spunk
+in thee.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She turned again with a sniff to her glass. He frowned with irritation, half
+filled his glass with liquor, and drank again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I dare bet as tha’ niver kissed a wench in thy life&mdash;not
+proper”&mdash;and she tossed the last drops of her toddy down her skinny
+throat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here Meg came along the passage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come, gran’ma,” she said. “I’m sure it’s time as you was in bed&mdash;come
+on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sit thee down an’ drink a drop wi’s&mdash;it’s not ivry night as we ’a’e
+cumpny.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, let me take you to bed&mdash;I’m sure you must be ready.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sit thee down ’ere, I say, an’ get thee a drop o’ port. Come&mdash;no
+argy-bargyin’.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg fetched more glasses and a decanter. I made a place for her between me and
+George. We all had port wine. Meg, naïve and unconscious, waited on us
+deliciously. Her cheeks gleamed like satin when she laughed, save when the
+dimples held the shadow. Her suave, tawny neck was bare and bewitching. She
+turned suddenly to George as he asked her a question, and they found their
+faces close together. He kissed her, and when she started back, jumped and
+kissed her neck with warmth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Là&mdash;là&mdash;dy&mdash;dà&mdash;là&mdash;dy&mdash;dà&mdash;dy&mdash;dà,”
+cried the old woman in delight, and she clutched her wineglass.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on&mdash;chink!” she cried, “all together&mdash;chink to him!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We four chinked and drank. George poured wine in a tumbler, and drank it off.
+He was getting excited, and all the energy and passion that normally were bound
+down by his caution and self-instinct began to flame out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here, aunt!” said he, lifting his tumbler, “here’s to what you want&mdash;you
+know!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I knowed tha’ wor as spunky as ony on’em,” she cried. “Tha’ nobbut wanted
+warmin’ up. I’ll see as you’re all right. It’s a bargain. Chink again,
+ivrybody.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A bargain,” said he before he put his lips to the glass.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What bargain’s that?” said Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The old lady laughed loudly and winked at George, who, with his lips wet with
+wine, got up and kissed Meg soundly, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There it is&mdash;that seals it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg wiped her face with her big pinafore, and seemed uncomfortable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Aren’t you comin’, gran’ma?” she pleaded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Eh, tha’ wants ter ’orry me off&mdash;what’s thai say, George&mdash;a deep un,
+isna ’er?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dunna go, Aunt, dunna be hustled off.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tush&mdash;Pish,” snorted the old lady. “Yah, tha’ ’rt a slow un, an’ no
+mistakes! Get a candle, Meg, I’m ready.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg brought a brass bedroom candlestick. Bill brought in the money in a tin
+box, and delivered it into the hands of the old lady.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go thy ways to bed now, lad,” said she to the ugly, wizened serving-man. He
+sat in a corner and pulled off his boots.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come an’ kiss me good-night, George,” said the old woman&mdash;and as he did
+so she whispered in his ear, whereat he laughed loudly. She poured whiskey into
+her glass and called to the serving-man to drink it. Then, pulling herself up
+heavily, she leaned on Meg and went upstairs. She had been a big woman, one
+could see, but now her shapeless, broken figure looked pitiful beside Meg’s
+luxuriant form. We heard them slowly, laboriously climb the stairs. George sat
+pulling his moustache and half-smiling; his eyes were alight with that peculiar
+childish look they had when he was experiencing new and doubtful sensations.
+Then he poured himself more whiskey.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I say, steady!” I admonished.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What for!” he replied, indulging himself like a spoiled child and laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bill, who had sat for some time looking at the hole in his stocking, drained
+his glass, and with a sad “Good-night,” creaked off upstairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Presently Meg came down, and I rose and said we must be going.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll just come an’ lock the door after you,” said she, standing uneasily
+waiting.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George got up. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself; then he got
+his balance, and, with his eyes on Meg, said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“’Ere!” he nodded his head to her. “Come here, I want ter ax thee sumwhat.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked at him, half-smiling, half doubtful. He put his arm round her and
+looking down into her eyes, with his face very close to hers, said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let’s ha’e a kiss.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Quite unresisting she yielded him her mouth, looking at him intently with her
+bright brown eyes. He kissed her, and pressed her closely to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m going to marry thee,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go on!” she replied, softly, half glad, half doubtful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am an’ all,” he repeated, pressing her more tightly to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went down the passage, and stood in the open doorway looking out into the
+night. It seemed a long time. Then I heard the thin voice of the old woman at
+the top of the stairs:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Meg! Meg! Send ’im off now. Come on!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the silence that followed there was a murmur of voices, and then they came
+into the passage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-night, my lad, good luck to thee!” cried the voice like a ghoul from
+upper regions.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He kissed his betrothed a rather hurried good-night at the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-night,” she replied softly, watching him retreat. Then we heard her shoot
+the heavy bolts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know,” he began, and he tried to clear his throat. His voice was husky and
+strangulated with excitement. He tried again:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know&mdash;she&mdash;she’s a clinker.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I did not reply, but he took no notice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Damn!” he ejaculated. “What did I let her go for!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We walked along in silence&mdash;his excitement abated somewhat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s the way she swings her body&mdash;an’ the curves as she stands. It’s when
+you look at her&mdash;you feel&mdash;you know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I suppose I knew, but it was unnecessary to say so.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know&mdash;if ever I dream in the night&mdash;of women&mdash;you
+know&mdash;it’s always Meg; she seems to look so soft, and to curve her
+body&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Gradually his feet began to drag. When we came to the place where the colliery
+railway crossed the road, he stumbled, and pitched forward, only just
+recovering himself. I took hold of his arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good Lord, Cyril, am I drunk?” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not quite,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” he muttered, “couldn’t be.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But his feet dragged again, and he began to stagger from side to side. I took
+hold of his arm. He murmured angrily&mdash;then, subsiding again, muttered,
+with slovenly articulation:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I&mdash;I feel fit to drop with sleep.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Along the dead, silent roadway, and through the uneven blackness of the wood,
+we lurched and stumbled. He was very heavy and difficult to direct. When at
+last we came to the brook we splashed straight through the water. I urged him
+to walk steadily and quietly across the yard. He did his best, and we made a
+fairly still entry into the farm. He dropped with all his weight on the sofa,
+and leaning down, began to unfasten his leggings. In the midst of his fumblings
+he fell asleep, and I was afraid he would pitch forward on to his head. I took
+off his leggings and his wet boots and his collar. Then, as I was pushing and
+shaking him awake to get off his coat, I heard a creaking on the stairs, and my
+heart sank, for I thought it was his mother. But it was Emily, in her long
+white nightgown. She looked at us with great dark eyes of terror, and
+whispered: “What’s the matter?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I shook my head and looked at him. His head had dropped down on his chest
+again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is he hurt?” she asked, her voice becoming audible, and dangerous. He lifted
+his head, and looked at her with heavy, angry eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“George!” she said sharply, in bewilderment and fear. His eyes seemed to
+contract evilly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is he drunk?” she whispered, shrinking away, and looking at me. “Have you made
+him drunk&mdash;you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I nodded. I too was angry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, if mother gets up! I must get him to bed! Oh, how could you!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This sibilant whispering irritated him, and me. I tugged at his coat. He
+snarled incoherently, and swore. She caught her breath. He looked at her
+sharply, and I was afraid he would wake himself into a rage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go upstairs!” I whispered to her. She shook her head. I could see him taking
+heavy breaths, and the veins of his neck were swelling. I was furious at her
+disobedience.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go at once,” I said fiercely, and she went, still hesitating and looking back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I had hauled off his coat and waistcoat, so I let him sink again into stupidity
+while I took off my boots. Then I got him to his feet, and, walking behind him,
+impelled him slowly upstairs. I lit a candle in his bedroom. There was no sound
+from the other rooms. So I undressed him, and got him in bed at last, somehow.
+I covered him up and put over him the calf-skin rug, because the night was
+cold. Almost immediately he began to breathe heavily. I dragged him over to his
+side, and pillowed his head comfortably. He looked like a tired boy, asleep.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I stood still, now I felt myself alone, and looked round. Up to the low roof
+rose the carven pillars of dark mahogany; there was a chair by the bed, and a
+little yellow chest of drawers by the windows, that was all the furniture, save
+the calf-skin rug on the floor. In the drawers I noticed a book. It was a copy
+of Omar Khayyam, that Lettie had given him in her Khayyam days, a little
+shilling book with coloured illustrations.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I blew out the candle, when I had looked at him again. As I crept on to the
+landing, Emily peeped from her room, whispering, “Is he in bed?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I nodded, and whispered good-night. Then I went home, heavily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the evening at the farm, Lettie and Leslie drew closer together. They
+eddied unevenly down the little stream of courtship, jostling and drifting
+together and apart. He was unsatisfied and strove with every effort to bring
+her close to him, submissive. Gradually she yielded, and submitted to him. She
+folded round her and him the snug curtain of the present, and they sat like
+children playing a game behind the hangings of an old bed. She shut out all
+distant outlooks, as an Arab unfolds his tent and conquers the mystery and
+space of the desert. So she lived gleefully in a little tent of present
+pleasures and fancies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Occasionally, only occasionally, she would peep from her tent into the out
+space. Then she sat poring over books, and nothing would be able to draw her
+away; or she sat in her room looking out of the window for hours together. She
+pleaded headaches; mother said liver; he, angry like a spoilt child denied his
+wish, declared it moodiness and perversity.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER II<br/>
+A SHADOW IN SPRING</h2>
+
+<p>
+With spring came trouble. The Saxtons declared they were being bitten off the
+estate by rabbits. Suddenly, in a fit of despair, the father bought a gun.
+Although he knew that the Squire would not for one moment tolerate the shooting
+of that manna, the rabbits, yet he was out in the first cold morning twilight
+banging away. At first he but scared the brutes, and brought Annable on the
+scene; then, blooded by the use of the weapon, he played havoc among the furry
+beasts, bringing home some eight or nine couples.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George entirely approved of this measure; it rejoiced him even; yet he had
+never had the initiative to begin the like himself, or even to urge his father
+to it. He prophesied trouble, and possible loss of the farm. It disturbed him
+somewhat, to think they must look out for another place, but he postponed the
+thought of the evil day till the time should be upon him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A vendetta was established between the Mill and the keeper, Annable. The latter
+cherished his rabbits:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Call ’em vermin!” he said. “I only know one sort of vermin&mdash;and that’s
+the talkin sort.” So he set himself to thwart and harass the rabbit slayers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was about this time I cultivated the acquaintance of the keeper. All the
+world hated him&mdash;to the people in the villages he was like a devil of the
+woods. Some miners had sworn vengeance on him for having caused their committal
+to gaol. But he had a great attraction for me; his magnificent physique, his
+great vigour and vitality, and his swarthy, gloomy face drew me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was a man of one idea:&mdash;that all civilisation was the painted fungus of
+rottenness. He hated any sign of culture. I won his respect one afternoon when
+he found me trespassing in the woods because I was watching some maggots at
+work in a dead rabbit. That led us to a discussion of life. He was a thorough
+materialist&mdash;he scorned religion and all mysticism. He spent his days
+sleeping, making intricate traps for weasels and men, putting together a gun,
+or doing some amateur forestry, cutting down timber, splitting it in logs for
+use in the hall, and planting young trees. When he thought, he reflected on the
+decay of mankind&mdash;the decline of the human race into folly and weakness
+and rottenness. “Be a good animal, true to your animal instinct,” was his
+motto. With all this, he was fundamentally very unhappy&mdash;and he made me
+also wretched. It was this power to communicate his unhappiness that made me
+somewhat dear to him, I think. He treated me as an affectionate father treats a
+delicate son; I noticed he liked to put his hand on my shoulder or my knee as
+we talked; yet withal, he asked me questions, and saved his thoughts to tell
+me, and believed in my knowledge like any acolyte.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went up to the quarry woods one evening in early April, taking a look for
+Annable. I could not find him, however, in the wood. So I left the wildlands,
+and went along by the old red wall of the kitchen garden, along the main road
+as far as the mouldering church which stands high on a bank by the road-side,
+just where the trees tunnel the darkness, and the gloom of the highway startles
+the travellers at noon. Great trees growing on the banks suddenly fold over
+everything at this point in the swinging road, and in the obscurity rots the
+Hall church, black and melancholy above the shrinking head of the traveller.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The grassy path to the churchyard was still clogged with decayed leaves. The
+church is abandoned. As I drew near an owl floated softly out of the black
+tower. Grass overgrew the threshold. I pushed open the door, grinding back a
+heap of fallen plaster and rubbish and entered the place. In the twilight the
+pews were leaning in ghostly disorder, the prayer-books dragged from their
+ledges, scattered on the floor in the dust and rubble, torn by mice and birds.
+Birds scuffled in the darkness of the roof. I looked up. In the upward well of
+the tower I could see a bell hanging. I stooped and picked up a piece of
+plaster from the ragged confusion of feathers, and broken nests, and remnants
+of dead birds. Up into the vault overhead I tossed pieces of plaster until one
+hit the bell, and it “tonged” out its faint remonstrance. There was a rustle of
+many birds like spirits. I sounded the bell again, and dark forms moved with
+cries of alarm overhead, and something fell heavily. I shivered in the dark,
+evil-smelling place, and hurried to get out of doors. I clutched my hands with
+relief and pleasure when I saw the sky above me quivering with the last crystal
+lights, and the lowest red of sunset behind the yew-boles. I drank the fresh
+air, that sparkled with the sound of the blackbirds and thrushes whistling
+their strong bright notes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I strayed round to where the headstones, from their eminence leaned to look on
+the Hall below, where great windows shone yellow light on to the flagged
+court-yard, and the little fish pool. A stone staircase descended from the
+graveyard to the court, between stone balustrades whose pock-marked grey
+columns still swelled gracefully and with dignity, encrusted with lichens. The
+staircase was filled with ivy and rambling roses&mdash;impassable. Ferns were
+unrolling round the big square halting place, half way down where the stairs
+turned.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A peacock, startled from the back premises of the Hall, came flapping up the
+terraces to the churchyard. Then a heavy footstep crossed the flags. It was the
+keeper. I whistled the whistle he knew, and he broke his way through the
+vicious rose-boughs up the stairs. The peacock flapped beyond me, on to the
+neck of an old bowed angel, rough and dark, an angel which had long ceased
+sorrowing for the lost Lucy, and had died also. The bird bent its voluptuous
+neck and peered about. Then it lifted up its head and yelled. The sound tore
+the dark sanctuary of twilight. The old grey grass seemed to stir, and I could
+fancy the smothered primroses and violets beneath it waking and gasping for
+fear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The keeper looked at me and smiled. He nodded his head towards the peacock,
+saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hark at that damned thing!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again the bird lifted its crested head and gave a cry, at the same time turning
+awkwardly on its ugly legs, so that it showed us the full wealth of its tail
+glimmering like a stream of coloured stars over the sunken face of the angel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The proud fool!&mdash;look at it! Perched on an angel, too, as if it were a
+pedestal for vanity. That’s the soul of a woman&mdash;or it’s the devil.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was silent for a time, and we watched the great bird moving uneasily before
+us in the twilight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s the very soul of a lady,” he said, “the very, very soul. Damn the
+thing, to perch on that old angel. I should like to wring its neck.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again the bird screamed, and shifted awkwardly on its legs; it seemed to
+stretch its beak at us in derision. Annable picked up a piece of sod and flung
+it at the bird, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Get out, you screeching devil! God!” he laughed. “There must be plenty of
+hearts twisting under here,”&mdash;and he stamped on a grave, “when they hear
+that row.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He kicked another sod from a grave and threw at the big bird. The peacock
+flapped away, over the tombs, down the terraces.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Just look!” he said, “the miserable brute has dirtied that angel. A woman to
+the end, I tell you, all vanity and screech and defilement.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat down on a vault and lit his pipe. But before he had smoked two minutes,
+it was out again. I had not seen him in a state of perturbation before.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The church,” said I, “is rotten. I suppose they’ll stand all over the country
+like this, soon&mdash;with peacocks trailing the graveyards.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay,” he muttered, taking no notice of me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“This stone is cold,” I said, rising.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He got up too, and stretched his arms as if he were tired. It was quite dark,
+save for the waxing moon which leaned over the east.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is a very fine night,” I said. “Don’t you notice a smell of violets?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay! The moon looks like a woman with child. I wonder what Time’s got in her
+belly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You?” I said. “You don’t expect anything exciting do you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Exciting!&mdash;No&mdash;about as exciting as this rotten old place&mdash;just
+rot off&mdash;Oh, my God!&mdash;I’m like a good house, built and finished, and
+left to tumble down again with nobody to live in it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why&mdash;what’s up&mdash;really?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed bitterly, saying, “Come and sit down.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He led me off to a seat by the north door, between two pews, very black and
+silent. There we sat, he putting his gun carefully beside him. He remained
+perfectly still, thinking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Whot’s up?” he said at last, “Why&mdash;I’ll tell you. I went to
+Cambridge&mdash;my father was a big cattle dealer&mdash;he died bankrupt while
+I was in college, and I never took my degree. They persuaded me to be a parson,
+and a parson I was.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went a curate to a little place in Leicestershire&mdash;a bonnie place with
+not many people, and a fine old church, and a great rich parsonage. I hadn’t
+overmuch to do, and the rector&mdash;he was the son of an Earl&mdash;was
+generous. He lent me a horse and would have me hunt like the rest. I always
+think of that place with a smell of honeysuckle while the grass is wet in the
+morning. It was fine, and I enjoyed myself, and did the parish work all right.
+I believe I was pretty good.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A cousin of the rector’s used to come in the hunting season&mdash;a Lady
+Crystabel, lady in her own right. The second year I was there she came in June.
+There wasn’t much company, so she used to talk to me&mdash;I used to read
+then&mdash;and she used to pretend to be so childish and unknowing, and would
+get me telling her things, and talking to her, and I was hot on things. We must
+play tennis together, and ride together, and I must row her down the river. She
+said we were in the wilderness and could do as we liked. She made me wear
+flannels and soft clothes. She was very fine and frank and
+unconventional&mdash;ripping, I thought her. All the summer she stopped on. I
+should meet her in the garden early in the morning when I came from a swim in
+the river&mdash;it was cleared and deepened on purpose&mdash;and she’d blush
+and make me walk with her. I can remember I used to stand and dry myself on the
+bank full where she might see me&mdash;I was mad on her&mdash;and she was
+madder on me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went to some caves in Derbyshire once, and she would wander from the rest,
+and loiter, and, for a game, we played a sort of hide and seek with the party.
+They thought we’d gone, and they went and locked the door. Then she pretended
+to be frightened and clung to me, and said what would they think, and hid her
+face in my coat. I took her and kissed her, and we made it up properly. I found
+out afterwards&mdash;she actually told me&mdash;she’d got the idea from a
+sloppy French novel&mdash;the Romance of A Poor Young Man. I was the Poor Young
+Man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We got married. She gave me a living she had in her parsonage, and we went to
+live at her Hall. She wouldn’t let me out of her sight. Lord!&mdash;we were an
+infatuated couple&mdash;and she would choose to view me in an aesthetic light.
+I was Greek statues for her, bless you: Croton, Hercules, I don’t know what!
+She had her own way too much&mdash;I let her do as she liked with me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then gradually she got tired&mdash;it took her three years to be really glutted
+with me. I had a physique then&mdash;for that matter I have now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He held out his arm to me, and bade me try his muscle. I was startled. The hard
+flesh almost filled his sleeve.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah,” he continued, “You don’t know what it is to have the pride of a body like
+mine. But she wouldn’t have children&mdash;no, she wouldn’t&mdash;said she
+daren’t. That was the root of the difference at first. But she cooled down, and
+if you don’t know the pride of my body you’d never know my humiliation. I tried
+to remonstrate&mdash;and she looked simply astounded at my cheek. I never got
+over that amazement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She began to get souly. A poet got hold of her, and she began to affect
+Burne-Jones&mdash;or Waterhouse&mdash;it was Waterhouse&mdash;she was a lot
+like one of his women&mdash;Lady of Shalott, I believe. At any rate, she got
+souly, and I was her animal&mdash;son animal&mdash;son boeuf. I put up with
+that for above a year. Then I got some servants’ clothes and went.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was seen in France&mdash;then in Australia&mdash;though I never left England.
+I was supposed to have died in the bush. She married a young fellow. Then I was
+proved to have died, and I read a little obituary notice on myself in a woman’s
+paper she subscribed to. She wrote it herself&mdash;as a warning to other young
+ladies of position not to be seduced by plausible “Poor Young Men.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now she’s dead. They’ve got the paper&mdash;her paper&mdash;in the kitchen down
+there, and it’s full of photographs, even an old photo of me&mdash;“an
+unfortunate misalliance.” I feel, somehow, as if I were at an end too. I
+thought I’d grown a solid, middle-aged-man, and here I feel sore as I did at
+twenty-six, and I talk as I used to.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One thing&mdash;I have got some children, and they’re of a breed as you’d not
+meet anywhere. I was a good animal before everything, and I’ve got some
+children.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat looking up where the big moon swam through the black branches of the
+yew.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So she’s dead&mdash;your poor peacock!” I murmured.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He got up, looking always at the sky, and stretched himself again. He was an
+impressive figure massed in blackness against the moonlight, with his arms
+outspread.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose,” he said, “it wasn’t all her fault.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A white peacock, we will say,” I suggested.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go home by the top road, will you!” he said. “I believe there’s something on
+in the bottom wood.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All right,” I answered, with a quiver of apprehension.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, she was fair enough,” he muttered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay,” said I, rising. I held out my hand from the shadow. I was startled myself
+by the white sympathy it seemed to express, extended towards him in the
+moonlight. He gripped it, and cleaved to me for a moment, then he was gone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went out of the churchyard feeling a sullen resentment against the tousled
+graves that lay inanimate across my way. The air was heavy to breathe, and
+fearful in the shadow of the great trees. I was glad when I came out on the
+bare white road, and could see the copper lights from the reflectors of a
+pony-cart’s lamps, and could hear the amiable chat-chat of the hoofs trotting
+towards me. I was lonely when they had passed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Over the hill, the big flushed face of the moon poised just above the treetops,
+very majestic, and far off&mdash;yet imminent. I turned with swift sudden
+friendliness to the net of elm-boughs spread over my head, dotted with soft
+clusters winsomely. I jumped up and pulled the cool soft tufts against my face
+for company; and as I passed, still I reached upward for the touch of this
+budded gentleness of the trees. The wood breathed fragrantly, with a subtle
+sympathy. The firs softened their touch to me, and the larches woke from the
+barren winter-sleep, and put out velvet fingers to caress me as I passed. Only
+the clean, bare branches of the ash stood emblem of the discipline of life. I
+looked down on the blackness where trees filled the quarry and the valley
+bottoms, and it seemed that the world, my own home-world, was strange again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Some four or five days after Annable had talked to me in the churchyard, I went
+out to find him again. It was Sunday morning. The larch-wood was afloat with
+clear, lyric green, and some primroses scattered whitely on the edge under the
+fringing boughs. It was a clear morning, as when the latent life of the world
+begins to vibrate afresh in the air. The smoke from the cottage rose blue
+against the trees, and thick yellow against the sky. The fire, it seemed, was
+only just lighted, and the wood-smoke poured out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam appeared outside the house, and looked round. Then he climbed the
+water-trough for a better survey. Evidently unsatisfied, paying slight
+attention to me, he jumped down and went running across the hillside to the
+wood. “He is going for his father,” I said to myself, and I left the path to
+follow him down hill across the waste meadow, crackling the blanched stems of
+last year’s thistles as I went, and stumbling in rabbit holes. He reached the
+wall that ran along the quarry’s edge, and was over it in a twinkling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I came to the place, I was somewhat nonplussed, for sheer from the stone
+fence, the quarry-side dropped for some twenty or thirty feet, piled up with
+unmortared stones. I looked round&mdash;there was a plain dark thread down the
+hillside, which marked a path to this spot, and the wall was scored with the
+marks of heavy boots. Then I looked again down the quarry-side, and I
+saw&mdash;how could I have failed to see?&mdash;stones projecting to make an
+uneven staircase, such as is often seen in the Derbyshire fences. I saw this
+ladder was well used, so I trusted myself to it, and scrambled down, clinging
+to the face of the quarry wall. Once down, I felt pleased with myself for
+having discovered and used the unknown access, and I admired the care and
+ingenuity of the keeper, who had fitted and wedged the long stones into the
+uncertain pile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was warm in the quarry: there the sunshine seemed to thicken and sweeten;
+there the little mounds of overgrown waste were aglow with very early
+dog-violets; there the sparks were coming out on the bits of gorse, and among
+the stones the colt-foot plumes were already silvery. Here was spring sitting
+just awake, unloosening her glittering hair, and opening her purple eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went across the quarry, down to where the brook ran murmuring a tale to the
+primroses and the budding trees. I was startled from my wandering among the
+fresh things by a faint clatter of stones.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What’s that young rascal doing?” I said to myself, setting forth to see. I
+came towards the other side of the quarry: on this, the moister side, the
+bushes grew up against the wall, which was higher than on the other side,
+though piled the same with old dry stones. As I drew near I could hear the
+scrape and rattle of stones, and the vigorous grunting of Sam as he laboured
+among them. He was hidden by a great bush of sallow catkins, all yellow, and
+murmuring with bees, warm with spice. When he came in view I laughed to see him
+lugging and grunting among the great pile of stones that had fallen in a mass
+from the quarry-side; a pile of stones and earth and crushed vegetation. There
+was a great bare gap in the quarry wall. Somehow, the lad’s labouring
+earnestness made me anxious, and I hurried up.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He heard me, and glancing round, his face red with exertion, eyes big with
+terror, he called, commanding me:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pull ’em off ’im&mdash;pull ’em off!” Suddenly my heart beating in my throat
+nearly suffocated me. I saw the hand of the keeper lying among the stones. I
+set to tearing away the stones, and we worked for some time without a word.
+Then I seized the arm of the keeper and tried to drag him out. But I could not.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pull it off ’im!” whined the lad, working in a frenzy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we got him out I saw at once he was dead, and I sat down trembling with
+exertion. There was a great smashed wound on the side of the head. Sam put his
+face against his father’s and snuffed round him like a dog, to feel the life in
+him. The child looked at me:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He won’t get up,” he said, and his little voice was hoarse with fear and
+anxiety.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I shook my head. Then the boy began to whimper. He tried to close the lips
+which were drawn with pain and death, leaving the teeth bare; then his fingers
+hovered round the eyes, which were wide open, glazed, and I could see he was
+trembling to touch them into life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’s not asleep,” he said, “because his eyes is open&mdash;look!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I could not bear the child’s questioning terror. I took him up to carry him
+away, but he struggled and fought to be free.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ma’e ’im get up&mdash;ma’e ’im get up,” he cried in a frenzy, and I had to let
+the boy go.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He ran to the dead man, calling “Feyther! Feyther!” and pulling his shoulder;
+then he sat down, fascinated by the sight of the wound; he put out his finger
+to touch it, and shivered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come away,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it that?” he asked, pointing to the wound. I covered the face with a big
+silk handkerchief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now,” said I, “he’ll go to sleep if you don’t touch him&mdash;so sit still
+while I go and fetch somebody. Will <i>you</i> run to the Hall?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He shook his head. I knew he would not. So I told him again not to touch his
+father, but to let him lie still till I came back. He watched me go, but did
+not move from his seat on the stones beside the dead man, though I know he was
+full of terror at being left alone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I ran to the Hall&mdash;I dared not go to the Kennels. In a short time I was
+back with the squire and three men. As I led the way, I saw the child lifting a
+corner of the handkerchief to peep and see if the eyes were closed in sleep.
+Then he heard us, and started violently. When we removed the covering, and he
+saw the face unchanged in its horror, he looked at me with a look I have never
+forgotten.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A bad business&mdash;an awful business!” repeated the squire. “A bad business.
+I said to him from the first that the stones might come down when he was going
+up, and he said he had taken care to fix them. But you can’t be sure, you can’t
+be certain. And he’d be about half way up&mdash;ay&mdash;and the whole wall
+would come down on him. An awful business, it is really; a terrible piece of
+work!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They decided at the inquest that the death came by misadventure. But there were
+vague rumours in the village that this was revenge which had overtaken the
+keeper.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+They decided to bury him in our churchyard at Greymede under the beeches; the
+widow would have it so, and nothing might be denied her in her state.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a magnificent morning in early spring when I watched among the trees to
+see the procession come down the hillside. The upper air was woven with the
+music of the larks, and my whole world thrilled with the conception of summer.
+The young pale wind-flowers had arisen by the wood-gale, and under the hazels,
+when perchance the hot sun pushed his way, new little suns dawned, and blazed
+with real light. There was a certain thrill and quickening everywhere, as a
+woman must feel when she has conceived. A sallow tree in a favoured spot looked
+like a pale gold cloud of summer dawn; nearer it had poised a golden, fairy
+busby on every twig, and was voiced with a hum of bees, like any sacred golden
+bush, uttering its gladness in the thrilling murmur of bees, and in warm scent.
+Birds called and flashed on every hand; they made off exultant with streaming
+strands of grass, or wisps of fleece, plunging into the dark spaces of the
+wood, and out again into the blue.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A lad moved across the field from the farm below with a dog trotting behind
+him,&mdash;a dog, no, a fussy, black-legged lamb trotting along on its toes,
+with its tail swinging behind. They were going to the mothers on the common,
+who moved like little grey clouds among the dark grose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I cannot help forgetting, and sharing the spink’s triumph, when he flashes past
+with a fleece from a bramble bush. It will cover the bedded moss, it will weave
+among the soft red cow-hair beautifully. It is a prize, it is an ecstasy to
+have captured it at the right moment, and the nest is nearly ready.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ah, but the thrush is scornful, ringing out his voice from the hedge! He sets
+his breast against the mud, and models it warm for the turquoise
+eggs&mdash;blue, blue, bluest of eggs, which cluster so close and round against
+the breast, which round up beneath the breast, nestling content. You should see
+the bright ecstasy in the eyes of a nesting thrush, because of the rounded
+caress of the eggs against her breast!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+What a hurry the jenny wren makes&mdash;hoping I shall not see her dart into
+the low bush. I have a delight in watching them against their shy little wills.
+But they have all risen with a rush of wings, and are gone, the birds. The air
+is brushed with agitation. There is no lark in the sky, not one; the heaven is
+clear of wings or twinkling dot&mdash;&mdash;.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Till the heralds come&mdash;till the heralds wave like shadows in the bright
+air, crying, lamenting, fretting forever. Rising and falling and circling round
+and round, the slow-waving peewits cry and complain, and lift their broad wings
+in sorrow. They stoop suddenly to the ground, the lapwings, then in another
+throb of anguish and protest, they swing up again, offering a glistening white
+breast to the sunlight, to deny it in black shadow, then a glisten of green,
+and all the time crying and crying in despair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The pheasants are frightened into cover, they run and dart through the hedge.
+The cold cock must fly in his haste, spread himself on his streaming plumes,
+and sail into the wood’s security.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There is a cry in answer to the peewits, echoing louder and stronger the
+lamentation of the lapwings, a wail which hushes the birds. The men come over
+the brow of the hill, slowly, with the old squire walking tall and straight in
+front; six bowed men bearing the coffin on their shoulders, treading heavily
+and cautiously, under the great weight of the glistening white coffin; six men
+following behind, ill at ease, waiting their turn for the burden. You can see
+the red handkerchiefs knotted round their throats, and their shirt-fronts blue
+and white between the open waistcoats. The coffin is of new unpolished wood,
+gleaming and glistening in the sunlight; the men who carry it remember all
+their lives after the smell of new, warm elm-wood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again a loud cry from the hill-top. The woman has followed thus far, the big,
+shapeless woman, and she cries with loud cries after the white coffin as it
+descends the hill, and the children that cling to her skirts weep aloud, and
+are not to be hushed by the other woman, who bends over them, but does not form
+one of the group. How the crying frightens the birds, and the rabbits; and the
+lambs away there run to their mothers. But the peewits are not frightened, they
+add their notes to the sorrow; they circle after the white, retreating coffin,
+they circle round the woman; it is they who forever “keen” the sorrows of this
+world. They are like priests in their robes, more black than white, more grief
+than hope, driving endlessly round and round, turning, lifting, falling and
+crying always in mournful desolation, repeating their last syllables like the
+broken accents of despair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The bearers have at last sunk between the high banks, and turned out of sight.
+The big woman cannot see them, and yet she stands to look. She must go home,
+there is nothing left.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They have rested the coffin on the gate posts, and the bearers are wiping the
+sweat from their faces. They put their hands to their shoulders on the place
+where the weight has pressed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The other six are placing the pads on their shoulders, when a girl comes up
+with a jug and a blue pot. The squire drinks first, and fills for the rest.
+Meanwhile the girl stands back under the hedge, away from the coffin which
+smells of new elm-wood. In imagination she pictures the man shut up there in
+close darkness, while the sunlight flows all outside, and she catches her
+breast with terror. She must turn and rustle among the leaves of the violets
+for the flowers she does not see. Then, trembling, she comes to herself, and
+plucks a few flowers and breathes them hungrily into her soul, for comfort. The
+men put down the pots beside her, with thanks, and the squire gives the word.
+The bearers lift up the burden again, and the elm-boughs rattle along the
+hollow white wood, and the pitiful red clusters of elm-flowers sweep along it
+as if they whispered in sympathy&mdash;“We are so sorry, so
+sorry&mdash;&mdash;”; always the compassionate buds in their fulness of life
+bend down to comfort the dark man shut up there. “Perhaps,” the girl thinks,
+“he hears them, and goes softly to sleep.” She shakes the tears out of her eyes
+on to the ground, and, taking up her pots, goes slowly down, over the brooks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a while, I too got up and went down to the mill, which lay red and peaceful,
+with the blue smoke rising as winsomely and carelessly as ever. On the other
+side of the valley I could see a pair of horses nod slowly across the fallow. A
+man’s voice called to them now and again with a resonance that filled me with
+longing to follow my horses over the fallow, in the still, lonely valley, full
+of sunshine and eternal forgetfulness. The day had already forgotten. The water
+was blue and white and dark-burnished with shadows; two swans sailed across the
+reflected trees with perfect blithe grace. The gloom that had passed across was
+gone. I watched the swan with his ruffled wings swell onwards; I watched his
+slim consort go peeping into corners and under bushes; I saw him steer clear of
+the bushes, to keep full in view, turning his head to me imperiously, till I
+longed to pelt him with the empty husks of last year’s flowers, knap-weed and
+scabius. I was too indolent, and I turned instead to the orchard.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There the daffodils were lifting their heads and throwing back their yellow
+curls. At the foot of each sloping, grey old tree stood a family of flowers,
+some bursten with golden fulness, some lifting their heads slightly, to show a
+modest, sweet countenance, others still hiding their faces, leaning forward
+pensively from the jaunty grey-green spears; I wished I had their language, to
+talk to them distinctly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Overhead, the trees, with lifted fingers shook out their hair to the sun,
+decking themselves with buds as white and cool as a water-nymphs breasts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I began to be very glad. The colts-foot discs glowed and laughed in a merry
+company down the path; I stroked the velvet faces, and laughed also, and I
+smelled the scent of black-currant leaves, which is full of childish memories.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The house was quiet and complacent; it was peopled with ghosts again; but the
+ghosts had only come to enjoy the warm place once more, carrying sunshine in
+their arms and scattering it through the dusk of gloomy rooms.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER III<br/>
+THE IRONY OF INSPIRED MOMENTS</h2>
+
+<p>
+It happened, the next day after the funeral, I came upon reproductions of
+Aubrey Beardsley’s “Atalanta,” and of the tail-piece “Salome,” and others. I
+sat and looked and my soul leaped out upon the new thing. I was bewildered,
+wondering, grudging, fascinated. I looked a long time, but my mind, or my soul,
+would come to no state of coherence. I was fascinated and overcome, but yet
+full of stubbornness and resistance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie was out, so, although it was dinner-time, even because it was
+dinner-time, I took the book and went down to the mill.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The dinner was over; there was the fragrance of cooked rhubarb in the room. I
+went straight to Emily, who was leaning back in her chair, and put the Salome
+before her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look,” said I, “look here!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked; she was short-sighted, and peered close. I was impatient for her to
+speak. She turned slowly at last and looked at me, shrinking, with questioning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well?” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Isn’t it&mdash;fearful!” she replied softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!&mdash;why is it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It makes you feel&mdash;Why have you brought it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wanted you to see it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Already I felt relieved, seeing that she too was caught in the spell.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George came and bent over my shoulder. I could feel the heavy warmth of him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good Lord!” he drawled, half amused. The children came crowding to see, and
+Emily closed the book.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shall be late&mdash;Hurry up, Dave!” and she went to wash her hands before
+going to school.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Give it me, will you!” George asked, putting out his hand for the book. I gave
+it him, and he sat down to look at the drawings. When Mollie crept near to
+look, he angrily shouted to her to get away. She pulled a mouth, and got her
+hat over her wild brown curls. Emily came in ready for school.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m going&mdash;good-bye,” she said, and she waited hesitatingly. I moved to
+get my cap. He looked up with a new expression in his eyes, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you going?&mdash;wait a bit&mdash;I’m coming.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I waited.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, very well&mdash;good-bye,” said Emily bitterly, and she departed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When he had looked long enough he got up and we went out. He kept his finger
+between the pages of the book as he carried it. We went towards the fallow land
+without speaking. There he sat down on a bank, leaning his back against a
+holly-tree, and saying, very calmly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s no need to be in any hurry now&mdash;&mdash;” whereupon he proceeded
+to study the illustrations.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know,” he said at last, “I do want her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I started at the irrelevance of this remark, and said, “Who?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lettie. We’ve got notice, did you know?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I started to my feet this time with amazement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Notice to leave?&mdash;what for?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Rabbits I expect. I wish she’d have me, Cyril.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To leave Strelley Mill!” I repeated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s it&mdash;and I’m rather glad. But do you think she might have me,
+Cyril?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a shame! Where will you go? And you lie there joking&mdash;&mdash;!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t. Never mind about the damned notice. I want her more than
+anything.&mdash;And the more I look at these naked lines, the more I want her.
+It’s a sort of fine sharp feeling, like these curved lines. I don’t know what
+I’m saying&mdash;but do you think she’d have me? Has she seen these pictures?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If she did perhaps she’d want me&mdash;I mean she’d feel it clear and sharp
+coming through her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll show her and see.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’d been sort of thinking about it&mdash;since father had that notice. It
+seemed as if the ground was pulled from under our feet. I never felt so lost.
+Then I began to think of her, if she’d have me&mdash;but not clear, till you
+showed me those pictures. I must have her if I can&mdash;and I must have
+something. It’s rather ghostish to have the road suddenly smudged out, and all
+the world anywhere, nowhere for you to go. I must get something sure soon, or
+else I feel as if I should fall from somewhere and hurt myself. I’ll ask her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I looked at him as he lay there under the holly-tree, his face all dreamy and
+boyish, very unusual.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ll ask Lettie?” said I, “When&mdash;how?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I must ask her quick, while I feel as if everything had gone, and I was
+ghostish. I think I must sound rather a lunatic.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at me, and his eyelids hung heavy over his eyes as if he had been
+drinking, or as if he were tired.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is she at home?” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, she’s gone to Nottingham. She’ll be home before dark.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll see her then. Can you smell violets?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I replied that I could not. He was sure that he could, and he seemed uneasy
+till he had justified the sensation. So he arose, very leisurely, and went
+along the bank, looking closely for the flowers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I knew I could. White ones!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat down and picked three flowers, and held them to his nostrils, and
+inhaled their fragrance. Then he put them to his mouth, and I saw his strong
+white teeth crush them. He chewed them for a while without speaking; then he
+spat them out and gathered more.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They remind me of her too,” he said, and he twisted a piece of honeysuckle
+stem round the bunch and handed it to me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A white violet, is she?” I smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Give them to her, and tell her to come and meet me just when it’s getting dark
+in the wood.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But if she won’t?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She will.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If she’s not at home?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come and tell me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He lay down again with his head among the green violet leaves, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I ought to work, because it all counts in the valuation. But I don’t care.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He lay looking at me for some time. Then he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t suppose I shall have above twenty pounds left when we’ve sold
+up&mdash;but she’s got plenty of money to start with&mdash;if she has
+me&mdash;in Canada. I could get well off&mdash;and she could have&mdash;what
+she wanted&mdash;I’m sure she’d have what she wanted.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He took it all calmly as if it were realised. I was somewhat amused.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What frock will she have on when she comes to meet me?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know. The same as she’s gone to Nottingham in, I suppose&mdash;a sort
+of gold-brown costume with a rather tight fitting coat. Why?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I was thinking how she’d look.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What chickens are you counting now?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But what do you think I look best in?” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You? Just as you are&mdash;no, put that old smooth cloth coat on&mdash;that’s
+all.” I smiled as I told him, but he was very serious.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shan’t I put my new clothes on?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;you want to leave your neck showing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He put his hand to his throat, and said naïvely:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do I?”&mdash;and it amused him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then he lay looking dreamily up into the tree. I left him, and went wandering
+round the fields finding flowers and bird’s nests.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I came back, it was nearly four o’clock. He stood up and stretched
+himself. He pulled out his watch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good Lord,” he drawled, “I’ve lain there thinking all afternoon. I didn’t know
+I could do such a thing. Where have you been? It’s with being all upset you
+see. You left the violets&mdash;here, take them, will you; and tell her: I’ll
+come when it’s getting dark. I feel like somebody else&mdash;or else really
+like myself. I hope I shan’t wake up to the other things&mdash;you know, like I
+am always&mdash;before them.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why not?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I don’t know&mdash;only I feel as if I could talk straight off without
+arranging&mdash;like birds, without knowing what note is coming next.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I was going he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here, leave me that book&mdash;it’ll keep me like this&mdash;I mean I’m not
+the same as I was yesterday, and that book’ll keep me like it. Perhaps it’s a
+bilious bout&mdash;I do sometimes have one, if something very extraordinary
+happens. When it’s getting dark then!”
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+Lettie had not arrived when I went home. I put the violets in a little vase on
+the table. I remembered he had wanted her to see the drawings&mdash;it was
+perhaps as well he had kept them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She came about six o’clock&mdash;in the motor-car with Marie. But the latter
+did not descend. I went out to assist with the parcels. Lettie had already
+begun to buy things; the wedding was fixed for July.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The room was soon over-covered with stuffs: table linen, underclothing, pieces
+of silken stuff and lace stuff, patterns for carpets and curtains, a whole
+gleaming glowing array. Lettie was very delighted. She could hardly wait to
+take off her hat, but went round cutting the string of her parcels, opening
+them, talking all the time to my mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look, Little Woman. I’ve got a ready-made underskirt&mdash;isn’t it lovely.
+Listen!” and she ruffled it through her hands. “Shan’t I sound splendid!
+Frou-Frou! But it is a charming shade, isn’t it, and not a bit bulky or clumsy
+anywhere?” She put the band of the skirt against her waist, and put forward her
+foot, and looked down, saying, “It’s just the right length, isn’t it, Little
+Woman?&mdash;and they said I was tall&mdash;it was a wonder. Don’t you wish it
+were yours, Little?&mdash;oh, you won’t confess it. Yes you like to be as fine
+as anybody&mdash;that’s why I bought you this piece of silk&mdash;isn’t it
+sweet, though?&mdash;you needn’t say there’s too much lavender in it, there is
+not. Now!” She pleated it up and held it against my mother’s chin. “It suits
+you beautifully&mdash;doesn’t it. Don’t you like it, Sweet? You don’t seem to
+like it a bit, and I’m sure it suits you&mdash;makes you look ever so young. I
+wish you wouldn’t be so old fashioned in your notions. You do like it, don’t
+you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course I do&mdash;I was only thinking what an extravagant mortal you are
+when you begin to buy. You know you mustn’t keep on always&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now&mdash;now, Sweet, don’t be naughty and preachey. It’s such a treat to go
+buying: You will come with me next time, won’t you? Oh, I have enjoyed
+it&mdash;but I wished you were there&mdash;Marie takes anything, she’s so easy
+to suit&mdash;I like to have a good buy&mdash;Oh, it was splendid!&mdash;and
+there’s lots more yet. Oh, did you see this cushion cover&mdash;these are the
+colours I want for that room&mdash;gold and amber&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This was a bad opening. I watched the shadows darken further and further along
+the brightness, hushing the glitter of the water. I watched the golden ripeness
+come upon the west, and thought the rencontre was never to take place. At last,
+however, Lettie flung herself down with a sigh, saying she was tired.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come into the dining-room and have a cup of tea,” said mother. “I told Rebecca
+to mash when you came in.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All right. Leslie’s coming up later on, I believe&mdash;about half past eight,
+he said. Should I show him what I’ve bought?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s nothing there for a man to see.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shall have to change my dress, and I’m sure I don’t want the fag. Rebecca,
+just go and look at the things I’ve bought&mdash;in the other room&mdash;and,
+Becky, fold them up for me, will you, and put them on my bed?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As soon as she’d gone out, Lettie said: “She’ll enjoy doing it, won’t she,
+mother, they’re so nice! Do you think I need dress, mother?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Please yourself&mdash;do as you wish.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose I shall have to; he doesn’t like blouses and skirts of an evening he
+says; he hates the belt. I’ll wear that old cream cashmere; it looks nice now
+I’ve put that new lace on it. Don’t those violets smell nice?&mdash;who got
+them?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Cyril brought them in.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“George sent them you,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I’ll just run up and take my dress off. Why are we troubled with men!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a trouble you like well enough,” said mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, do I? such a bother!” and she ran upstairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sun was red behind Highclose. I kneeled in the window seat and smiled at
+Fate and at people who imagine that strange states are near to the inner
+realities. The sun went straight down behind the cedar trees, deliberately and,
+it seemed as I watched, swiftly lowered itself behind the trees, behind the rim
+of the hill.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I must go,” I said to myself, “and tell him she will not come.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yet I fidgeted about the room, loth to depart. Lettie came down, dressed in
+white&mdash;or cream&mdash;cut low round the neck. She looked very delightful
+and fresh again, with a sparkle of the afternoon’s excitement still.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll put some of these violets on me,” she said, glancing at herself in the
+mirror, and then taking the flowers from their water, she dried them, and
+fastened them among her lace.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t Lettie and I look nice to-night?” she said smiling, glancing from me to
+her reflection which was like a light in the dusky room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That reminds me,” I said, “George Saxton wanted to see you this evening.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What ever for?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know. They’ve got notice to leave their farm, and I think he feels a
+bit sentimental.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, well&mdash;is he coming here?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He said would you go just a little way in the wood to meet him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did he! Oh, indeed! Well, of course I can’t.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course not&mdash;if you won’t. They’re his violets you’re wearing by the
+way.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are they&mdash;let them stay, it makes no difference. But whatever did he want
+to see me for?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I couldn’t say, I assure you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She glanced at herself in the mirror, and then at the clock.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let’s see,” she remarked, “it’s only a quarter to eight. Three quarters of an
+hour&mdash;! But what can he want me for?&mdash;I never knew anything like it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Startling, isn’t it!” I observed satirically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she glanced at herself in the mirror:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t go out like this.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All right, you can’t then.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Besides&mdash;it’s nearly dark, it will be too dark to see in the wood, won’t
+it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It will directly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I’ll just go to the end of the garden, for one moment&mdash;run and
+fetch that silk shawl out of my wardrobe&mdash;be quick, while it’s light.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I ran and brought the wrap. She arranged it carefully over her head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went out, down the garden path. Lettie held her skirts carefully gathered
+from the ground. A nightingale began to sing in the twilight; we stepped along
+in silence as far as the rhododendron bushes, now in rosy bud.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I cannot go into the wood,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come to the top of the riding”&mdash;and we went round the dark bushes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George was waiting. I saw at once he was half distrustful of himself now.
+Lettie dropped her skirts and trailed towards him. He stood awkwardly awaiting
+her, conscious of the clownishness of his appearance. She held out her hand
+with something of a grand air:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“See,” she said, “I have come.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;I thought you wouldn’t&mdash;perhaps”&mdash;he looked at her, and
+suddenly gained courage: “You have been putting white on&mdash;you, you do look
+nice&mdash;though not like&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?&mdash;Who else?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nobody else&mdash;only I&mdash;well I’d&mdash;I’d thought about it
+different&mdash;like some pictures.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She smiled with a gentle radiance, and asked indulgently, “And how was I
+different?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not all that soft stuff&mdash;plainer.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But don’t I look very nice with all this soft stuff, as you call
+it?”&mdash;and she shook the silk away from her smiles.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes&mdash;better than those naked lines.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are quaint to-night&mdash;what did you want me for&mdash;to say good-bye?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-bye?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;you’re going away, Cyril tells me. I’m very sorry&mdash;fancy horrid
+strangers at the Mill! But then I shall be gone away soon, too. We are all
+going you see, now we’ve grown up,”&mdash;she kept hold of my arm. “Yes.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And where will you go&mdash;Canada? You’ll settle there and be quite a
+patriarch, won’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are not really sorry to go, are you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, I’m glad.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Glad to go away from us all.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose so&mdash;since I must.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, Fate&mdash;Fate! It separates you whether you want it or not.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, you see, you have to leave. I mustn’t stay out here&mdash;it is growing
+chilly. How soon are you going?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not soon then?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then I may see you again?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes, I shall. Well, I must go. Shall I say good-bye now?&mdash;that was
+what you wanted, was it not?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To say good-bye?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;it wasn’t&mdash;I wanted, I wanted to ask you&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” she cried.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You don’t know, Lettie, now the old life’s gone, everything&mdash;how I want
+you&mdash;to set out with&mdash;it’s like beginning life, and I want you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But what could I do&mdash;I could only hinder&mdash;what help should I be?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should feel as if my mind was made up&mdash;as if I could do something
+clearly. Now it’s all hazy&mdash;not knowing what to do next.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And if&mdash;if you had&mdash;what then?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I had you I could go straight on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;I should take a farm in Canada&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, wouldn’t it be better to get it first and make sure&mdash;&mdash;?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I have no money.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh!&mdash;so you wanted me&mdash;&mdash;?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I only wanted you, I only wanted you. I would have given you&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’d have me&mdash;you’d have all me, and everything you wanted.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That I paid for&mdash;a good bargain! No, oh no, George, I beg your pardon.
+This is one of my flippant nights. I don’t mean it like that. But you know it’s
+impossible&mdash;look how I’m fixed&mdash;it <i>is</i> impossible, isn’t it
+now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose it is.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know it is&mdash;Look at me now, and say if it’s not impossible&mdash;a
+farmer’s wife&mdash;with you in Canada.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;I didn’t expect you like that. Yes, I see it is impossible. But I’d
+thought about it, and felt as if I must have you. Should have you . . . Yes, it
+doesn’t do to go on dreaming. I think it’s the first time, and it’ll be the
+last. Yes, it is impossible. Now I have made up my mind.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And what will you do?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shall not go to Canada.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, you must not&mdash;you must not do anything rash.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;I shall get married.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You will? Oh, I am glad. I thought&mdash;you&mdash;you were too fond&mdash;.
+But you’re not&mdash;of yourself I meant. I am so glad. Yes&mdash;do marry!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I shall&mdash;since you are&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” said Lettie. “It is best. But I thought that you&mdash;&mdash;” she
+smiled at him in sad reproach.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did you think so?” he replied, smiling gravely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she whispered. They stood looking at one another.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He made an impulsive movement towards her. She, however, drew back slightly,
+checking him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;I shall see you again sometime&mdash;so good-bye,” he said, putting
+out his hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We heard a foot crunching on the gravel. Leslie halted at the top of the
+riding. Lettie, hearing him, relaxed into a kind of feline graciousness, and
+said to George:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am so sorry you are going to leave&mdash;it breaks the old life up. You said
+I would see you again&mdash;&mdash;” She left her hand in his a moment or two.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” George replied. “Good-night”&mdash;and he turned away. She stood for a
+moment in the same drooping, graceful attitude watching him, then she turned
+round slowly. She seemed hardly to notice Leslie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who was that you were talking to?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He has gone now,” she replied irrelevantly, as if even then she seemed hardly
+to realise it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It appears to upset you&mdash;his going&mdash;who is it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He!&mdash;Oh,&mdash;why, it’s George Saxton.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, him!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What did he want?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Eh? What did he want? Oh, nothing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A mere trysting&mdash;in the interim, eh!”&mdash;he said this laughing,
+generously passing off his annoyance in a jest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I feel so sorry,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What for?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;don’t let us talk about him&mdash;talk about something else. I can’t
+bear to talk about&mdash;him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All right,” he replied&mdash;and after an awkward little pause. “What sort of
+a time had you in Nottingham?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, a fine time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ll enjoy yourself in the shops between now and&mdash;July. Some time I’ll
+go with you and see them.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very well.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That sounds as if you don’t want me to go. Am I already in the way on a
+shopping expedition, like an old husband?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should think you would be.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s nice of you! Why?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I don’t know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes you do.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I suppose you’d hang about.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m much too well brought up.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Rebecca has lighted the hall lamp.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, it’s grown quite dark. I was here early. You never gave me a good word
+for it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I didn’t notice. There’s a light in the dining-room, we’ll go there.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They went into the dining-room. She stood by the piano and carefully took off
+the wrap. Then she wandered listlessly about the room for a minute.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Aren’t you coming to sit down?” he said, pointing to the seat on the couch
+beside him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not just now,” she said, trailing aimlessly to the piano. She sat down and
+began to play at random, from memory. Then she did that most irritating
+thing&mdash;played accompaniments to songs, with snatches of the air where the
+voice should have predominated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I say Lettie, . . .” he interrupted after a time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she replied, continuing to play.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s not very interesting. . . .”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No?”&mdash;she continued to play.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nor very amusing. . . .”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did not answer. He bore it for a little time longer, then he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How much longer is it going to last, Lettie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That sort of business. . . .”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The piano?&mdash;I’ll stop playing if you don’t like it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did not, however, cease.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;and all this dry business.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t understand.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you?&mdash;you make <i>me.</i>’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There she went on, tinkling away at “If I built a world for you, dear.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I say, stop it, do!” he cried.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She tinkled to the end of the verse, and very slowly closed the piano.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on&mdash;come and sit down,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, I don’t want to.&mdash;I’d rather have gone on playing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go on with your damned playing then, and I’ll go where there’s more interest.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You ought to like it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not answer, so she turned slowly round on the stool, opened the piano,
+and laid her fingers on the keys. At the sound of the chord he started up,
+saying: “Then I’m going.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s very early&mdash;why?” she said, through the calm jingle of “Meine Ruh is
+hin&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stood biting his lips. Then he made one more appeal.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lettie!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Aren’t you going to leave off&mdash;and be&mdash;amiable?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Amiable?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are a jolly torment. What’s upset you now?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay, it’s not I who am upset.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m glad to hear it&mdash;what do you call yourself?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I?&mdash;nothing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, well, I’m going then.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Must you?&mdash;so early to-night?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not go, and she played more and more softly, languidly, aimlessly. Once
+she lifted her head to speak, but did not say anything.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look here!” he ejaculated all at once, so that she started, and jarred the
+piano, “What do you mean by it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She jingled leisurely a few seconds before answering, then she replied:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a worry you are!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose you want me out of the way while you sentimentalise over that
+milkman. You needn’t bother. You can do it while I’m here. Or I’ll go and leave
+you in peace. I’ll go and call him back for you, if you like&mdash;if that’s
+what you want&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She turned on the piano stool slowly and looked at him, smiling faintly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is very good of you!” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He clenched his fists and grinned with rage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You tantalising little&mdash;&mdash;” he began, lifting his fists
+expressively. She smiled. Then he swung round, knocked several hats flying off
+the stand in the hall, slammed the door, and was gone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie continued to play for some time, after which she went up to her own
+room.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+Leslie did not return to us the next day, nor the day after. The first day
+Marie came and told us he had gone away to Yorkshire to see about the new mines
+that were being sunk there, and was likely to be absent for a week or so. These
+business visits to the north were rather frequent. The firm, of which Mr.
+Tempest was director and chief shareholder, were opening important new mines in
+the other county, as the seams at home were becoming exhausted or unprofitable.
+It was proposed that Leslie should live in Yorkshire when he was married, to
+superintend the new workings. He at first rejected the idea, but he seemed
+later to approve of it more.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+During the time he was away Lettie was moody and cross-tempered. She did not
+mention George nor the mill; indeed, she preserved her best, most haughty and
+ladylike manner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the evening of the fourth day of Leslie’s absence we were out in the garden.
+The trees were “uttering joyous leaves.” My mother was in the midst of her
+garden, lifting the dusky faces of the auriculas to look at the velvet lips, or
+tenderly taking a young weed from the black soil. The thrushes were calling and
+clamouring all round. The japonica flamed on the wall as the light grew
+thicker; the tassels of white cherry-blossom swung gently in the breeze.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What shall I do, mother?” said Lettie, as she wandered across the grass to
+pick at the japonica flowers. “What shall I do?&mdash;There’s nothing to do.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, my girl&mdash;what do you want to do? You have been moping about all
+day&mdash;go and see somebody.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s such a long way to Eberwich.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it? Then go somewhere nearer.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie fretted about with restless, petulant indecision.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know what to do,” she said, “And I feel as if I might just as well
+never have lived at all as waste days like this. I wish we weren’t buried in
+this dead little hole&mdash;I wish we were near the town&mdash;it’s hateful
+having to depend on about two or three folk for your&mdash;your&mdash;your
+pleasure in life.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t help it, my dear&mdash;you must do something for yourself.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And what can I do?&mdash;I can do nothing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then I’d go to bed.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That I won’t&mdash;with the dead weight of a wasted day on me. I feel as if
+I’d do something desperate.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very well, then,” said mother, “do it, and have done.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, it’s no good talking to you&mdash;I don’t want&mdash;&mdash;” She turned
+away, went to the laurestinus, and began pulling off it the long red berries. I
+expected she would fret the evening wastefully away. I noticed all at once that
+she stood still. It was the noise of a motor-car running rapidly down the hill
+towards Nethermere&mdash;a light, quick-clicking sound. I listened also. I
+could feel the swinging drop of the car as it came down the leaps of the hill.
+We could see the dust trail up among the trees. Lettie raised her head and
+listened expectantly. The car rushed along the edge of Nethermere&mdash;then
+there was the jar of brakes, as the machine slowed down and stopped. In a
+moment with a quick flutter of sound, it was passing the lodge-gates and
+whirling up the drive, through the wood, to us. Lettie stood with flushed
+cheeks and brightened eyes. She went towards the bushes that shut off the lawn
+from the gravelled space in front of the house, watching. A car came racing
+through the trees. It was the small car Leslie used on the firm’s
+business&mdash;now it was white with dust. Leslie suddenly put on the brakes,
+and tore to a standstill in front of the house. He stepped to the ground. There
+he staggered a little, being giddy and cramped with the long drive. His
+motor-jacket and cap were thick with dust.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie called to him, “Leslie!”&mdash;and flew down to him. He took her into
+his arms, and clouds of dust rose round her. He kissed her, and they stood
+perfectly still for a moment. She looked up into his face&mdash;then she
+disengaged her arms to take off his disfiguring motor-spectacles. After she had
+looked at him a moment, tenderly, she kissed him again. He loosened his hold of
+her, and she said, in a voice full of tenderness:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are trembling, dear.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s the ride. I’ve never stopped.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Without further words she took him into the house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How pale you are&mdash;see, lie on the couch&mdash;never mind the dust. All
+right, I’ll find you a coat of Cyril’s. O, mother, he’s come all those miles in
+the car without stopping&mdash;make him lie down.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She ran and brought him a jacket, and put the cushions round, and made him lie
+on the couch. Then she took off his boots and put slippers on his feet. He lay
+watching her all the time; he was white with fatigue and excitement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wonder if I shall be had up for scorching&mdash;I can feel the road coming
+at me yet,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why were you so headlong?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I felt as if I should go wild if I didn’t come&mdash;if I didn’t rush. I
+didn’t know how you might have taken me, Lettie when I said&mdash;what I did.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She smiled gently at him, and he lay resting, recovering, looking at her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a wonder I haven’t done something desperate&mdash;I’ve been half mad
+since I said&mdash;Oh, Lettie, I was a damned fool and a wretch&mdash;I could
+have torn myself in two. I’ve done nothing but curse and rage at myself ever
+since. I feel as if I’d just come up out of hell. You don’t know how thankful I
+am, Lettie, that you’ve not&mdash;oh&mdash;turned against me for what I said.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She went to him and sat down by him, smoothing his hair from his forehead,
+kissing him, her attitude tender, suggesting tears, her movements impulsive, as
+if with a self-reproach she would not acknowledge, but which she must silence
+with lavish tenderness. He drew her to him, and they remained quiet for some
+time, till it grew dark.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The noise of my mother stirring in the next room disturbed them. Lettie rose,
+and he also got up from the couch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose,” he said, “I shall have to go home and get bathed and
+dressed&mdash;though,” he added in tones which made it clear he did not want to
+go, “I shall have to get back in the morning&mdash;I don’t know what they’ll
+say.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“At any rate,” she said, “You could wash here&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I must get out of these clothes&mdash;and I want a bath.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You could&mdash;you might have some of Cyril’s clothes&mdash;and the water’s
+hot. I know. At all events, you can stay to supper&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I’m going I shall have to go soon&mdash;or they’d not like it, if I go in
+late;&mdash;they have no idea I’ve come;&mdash;they don’t expect me till next
+Monday or Tuesday&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Perhaps you could stay here&mdash;and they needn’t know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They looked at each other with wide, smiling eyes&mdash;like children on the
+brink of a stolen pleasure.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, but what would your mother think!&mdash;no, I’ll go.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She won’t mind a bit.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, but&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll ask her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He wanted to stay far more than she wished it, so it was she who put down his
+opposition and triumphed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My mother lifted her eyebrows, and said very quietly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’d better go home&mdash;and be straight.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But look how he’d feel&mdash;he’d have to tell them . . . and how would he
+feel! It’s really my fault, in the end. Don’t be piggling and mean and
+Grundyish, Matouchka.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is neither meanness nor grundyishness&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Ydgrun, Ydgrun&mdash;&mdash;!” exclaimed Lettie, ironically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He may certainly stay if he likes,” said mother, slightly nettled at Lettie’s
+gibe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All right, Mutterchen&mdash;and be a sweetling, do!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie went out a little impatient at my mother’s unwillingness, but Leslie
+stayed, nevertheless.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a few moments Lettie was up in the spare bedroom, arranging and adorning,
+and Rebecca was running with hot-water bottles, and hurrying down with clean
+bed-clothes. Lettie hastily appropriated my best brushes&mdash;which she had
+given me&mdash;and took the suit of pajamas of the thinnest, finest
+flannel&mdash;and discovered a new tooth-brush&mdash;and made selections from
+my shirts and handkerchiefs and underclothing&mdash;and directed me which suit
+to lend him. Altogether I was astonished, and perhaps a trifle annoyed, at her
+extraordinary thoughtfulness and solicitude.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He came down to supper, bathed, brushed, and radiant. He ate heartily and
+seemed to emanate a warmth of physical comfort and pleasure. The colour was
+flushed again into his face, and he carried his body with the old independent,
+assertive air. I have never known the time when he looked handsomer, when he
+was more attractive. There was a certain warmth about him, a certain glow that
+enhanced his words, his laughter, his movements; he was the predominant person,
+and we felt a pleasure in his mere proximity. My mother, however, could not
+quite get rid of her stiffness, and soon after supper she rose, saying she
+would finish her letter in the next room, bidding him good-night, as she would
+probably not see him again. The cloud of this little coolness was the thinnest
+and most transitory. He talked and laughed more gaily than ever, and was
+ostentatious in his movements, throwing back his head, taking little attitudes
+which displayed the broad firmness of his breast, the grace of his well-trained
+physique. I left them at the piano; he was sitting pretending to play, and
+looking up all the while at her, who stood with her hand on his shoulder.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+In the morning he was up early, by six o’clock downstairs and attending to the
+car. When I got down I found him very busy, and very quiet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I know I’m a beastly nuisance,” he said, “but I must get off early.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Rebecca came and prepared breakfast, which we two ate alone. He was remarkably
+dull and wordless.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a wonder Lettie hasn’t got up to have breakfast with you&mdash;she’s such
+a one for raving about the perfection of the early morning&mdash;it’s purity
+and promises and so forth,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He broke his bread nervously, and drank some coffee as if he were agitated,
+making noises in his throat as he swallowed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s too early for her, I should think,” he replied, wiping his moustache
+hurriedly. Yet he seemed to listen for her. Lettie’s bedroom was over the
+study, where Rebecca had laid breakfast, and he listened now and again, holding
+his knife and fork suspended in their action. Then he went on with his meal
+again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When he was laying down his serviette, the door opened. He pulled himself
+together, and turned round sharply. It was mother. When she spoke to him, his
+face twitched with a little frown, half of relief, half of disappointment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I must be going now,” he said&mdash;“thank you very much&mdash;Mother.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are a harum-scarum boy. I wonder why Lettie doesn’t come down. I know she
+is up.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I’ve heard her. Perhaps she is dressing. I must get
+off.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll call her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;don’t bother her&mdash;she’d come if she wanted&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But mother had called from the foot of the stairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lettie, Lettie&mdash;he’s going.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All right,” said Lettie, and in another minute she came downstairs. She was
+dressed in dark, severe stuff, and she was somewhat pale. She did not look at
+any of us, but turned her eyes aside.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-bye,” she said to him, offering him her cheek. He kissed her, murmuring:
+“Good-bye&mdash;my love.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stood in the doorway a moment, looking at her with beseeching eyes. She kept
+her face half averted, and would not look at him, but stood pale and cold,
+biting her underlip. He turned sharply away with a motion of keen
+disappointment, set the engines of the car into action, mounted, and drove
+quickly away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie stood pale and inscrutable for some moments.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then she went in to breakfast and sat toying with her food, keeping her head
+bent down, her face hidden.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In less than an hour he was back again, saying he had left something behind. He
+ran upstairs, and then, hesitating, went into the room where Lettie was still
+sitting at table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I had to come back,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She lifted her face towards him, but kept her eyes averted, looking out of the
+window. She was flushed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What had you forgotten?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’d left my cigarette case,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was an awkward silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I shall have to be getting off,” he added.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, I suppose you will,” she replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After another pause, he asked:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Won’t you just walk down the path with me?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She rose without answering. He took a shawl and put it round her carefully. She
+merely allowed him. They walked in silence down the garden.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You&mdash;are you&mdash;are you angry with me?” he faltered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tears suddenly came to her eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What did you come back for?” she said, averting her face from him. He looked
+at her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I knew you were angry&mdash;and&mdash;&mdash;,” he hesitated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why didn’t you go away?” she said impulsively. He hung his head and was
+silent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t see why&mdash;why it should make trouble between us, Lettie,” he
+faltered. She made a swift gesture of repulsion, whereupon, catching sight of
+her hand, she hid it swiftly against her skirt again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You make my hands&mdash;my very hands disclaim me,” she struggled to say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at her clenched fist pressed against the folds of her dress.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But&mdash;,” he began, much troubled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I tell you, I can’t bear the sight of my own hands,” she said in low,
+passionate tones.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But surely, Lettie, there’s no need&mdash;if you love me&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She seemed to wince. He waited, puzzled and miserable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And we’re going to be married, aren’t we?” he resumed, looking pleadingly at
+her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stirred, and exclaimed:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, why don’t you go away? What did you come back for?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ll kiss me before I go?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stood with averted face, and did not reply. His forehead was twitching in a
+puzzled frown.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lettie!” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did not move or answer, but remained with her face turned full away, so
+that he could see only the contour of her cheek. After waiting awhile, he
+flushed, turned swiftly and set his machine rattling. In a moment he was racing
+between the trees.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER IV<br/>
+KISS WHEN SHE’S RIPE FOR TEARS</h2>
+
+<p>
+It was the Sunday after Leslie’s visit. We had had a wretched week, with
+everybody mute and unhappy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Though Spring had come, none of us saw it. Afterwards it occurred to me that I
+had seen all the ranks of poplars suddenly bursten into a dark crimson glow,
+with a flutter of blood-red where the sun came through the leaves; that I had
+found high cradles where the swan’s eggs lay by the waterside; that I had seen
+the daffodils leaning from the moss-grown wooden walls of the boat-house, and
+all, moss, daffodils, water, scattered with the pink scarves from the elm buds;
+that I had broken the half-spread fans of the sycamore, and had watched the
+white cloud of sloe-blossom go silver grey against the evening sky: but I had
+not perceived it, and I had not any vivid spring-pictures left from the
+neglected week.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was Sunday evening, just after tea, when Lettie suddenly said to me:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come with me down to Strelley Mill.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was astonished, but I obeyed unquestioningly. On the threshold we heard a
+chattering of girls, and immediately Alice’s voice greeted us:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hello, Sybil, love! Hello, Lettie! Come on, here’s a gathering of the
+goddesses. Come on, you just make us right. You’re Juno, and here’s Meg, she’s
+Venus, and I’m&mdash;here, somebody, who am I, tell us quick&mdash;did you say
+Minerva, Sybil dear? Well you ought, then! Now Paris, hurry up. He’s putting
+his Sunday clothes on to take us a walk&mdash;Laws, what a time it takes him!
+Get your blushes ready, Meg&mdash;now, Lettie, look haughty, and I’ll look
+wise. I wonder if he wants me to go and tie his tie. Oh, Glory&mdash;where on
+earth did you get that antimacassar?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“In Nottingham&mdash;don’t you like it?” said George referring to his tie.
+“Hello, Lettie&mdash;have you come?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, it’s a gathering of the goddesses. Have you that apple? If so, hand it
+over,” said Alice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What apple?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Lum, his education! Paris’s apple&mdash;Can’t you see we’ve come to be
+chosen?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, well&mdash;I haven’t got any apple&mdash;I’ve eaten mine.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Isn’t he flat&mdash;he’s like boiling magnesia that’s done boiling for a week.
+Are you going to take us all to church then?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you like.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on, then. Where’s the Abode of Love? Look at Lettie looking shocked.
+Awfully sorry, old girl&mdash;thought love agreed with you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did you say <i>love</i>?” inquired George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, I did; didn’t I, Meg? And you say ‘Love’ as well, don’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know what it is,” laughed Meg, who was very red and rather bewildered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘Amor est titillatio’&mdash;‘Love is a tickling,’&mdash;there&mdash;that’s it,
+isn’t it, Sybil?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How should I know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of <i>course</i> not, old fellow. Leave it to the girls. See how knowing
+Lettie looks&mdash;and, laws, Lettie, you are solemn.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s love,” suggested George, over his new neck-tie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll bet it is ‘degustasse sat est’&mdash;ain’t it, Lettie? ‘One lick’s
+enough’&mdash;‘and damned be he that first cries: Hold, enough!’&mdash;Which
+one do you like? But <i>are</i> you going to take us to church, Georgie,
+darling&mdash;one by one, or all at once?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you want me to do, Meg?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I don’t mind.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And do you mind, Lettie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m not going to church.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let’s go a walk somewhere&mdash;and let us start now,” said Emily somewhat
+testily. She did not like this nonsense.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There you are Syb&mdash;you’ve got your orders&mdash;don’t leave me behind,”
+wailed Alice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily frowned and bit her finger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on, Georgie. You look like the finger of a pair scales&mdash;between two
+weights. Which’ll draw?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The heavier,” he replied, smiling, and looking neither at Meg or Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then it’s Meg,” cried Alice. “Oh, I wish I was fleshy&mdash;I’ve no chance
+with Syb against Pem.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily flashed looks of rage; Meg blushed and felt ashamed; Lettie began to
+recover from her first outraged indignation, and smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thus we went a walk, in two trios.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Unfortunately, as the evening was so fine, the roads were full of strollers:
+groups of three or four men dressed in pale trousers and shiny black cloth
+coats, following their suspicious little dogs: gangs of youths slouching along,
+occupied with nothing, often silent, talking now and then in raucous tones on
+some subject of brief interest: then the gallant husbands, in their tail coats
+very husbandly, pushing a jingling perambulator, admonished by a much dressed
+spouse round whom the small members of the family gyrated: occasionally, two
+lovers walking with a space between them, disowning each other; occasionally, a
+smartly dressed mother with two little girls in white silk frocks and much
+expanse of yellow hair, stepping mincingly, and, near by, a father awkwardly
+controlling his Sunday suit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To endure all this it was necessary to chatter unconcernedly. George had to
+keep up the conversation behind, and he seemed to do it with ease, discoursing
+on the lambs, discussing the breed&mdash;when Meg exclaimed:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, aren’t they black! They might ha’ crept down th’ chimney. I never saw any
+like them before.” He described how he had reared two on the bottle, exciting
+Meg’s keen admiration by his mothering of the lambs. Then he went on to the
+peewits, harping on the same string: how they would cry and pretend to be
+wounded&mdash;“Just fancy, though!”&mdash;and how he had moved the eggs of one
+pair while he was ploughing, and the mother had followed them, and had even sat
+watching as he drew near again with the plough, watching him come and
+go&mdash;“Well, she knew you&mdash;but they <i>do</i> know those who are kind
+to them&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” he agreed, “her little bright eyes seem to speak as you go by.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I do think they’re nice little things&mdash;don’t you, Lettie?” cried Meg
+in access of tenderness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie did&mdash;with brevity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We walked over the hills and down into Greymede. Meg thought she ought to go
+home to her grandmother, and George bade her go, saying he would call and see
+her in an hour or so.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The dear girl was disappointed, but she went unmurmuring. We left Alice with a
+friend, and hurried home through Selsby to escape the after-church parade.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+As you walk home past Selsby, the pit stands up against the west, with
+beautiful tapering chimneys marked in black against the swim of sunset, and the
+head-stocks etched with tall significance on the brightness. Then the houses
+are squat in rows of shadow at the foot of these high monuments.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know, Cyril,” said Emily, “I <i>have</i> meant to go and see Mrs
+Annable&mdash;the keeper’s wife&mdash;she’s moved into Bonsart’s Row, and the
+children come to school&mdash;Oh, it’s awful!&mdash;they’ve never been to
+school, and they are unspeakable.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What’s she gone there for?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose the squire wanted the Kennels&mdash;and she chose it herself. But
+the way they live&mdash;it’s fearful to think of!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And why haven’t you been?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know&mdash;I’ve meant to&mdash;but&mdash;&mdash;” Emily stumbled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You didn’t want, and you daren’t?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Perhaps not&mdash;would you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pah&mdash;let’s go now!&mdash;There, you hang back.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No I don’t,” she replied sharply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on then, we’ll go through the twitchel. Let me tell Lettie.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie at once declared, “No!”&mdash;with some asperity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All right,” said George. “I’ll take you home.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But this suited Lettie still less.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know what you want to go for, Cyril,” she said, “and Sunday night,
+and, everybody everywhere. I want to go home.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;you go then&mdash;Emily will come with you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ha,” cried the latter, “you think I won’t go to see her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I shrugged my shoulders, and George pulled his moustache.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I don’t care,” declared Lettie, and we marched down the twitchel, Indian
+file.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We came near to the ugly rows of houses that back up against the pit-hill.
+Everywhere is black and sooty: the houses are back to back, having only one
+entrance, which is from a square garden where black-speckled weeds grow
+sulkily, and which looks on to a row of evil little ash-pit huts. The road
+everywhere is trodden over with a crust of soot and coal-dust and cinders.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Between the rows, however, was a crowd of women and children, bare heads, bare
+arms, white aprons, and black Sunday frocks bristling with gimp. One or two men
+squatted on their heels with their backs against a wall, laughing. The women
+were waving their arms and screaming up at the roof of the end house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily and Lettie drew back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look there&mdash;it’s that little beggar, Sam!” said George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There, sure enough, perched on the ridge of the roof against the end chimney,
+was the young imp, coatless, his shirt-sleeves torn away from the cuffs. I knew
+his bright, reddish young head in a moment. He got up, his bare toes clinging
+to the tiles, and spread out his fingers fanwise from his nose, shouting
+something, which immediately caused the crowd to toss with indignation, and the
+women to shriek again. Sam sat down suddenly, having almost lost his balance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The village constable hurried up, his thin neck stretching out of his tunic,
+and demanded the cause of the hubbub.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Immediately a woman with bright brown squinting eyes and a birthmark on her
+cheek, rushed forward and seized the policeman by the sleeve.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ta’e ’im up, ta’e ’im up, an’ birch ’im till ’is bloody back’s raw,” she
+screamed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The thin policeman shook her off, and wanted to know what was the matter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll smosh ’im like a rotten tater,” cried the woman, “if I can lay ’ands on
+’im. ’E’s not fit ter live nowhere where there’s decent folks&mdash;the
+thievin’, brazen little devil&mdash;&mdash;” thus she went on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But what’s up!” interrupted the thin constable, “what’s up wi’ ’im?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Up&mdash;it’s ’im as ’is up, an’ let ’im wait till I get ’im down. A crafty
+little&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam, seeing her look at him, distorted his honest features, and overheated her
+wrath, till Lettie and Emily trembled with dismay.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The mother’s head appeared at the bedroom window. She slid the sash back, and
+craned out, vainly trying to look over the gutter below the slates. She was
+even more dishevelled than usual, and the tears had dried on her pale face. She
+stretched further out, clinging to the window frame and to the gutter overhead,
+till I was afraid she would come down with a crash.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The men, squatting on their heels against the wall of the ashpit, laughed,
+saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nab ’im, Poll&mdash;can ter see ’m&mdash;clawk ’im!” and then the pitiful
+voice of the woman was heard crying: “Come thy ways down, my duckie, come
+on&mdash;on’y come ter thy mother&mdash;they shanna touch thee. Du thy mother’s
+biddin’, now&mdash;Sam&mdash;Sam&mdash;Sam!” her voice rose higher and higher.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sammy, Sammy, go to thy mammy,” jeered the wits below.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shonna ter come, Shonna ter come to thy mother, my duckie&mdash;come on, come
+thy ways down.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam looked at the crowd, and at the eaves from under which rose his mother’s
+voice. He was going to cry. A big gaunt woman, with the family steel comb stuck
+in her back hair, shouted, “Tha’ mun well bend thy face, tha’ needs ter
+scraight,” and aided by the woman with the birthmark and the squint, she
+reviled him. The little scoundrel, in a burst of defiance, picked a piece of
+mortar from between the slates, and in a second it flew into fragments against
+the family steel comb. The wearer thereof declared her head was laid open and
+there was general confusion. The policeman&mdash;I don’t know how thin he must
+have been when he was taken out of his uniform&mdash;lost his head, and he too
+began brandishing his fists, spitting from under his sweep’s-brush moustache as
+he commanded in tones of authority:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now then, no more on it&mdash;let’s ’a’e thee down here, an’ no more messin’
+about!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The boy tried to creep over the ridge of the roof and escape down the other
+side. Immediately the brats rushed round yelling to the other side of the row,
+and pieces of red-burnt gravel began to fly over the roof. Sam crouched against
+the chimney.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Got ’im!” yelled one little devil “Got ’im! Hi&mdash;go again!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A shower of stones came down, scattering the women and the policeman. The
+mother rushed from the house and made a wild onslaught on the throwers. She
+caught one and flung him down. Immediately the rest turned and aimed their
+missiles at her. Then George and the policeman and I dashed after the young
+wretches, and the women ran to see what happened to their offspring. We caught
+two lads of fourteen or so, and made the policeman haul them after us. The rest
+fled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we returned to the field of battle, Sam had gone too.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If ’e ’asna slived off!” cried the woman with a squint. “But I’ll see him
+locked up for this.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At this moment a band of missioners from one of the chapels or churches arrived
+at the end of the row, and the little harmonium began to bray, and the place
+vibrated with the sound of a woman’s powerful voice, propped round by several
+others, singing:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“At even ’ere the sun was set&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Everybody hurried towards the new noise, save the policeman with his captives,
+the woman with the squint, and the woman with the family comb. I told the limb
+of the law he’d better get rid of the two boys and find out what mischief the
+others were after.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then I enquired of the woman with the squint what was the matter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thirty-seven young uns ’an we ’ad from that doe, an’ there’s no knowin’ ’ow
+many more, if they ’adn’t a-gone an’ ate-n ’er,” she replied, lapsing, now her
+fury was spent, into sullen resentment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“An’ niver a word should we a’ known,” added the family-comb-bearer, “but for
+that blessed cat of ourn, as scrat it up.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Indeed,” said I, “the rabbit?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, there were nowt left but th’ skin&mdash;they’d seen ter that, a thieving,
+dirt-eatin’ lot.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When was that?” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“This mortal night&mdash;an’ there was th’ head an’ th’ back in th’ dirty
+stewpot&mdash;I can show you this instant&mdash;I’ve got ’em in our pantry for
+a proof, ’aven’t I, Martha?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A fat lot o’ good it is&mdash;but I’ll rip th’ neck out of ’im, if ever I lay
+’ands on ’im.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last I made out that Samuel had stolen a large, lop-eared doe out of a bunch
+in the coal-house of the squint-eyed lady, had skinned it, buried the skin, and
+offered his booty to his mother as a wild rabbit, trapped. The doe had been the
+chief item of the Annables’ Sunday dinner&mdash;albeit a portion was unluckily
+saved till Monday, providing undeniable proof of the theft. The owner of the
+rabbit had supposed the creature to have escaped. This peaceful supposition had
+been destroyed by the comb-bearer’s seeing her cat, scratching in the Annables
+garden, unearth the white and brown doe-skin, after which the trouble had
+begun.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The squint-eyed woman was not so hard to manage. I talked to her as if she were
+some male friend of mine, only appealing to her womanliness with all the soft
+sadness I could press into the tones of my voice. In the end she was mollified,
+and even tender and motherly in her feelings toward the unfortunate family. I
+left on her dresser the half-crown I shrank from offering her, and, having
+reduced the comb-wearer also, I marched off, carrying the stewpot and the
+fragments of the ill-fated doe to the cottage of the widow, where George and
+the girls awaited me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The house was in a woeful state. In the rocking chair, beside the high guard
+that surrounded the hearth, sat the mother, rocking, looking sadly shaken now
+her excitement was over. Lettie was nursing the little baby, and Emily the next
+child. George was smoking his pipe and trying to look natural. The little
+kitchen was crowded&mdash;there was no room&mdash;there was not even a place on
+the table for the stew-jar, so I gathered together cups and mugs containing tea
+sops, and set down the vessel of ignominy on the much slopped tea-cloth. The
+four little children were striped and patched with tears&mdash;at my entrance
+one under the table recommenced to weep, so I gave him my pencil which pushed
+in and out, but which pushes in and out no more. The sight of the stewpot
+affected the mother afresh. She wept again, crying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“An’ I niver thought as ’ow it were aught but a snared un; as if I should set
+’im on ter thieve their old doe; an’ tough it was an’ all; an’ ’im a thief, an
+me called all the names they could lay their tongues to: an’ then in my bit of
+a pantry, takin’ the very pots out: that stewpot as I brought all the way from
+Nottingham, an’ I’ve ’ad it afore our Minnie wor born&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The baby, the little baby, then began to cry. The mother got up suddenly, and
+took it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, come then, come then my pet. Why, why cos they shanna, no they shanna.
+Yes, he’s his mother’s least little lad, he is, a little un. Hush then, there,
+there&mdash;what’s a matter, my little?” She hushed the baby, and herself. At
+length she asked:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“’As th’ p’liceman gone as well?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;it’s all right,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She sighed deeply, and her look of weariness was painful to see.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How old is your eldest?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Fanny&mdash;she’s fourteen. She’s out service at Websters. Then Jim, as is
+thirteen next month&mdash;let’s see, yes, it is next month&mdash;he’s gone to
+Flints&mdash;farming. They can’t do much&mdash;an’ I shan’t let ’em go into th’
+pit, if I can help it. My husband always used to say they should never go in
+th’ pit.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They can’t do much for you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They dun what they can. But it’s a hard job, it is, ter keep ’em all goin’.
+Wi’ weshin, an’ th’ parish pay, an’ five shillin’ from th’ squire&mdash;it’s
+’ard. It was different when my husband was alive. It ought ter ’a been me as
+should ’a died&mdash;I don’t seem as if I can manage ’em&mdash;they get beyond
+me. I wish I was dead this minnit, an’ ’im ’ere. I can’t understand it: ’im as
+wor so capable, to be took, an’ me left. ’E wor a man in a thousand, ’e
+wor&mdash;full o’ management like a gentleman. I wisht it was me as ’ad a been
+took. ’An ’e’s restless, ’cos ’e knows I find it ’ard. I stood at th’ door last
+night, when they was all asleep, looking out over th’ pit pond&mdash;an’ I saw
+a light, an’ I knowed it was ’im&mdash;cos it wor our weddin’ day
+yesterday&mdash;by the day an’ th’ date. An’ I said to ’im ‘Frank, is it thee,
+Frank? I’m all right, I’m gettin’ on all right,’&mdash;an’ then ’e went; seemed
+to go ower the whimsey an’ back towards th’ wood. I know it wor ’im, an’ ’e
+couldna rest, thinkin’ I couldna manage&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After a while we left, promising to go again, and to see after the safety of
+Sam.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was quite dark, and the lamps were lighted in the houses. We could hear the
+throb of the fan-house engines, and the soft whirr of the fan.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Isn’t it cruel?” said Emily plaintively.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Wasn’t the man a wretch to marry the woman like that,” added Lettie with
+decision.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Speak of Lady Chrystabel,” said I, and then there was silence. “I suppose he
+did not know what he was doing, any more than the rest of us.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought you were going to your aunt’s&mdash;to the Ram Inn,” said Lettie to
+George when they came to the cross-roads.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not now&mdash;it’s too late,” he answered quietly. “You will come round our
+way, won’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+We were eating bread and milk at the farm, and the father was talking with
+vague sadness and reminiscence, lingering over the thought of their departure
+from the old house. He was a pure romanticist, forever seeking the colour of
+the past in the present’s monotony. He seemed settling down to an easy
+contented middle-age, when the unrest on the farm and development of his
+children quickened him with fresh activity. He read books on the land question,
+and modern novels. In the end he became an advanced radical, almost a
+socialist. Occasionally his letters appeared in the newspapers. He had taken a
+new hold on life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Over supper he became enthusiastic about Canada, and to watch him, his ruddy
+face lighted up, his burly form straight and nerved with excitement, was to
+admire him; to hear him, his words of thoughtful common-sense all warm with a
+young man’s hopes, was to love him. At forty-six he was more spontaneous and
+enthusiastic than George, and far more happy and hopeful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily would not agree to go away with them&mdash;what should she do in Canada,
+she said&mdash;and she did not want the little ones “to be drudges on a
+farm&mdash;in the end to be nothing but cattle.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay,” said her father gently, “Mollie shall learn the dairying, and David will
+just be right to take to the place when I give up. It’ll perhaps be a bit rough
+and hard at first, but when we’ve got over it we shall think it was one of the
+best times&mdash;like you do.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you, George?” asked Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m not going. What should I go for? There’s nothing at the end of it only a
+long life. It’s like a day here in June&mdash;a long work day, pleasant enough,
+and when it’s done you sleep well&mdash;but it’s work and sleep and
+comfort,&mdash;half a life. It’s not enough. What’s the odds?&mdash;I might as
+well be Flower, the mare.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His father looked at him gravely and thoughtfully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now it seems to me so different,” he said sadly, “it seems to me you can live
+your own life, and be independent, and think as you like without being choked
+with harassments. I feel as if I could keep on&mdash;like that&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m going to get more out of my life, I hope,” laughed George. “No. Do you
+know?” and here he turned straight to Lettie. “Do you know, I’m going to get
+pretty rich, so that I can do what I want for a bit. I want to see what it’s
+like, to taste all sides&mdash;to taste the towns. I want to know what I’ve got
+in me. I’ll get rich&mdash;or at least I’ll have a good try.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And pray how will you manage it?” asked Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll begin by marrying&mdash;and then you’ll see.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily laughed with scorn&mdash;“Let us see you begin.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, you’re not wise!” said the father sadly&mdash;then, laughing, he said to
+Lettie in coaxing, confidential tones, “but he’ll come out there to me in a
+year or two&mdash;you see if he doesn’t.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish I could come now,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you would,” said George, “I’d go with you. But not by myself, to become a
+fat stupid fool, like my own cattle.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While he was speaking Gyp burst into a rage of barking. The father got up to
+see what it was, and George followed. Trip, the great bull-terrier, rushed out
+of the house shaking the buildings with his roars. We saw the white dog flash
+down the yard, we heard a rattle from the hen-house ladder, and in a moment a
+scream from the orchard side.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We rushed forward, and there on the sharp bank-side lay a little figure, face
+down, and Trip standing over it, looking rather puzzled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I picked up the child&mdash;it was Sam. He struggled as soon as he felt my
+hands, but I bore him off to the house. He wriggled like a wild hare, and
+kicked, but at last he was still. I set him on the hearthrug to examine him. He
+was a quaint little figure, dressed in a man’s trousers that had been botched
+small for him, and a coat hanging in rags.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did he get hold of you?” asked the father. “Where was it he got hold of you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But the child stood unanswering, his little pale lips pinched together, his
+eyes staring out at nothing. Emily went on her knees before him, and put her
+face close to his, saying, with a voice that made one shrink from its unbridled
+emotion of caress:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did he hurt you, eh?&mdash;tell us where he hurt you.” She would have put her
+arms around him, but he shrank away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look here,” said Lettie, “it’s here&mdash;and it’s bleeding. Go and get some
+water, Emily, and some rags. Come on, Sam, let me look and I’ll put some rags
+round it. Come along.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She took the child and stripped him of his grotesque garments. Trip had given
+him a sharp grab on the thigh before he had realised that he was dealing with a
+little boy. It was not much, however, and Lettie soon had it bathed, and
+anointed with elder-flower ointment. On the boy’s body were several scars and
+bruises&mdash;evidently he had rough times. Lettie tended to him and dressed
+him again. He endured these attentions like a trapped wild rabbit&mdash;never
+looking at us, never opening his lips&mdash;only shrinking slightly. When
+Lettie had put on him his torn little shirt, and had gathered the great
+breeches about him, Emily went to him to coax him and make him at home. She
+kissed him, and talked to him with her full vibration of emotional caress. It
+seemed almost to suffocate him. Then she tried to feed him with bread and milk
+from a spoon, but he would not open his mouth, and he turned his head away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Leave him alone&mdash;take no notice of him,” said Lettie, lifting him into
+the chimney seat, with the basin of bread and milk beside him. Emily fetched
+the two kittens out of their basket and put them too beside him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wonder how many eggs he’d got,” said the father, laughing softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hush!” said Lettie. “When do you think you will go to Canada, Mr. Saxton?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“<i>Next</i> spring&mdash;it’s no good going before.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And then you’ll marry?” asked Lettie of George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Before then&mdash;oh, before then,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why&mdash;how is it you are suddenly in such a hurry?&mdash;when will it be?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When are you marrying?” he asked in reply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” she said, coming to a full stop.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then I don’t know,” he said, taking a large wedge of cheese and biting a piece
+from it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was fixed for June,” she said, recovering herself at his suggestion of
+hope.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“July!” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Father!” said he, holding the piece of cheese up before him as he
+spoke&mdash;he was evidently nervous: “Would you advise me to marry Meg?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His father started, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, was you thinking of doing?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;all things considered.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;if she suits you&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We’re cousins&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you want her, I suppose you won’t let that hinder you. She’ll have a nice
+bit of money, and if you like her&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I like her all right&mdash;I shan’t go out to Canada with her though. I shall
+stay at the Ram&mdash;for the sake of the life.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a poor life, that!” said the father, ruminating.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George laughed. “A bit mucky!” he said&mdash;“But it’ll do. It would need Cyril
+or Lettie to keep me alive in Canada.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a bold stroke&mdash;everybody was embarrassed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” said the father, “I suppose we can’t have everything we want&mdash;we
+generally have to put up with the next best thing&mdash;don’t we,
+Lettie?”&mdash;he laughed. Lettie flushed furiously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” she said. “You can generally get what you want if you want it
+badly enough. Of course&mdash;if you <i>don’t mind</i>&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She rose and went across to Sam.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was playing with the kittens. One was patting and cuffing his bare toe,
+which had poked through his stocking. He pushed and teased the little scamp
+with his toe till it rushed at him, clinging, tickling, biting till he gave
+little bubbles of laughter, quite forgetful of us. Then the kitten was tired,
+and ran off. Lettie shook her skirts, and directly the two playful mites rushed
+upon it, darting round her, rolling head over heels, and swinging from the soft
+cloth. Suddenly becoming aware that they felt tired, the young things trotted
+away and cuddled together by the fender, where in an instant they were asleep.
+Almost as suddenly, Sam sank into drowsiness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’d better go to bed,” said the father.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Put him in my bed,” said George. “David would wonder what had happened.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will you go to bed, Sam?” asked Emily, holding out her arms to him, and
+immediately startling him by the terrible gentleness of her persuasion. He
+retreated behind Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come along,” said the latter, and she quickly took him and undressed him. Then
+she picked him up, and his bare legs hung down in front of her. His head
+drooped drowsily on to her shoulder, against her neck.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She put down her face to touch the loose riot of his ruddy hair. She stood so,
+quiet, still and wistful, for a few moments; perhaps she was vaguely aware that
+the attitude was beautiful for her, and irresistibly appealing to George, who
+loved, above all in her, her delicate dignity of tenderness. Emily waited with
+the lighted candle for her some moments.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When she came down there was a softness about her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now,” said I to myself, “if George asks her again he is wise.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is asleep,” she said quietly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m thinking we might as well let him stop while we’re here, should we,
+George?” said the father. “Eh?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We’ll keep him here while we <i>are</i> here&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;the lad! I should. Yes&mdash;he’d be better here than up yonder.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, yes&mdash;ever so much. It is good of you,” said Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, he’ll make no difference,” said the father.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not a bit,” added George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What about his mother!” asked Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll call and tell her in the morning,” said George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she said, “call and tell her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then she put on her things to go. He also put on his cap.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you coming a little way, Emily?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She ran, laughing, with bright eyes as we went out into the darkness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We waited for them at the wood gate. We all lingered, not knowing what to say.
+Lettie said finally:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;it’s no good&mdash;the grass is
+wet&mdash;Good-night&mdash;Good-night, Emily.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-night,” he said, with regret and hesitation, and a trifle of impatience
+in his voice and his manner. He lingered still a moment; she
+hesitated&mdash;then she struck off sharply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He has not asked her, the idiot!” I said to myself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Really,” she said bitterly, when we were going up the garden path, “You think
+rather quiet folks have a lot in them, but it’s only stupidity&mdash;they are
+mostly fools.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER V<br/>
+AN ARROW FROM THE IMPATIENT GOD</h2>
+
+<p>
+On an afternoon three or four days after the recovery of Sam, matters became
+complicated. George, as usual, discovered that he had been dawdling in the
+portals of his desires, when the doors came to with a bang. Then he hastened to
+knock.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tell her,” he said, “I will come up tomorrow after milking&mdash;tell her I’m
+coming to see her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the evening of that morrow, the first person to put in an appearance was a
+garrulous spinster who had called ostensibly to inquire into the absence of the
+family from church: “I said to Elizabeth, ‘Now what a <i>thing</i> if anything
+happens to them just now, and the wedding is put off.’ I felt I <i>must</i>
+come and make myself sure&mdash;that nothing had happened. We all feel
+<i>so</i> interested in Lettie just now. I’m sure everybody is talking of her,
+she seems in the air.&mdash;I really think we shall have thunder: I <i>hope</i>
+we shan’t.&mdash;Yes, we are all so glad that Mr. Tempest is content with a
+wife from at home&mdash;the others, his father and Mr. Robert and the
+rest&mdash;they were none of them to be suited at home, though to be sure the
+wives they brought were nothing&mdash;indeed they were not&mdash;as many a one
+said&mdash;Mrs. Robert was a paltry choice&mdash;neither in looks or manner had
+she anything to boast of&mdash;if her family was older than mine. Family wasn’t
+much to make up for what she lacked in other things, that I could easily have
+supplied her with; and, oh, dear, what an object she is now, with her wisp of
+hair and her spectacles! She for one hasn’t kept much of her youth. But when
+<i>is</i> the exact date, dear?&mdash;Some say this and some that, but as I
+always say, I never trust a ‘they say.’ It is so nice that you have that cousin
+a canon to come down for the service, Mrs. Beardsall, and Sir Walter Houghton
+for the groom’s man! What?&mdash;You don’t think so&mdash;oh, but I know, dear,
+I know; you do like to treasure up these secrets, don’t you; you are greedy for
+all the good things just now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She shook her head at Lettie, and the jet ornaments on her bonnet twittered
+like a thousand wagging little tongues. Then she sighed, and was about to
+recommence her song, when she happened to turn her head and to espy a telegraph
+boy coming up the path.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I hope nothing is wrong, dear&mdash;I hope nothing is wrong! I always feel
+so terrified of a telegram. You’d better not open it yourself, dear&mdash;don’t
+now&mdash;let your brother go.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie, who had turned pale, hurried to the door. The sky was very
+dark&mdash;there was a mutter of thunder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s all right,” said Lettie, trembling, “it’s only to say he’s coming
+to-night.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m very thankful, very thankful,” cried the spinster. “It might have been so
+much worse. I’m sure I never open a telegram without feeling as if I was
+opening a death-blow. I’m so glad, dear; it must have upset you. What news to
+take back to the village, supposing something had happened!” she sighed again,
+and the jet drops twinkled ominously in the thunder light, as if declaring they
+would make something of it yet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was six o’clock. The air relaxed a little, and the thunder was silent.
+George would be coming about seven; and the spinster showed no signs of
+departure; and Leslie might arrive at any moment. Lettie fretted and fidgeted,
+and the old woman gabbled on. I looked out of the window at the water and the
+sky.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The day had been uncertain. In the morning it was warm, and the sunshine had
+played and raced among the cloud-shadows on the hills. Later, great cloud
+masses had stalked up from the northwest and crowded thick across the sky; in
+this little night, sleet and wind, and rain whirled furiously. Then the sky had
+laughed at us again. In the sunshine came the spinster. But as she talked, over
+the hilltop rose the wide forehead of the cloud, rearing slowly, ominously
+higher. A first messenger of storm passed darkly over the sky, leaving the way
+clear again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will go round to Highclose,” said Lettie. “I am sure it will be stormy
+again. Are you coming down the road, Miss Slaighter, or do you mind if I leave
+you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will go, dear, if you think there is going to be another storm&mdash;I dread
+it so. Perhaps I had better wait&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, it will not come over for an hour, I am sure. We read the weather well out
+here, don’t we, Cyril? You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We three set off, the gossip leaning on her toes, tripping between us. She was
+much gratified by Lettie’s information concerning the proposals for the new
+home. We left her in a glow of congratulatory smiles on the highway. But the
+clouds had upreared, and stretched in two great arms, reaching overhead. The
+little spinster hurried along, but the black hands of the clouds kept pace and
+clutched her. A sudden gust of wind shuddered in the trees, and rushed upon her
+cloak, blowing its bugles.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+An icy raindrop smote into her cheek. She hurried on, praying fervently for her
+bonnet’s sake that she might reach Widow Harriman’s cottage before the burst
+came. But the thunder crashed in her ear, and a host of hailstones flew at her.
+In despair and anguish she fled from under the ash trees; she reached the
+widow’s garden gate, when out leapt the lightning full at her. “Put me in the
+stair-hole!” she cried. “Where is the stair-hole?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Glancing wildly round, she saw a ghost. It was the reflection of the sainted
+spinster, Hilda Slaighter, in the widow’s mirror; a reflection with a bonnet
+fallen backwards, and to it attached a thick rope of grey-brown hair. The
+author of the ghost instinctively twisted to look at the back of her head. She
+saw some ends of grey hair, and fled into the open stair-hole as into a grave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We had gone back home till the storm was over, and then, restless, afraid of
+the arrival of George, we set out again into the wet evening. It was fine and
+chilly, and already a mist was rising from Nethermere, veiling the farther
+shore, where the trees rose loftily, suggesting groves beyond the Nile. The
+birds were singing riotously. The fresh green hedge glistened vividly and
+glowed again with intense green. Looking at the water, I perceived a delicate
+flush from the west hiding along it. The mist licked and wreathed up the
+shores; from the hidden white distance came the mournful cry of water fowl. We
+went slowly along behind a heavy cart, which clanked and rattled under the
+dripping trees, with the hoofs of the horse moving with broad thuds in front.
+We passed over black patches where the ash flowers were beaten down, and under
+great massed clouds of green sycamore. At the sudden curve of the road, near
+the foot of the hill, I stopped to break off a spray of larch, where the soft
+cones were heavy as raspberries, and gay like flowers with petals. The shaken
+bough spattered a heavy shower on my face, of drops so cold that they seemed to
+sink into my blood and chill it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hark!” said Lettie, as I was drying my face. There was the quick patter of a
+motor-car coming downhill. The heavy cart was drawn across the road to rest,
+and the driver hurried to turn the horse back. It moved with painful slowness,
+and we stood in the road in suspense. Suddenly, before we knew it, the car was
+dropping down on us, coming at us in a curve, having rounded the horse and
+cart. Lettie stood faced with terror. Leslie saw her, and swung round the
+wheels on the sharp, curving hill-side; looking only to see that he should miss
+her. The car slid sideways; the mud crackled under the wheels, and the machine
+went crashing into Nethermere. It caught the edge of the old stone wall with a
+smash. Then for a few moments I think I was blind. When I saw again, Leslie was
+lying across the broken hedge, his head hanging down the bank, his face covered
+with blood; the car rested strangely on the brink of the water, crumpled as if
+it had sunk down to rest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie, with hands shuddering, was wiping the blood from his eyes with a piece
+of her underskirt. In a moment she said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is not dead&mdash;let us take him home&mdash;let us take him quickly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I ran and took the wicket gate off its hinges and laid him on that. His legs
+trailed down, but we carried him thus, she at the feet, I at the head. She made
+me stop and put him down. I thought the weight was too much for her, but it was
+not that.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t bear to see his hand hanging, knocking against the bushes and things.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was not many yards to the house. A maidservant saw us, came running out, and
+went running back, like the frightened lapwing from the wounded cat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We waited until the doctor came. There was a deep graze down the side of the
+head&mdash;serious, but not dangerous; there was a cut across the cheek-bone
+that would leave a scar; and the collar-bone was broken. I stayed until he had
+recovered consciousness. “Lettie,” he wanted Lettie, so she had to remain at
+Highclose all night. I went home to tell my mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I went to bed I looked across at the lighted windows of Highclose, and the
+lights trailed mistily towards me across the water. The cedar stood dark guard
+against the house; bright the windows were, like the stars, and, like the
+stars, covering their torment in brightness. The sky was glittering with sharp
+lights&mdash;they are too far off to take trouble for us, so little, little
+almost to nothingness. All the great hollow vastness roars overhead, and the
+stars are only sparks that whirl and spin in the restless space. The earth must
+listen to us; she covers her face with a thin veil of mist, and is sad; she
+soaks up our blood tenderly, in the darkness, grieving, and in the light she
+soothes and reassures us. Here on our earth is sympathy and hope, the heavens
+have nothing but distances.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A corn-crake talked to me across the valley, talked and talked endlessly,
+asking and answering in hoarse tones from the sleeping, mist-hidden meadows.
+The monotonous voice, that on past summer evenings had had pleasant notes of
+romance, now was intolerable to me. Its inflexible harshness and cacophany
+seemed like the voice of fate speaking out its tuneless perseverance in the
+night.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the morning Lettie came home wan, sad-eyed, and self-reproachful. After a
+short time they came for her, as he wanted her again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When in the evening I went to see George, he too was very despondent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s no good now,” said I. “You should have insisted and made your own
+destiny.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;perhaps so,” he drawled in his best reflective manner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I would have had her&mdash;she’d have been glad if you’d done as you wanted
+with her. She won’t leave him till he’s strong, and he’ll marry her before
+then. You should have had the courage to risk yourself&mdash;you’re always too
+careful of yourself and your own poor feelings&mdash;you never could brace
+yourself up to a shower-bath of contempt and hard usage, so you’ve saved your
+feelings and lost&mdash;not much, I suppose&mdash;you couldn’t.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But&mdash;&mdash;” he began, not looking up; and I laughed at him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go on,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;she was engaged to him&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pah&mdash;you thought you were too good to be rejected.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was very pale, and when he was pale, the tan on his skin looked sickly. He
+regarded me with his dark eyes, which were now full of misery and a child’s big
+despair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And nothing else,” I completed, with which the little, exhausted gunboat of my
+anger wrecked and sank utterly. Yet no thoughts would spread sail on the sea of
+my pity: I was like water that heaves with yearning, and is still.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leslie was very ill for some time. He had a slight brain fever, and was
+delirious, insisting that Lettie was leaving him. She stayed most of her days
+at Highclose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day in June he lay resting on a deck chair in the shade of the cedar, and
+she was sitting by him. It was a yellow, sultry day, when all the atmosphere
+seemed inert, and all things were languid.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you think, dear,” she said, “it would be better for us not to marry?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He lifted his head nervously from the cushions; his face was emblazoned with a
+livid red bar on a field of white, and he looked worn, wistful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you mean not yet?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;and, perhaps,&mdash;perhaps never.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ha,” he laughed, sinking down again. “I must be getting like myself again, if
+you begin to tease me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But,” she said, struggling valiantly, “I’m not sure I ought to marry you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed again, though a little apprehensively.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you afraid I shall always be weak in my noddle?” he asked. “But you wait a
+month.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, that doesn’t bother me&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, doesn’t it!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Silly boy&mdash;no, it’s myself.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sure I’ve made no complaint about you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not likely&mdash;but I wish you’d let me go.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m a strong man to hold you, aren’t I? Look at my muscular paw!”&mdash;he
+held out his hands, frail and white with sickness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know you hold me&mdash;and I want you to let me go. I don’t want
+to&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To what?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To get married at all&mdash;let me be, let me go.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What for?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;for my sake.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You mean you don’t love me?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Love&mdash;love&mdash;I don’t know anything about it. But I can’t&mdash;we
+can’t be&mdash;don’t you see&mdash;oh, what do they say,&mdash;flesh of one
+flesh.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why?” he whispered, like a child that is told some tale of mystery.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked at him, as he lay propped upon his elbow, turning towards hers his
+white face of fear and perplexity, like a child that cannot understand, and is
+afraid, and wants to cry. Then slowly tears gathered full in her eyes, and she
+wept from pity and despair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This excited him terribly. He got up from his chair, and the cushions fell on
+to the grass:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What’s the matter, what’s the matter!&mdash;Oh, Lettie,&mdash;is it
+me?&mdash;don’t you want me now?&mdash;is that it?&mdash;tell me, tell me now,
+tell me,”&mdash;he grasped her wrists, and tried to pull her hands from her
+face. The tears were running down his cheeks. She felt him trembling, and the
+sound of his voice alarmed her from herself. She hastily smeared the tears from
+her eyes, got up, and put her arms round him. He hid his head on her shoulder
+and sobbed, while she bent over him, and so they cried out their cries, till
+they were ashamed, looking round to see if anyone were near. Then she hurried
+about, picking up the cushions, making him lie down, and arranging him
+comfortably, so that she might be busy. He was querulous, like a sick, indulged
+child. He would have her arm under his shoulders, and her face near his.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well,” he said, smiling faintly again after a time. “You are naughty to give
+us such rough times&mdash;is it for the pleasure of making up, bad little
+Schnucke&mdash;aren’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She kept close to him, and he did not see the wince and quiver of her lips.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish I was strong again&mdash;couldn’t we go boating&mdash;or ride on
+horseback&mdash;and you’d have to behave then. Do you think I shall be strong
+in a month? Stronger than you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hope so,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, I don’t believe you do, I believe you like me like this&mdash;so that you
+can lay me down and smooth me&mdash;don’t you, quiet girl?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When you’re good.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, well, in a month I shall be strong, and we’ll be married and go to
+Switzerland&mdash;do you hear, Schnucke&mdash;you won’t be able to be naughty
+any more then. Oh&mdash;do you want to go away from me again?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;only my arm is dead,” she drew it from beneath him, standing up,
+swinging it, smiling because it hurt her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, my darling&mdash;what a shame! oh, I am a brute, a kiddish brute. I wish I
+was strong again, Lettie, and didn’t do these things.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You boy&mdash;it’s nothing.” She smiled at him again.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER VI<br/>
+THE COURTING</h2>
+
+<p>
+During Leslie’s illness I strolled down to the mill one Saturday evening. I met
+George tramping across the yard with a couple of buckets of swill, and eleven
+young pigs rushing squealing about his legs, shrieking in an agony of suspense.
+He poured the stuff into a trough with luscious gurgle, and instantly ten noses
+were dipped in, and ten little mouths began to slobber. Though there was plenty
+of room for ten, yet they shouldered and shoved and struggled to capture a
+larger space, and many little trotters dabbled and spilled the stuff, and the
+ten sucking, clapping snouts twitched fiercely, and twenty little eyes glared
+askance, like so many points of wrath. They gave uneasy, gasping grunts in
+their haste. The unhappy eleventh rushed from point to point trying to push in
+his snout, but for his pains he got rough squeezing, and sharp grabs on his
+ears. Then he lifted up his face and screamed screams of grief and wrath unto
+the evening sky.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But the ten little gluttons only twitched their ears to make sure there was no
+danger in the noise, and they sucked harder, with much spilling and slobbing.
+George laughed like a sardonic Jove, but at last he gave ear, and kicked the
+ten gluttons from the trough, and allowed the residue to the eleventh. This
+one, poor wretch, almost wept with relief as he sucked and swallowed in sobs,
+casting his little eyes apprehensively upwards, though he did not lift his nose
+from the trough, as he heard the vindictive shrieks of ten little fiends kept
+at bay by George. The solitary feeder, shivering with apprehension, rubbed the
+wood bare with his snout, then, turning up to heaven his eyes of gratitude, he
+reluctantly left the trough. I expected to see the ten fall upon him and devour
+him, but they did not; they rushed upon the empty trough, and rubbed the wood
+still drier, shrieking with misery.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How like life,” I laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Fine litter,” said George; “there were fourteen, only that damned she-devil,
+Circe, went and ate three of ’em before we got at her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The great ugly sow came leering up as he spoke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why don’t you fatten her up, and devour her, the old gargoyle? She’s an
+offence to the universe.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay&mdash;she’s a fine sow.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I snorted, and he laughed, and the old sow grunted with contempt, and her
+little eyes twisted towards us with a demoniac leer as she rolled past.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What are you going to do to-night!” I asked. “Going out?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m going courting,” he replied, grinning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh!&mdash;wish <i>I</i> were!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You can come if you like&mdash;and tell me where I make mistakes, since you’re
+an expert on such matters.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you get on very well then?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, all right&mdash;it’s easy enough when you don’t care a damn. Besides, you
+can always have a Johnny Walker. That’s the best of courting at the Ram Inn.
+I’ll go and get ready.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the kitchen Emily sat grinding out some stitching from a big old
+hand-machine that stood on the table before her: she was making shirts for Sam,
+I presumed. That little fellow, who was installed at the farm, was seated by
+her side firing off words from a reading book. The machine rumbled and rattled
+on, like a whole factory at work, for an inch or two, during which time Sam
+shouted in shrill explosions like irregular pistol shots:
+“Do&mdash;not&mdash;pot&mdash;&mdash;” “Put!” cried Emily from the machine;
+“put&mdash;&mdash;” shrilled the child, “the
+soot&mdash;on&mdash;my&mdash;boot,”&mdash;&mdash;there the machine broke down,
+and, frightened by the sound of his own voice, the boy stopped in bewilderment
+and looked round.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go on!” said Emily, as she poked in the teeth of the old machine with the
+scissors, then pulled and prodded again. He began
+“&mdash;boot&mdash;but&mdash;you&mdash;&mdash;” here he died off again, made
+nervous by the sound of his voice in the stillness. Emily sucked a piece of
+cotton and pushed it through the needle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now go on,” she said, “&mdash;‘but you may’.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But&mdash;you&mdash;may&mdash;shoot”:&mdash;he shouted away, reassured by the
+rumble of the machine: “Shoot&mdash;the&mdash;fox.
+I&mdash;I&mdash;It&mdash;is&mdash;at&mdash;the&mdash;rot&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Root,” shrieked Emily, as she guided the stuff through the doddering jaws of
+the machine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Root,” echoed the boy, and he went off with these crackers:
+“Root&mdash;of&mdash;the&mdash;tree.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Next one!” cried Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Put&mdash;the&mdash;ol&mdash;&mdash;” began the boy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” cried Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ole&mdash;on&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Wait a bit!” cried Emily, and then the machine broke down.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hang!” she ejaculated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hang!” shouted the child.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She laughed, and leaned over to him:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘Put the oil in the pan to boil, while I toil in the soil&mdash;Oh, Cyril, I
+never knew you were there! Go along now, Sam: David ’ll be at the back
+somewhere.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’s in the bottom garden,” said I, and the child ran out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Directly George came in from the scullery, drying himself. He stood on the
+hearthrug as he rubbed himself, and surveyed his reflection in the mirror above
+the high mantelpiece; he looked at himself and smiled. I wondered that he found
+such satisfaction in his image, seeing that there was a gap in his chin, and an
+uncertain moth-eaten appearance in one cheek. Mrs. Saxton still held this
+mirror an object of dignity; it was fairly large, and had a well-carven frame;
+but it left gaps and spots and scratches in one’s countenance, and even where
+it was brightest, it gave one’s reflection a far-away dim aspect.
+Notwithstanding, George smiled at himself as he combed his hair, and twisted
+his moustache.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You seem to make a good impression on yourself,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I was thinking I looked all right&mdash;sort of face to go courting with,” he
+replied, laughing: “You just arrange a patch of black to come and hide your
+faults&mdash;and you’re all right.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I always used to think,” said Emily, “that the black spots had swallowed so
+many faces they were full up, and couldn’t take any more&mdash;and the rest was
+misty because there were so many faces lapped one over the
+other&mdash;reflected.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You do see yourself a bit ghostish&mdash;&mdash;” said he, “on a background of
+your ancestors. I always think when you stop in an old place like this you sort
+of keep company with your ancestors too much; I sometimes feel like a bit of
+the old building walking about; the old feelings of the old folks stick to you
+like the lichens on the walls; you sort of get hoary.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s it&mdash;it’s true,” asserted the father, “people whose families have
+shifted about much don’t know how it feels. That’s why I’m going to Canada.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And I’m going in a Pub,” said George, “where it’s quite different&mdash;plenty
+of life.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Life!” echoed Emily with contempt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s the word, my wench,” replied her brother, lapsing into the dialect.
+“That’s what I’m after. We known such a lot, an’ we known nöwt.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You do&mdash;&mdash;” said the father, turning to me, “you stay in one place,
+generation after generation, and you seem to get proud, an’ look on things
+outside as foolishness. There’s many a thing as any common man knows, as we
+haven’t a glimpse of. We keep on thinking and feeling the same, year after
+year, till we’ve only got one side; an’ I suppose they’ve done it before us.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s ‘Good-night an’ God bless you,’ to th’ owd place, granfeythers an’
+grammothers,” laughed George as he ran upstairs&mdash;“an’ off we go on the
+gallivant,” he shouted from the landing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His father shook his head, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t make out how it is, he’s so different. I suppose it’s being in
+love&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+We went into the barn to get the bicycles to cycle over to Greymede. George
+struck a match to look for his pump, and he noticed a great spider scuttle off
+into the corner of the wall, and sit peeping out at him like a hoary little
+ghoul.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How are you, old chap?” said George, nodding to him&mdash;“Thought he looked
+like an old grandfather of mine,” he said to me, laughing, as he pumped up the
+tyres of the old bicycle for me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was Saturday night, so the bar parlour of the Ram Inn was fairly full.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hello, George&mdash;come co’tin’?” was the cry, followed by a nod and a “Good
+evenin’,” to me, who was a stranger in the parlour.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s raïght for thaïgh,” said a fat young fellow with an unwilling white
+mustache, “&mdash;tha can co’te as much as ter likes ter ’ae, as well as th’
+lass, an’ it costs thee nöwt&mdash;&mdash;” at which the room laughed, taking
+pipes from mouths to do so. George sat down, looking round.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“’Owd on a bit,” said a black-whiskered man, “tha mun ’a ’e patience when to ’t
+co’tin’ a lass. Ow’s puttin’ th’ owd lady ter bed&mdash;’ark thee&mdash;can t’
+ear&mdash;that wor th’ bed latts goin’ bang. Ow’ll be dern in a minnit now, gie
+’er time ter tuck th’ owd lady up. Can’ ter ’ear ’er say ’er prayers.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Strike!” cried the fat young man, exploding:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Fancy th’ owd lady sayin’ ’er prayers!&mdash;it ’ud be enough ter ma’e ’er
+false teeth drop out.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The room laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They began to tell tales about the old landlady. She had practised
+bone-setting, in which she was very skilful. People came to her from long
+distances that she might divine their trouble and make right their limbs. She
+would accept no fee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Once she had gone up to Dr. Fullwood to give him a piece of her mind, inasmuch
+as he had let a child go for three weeks with a broken collar-bone, whilst
+treating him for dislocation. The doctor had tried the high hand with her,
+since when, wherever he went the miners placed their hands on their shoulders,
+and groaned: ‘Oh my collar-bone!’
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here Meg came in. She gave a bright, quick, bird like look at George, and
+flushed a brighter red.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought you wasn’t cummin,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dunna thee bother&mdash;’e’d none stop away,” said the black-whiskered man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She brought us glasses of whisky, and moved about supplying the men, who
+chaffed with her honestly and good-naturedly. Then she went out, but we
+remained in our corner. The men talked on the most peculiar subjects: there was
+a bitter discussion as to whether London is or is not a seaport&mdash;the
+matter was thrashed out with heat; then an embryo artist set the room ablaze by
+declaring there were only three colours, red, yellow, and blue, and the rest
+were not colours, they were mixtures: this amounted almost to atheism and one
+man asked the artist to dare to declare that his brown breeches were not a
+colour, which the artist did, and almost had to fight for it; next they came to
+strength, and George won a bet of five shillings, by lifting a piano; then they
+settled down, and talked sex, sotto voce, one man giving startling accounts of
+Japanese and Chinese prostitutes in Liverpool. After this the talk split up: a
+farmer began to counsel George how to manage the farm attached to the Inn,
+another bargained with him about horses, and argued about cattle, a tailor
+advised him thickly to speculate, and unfolded a fine secret by which a man
+might make money, if he had the go to do it&mdash;so on, till eleven o’clock.
+Then Bill came and called “time!” and the place was empty, and the room
+shivered as a little fresh air came in between the foul tobacco smoke, and the
+smell of drink, and foul breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We were both affected by the whisky we had drunk. I was ashamed to find that
+when I put out my hand to take my glass, or to strike a match, I missed my
+mark, and fumbled; my hands seemed hardly to belong to me, and my feet were not
+much more sure. Yet I was acutely conscious of every change in myself and in
+him; it seemed as if I could make my body drunk, but could never intoxicate my
+mind, which roused itself and kept the sharpest guard. George was frankly half
+drunk: his eyelids sloped over his eyes and his speech was thick; when he put
+out his hand he knocked over his glass, and the stuff was spilled all over the
+table; he only laughed. I, too, felt a great prompting to giggle on every
+occasion, and I marvelled at myself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg came into the room when all the men had gone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on, my duck,” he said, waving his arm with the generous flourish of a
+tipsy man. “Come an’ sit ’ere.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shan’t you come in th’ kitchen?” she asked, looking round on the tables where
+pots and glasses stood in little pools of liquor, and where spent matches and
+tobacco-ash littered the white wood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;what for?&mdash;come an’ sit ’ere!”&mdash;he was reluctant to get on
+his feet; I knew it and laughed inwardly; I also laughed to hear his thick
+speech, and his words which seemed to slur against his cheeks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She went and sat by him, having moved the little table with its spilled liquor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They’ve been tellin’ me how to get rich,” he said, nodding his head and
+laughing, showing his teeth, “An’ I’m goin’ ter show ’em. You see, Meg, you
+see&mdash;I’m goin’ ter show ’em I can be as good as them, you see.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why,” said she, indulgent, “what are you going to do?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You wait a bit an’ see&mdash;they don’t know yet what I can do&mdash;they
+don’t know&mdash;<i>you</i> don’t know&mdash;none of you know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“An’ what shall you do when we’re rich, George?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do?&mdash;I shall do what I like. I can make as good a show as anybody else,
+can’t I?”&mdash;he put his face very near to hers, and nodded at her, but she
+did not turn away.&mdash;“Yes&mdash;I’ll see what it’s like to have my fling.
+We’ve been too cautious, our family has&mdash;an’ I have; we’re frightened of
+ourselves, to do anything. I’m goin’ to do what I like, my duck, now&mdash;I
+don’t care&mdash;&mdash; I don’t care&mdash;that!”&mdash;he brought his hand
+down heavily on the table nearest him, and broke a glass. Bill looked in to see
+what was happening.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you won’t do anything that’s not right, George!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;I don’t want to hurt nobody&mdash;but I don’t care&mdash;that!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’re too good-hearted to do anybody any harm.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I believe I am. You know me a bit, you do, Meg&mdash;you don’t think I’m a
+fool now, do you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sure I don’t&mdash;who does?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;you don’t&mdash;I know you don’t. Gi’e me a kiss&mdash;thou’rt a
+little beauty, thou art&mdash;like a ripe plum! I could set my teeth in thee,
+thou’rt that nice&mdash;full o’ red juice”&mdash;he playfully pretended to bite
+her. She laughed, and gently pushed him away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tha likest me, doesna ta?” he asked softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you want to know for?” she replied, with a tender archness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But tha does&mdash;say now, tha does.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should a’ thought you’d a’ known, without telling.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay, but I want to hear thee.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go on,” she said, and she kissed him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But what should you do if I went to Canada and left you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah&mdash;you wouldn’t do that.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I might&mdash;and what then?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I don’t know what I should do. But you wouldn’t do it, I know you
+wouldn’t&mdash;you couldn’t.” He quickly put his arms round her and kissed her,
+moved by the trembling surety of her tone:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, I wouldna&mdash;I’d niver leave thee&mdash;tha’d be as miserable as sin,
+shouldna ta, my duck?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she murmured.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah,” he said, “tha’rt a warm little thing&mdash;tha loves me, eh?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she murmured, and he pressed her to him, and kissed her, and held her
+close.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We’ll be married soon, my bird&mdash;are ter glad?&mdash;in a bit&mdash;tha’rt
+glad, aren’t ta?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked up at him as if he were noble. Her love for him was so generous that
+it beautified him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He had to walk his bicycle home, being unable to ride; his shins, I know, were
+a good deal barked by the pedals.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER VII<br/>
+THE FASCINATION OF THE FORBIDDEN APPLE</h2>
+
+<p>
+On the first Sunday in June, when Lettie knew she would keep her engagement
+with Leslie, and when she was having a day at home from Highclose, she got
+ready to go down to the mill. We were in mourning for an aunt, so she wore a
+dress of fine black voile, and a black hat with long feathers. Then, when I
+looked at her fair hands, and her arms closely covered in the long black cuffs
+of her sleeves, I felt keenly my old brother-love shielding, indulgent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a windy, sunny day. In shelter the heat was passionate, but in the open
+the wind scattered its fire. Every now and then a white cloud broad based, blue
+shadowed, travelled slowly along the sky-road after the forerunner small in the
+distance, and trailing over us a chill shade, a gloom which we watched creep on
+over the water, over the wood and the hill. These royal, rounded clouds had
+sailed all day along the same route, from the harbour of the South to the
+wastes in the Northern sky, following the swift wild geese. The brook hurried
+along singing, only here and there lingering to whisper to the secret bushes,
+then setting off afresh with a new snatch of song.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The fowls pecked staidly in the farmyard, with Sabbath decorum. Occasionally a
+lost, sportive wind-puff would wander across the yard and ruffle them, and they
+resented it. The pigs were asleep in the sun, giving faint grunts now and then
+from sheer luxury. I saw a squirrel go darting down the mossy garden wall, up
+into the laburnum tree, where he lay flat along the bough, and listened.
+Suddenly away he went, chuckling to himself. Gyp all at once set off barking,
+but I soothed her down; it was the unusual sight of Lettie’s dark dress that
+startled her, I suppose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went quietly into the kitchen. Mrs. Saxton was just putting a chicken,
+wrapped in a piece of flannel, on the warm hob to coax it into life; it looked
+very feeble. George was asleep, with his head in his arms on the table; the
+father was asleep on the sofa, very comfortable and admirable; I heard Emily
+fleeing up stairs, presumably to dress.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He stays out so late&mdash;up at the Ram Inn,” whispered the mother in a high
+whisper, looking at George, “and then he’s up at five&mdash;he doesn’t get his
+proper rest.” She turned to the chicks, and continued in her whisper&mdash;“the
+mother left them just before they hatched out, so we’ve been bringing them on
+here. This one’s a bit weak&mdash;I thought I’d hot him up a bit” she laughed
+with a quaint little frown of deprecation. Eight or nine yellow, fluffy little
+mites were cheeping and scuffling in the fender. Lettie bent over them to touch
+them; they were tame, and ran among her fingers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly George’s mother gave a loud cry, and rushed to the fire. There was a
+smell of singed down. The chicken had toddled into the fire, and gasped its
+faint gasp among the red-hot cokes. The father jumped from the sofa; George sat
+up with wide eyes; Lettie gave a little cry and a shudder; Trip rushed round
+and began to bark. There was a smell of cooked meat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There goes number one!” said the mother, with her queer little laugh. It made
+me laugh too.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What’s a matter&mdash;what’s a matter?” asked the father excitedly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a chicken been and walked into the fire&mdash;I put it on the hob to
+warm,” explained his wife.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Goodness&mdash;I couldn’t think what was up!” he said, and dropped his head to
+trace gradually the border between sleeping and waking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George sat and smiled at us faintly, he was too dazed to speak. His chest still
+leaned against the table, and his arms were spread out thereon, but he lifted
+his face, and looked at Lettie with his dazed, dark eyes, and smiled faintly at
+her. His hair was all ruffled, and his shirt collar unbuttoned. Then he got up
+slowly, pushing his chair back with a loud noise, and stretched himself,
+pressing his arms upwards with a long, heavy stretch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;h&mdash;h!” he said, bending his arms and then letting them drop to
+his sides. “I never thought you’d come to-day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wanted to come and see you&mdash;I shan’t have many more chances,” said
+Lettie, turning from him and yet looking at him again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“<i>No</i>, I suppose not,” he said, subsiding into quiet. Then there was
+silence for some time. The mother began to enquire after Leslie, and kept the
+conversation up till Emily came down, blushing and smiling and glad.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you coming out?” said she, “there are two or three robins’ nests, and a
+spinkie’s&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think I’ll leave my hat,” said Lettie, unpinning it as she spoke, and
+shaking her hair when she was free. Mrs. Saxton insisted on her taking a long
+white silk scarf; Emily also wrapped her hair in a gauze scarf, and looked
+beautiful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George came out with us, coatless, hatless, his waistcoat all unbuttoned, as he
+was. We crossed the orchard, over the old bridge, and went to where the slopes
+ran down to the lower pond, a bank all covered with nettles, and scattered with
+a hazel bush or two. Among the nettles old pans were rusting, and old coarse
+pottery cropped up.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We came upon a kettle heavily coated with lime. Emily bent down and looked, and
+then we peeped in. There were the robin birds with their yellow beaks stretched
+so wide apart I feared they would never close them again. Among the naked
+little mites, that begged from us so blindly and confidently, were huddled
+three eggs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They are like Irish children peeping out of a cottage,” said Emily, with the
+family fondness for romantic similes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went on to where a tin lay with the lid pressed back, and inside it, snug
+and neat, was another nest, with six eggs, cheek to cheek.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How warm they are,” said Lettie, touching them, “you can fairly feel the
+mother’s breast.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He tried to put his hand into the tin, but the space was too small, and they
+looked into each other’s eyes and smiled. “You’d think the father’s breast had
+marked them with red,” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As we went up the orchard side we saw three wide displays of coloured pieces of
+pots arranged at the foot of three trees.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look,” said Emily, “those are the children’s houses. You don’t know how our
+Mollie gets all Sam’s pretty bits&mdash;she is a cajoling hussy!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two looked at each other again, smiling. Up on the pond-side, in the full
+glitter of light, we looked round where the blades of clustering corn were
+softly healing the red bosom of the hill. The larks were overhead among the
+sunbeams. We straggled away across the grass. The field was all afroth with
+cowslips, a yellow, glittering, shaking froth on the still green of the grass.
+We trailed our shadows across the fields, extinguishing the sunshine on the
+flowers as we went. The air was tingling with the scent of blossoms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look at the cowslips, all shaking with laughter,” said Emily, and she tossed
+back her head, and her dark eyes sparkled among the flow of gauze. Lettie was
+on in front, flitting darkly across the field, bending over the flowers,
+stooping to the earth like a sable Persephone come into freedom. George had
+left her at a little distance, hunting for something in the grass. He stopped,
+and remained standing in one place.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Gradually, as if unconsciously, she drew near to him, and when she lifted her
+head, after stooping to pick some chimney-sweeps, little grass flowers, she
+laughed with a slight surprise to see him so near.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah!” she said. “I thought I was all alone in the world&mdash;such a splendid
+world&mdash;it was so nice.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Like Eve in a meadow in Eden&mdash;and Adam’s shadow somewhere on the grass,”
+said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;no Adam,” she asserted, frowning slightly, and laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who ever would want streets of gold,” Emily was saying to me, “when you can
+have a field of cowslips! Look at that hedgebottom that gets the South
+sun&mdash;one stream and glitter of buttercups.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Those Jews always had an eye to the filthy lucre&mdash;they even made Heaven
+out of it,” laughed Lettie, and, turning to him, she said, “Don’t you wish we
+were wild&mdash;hark, like wood-pigeons&mdash;or larks&mdash;or, look, like
+peewits? Shouldn’t you love flying and wheeling and sparkling
+and&mdash;courting in the wind?” She lifted her eyelids, and vibrated the
+question. He flushed, bending over the ground.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look,” he said, “here’s a larkie’s.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Once a horse had left a hoofprint in the soft meadow; now the larks had
+rounded, softened the cup, and had laid there three dark-brown eggs. Lettie sat
+down and leaned over the nest; he leaned above her. The wind running over the
+flower heads, peeped in at the little brown buds, and bounded off again gladly.
+The big clouds sent messages to them down the shadows, and ran in raindrops to
+touch them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish,” she said, “I wish we were free like that. If we could put everything
+safely in a little place in the earth&mdash;couldn’t we have a good time as
+well as the larks?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t see,” said he, “why we can’t.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;but <i>I</i> can’t&mdash;you know we can’t”&mdash;and she looked at
+him fiercely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why can’t you?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know we can’t&mdash;you know as well as I do,” she replied, and her whole
+soul challenged him. “We have to consider things” she added. He dropped his
+head. He was afraid to make the struggle, to rouse himself to decide the
+question for her. She turned away, and went kicking through the flowers. He
+picked up the blossoms she had left by the nest&mdash;they were still warm from
+her hands&mdash;and followed her. She walked on towards the end of the field,
+the long strands of her white scarf running before her. Then she leaned back to
+the wind, while he caught her up.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you want your flowers?” he asked humbly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, thanks&mdash;they’d be dead before I got home&mdash;throw them away, you
+look absurd with a posy.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did as he was bidden. They came near the hedge. A crab-apple tree blossomed
+up among the blue.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You may get me a bit of that blossom,” said she, and suddenly added&mdash;“no,
+I can reach it myself,” whereupon she stretched upward and pulled several
+sprigs of the pink and white, and put it in her dress.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Isn’t it pretty?” she said, and she began to laugh ironically, pointing to the
+flowers&mdash;“pretty, pink-cheeked petals, and stamens like yellow hair, and
+buds like lips promising something nice”&mdash;she stopped and looked at him,
+flickering with a smile. Then she pointed to the ovary beneath the flower, and
+said: “Result: Crab-apples!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She continued to look at him, and to smile. He said nothing. So they went on to
+where they could climb the fence into the spinney. She climbed to the top rail,
+holding by an oak bough. Then she let him lift her down bodily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah!” she said, “you like to show me how strong you are&mdash;a veritable
+Samson!”&mdash;she mocked, although she had invited him with her eyes to take
+her in his arms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We were entering the spinney of black poplar. In the hedge was an elm tree,
+with myriads of dark dots pointed against the bright sky, myriads of clusters
+of flaky green fruit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look at that elm,” she said, “you’d think it was in full leaf, wouldn’t you?
+Do you know why it’s so prolific?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” he said, with a curious questioning drawl of the monosyllable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s casting its bread upon the winds&mdash;no, it is dying, so it puts out
+all its strength and loads its boughs with the last fruit. It’ll be dead next
+year. If you’re here then, come and see. Look at the ivy, the suave smooth ivy,
+with its fingers in the trees’ throat. Trees know how to die, you see&mdash;we
+don’t.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With her whimsical moods she tormented him. She was at the bottom a seething
+confusion of emotion, and she wanted to make him likewise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If we were trees with ivy&mdash;instead of being fine humans with free active
+life&mdash;we should hug our thinning lives, shouldn’t we?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose we should.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You, for instance&mdash;fancy <i>your</i> sacrificing yourself&mdash;for the
+next generation&mdash;that reminds you of Schopenhauer, doesn’t it?&mdash;for
+the next generation, or love, or anything!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not answer her; she was too swift for him. They passed on under the
+poplars, which were hanging strings of green beads above them. There was a
+little open space, with tufts of bluebells. Lettie stooped over a wood-pigeon
+that lay on the ground on its breast, its wings half spread. She took it
+up&mdash;its eyes were bursten and bloody; she felt its breast, ruffling the
+dimming iris on its throat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s been fighting,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What for&mdash;a mate?” she asked, looking at him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” he answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Cold&mdash;he’s quite cold, under the feathers! I think a wood-pigeon must
+enjoy being fought for&mdash;and being won especially if the right one won. It
+would be a fine pleasure to see them fighting&mdash;don’t you think?” she said,
+torturing him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The claws are spread&mdash;it fell dead off the perch,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, poor thing&mdash;it was wounded&mdash;and sat and waited for
+death&mdash;when the other had won. Don’t you think life is very cruel,
+George&mdash;and love the cruellest of all?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed bitterly under the pain of her soft, sad tones.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me bury him&mdash;and have done with the beaten lover. But we’ll make him
+a pretty grave.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She scooped a hole in the dark soil, and snatching a handful of bluebells,
+threw them in on top of the dead bird. Then she smoothed the soil over all, and
+pressed her white hands on the black loam.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There,” she said, knocking her hands one against the other to shake off the
+soil, “he’s done with. Come on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He followed her, speechless with his emotion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+ The spinney opened out; the ferns were serenely uncoiling, the bluebells stood
+ grouped with blue curls mingled. In the freer spaces forget-me-nots flowered
+ in nebulæ, and dog-violets gave an undertone of dark purple, with primroses
+ for planets in the night. There was a slight drift of woodruff, sweet new-mown
+ hay, scenting the air under the boughs. On a wet bank was the design of golden
+ saxifrage, glistening unholily as if varnished by its minister, the snail.
+ George and Lettie crushed the veined belles of wood-sorrel and broke the
+ silken mosses. What did it matter to them what they broke or crushed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Over the fence of the spinney was the hillside, scattered with old thorn trees.
+There the little grey lichens held up ruby balls to us unnoticed. What did it
+matter, when all the great red apples were being shaken from the Tree to be
+left to rot.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I were a man,” said Lettie, “I would go out west and be free. I should love
+it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She took the scarf from her head and let it wave out on the wind; the colour
+was warm in her face with climbing, and her curls were freed by the wind,
+sparkling and rippling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well&mdash;you’re not a man,” he said, looking at her, and speaking with timid
+bitterness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” she laughed, “if I were, I would shape things&mdash;oh, wouldn’t I have
+my own way!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And don’t you now?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh&mdash;I don’t want it particularly&mdash;when I’ve got it. When I’ve had my
+way, I <i>do want</i> somebody to take it back from me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She put her head back and looked at him sideways, laughing through the glitter
+of her hair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They came to the kennels. She sat down on the edge of the great stone water
+trough, and put her hands in the water, moving them gently like submerged
+flowers through the clear pool.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I love to see myself in the water,” she said, “I don’t mean <i>on</i> the
+water, Narcissus&mdash;but that’s how I should like to be out west, to have a
+little lake of my own, and swim with my limbs quite free in the water.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you swim well?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Fairly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I would race you&mdash;in your little lake.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She laughed, took her hands out of the water, and watched the clear drops
+trickle off. Then she lifted her head suddenly, at some thought or other. She
+looked across the valley, and saw the red roofs of the Mill.
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“&mdash;Ilion, Ilion<br/>
+Fatalis incestusque judex<br/>
+Et mulier peregrina vertit.<br/>
+In pulverem&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What’s that?” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nothing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s a private trough,” exclaimed a thin voice, high like a peewit’s cry. We
+started in surprise to see a tall, black-bearded man looking at us and away
+from us nervously, fidgeting uneasily some ten yards off.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it?” said Lettie, looking at her wet hands, which she proceeded to dry on a
+fragment of a handkerchief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You mustn’t meddle with it,” said the man in the same reedy, oboe voice. Then
+he turned his head away, and his pale grey eyes roved the
+countryside&mdash;&mdash;when he had courage, he turned his back to us, shading
+his eyes to continue his scrutiny. He walked hurriedly, a few steps, then
+craned his neck, peering into the valley, and hastened a dozen yards in another
+direction, again stretching and peering about. Then he went indoors.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is pretending to look for somebody,” said Lettie, “but it’s only because
+he’s afraid we shall think he came out just to look at us”&mdash;and they
+laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly a woman appeared at the gate; she had pale eyes like the mouse-voiced
+man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ll get Bright’s disease sitting on that there damp stone,” she said to
+Lettie, who at once rose apologetically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I ought to know,” continued the mouse-voiced woman, “my own mother died of
+it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Indeed,” murmured Lettie, “I’m sorry.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” continued the woman, “it behooves you to be careful. Do you come from
+Strelley Mill Farm?” she asked suddenly of George, surveying his shameful
+déshabille with bitter reproof.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He admitted the imputation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you’re going to leave, aren’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Which also he admitted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Humph!&mdash;we s’ll ’appen get some neighbours. It’s a dog’s life for
+loneliness. I suppose you knew the last lot that was here.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Another brief admission.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A dirty lot&mdash;a dirty beagle she must have been. You should just ha’ seen
+these grates.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” said Lettie, “I have seen them.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Faugh&mdash;the state! But come in&mdash;come in, you’ll see a difference.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They entered, out of curiosity. The kitchen was indeed different. It was clean
+and sparkling, warm with bright red chintzes on the sofa and on every chair
+cushion. Unfortunately the effect was spoiled by green and yellow
+antimaccassars, and by a profusion of paper and woollen flowers. There were
+three cases of woollen flowers, and on the wall, four fans stitched over with
+ruffled green and yellow paper, adorned with yellow paper roses, carnations,
+arum lilies, and poppies; there were also wall pockets full of paper flowers;
+while the wood outside was loaded with blossom. “Yes,” said Lettie, “there is a
+difference.” The woman swelled, and looked round. The black-bearded man peeped
+from behind the Christian Herald&mdash;those long blaring trumpets!&mdash;and
+shrank again. The woman darted at his pipe, which he had put on a piece of
+newspaper on the hob, and blew some imaginary ash from it. Then she caught
+sight of something&mdash;perhaps some dust&mdash;on the fireplace.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There!” she cried, “I knew it; I couldn’t leave him one second! I haven’t work
+enough burning wood, but he must be poke&mdash;&mdash;poke&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I only pushed a piece in between the bars,” complained the mouse-voice from
+behind the paper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pushed a piece in!” she re-echoed, with awful scorn, seizing the poker and
+thrusting it over his paper. “What do you call that, sitting there telling your
+stories before folks&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They crept out and hurried away. Glancing round, Lettie saw the woman mopping
+the doorstep after them, and she laughed. He pulled his watch out of his
+breeches’ pocket; it was half-past three.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What are you looking at the time for?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Meg’s coming to tea,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She said no more, and they walked slowly on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When they came on to the shoulder of the hill, and looked down on to the mill,
+and the mill-pond, she said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will not come down with you&mdash;I will go home.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not come down to tea!” he exclaimed, full of reproach and amazement. “Why,
+what will they say?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, I won’t come down&mdash;let me say farewell&mdash;‘jamque Vale! Do you
+remember how Eurydice sank back into Hell?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But”&mdash;he stammered, “you must come down to tea&mdash;how can I tell them?
+Why won’t you come?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She answered him in Latin, with two lines from Virgil. As she watched him, she
+pitied his helplessness, and gave him a last cut as she said, very softly and
+tenderly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It wouldn’t be fair to Meg.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stood looking at her; his face was coloured only by the grey-brown tan; his
+eyes, the dark, self-mistrustful eyes of the family, were darker than ever,
+dilated with misery of helplessness; and she was infinitely pitiful. She wanted
+to cry in her yearning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shall we go into the wood for a few minutes?” she said in a low, tremulous
+voice, as they turned aside.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The wood was high and warm. Along the ridings the forget-me-nots were knee
+deep, stretching, glimmering into the distance like the Milky Way through the
+night. They left the tall, flower-tangled paths to go in among the bluebells,
+breaking through the close-pressed flowers and ferns till they came to an oak
+which had fallen across the hazels, where they sat half screened. The hyacinths
+drooped magnificently with an overweight of purple, or they stood pale and
+erect, like unripe ears of purple corn. Heavy bees swung down in a blunder of
+extravagance among the purple flowers. They were intoxicated even with the
+sight of so much blue. The sound of their hearty, wanton humming came clear
+upon the solemn boom of the wind overhead. The sight of their clinging,
+clambering riot gave satisfaction to the soul. A rosy campion flower caught the
+sun and shone out. An elm sent down a shower of flesh-tinted sheaths upon them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If there were fauns and hamadryads!” she said softly, turning to him to soothe
+his misery. She took his cap from his head, ruffled his hair, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you were a faun, I would put guelder roses round your hair, and make you
+look Bacchanalian.” She left her hand lying on his knee, and looked up at the
+sky. Its blue looked pale and green in comparison with the purple tide ebbing
+about the wood. The clouds rose up like towers, and something had touched them
+into beauty, and poised them up among the winds. The clouds passed on, and the
+pool of sky was clear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look,” she said, “how we are netted down&mdash;boughs with knots of green
+buds. If we were free on the winds!&mdash;But I’m glad we’re not.” She turned
+suddenly to him, and with the same movement, she gave him her hand, and he
+clasped it in both his. “I’m glad we’re netted down here; if we were free in
+the winds&mdash;Ah!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She laughed a peculiar little laugh, catching her breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look!” she said, “it’s a palace, with the ash-trunks smooth like a girl’s arm,
+and the elm-columns, ribbed and bossed and fretted, with the great steel shafts
+of beech, all rising up to hold an embroidered care-cloth over us; and every
+thread of the care-cloth vibrates with music for us, and the little broidered
+birds sing; and the hazel-bushes fling green spray round us, and the
+honeysuckle leans down to pour out scent over us. Look at the harvest of
+bluebells&mdash;ripened for us! Listen to the bee, sounding among all the
+organ-play&mdash;if he sounded exultant for us!” She looked at him, with tears
+coming up into her eyes, and a little, winsome, wistful smile hovering round
+her mouth. He was very pale, and dared not look at her. She put her hand in
+his, leaning softly against him. He watched, as if fascinated, a young thrush
+with full pale breast who hopped near to look at them&mdash;glancing with
+quick, shining eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The clouds are going on again,” said Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look at that cloud face&mdash;see&mdash;gazing right up into the sky. The lips
+are opening&mdash;he is telling us something.&mdash;now the form is slipping
+away&mdash;it’s gone&mdash;come, we must go too.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” he cried, “don’t go&mdash;don’t go away.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her tenderness made her calm. She replied in a voice perfect in restrained
+sadness and resignation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, my dear, no. The threads of my life were untwined; they drifted about like
+floating threads of gossamer; and you didn’t put out your hand to take them and
+twist them up into the chord with yours. Now another has caught them up, and
+the chord of my life is being twisted, and I cannot wrench it free and untwine
+it again&mdash;I can’t. I am not strong enough. Besides, you have twisted
+another thread far and tight into your chord; could you get free?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tell me what to do&mdash;yes, if you tell me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t tell you&mdash;so let me go.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, Lettie,” he pleaded, with terror and humility. “No, Lettie; don’t go. What
+should I do with my life? Nobody would love you like I do&mdash;and what should
+I do with my love for you?&mdash;hate it and fear it, because it’s too much for
+me?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She turned and kissed him gratefully. He then took her in a long, passionate
+embrace, mouth to mouth. In the end it had so wearied her that she could only
+wait in his arms till he was too tired to hold her. He was trembling already.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poor Meg!” she murmured to herself dully, her sensations having become vague.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He winced, and the pressure of his arms slackened. She loosened his hands and
+rose half dazed from her seat by him. She left him, while he sat dejected,
+raising no protest.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+When I went out to look for them, when tea had already been waiting on the
+table half an hour or more, I found him leaning against the gatepost at the
+bottom of the hill. There was no blood in his face, and his tan showed livid;
+he was haggard as if he had been ill for some weeks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Whatever’s the matter?” I said. “Where’s Lettie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She’s gone home,” he answered, and the sound of his own voice, and the meaning
+of his own words made him heave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why?” I asked in alarm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at me as if to say “What are you talking about? I cannot listen!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why?” I insisted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They are waiting tea for you,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He heard me, but took no notice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on,” I repeated, “there’s Meg and everybody waiting tea for you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t want any,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I waited a minute or two. He was violently sick.
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+<i>“Vae meum<br/>
+Fervens difficile bile tumet jecur”</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I thought to myself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the sickness passed over, he stood up away from the post, trembling and
+lugubrious. His eyelids drooped heavily over his eyes, and he looked at me, and
+smiled a faint, sick smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come and lie down in the loft,” I said, “and I’ll tell them you’ve got a
+bilious bout.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He obeyed me, not having energy to question; his strength had gone, and his
+splendid physique seemed shrunken; he walked weakly. I looked away from him,
+for in his feebleness he was already beginning to feel ludicrous.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We got into the barn unperceived, and I watched him climb the ladder to the
+loft. Then I went indoors to tell them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I told them Lettie had promised to be at Highclose for tea, that George had a
+bilious attack, and was mooning about the barn till it was over; he had been
+badly sick. We ate tea without zest or enjoyment. Meg was wistful and ill at
+ease; the father talked to her and made much of her; the mother did not care
+for her much.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t understand it,” said the mother, “he so rarely has anything the matter
+with him&mdash;why, I’ve hardly known the day! Are you sure it’s nothing
+serious, Cyril? It seems such a thing&mdash;and just when Meg happened to be
+down&mdash;just when Meg was coming&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+About half-past six I had again to go and look for him, to satisfy the anxiety
+of his mother and his sweetheart. I went whistling to let him know I was
+coming. He lay on a pile of hay in a corner, asleep. He had put his cap under
+his head to stop the tickling of the hay, and he lay half curled up, sleeping
+soundly. He was still very pale, and there was on his face the repose and
+pathos that a sorrow always leaves. As he wore no coat I was afraid he might be
+chilly, so I covered him up with a couple of sacks, and I left him. I would not
+have him disturbed&mdash;I helped the father about the cowsheds, and with the
+pigs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg had to go at half-past seven. She was so disappointed that I said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come and have a look at him&mdash;I’ll tell him you did.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He had thrown off the sacks and spread out his limbs. As he lay on his back,
+flung out on the hay, he looked big again, and manly. His mouth had relaxed,
+and taken its old, easy lines. One felt for him now the warmth one feels for
+anyone who sleeps in an attitude of abandon. She leaned over him, and looked at
+him with a little rapture of love and tenderness; she longed to caress him.
+Then he stretched himself, and his eyes opened. Their sudden unclosing gave her
+a thrill. He smiled sleepily, and murmured, “Allo, Meg!” Then I saw him awake.
+As he remembered, he turned with a great sighing yawn, hid his face again, and
+lay still.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come along, Meg,” I whispered, “he’ll be best asleep.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’d better cover him up,” she said, taking the sack and laying it very gently
+over his shoulders. He kept perfectly still while I drew her away.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br/>
+A POEM OF FRIENDSHIP</h2>
+
+<p>
+The magnificent promise of spring was broken before the May-blossom was fully
+out. All through the beloved month the wind rushed in upon us from the north
+and north-east, bringing the rain fierce and heavy. The tender-budded trees
+shuddered and moaned; when the wind was dry, the young leaves flapped limp. The
+grass and corn grew lush, but the light of the dandelions was quite
+extinguished, and it seemed that only a long time back had we made merry before
+the broad glare of these flowers. The bluebells lingered and lingered; they
+fringed the fields for weeks like purple fringe of mourning. The pink campions
+came out only to hang heavy with rain; hawthorn buds remained tight and hard as
+pearls, shrinking into the brilliant green foliage; the forget-me-nots, the
+poor pleiades of the wood, were ragged weeds. Often at the end of the day the
+sky opened, and stately clouds hung over the horizon infinitely far away,
+glowing, through the yellow distance, with an amber lustre. They never came any
+nearer, always they remained far off, looking calmly and majestically over the
+shivering earth, then saddened, fearing their radiance might be dimmed, they
+drew away, and sank out of sight. Sometimes, towards sunset, a great shield
+stretched dark from the west to the zenith, tangling the light along its edges.
+As the canopy rose higher, it broke, dispersed, and the sky was primrose
+coloured, high and pale above the crystal moon. Then the cattle crouched among
+the gorse, distressed by the cold, while the long-billed snipe flickered round
+high overhead, round and round in great circles, seeming to carry a serpent
+from its throat, and crying a tragedy, more painful than the poignant
+lamentations and protests of the peewits. Following these evenings came
+mornings cold and grey.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Such a morning I went up to George, on the top fallow. His father was out with
+the milk&mdash;he was alone; as I came up the hill I could see him standing in
+the cart, scattering manure over the bare red fields; I could hear his voice
+calling now and then to the mare, and the creak and clank of the cart as it
+moved on. Starlings and smart wagtails were running briskly over the clods, and
+many little birds flashed, fluttered, hopped here and there. The lapwings
+wheeled and cried as ever between the low clouds and the earth, and some ran
+beautifully among the furrows, too graceful and glistening for the rough field.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I took a fork and scattered the manure along the hollows, and thus we worked,
+with a wide field between us, yet very near in the sense of intimacy. I watched
+him through the wheeling peewits, as the low clouds went stealthily overhead.
+Beneath us, the spires of the poplars in the spinney were warm gold, as if the
+blood shone through. Further gleamed the grey water, and below it the red
+roofs. Nethermere was half hidden and far away. There was nothing in this grey,
+lonely world but the peewits swinging and crying, and George swinging silently
+at his work. The movement of active life held all my attention, and when I
+looked up, it was to see the motion of his limbs and his head, the rise and
+fall of his rhythmic body, and the rise and fall of the slow waving peewits.
+After a while, when the cart was empty, he took a fork and came towards me,
+working at my task.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It began to rain, so he brought a sack from the cart, and we crushed ourselves
+under the thick hedge. We sat close together and watched the rain fall like a
+grey striped curtain before us, hiding the valley; we watched it trickle in
+dark streams off the mare’s back, as she stood dejectedly; we listened to the
+swish of the drops falling all about; we felt the chill of the rain, and drew
+ourselves together in silence. He smoked his pipe, and I lit a cigarette. The
+rain continued; all the little pebbles and the red earth glistened in the grey
+gloom. We sat together, speaking occasionally. It was at these times we formed
+the almost passionate attachment which later years slowly wore away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the rain was over, we filled our buckets with potatoes, and went along the
+wet furrows, sticking the spritted tubers in the cold ground. Being sandy, the
+field dried quickly. About twelve o’clock, when nearly all the potatoes were
+set, he left me, and fetching up Bob from the far hedge-side, harnessed the
+mare and him to the ridger, to cover the potatoes. The sharp light plough
+turned the soil in a fine furrow over the potatoes; hosts of little birds
+fluttered, settled, bounded off again after the plough. He called to the
+horses, and they came downhill, the white stars on the two brown noses nodding
+up and down, George striding firm and heavy behind. They came down upon me; at
+a call the horses turned, shifting awkwardly sideways; he flung himself against
+the plough, and leaning well in, brought it round with a sweep: a click, and
+they are off uphill again. There is a great rustle as the birds sweep round
+after him and follow up the new turned furrow. Untackling the horses when the
+rows were all covered, we tramped behind them down the wet hillside to dinner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I kicked through the drenched grass, crushing the withered cowslips under my
+clogs, avoiding the purple orchids that were stunted with harsh upbringing, but
+magnificent in their powerful colouring, crushing the pallid lady smocks, the
+washed-out wild gillivers. I became conscious of something near my feet,
+something little and dark, moving indefinitely. I had found again the larkie’s
+nest. I perceived the yellow beaks, the bulging eyelids of two tiny larks, and
+the blue lines of their wing quills. The indefinite movement was the swift rise
+and fall of the brown fledged backs, over which waved long strands of fine
+down. The two little specks of birds lay side by side, beak to beak, their tiny
+bodies rising and falling in quick unison. I gently put down my fingers to
+touch them; they were warm; gratifying to find them warm, in the midst of so
+much cold and wet. I became curiously absorbed in them, as an eddy of wind
+stirred the strands of down. When one fledgling moved uneasily, shifting his
+soft ball, I was quite excited; but he nestled down again, with his head close
+to his brother’s. In my heart of hearts, I longed for someone to nestle
+against, someone who would come between me and the coldness and wetness of the
+surroundings. I envied the two little miracles exposed to any tread, yet so
+serene. It seemed as if I were always wandering, looking for something which
+they had found even before the light broke into their shell. I was cold; the
+lilacs in the Mill garden looked blue and perished. I ran with my heavy clogs
+and my heart heavy with vague longing, down to the Mill, while the wind
+blanched the sycamores, and pushed the sullen pines rudely, for the pines were
+sulking because their million creamy sprites could not fly wet-winged. The
+horse-chestnuts bravely kept their white candles erect in the socket of every
+bough, though no sun came to light them. Drearily a cold swan swept up the
+water, trailing its black feet, clacking its great hollow wings, rocking the
+frightened water hens, and insulting the staid black-necked geese. What did I
+want that I turned thus from one thing to another?
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+At the end of June the weather became fine again. Hay harvest was to begin as
+soon as it settled. There were only two fields to be mown this year, to provide
+just enough stuff to last until the spring. As my vacation had begun I decided
+I would help, and that we three, the father, George and I, would get in the hay
+without hired assistance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I rose the first morning very early, before the sun was well up. The clear
+sound of challenging cocks could be heard along the valley. In the bottoms,
+over the water and over the lush wet grass, the night mist still stood white
+and substantial. As I passed along the edge of the meadow the cow-parsnip was
+as tall as I, frothing up to the top of the hedge, putting the faded hawthorn
+to a wan blush. Little, early birds&mdash;I had not heard the
+lark&mdash;fluttered in and out of the foamy meadow-sea, plunging under the
+surf of flowers washed high in one corner, swinging out again, dashing past the
+crimson sorrel cresset. Under the froth of flowers were the purple
+vetch-clumps, yellow milk vetches, and the scattered pink of the wood-betony,
+and the floating stars of marguerites. There was a weight of honeysuckle on the
+hedges, where pink roses were waking up for their broad-spread flight through
+the day.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Morning silvered the swaths of the far meadow, and swept in smooth, brilliant
+curves round the stones of the brook; morning ran in my veins; morning chased
+the silver, darting fish out of the depth, and I, who saw them, snapped my
+fingers at them, driving them back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I heard Trip barking, so I ran towards the pond. The punt was at the island,
+where from behind the bushes I could hear George whistling. I called to him,
+and he came to the water’s edge half dressed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Fetch a towel,” he called, “and come on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was back in a few moments, and there stood my Charon fluttering in the cool
+air. One good push sent us to the islet I made haste to undress, for he was
+ready for the water, Trip dancing round, barking with excitement at his new
+appearance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He wonders what’s happened to me,” he said, laughing, pushing the dog
+playfully away with his bare foot. Trip bounded back, and came leaping up,
+licking him with little caressing licks. He began to play with the dog, and
+directly they were rolling on the fine turf, the laughing, expostulating, naked
+man, and the excited dog, who thrust his great head on to the man’s face,
+licking, and, when flung away, rushed forward again, snapping playfully at the
+naked arms and breasts. At last George lay back, laughing and panting, holding
+Trip by the two fore feet which were planted on his breast, while the dog, also
+panting, reached forward his head for a flickering lick at the throat pressed
+back on the grass, and the mouth thrown back out of reach. When the man had
+thus lain still for a few moments, and the dog was just laying his head against
+his master’s neck to rest too, I called, and George jumped up, and plunged into
+the pond with me, Trip after us.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The water was icily cold, and for a moment deprived me of my senses. When I
+began to swim, soon the water was buoyant, and I was sensible of nothing but
+the vigorous poetry of action. I saw George swimming on his back laughing at
+me, and in an instant I had flung myself like an impulse after him. The
+laughing face vanished as he swung over and fled, and I pursued the dark head
+and the ruddy neck. Trip, the wretch, came paddling towards me, interrupting
+me; then all bewildered with excitement, he scudded to the bank. I chuckled to
+myself as I saw him run along, then plunge in and go plodding to George. I was
+gaining. He tried to drive off the dog, and I gained rapidly. As I came up to
+him and caught him, with my hand on his shoulder, there came a laughter from
+the bank. It was Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I trod the water, and threw handfuls of spray at her. She laughed and blushed.
+Then Trip waded out to her and she fled swiftly from his shower-bath. George
+was floating just beside me, looking up and laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We stood and looked at each other as we rubbed ourselves dry. He was well
+proportioned, and naturally of handsome physique, heavily limbed. He laughed at
+me, telling me I was like one of Aubrey Beardsley’s long, lean ugly fellows. I
+referred him to many classic examples of slenderness, declaring myself more
+exquisite than his grossness, which amused him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But I had to give in, and bow to him, and he took on an indulgent, gentle
+manner. I laughed and submitted. For he knew how I admired the noble, white
+fruitfulness of his form. As I watched him, he stood in white relief against
+the mass of green. He polished his arm, holding it out straight and solid; he
+rubbed his hair into curls, while I watched the deep muscles of his shoulders,
+and the bands stand out in his neck as he held it firm; I remembered the story
+of Annable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He saw I had forgotten to continue my rubbing, and laughing he took hold of me
+and began to rub me briskly, as if I were a child, or rather, a woman he loved
+and did not fear. I left myself quite limply in his hands, and, to get a better
+grip of me, he put his arm round me and pressed me against him, and the
+sweetness of the touch of our naked bodies one against the other was superb. It
+satisfied in some measure the vague, indecipherable yearning of my soul; and it
+was the same with him. When he had rubbed me all warm, he let me go, and we
+looked at each other with eyes of still laughter, and our love was perfect for
+a moment, more perfect than any love I have known since, either for man or
+woman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We went together down to the fields, he to mow the island of grass he had left
+standing the previous evening, I to sharpen the machine knife, to mow out the
+hedge-bottoms with the scythe, and to rake the swaths from the way of the
+machine when the unmown grass was reduced to a triangle. The cool, moist
+fragrance of the morning, the intentional stillness of everything, of the tall
+bluish trees, of the wet, frank flowers, of the trustful moths folded and
+unfolded in the fallen swaths, was a perfect medium of sympathy. The horses
+moved with a still dignity, obeying his commands. When they were harnessed, and
+the machine oiled, still he was loth to mar the perfect morning, but stood
+looking down the valley.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shan’t mow these fields any more,” he said, and the fallen, silvered swaths
+flickered back his regret, and the faint scent of the limes was wistful. So
+much of the field was cut, so much remained to cut; then it was ended. This
+year the elder flowers were widespread over the corner bushes, and the pink
+roses fluttered high above the hedge. There were the same flowers in the grass
+as we had known many years; we should not know them any more.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But merely to have mown them is worth having lived for,” he said, looking at
+me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We felt the warmth of the sun trickling through the morning’s mist of coolness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You see that sycamore,” he said, “that bushy one beyond the big willow? I
+remember when father broke off the leading shoot because he wanted a fine
+straight stick, I can remember I felt sorry. It was running up so straight,
+with such a fine balance of leaves&mdash;you know how a young strong sycamore
+looks about nine feet high&mdash;it seemed a cruelty. When you are gone, and we
+are left from here, I shall feel like that, as if my leading shoot were broken
+off. You see, the tree is spoiled. Yet how it went on growing. I believe I
+shall grow faster. I can remember the bright red stalks of the leaves as he
+broke them off from the bough.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He smiled at me, half proud of his speech. Then he swung into the seat of the
+machine, having attended to the horses’ heads. He lifted the knife.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-bye,” he said, smiling whimsically back at me. The machine started. The
+bed of the knife fell, and the grass shivered and dropped over. I watched the
+heads of the daisies and the splendid lines of the cocksfool grass quiver,
+shake against the crimson burnet, and drop-over. The machine went singing down
+the field, leaving a track of smooth, velvet green in the way of the
+swath-board. The flowers in the wall of uncut grass waited unmoved, as the days
+wait for us. The sun caught in the uplicking scarlet sorrel flames, the
+butterflies woke, and I could hear the fine ring of his “Whoa!” from the far
+corner. Then he turned, and I could see only the tossing ears of the horses,
+and the white of his shoulder as they moved along the wall of high grass on the
+hill slope. I sat down under the elm to file the sections of the knife. Always
+as he rode he watched the falling swath, only occasionally calling the horses
+into line. It was his voice which rang the morning awake. When we were at work
+we hardly noticed one another. Yet his mother had said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“George is so glad when you’re in the field&mdash;he doesn’t care how long the
+day is.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Later, when the morning was hot, and the honeysuckle had ceased to breathe, and
+all the other scents were moving in the air about us, when all the field was
+down, when I had seen the last trembling ecstasy of the harebells, trembling to
+fall; when the thick clump of purple vetch had sunk; when the green swaths were
+settling, and the silver swaths were glistening and glittering as the sun came
+along them, in the hot ripe morning we worked together turning the hay, tipping
+over the yesterday’s swaths with our forks, and bringing yesterday’s fresh,
+hidden flowers into the death of sunlight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was then that we talked of the past, and speculated on the future. As the
+day grew older and less wistful, we forgot everything, and worked on, singing,
+and sometimes I would recite him verses as we went, and sometimes I would tell
+him about books. Life was full of glamour for us both.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER IX<br/>
+PASTORALS AND PEONIES</h2>
+
+<p>
+At dinner time the father announced to us the exciting fact that Leslie had
+asked if a few of his guests might picnic that afternoon in the Strelley
+hayfields. The closes were so beautiful, with the brook under all its
+sheltering trees, running into the pond that was set with two green islets.
+Moreover, the squire’s lady had written a book filling these meadows and the
+mill precincts with pot-pourri romance. The wedding guests at Highclose were
+anxious to picnic in so choice a spot.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The father, who delighted in a gay throng, beamed at us from over the table.
+George asked who were coming.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, not many&mdash;about half a dozen&mdash;mostly ladies down for the
+wedding.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George at first swore warmly; then he began to appreciate the affair as a joke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Saxton hoped they wouldn’t want her to provide them pots, for she hadn’t
+two cups that matched, nor had any of her spoons the least pretence to silver.
+The children were hugely excited, and wanted a holiday from school, which Emily
+at once vetoed firmly, thereby causing family dissension.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As we went round the field in the afternoon turning the hay, we were thinking
+apart, and did not talk. Every now and then&mdash;and at every corner&mdash;we
+stopped to look down towards the wood, to see if they were coming.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here they are!” George exclaimed suddenly, having spied the movement of white
+in the dark wood. We stood still and watched. Two girls, heliotrope and white,
+a man with two girls, pale green and white, and a man with a girl last.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Can you tell who they are?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s Marie Tempest, that first girl in white, and that’s him and Lettie at
+the back, I don’t know any more.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stood perfectly still until they had gone out of sight behind the banks down
+by the brooks, then he stuck his fork in the ground, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You can easily finish&mdash;if you like. I’ll go and mow out that bottom
+corner.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He glanced at me to see what I was thinking of him. I was thinking that he was
+afraid to meet her, and I was smiling to myself. Perhaps he felt ashamed, for
+he went silently away to the machine, where he belted his riding breeches
+tightly round his waist, and slung the scythe strap on his hip. I heard the
+clanging slur of the scythe stone as he whetted the blade. Then he strode off
+to mow the far bottom corner, where the ground was marshy, and the machine
+might not go, to bring down the lush green grass and the tall meadow sweet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went to the pond to meet the newcomers. I bowed to Louie Denys, a tall,
+graceful girl of the drooping type, elaborately gowned in heliotrope linen; I
+bowed to Agnes D’Arcy, an erect, intelligent girl with magnificent auburn
+hair&mdash;she wore no hat and carried a sunshade; I bowed to Hilda Seconde, a
+svelte, petite girl, exquisitely and delicately pretty; I bowed to Maria and to
+Lettie, and I shook hands with Leslie and with his friend, Freddy Cresswell.
+The latter was to be best man, a broad shouldered, pale-faced fellow, with
+beautiful soft hair like red wheat, and laughing eyes, and a whimsical,
+drawling manner of speech, like a man who has suffered enough to bring him to
+manhood and maturity, but who in spite of all remains a boy, irresponsible,
+lovable&mdash;a trifle pathetic. As the day was very hot, both men were in
+flannels, and wore flannel collars, yet it was evident that they had dressed
+with scrupulous care. Instinctively I tried to pull my trousers into shape
+within my belt, and I felt the inferiority cast upon the father, big and fine
+as he was in his way, for his shoulders were rounded with work, and his
+trousers were much distorted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What can we do?” said Marie; “you know we don’t want to hinder, we want to
+help you. It was so good of you to let us come.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The father laughed his fine indulgence, saying to them&mdash;they loved him for
+the mellow, laughing modulation of his voice:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on, then&mdash;I see there’s a bit of turning-over to do, as Cyril’s
+left. Come and pick your forks.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From among a sheaf of hayforks he chose the lightest for them, and they began
+anywhere, just tipping at the swaths. He showed them carefully&mdash;Marie and
+the charming little Hilda&mdash;just how to do it, but they found the right way
+the hardest way, so they worked in their own fashion, and laughed heartily with
+him when he made playful jokes at them. He was a great lover of girls, and they
+blossomed from timidity under his hearty influence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ain’ it flippin’ ’ot?” drawled Cresswell, who had just taken his M. A. degree
+in classics: “This bloomin’ stuff’s dry enough&mdash;come an’ flop on it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He gathered a cushion of hay, which Louie Denys carefully appropriated,
+arranging first her beautiful dress, that fitted close to her shape, without
+any belt or interruption, and then laying her arms, that were netted to the
+shoulder in open lace, gracefully at rest. Lettie, who was also in a
+closefitting white dress which showed her shape down to the hips, sat where
+Leslie had prepared for her, and Miss D’Arcy reluctantly accepted my pile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Cresswell twisted his clean-cut mouth in a little smile, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lord, a giddy little pastoral&mdash;fit for old Theocritus, ain’t it, Miss
+Denys?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why do you talk to me about those classic people&mdash;I daren’t even say
+their names. What would he say about us?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed, winking his blue eyes:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’d make old Daphnis there,”&mdash;pointing to Leslie&mdash;“sing a match
+with me, Damoetas&mdash;contesting the merits of our various
+sheperdesses&mdash;begin Daphnis, sing up for Amaryllis, I mean Nais, damn ’em,
+they were for ever getting mixed up with their nymphs.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I say, Mr. Cresswell, your language! Consider whom you’re damning,” said Miss
+Denys, leaning over and tapping his head with her silk glove.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You say any giddy thing in a pastoral,” he replied, taking the edge of her
+skirt, and lying back on it, looking up at her as she leaned over him. “Strike
+up, Daphnis, something about honey or white cheese&mdash;or else the early
+apples that’ll be ripe in a week’s time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sure the apples you showed me are ever so little and green,” interrupted
+Miss Denys; “they will never be ripe in a week&mdash;ugh, sour!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He smiled up at her in his whimsical way:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hear that, Tempest&mdash;‘Ugh, sour!’&mdash;not much! Oh, love us, haven’t you
+got a start yet?&mdash;isn’t there aught to sing about, you blunt-faced kid?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll hear you first&mdash;I’m no judge of honey and cheese.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“An’ darn little apples&mdash;takes a woman to judge them; don’t it, Miss
+Denys?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” she said, stroking his soft hair from his forehead with her
+hand whereon rings were sparkling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘My love is not white, my hair is not yellow, like honey dropping through the
+sunlight&mdash;my love is brown, and sweet, and ready for the lips of love.’ Go
+on, Tempest&mdash;strike up, old cowherd. Who’s that tuning his pipe?&mdash;oh,
+that fellow sharpening his scythe! It’s enough to make your backache to look at
+him working&mdash;go an’ stop him, somebody.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, let us go and fetch him,” said Miss D’Arcy. “I’m sure he doesn’t know
+what a happy pastoral state he’s in&mdash;let us go and fetch him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They don’t like hindering at their work, Agnes&mdash;besides, where ignorance
+is bliss&mdash;&mdash;” said Lettie, afraid lest she might bring him. The other
+hesitated, then with her eyes she invited me to go with her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, dear,” she laughed, with a little mowe, “Freddy is such an ass, and Louie
+Denys is like a wasp at treacle. I wanted to laugh, yet I felt just a tiny bit
+cross. Don’t you feel great when you go mowing like that? Father Timey sort of
+feeling? Shall we go and look! We’ll say we want those foxgloves he’ll be
+cutting down directly&mdash;and those bell flowers. I suppose you needn’t go on
+with your labours&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not know we were approaching till I called him, then he started slightly
+as he saw the tall, proud girl.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Saxton&mdash;Miss D’Arcy,” I said, and he shook hands with her.
+Immediately his manner became ironic, for he had seen his hand big and coarse
+and inflamed with the snaith clasping the lady’s hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We thought you looked so fine,” she said to him, “and men are so embarrassing
+when they make love to somebody else&mdash;aren’t they? Save us those
+foxgloves, will you&mdash;they are splendid&mdash;like savage soldiers drawn up
+against the hedge&mdash;don’t cut them down&mdash;and those
+campanulas&mdash;bell-flowers, ah, yes! They are spinning idylls up there. I
+don’t care for idylls, do you? Oh, you don’t know what a classical pastoral
+person you are&mdash;but there, I don’t suppose you suffer from idyllic
+love&mdash;&mdash;” she laughed, “&mdash;one doesn’t see the silly little god
+fluttering about in our hayfields, does one? Do you find much time to sport
+with Amaryllis in the shade?&mdash;I’m sure it’s a shame they banished Phyllis
+from the fields&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed and went on with his work. She smiled a little, too, thinking she
+had made a great impression. She put out her hand with a dramatic gesture, and
+looked at me, when the scythe crunched through the meadow-sweet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Crunch! isn’t it fine!” she exclaimed, “a kind of inevitable fate&mdash;I
+think it’s fine!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We wandered about picking flowers and talking until teatime. A manservant came
+with the tea-basket, and the girls spread the cloth under a great willow tree.
+Lettie took the little silver kettle, and went to fill it at the small spring
+which trickled into a stone trough all pretty with cranesbill and stellaria
+hanging over, while long blades of grass waved in the water. George, who had
+finished his work, and wanted to go home to tea, walked across to the spring
+where Lettie sat playing with the water, getting little cupfuls to put into the
+kettle, watching the quick skating of the water beetles, and the large faint
+spots of their shadows darting on the silted mud at the bottom of the trough.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She glanced round on hearing him coming, and smiled nervously: they were
+mutually afraid of meeting each other again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is about teatime,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;it will be ready in a moment&mdash;this is not to make the tea
+with&mdash;it’s only to keep a little supply of hot water.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh,” he said, “I’ll go on home&mdash;I’d rather.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” she replied, “you can’t because we are all having tea together: I had
+some fruits put up, because I know you don’t trifle with tea&mdash;and your
+father’s coming.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But,” he replied pettishly, “I can’t have my tea with all those folks&mdash;I
+don’t want to&mdash;look at me!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He held out his inflamed, barbaric hands.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She winced and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It won’t matter&mdash;you’ll give the realistic touch.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed ironically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“<i>No</i>&mdash;you must come,” she insisted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll have a drink then, if you’ll let me,” he said, yielding.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She got up quickly, blushing, offering him the tiny, pretty cup.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m awfully sorry,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Never mind,” he muttered, and turning from the proffered cup he lay down flat,
+put his mouth to the water, and drank deeply. She stood and watched the motion
+of his drinking, and of his heavy breathing afterwards. He got up, wiping his
+mouth, not looking at her. Then he washed his hands in the water, and stirred
+up the mud. He put his hand to the bottom of the trough, bringing out a handful
+of silt, with the grey shrimps twisting in it. He flung the mud on the floor
+where the poor grey creatures writhed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It wants cleaning out,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she replied, shuddering. “You won’t be long,” she added, taking up the
+silver kettle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a few moments he got up and followed her reluctantly down. He was nervous
+and irritable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girls were seated on tufts of hay, with the men leaning in attendance on
+them, and the manservant waiting on all. George was placed between Lettie and
+Hilda. The former handed him his little egg-shell of tea, which, as he was not
+very thirsty, he put down on the ground beside him. Then she passed him the
+bread and butter, cut for five-o’clock tea, and fruits, grapes and peaches, and
+strawberries, in a beautifully carved oak tray. She watched for a moment his
+thick, half-washed fingers fumbling over the fruits, then she turned her head
+away. All the gay teatime, when the talk bubbled and frothed over all the cups,
+she avoided him with her eyes. Yet again and again, as someone said: “I’m
+sorry, Mr. Saxton&mdash;will you have some cake?”&mdash;or “See, Mr.
+Saxton&mdash;try this peach, I’m sure it will be mellow right to the
+stone,”&mdash;speaking very naturally, but making the distinction between him
+and the other men by their indulgence towards him, Lettie was forced to glance
+at him as he sat eating, answering in monosyllables, laughing with constraint
+and awkwardness, and her irritation flickered between her brows. Although she
+kept up the gay frivolity of the conversation, still the discord was felt by
+everybody, and we did not linger as we should have done over the cups.
+“George,” they said afterwards, “was a wet blanket on the party.” Lettie was
+intensely annoyed with him. His presence was unbearable to her. She wished him
+a thousand miles away. He sat listening to Cresswell’s whimsical affectation of
+vulgarity which flickered with fantasy, and he laughed in a strained fashion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was the first to rise, saying he must get the cows up for milking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, let us go&mdash;let us go. May we come and see the cows milked?” said
+Hilda, her delicate, exquisite features flushing, for she was very shy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” drawled Freddy, “the stink o’ live beef ain’t salubrious. You be warned,
+and stop here.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I never could bear cows, except those lovely little highland cattle, all
+woolly, in pictures,” said Louie Denys, smiling archly, with a little irony.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” laughed Agnes D’Arcy, “they&mdash;they’re smelly,”&mdash;and she pursed
+up her mouth, and ended in a little trill of deprecatory laughter, as she often
+did. Hilda looked from one to the other, blushing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come, Lettie,” said Leslie good-naturedly, “I know you have a farmyard
+fondness&mdash;come on,” and they followed George down.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As they passed along the pond bank a swan and her tawny, fluffy brood sailed
+with them the length of the water, “tipping on their little toes, the
+darlings&mdash;pitter-patter through the water, tiny little things,” as Marie
+said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We heard George below calling
+“Bully&mdash;Bully&mdash;Bully&mdash;Bully!”&mdash;and then, a moment or two
+after, in the bottom garden: “Come out, you little fool&mdash;are you coming
+out of it?” in manifestly angry tones.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Has it run away?” laughed Hilda, delighted and we hastened out of the lower
+garden to see.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There in the green shade, between the tall gooseberry bushes, the heavy crimson
+peonies stood gorgeously along the path. The full red globes, poised and
+leaning voluptuously, sank their crimson weight on to the seeding grass of the
+path, borne down by secret rain, and by their own splendour. The path was
+poured over with red rich silk of strewn petals. The great flowers swung their
+crimson grandly about the walk, like crowds of cardinals in pomp among the
+green bushes. We burst into the new world of delight. As Lettie stooped, taking
+between both hands the gorgeous silken fulness of one blossom that was sunk to
+the earth. George came down the path, with the brown bull-calf straddling
+behind him, its neck stuck out, sucking zealously at his middle finger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The unconscious attitudes of the girls, all bent enraptured over the peonies,
+touched him with sudden pain. As he came up, with the calf stalking grudgingly
+behind, he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s a fine show of pyeenocks this year, isn’t there?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you call them?” cried Hilda, turning to him her sweet, charming face
+full of interest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pyeenocks,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie remained crouching with a red flower between her hands, glancing
+sideways unseen to look at the calf, which with its shiny nose uplifted was
+mumbling in its sticky gums the seductive finger. It sucked eagerly, but
+unprofitably, and it appeared to cast a troubled eye inwards to see if it were
+really receiving any satisfaction,&mdash;doubting, but not despairing. Marie,
+and Hilda, and Leslie laughed, while he, after looking at Lettie as she
+crouched, wistfully, as he thought, over the flower, led the little brute out
+of the garden, and sent it running into the yard with a smack on the haunch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then he returned, rubbing his sticky finger dry against his breeches. He stood
+near to Lettie, and she felt rather than saw the extraordinary pale cleanness
+of the one finger among the others. She rubbed her finger against her dress in
+painful sympathy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But aren’t the flowers lovely!” exclaimed Marie again. “I want to hug them.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes!” assented Hilda.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They are like a romance&mdash;D’Annunzio&mdash;a romance in passionate
+sadness,” said Lettie, in an ironical voice, speaking half out of conventional
+necessity of saying something, half out of desire to shield herself, and yet in
+a measure express herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There is a tale about them,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girls clamoured for the legend.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pray, do tell us,” pleaded Hilda, the irresistible.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was Emily told me&mdash;she says it’s a legend, but I believe it’s only a
+tale. She says the peonies were brought from the Hall long since by a fellow of
+this place&mdash;when it was a mill. He was brown and strong, and the daughter
+of the Hall, who was pale and fragile and young, loved him. When he went up to
+the Hall gardens to cut the yew hedges, she would hover round him in her white
+frock, and tell him tales of old days, in little snatches like a wren singing,
+till he thought she was a fairy who had bewitched him. He would stand and watch
+her, and one day, when she came near to him telling him a tale that set the
+tears swimming in her eyes, he took hold of her and kissed her and kept her.
+They used to tryst in the poplar spinney. She would come with her arms full of
+flowers, for she always kept to her fairy part. One morning she came early
+through the mists. He was out shooting. She wanted to take him unawares, like a
+fairy. Her arms were full of peonies. When she was moving beyond the trees he
+shot her, not knowing. She stumbled on, and sank down in their tryst place. He
+found her lying there among the red pyeenocks, white and fallen. He thought she
+was just lying talking to the red flowers, so he stood waiting. Then he went
+up, and bent over her, and found the flowers full of blood. It was he set the
+garden here with these pyeenocks.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The eyes of the girls were round with the pity of the tale and Hilda turned
+away to hide her tears.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is a beautiful ending,” said Lettie, in a low tone, looking at the floor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s all a tale,” said Leslie, soothing the girls.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George waited till Lettie looked at him. She lifted her eyes to him at last.
+Then each turned aside, trembling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Marie asked for some of the peonies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Give me just a few&mdash;and I can tell the others the story&mdash;it is so
+sad&mdash;I feel so sorry for him, it was so cruel for him&mdash;&mdash;! And
+Lettie says it ends beautifully&mdash;&mdash;!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George cut the flowers with his great clasp knife, and Marie took them,
+carefully, treating their romance with great tenderness. Then all went out of
+the garden and he turned to the cowshed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-bye for the present,” said Lettie, afraid to stay near him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-bye,” he laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thank you <i>so</i> much for the flowers&mdash;and the story&mdash;it was
+splendid,” said Marie, “&mdash;but so sad!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then they went, and we did not see them again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Later, when all had gone to bed at the mill, George and I sat together on
+opposite sides of the fire, smoking, saying little. He was casting up the total
+of discrepancies, and now and again he ejaculated one of his thoughts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And all day,” he said, “Blench has been ploughing his wheat in, because it was
+that bitten off by the rabbits it was no manner of use, so he’s ploughed it in:
+an’ they say with idylls, eating peaches in our close.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then there was silence, while the clock throbbed heavily, and outside a wild
+bird called, and was still; softly the ashes rustled lower in the grate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She said it ended well&mdash;but what’s the good of death&mdash;what’s the
+good of that?” He turned his face to the ashes in the grate, and sat brooding.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Outside, among the trees, some wild animal set up a thin, wailing cry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Damn that row!” said I, stirring, looking also into the grey fire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s some stoat or weasel, or something. It’s been going on like that for
+nearly a week. I’ve shot in the trees ever so many times. There were
+two&mdash;one’s gone.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Continuously, through the heavy, chilling silence, came the miserable crying
+from the darkness among the trees.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know,” he said, “she hated me this afternoon, and I hated
+her&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was midnight, full of sick thoughts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is no good,” said I. “Go to bed&mdash;it will be morning in a few hours.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="part03"></a>PART III</h2>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER I<br/>
+A NEW START IN LIFE</h2>
+
+<p>
+Lettie was wedded, as I had said, before Leslie lost all the wistful traces of
+his illness. They had been gone away to France five days before we recovered
+anything like the normal tone in the house. Then, though the routine was the
+same, everywhere was a sense of loss, and of change. The long voyage in the
+quiet home was over; we had crossed the bright sea of our youth, and already
+Lettie had landed and was travelling to a strange destination in a foreign
+land. It was time for us all to go, to leave the valley of Nethermere whose
+waters and whose woods were distilled in the essence of our veins. We were the
+children of the valley of Nethermere, a small nation with language and blood of
+our own, and to cast ourselves each one into separate exile was painful to us.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shall have to go now,” said George. “It is my nature to linger an
+unconscionable time, yet I dread above all things this slow crumbling away from
+my foundations by which I free myself at last. I must wrench myself away
+now&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was the slack time between the hay and the corn harvest, and we sat together
+in the grey, still morning of August pulling the stack. My hands were sore with
+tugging the loose wisps from the lower part of the stack, so I waited for the
+touch of rain to send us indoors. It came at last, and we hurried into the
+barn. We climbed the ladder into the loft that was strewn with farming
+implements and with carpenters’ tools. We sat together on the shavings that
+littered the bench before the high gable window, and looked out over the brooks
+and the woods and the ponds. The tree-tops were very near to us, and we felt
+ourselves the centre of the waters and the woods that spread down the rainy
+valley.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“In a few years,” I said, “we shall be almost strangers.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at me with fond, dark eyes and smiled incredulously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is as far,” said I, “to the ‘Ram’ as it is for me to London&mdash;farther.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you want me to go there?” he asked, smiling quietly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s all as one where you go, you will travel north, and I east, and Lettie
+south. Lettie has departed. In seven weeks I go.&mdash;And you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I must be gone before you,” he said decisively.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know&mdash;&mdash;” and he smiled timidly in confession, “I feel
+alarmed at the idea of being left alone on a loose end. I must not be the last
+to leave&mdash;&mdash;” he added almost appealingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you will go to Meg?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat tearing the silken shavings into shreds, and telling me in clumsy
+fragments all he could of his feelings:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You see it’s not so much what you call love. I don’t know. You see I built on
+Lettie,”&mdash;he looked up at me shamefacedly, then continued tearing the
+shavings&mdash;“you must found your castles on something, and I founded mine on
+Lettie. You see, I’m like plenty of folks, I have nothing definite to shape my
+life to. I put brick upon brick, as they come, and if the whole topples down in
+the end, it does. But you see, you and Lettie have made me conscious, and now
+I’m at a dead loss. I have looked to marriage to set me busy on my house of
+life, something whole and complete, of which it will supply the design. I must
+marry or be in a lost lane. There are two people I could marry&mdash;and
+Lettie’s gone. I love Meg just as well, as far as love goes. I’m not sure I
+don’t feel better pleased at the idea of marrying her. You know I should always
+have been second to Lettie, and the best part of love is being made much of,
+being first and foremost in the whole world for somebody. And Meg’s easy and
+lovely. I can have her without trembling, she’s full of soothing and comfort. I
+can stroke her hair and pet her, and she looks up at me, full of trust and
+lovingness, and there is no flaw, all restfulness in one another&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+Three weeks later, as I lay in the August sunshine in a deck-chair on the lawn,
+I heard the sound of wheels along the gravel path. It was George calling for me
+to accompany him to his marriage. He pulled up the dog-cart near the door and
+came up the steps to me on the lawn. He was dressed as if for the cattle
+market, in jacket and breeches and gaiters.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, are you ready?” he said standing smiling down on me. His eyes were dark
+with excitement, and had that vulnerable look which was so peculiar to the
+Saxtons in their emotional moments.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are in good time,” said I, “it is but half past nine.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It wouldn’t do to be late on a day like this,” he said gaily, “see how the sun
+shines. Come, you don’t look as brisk as a best man should. I thought you would
+have been on tenterhooks of excitement. Get up, get up! Look here, a bird has
+given me luck”&mdash;he showed me a white smear on his shoulder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I drew myself up lazily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All right,” I said, “but we must drink a whisky to establish it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He followed me out of the fragrant sunshine into the dark house. The rooms were
+very still and empty, but the cool silence responded at once to the gaiety of
+our sunwarm entrance. The sweetness of the summer morning hung invisible like
+glad ghosts of romance through the shadowy room. We seemed to feel the sunlight
+dancing golden in our veins as we filled again the pale liqueur.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Joy to you&mdash;I envy you to-day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His teeth were white, and his eyes stirred like dark liquor as he smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here is my wedding present!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I stood the four large water-colours along the wall before him. They were
+drawings among the waters and the fields of the mill, grey rain and twilight,
+morning with the sun pouring gold into the mist, and the suspense of a
+midsummer noon upon the pond. All the glamour of our yesterdays came over him
+like an intoxicant, and he quivered with the wonderful beauty of life that was
+weaving him into the large magic of the years. He realised the splendour of the
+pageant of days which had him in train.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s been wonderful, Cyril, all the time,” he said, with surprised joy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We drove away through the freshness of the wood, and among the flowing of the
+sunshine along the road. The cottages of Greymede filled the shadows with
+colour of roses, and the sunlight with odour of pinks and the blue of corn
+flowers and larkspur. We drove briskly up the long, sleeping hill, and bowled
+down the hollow past the farms where the hens were walking with the red gold
+cocks in the orchard, and the ducks like white cloudlets under the aspen trees
+revelled on the pond.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I told her to be ready any time,” said George&mdash;“but she doesn’t know it’s
+to-day. I didn’t want the public-house full of the business.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The mare walked up the sharp little rise on top of which stood the “Ram Inn.”
+In the quiet, as the horse slowed to a standstill, we heard the crooning of a
+song in the garden. We sat still in the cart, and looked across the flagged
+yard to where the tall madonna lilies rose in clusters out of the alyssome.
+Beyond the border of flowers was Meg, bending over the gooseberry bushes. She
+saw us and came swinging down the path, with a bowl of gooseberries poised on
+her hip. She was dressed in a plain, fresh holland frock, with a white apron.
+Her black, heavy hair reflected the sunlight, and her ripe face was luxuriant
+with laughter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I never!” she exclaimed, trying not to show that she guessed his errand.
+“Fancy you here at this time o’ morning!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her eyes, delightful black eyes like polished jet, untroubled and frank, looked
+at us as a robin might, with bright questioning. Her eyes were so different
+from the Saxton’s: darker, but never still and full, never hesitating, dreading
+a wound, never dilating with hurt or with timid ecstasy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you ready then?” he asked, smiling down on her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” she asked in confusion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To come to the registrar with me&mdash;I’ve got the licence.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I’m just going to make the pudding,” she cried, in full expostulation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let them make it themselves&mdash;put your hat on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But look at me! I’ve just been getting the gooseberries. Look!” she showed us
+the berries, and the scratches on her arms and hands.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a shame!” he said, bending down to stroke her hand and her arm. She drew
+back smiling, flushing with joy. I could smell the white lilies where I sat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you don’t mean it, do you?” she said, lifting to him her face that was
+round and glossy like a blackheart cherry. For answer, he unfolded the marriage
+licence. She read it, and turned aside her face in confusion, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I’ve got to get ready. Shall you come an’ tell Gran’ma?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is there any need?” he answered reluctantly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, you come an tell ’er,” persuaded Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He got down from the trap. I preferred to stay out of doors. Presently Meg ran
+out with a glass of beer for me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We shan’t be many minutes,” she apologised. “I’ve on’y to slip another frock
+on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I heard George go heavily up the stairs and enter the room over the
+bar-parlour, where the grandmother lay bed-ridden.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What, is it thaïgh, ma lad? What are thaïgh doin’ ’ere this mornin’?” she
+asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well A’nt, how does ta feel by now?” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Eh, sadly, lad, sadly! It’ll not be long afore they carry me downstairs head
+first&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay, dunna thee say so!&mdash;I’m just off to Nottingham&mdash;I want Meg ter
+come.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What for?” cried the old woman sharply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wanted ’er to get married,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What! What does’t say? An’ what about th’ licence, an’ th’ ring, an
+ivrything?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve seen to that all right,” he answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, tha ’rt a nice’st un, I must say! What’s want goin’ in this
+pig-in-a-poke fashion for? This is a nice shabby trick to serve a body! What
+does ta mean by it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You knowed as I wor goin’ ter marry ’er directly, so I can’t see as it matters
+o’ th’ day. I non wanted a’ th’ pub talkin’&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tha ’rt mighty particklar, an’ all, an’ all! An’ why shouldn’t the pub talk?
+Tha ’rt non marryin’ a nigger, as ta should be so frightened&mdash;I niver
+thought it on thee!&mdash;An’ what’s thy ’orry, all of a sudden?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No hurry as I know of.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No ’orry&mdash;&mdash;!” replied the old lady, with withering sarcasm. “Tha
+wor niver in a ’orry a’ thy life! She’s non commin’ wi’ thee this day, though.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed, also sarcastic. The old lady was angry. She poured on him her
+abuse, declaring she would not have Meg in the house again, nor leave her a
+penny, if she married him that day.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tha can please thysen,” answered George, also angry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg came hurriedly into the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ta’e that ’at off&mdash;ta’e it off! Tha non goos wi’ ’im this day, not if I
+know it! Does ’e think tha ’rt a cow, or a pig, to be fetched wheniver ’e
+thinks fit. Ta’e that ’at off, I say!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The old woman was fierce and peremptory.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But gran’ma!&mdash;&mdash;” began Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The bed creaked as the old lady tried to rise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ta’e that ’at off, afore I pull it off!” she cried.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, be still Gran’ma&mdash;you’ll be hurtin’ yourself, you know you
+will&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you coming Meg?” said George suddenly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is not!” cried the old woman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you coming Meg?” repeated George, in a passion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg began to cry. I suppose she looked at him through her tears. The next thing
+I heard was a cry from the old woman, and the sound of staggering feet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Would ta drag ’er from me!&mdash;if tha goos, ma wench, tha enters this ’ouse
+no more, tha ’eers that! Tha does thysen my lady! Dunna venture anigh me after
+this, my gel!”&mdash;the old woman called louder and louder. George appeared in
+the doorway, holding Meg by the arm. She was crying in a little distress. Her
+hat with its large silk roses, was slanting over her eyes. She was dressed in
+white linen. They mounted the trap. I gave him the reins and scrambled up
+behind. The old woman heard us through the open window, and we listened to her
+calling as we drove away:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dunna let me clap eyes on thee again, tha ungrateful ’ussy, tha ungrateful
+’ussy! Tha’ll rue it, my wench, tha’ll rue it, an’ then dunna come ter
+me&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We drove out of hearing. George sat with a shut mouth, scowling. Meg wept
+awhile to herself woefully. We were swinging at a good pace under the beeches
+of the churchyard which stood above the level of the road. Meg, having settled
+her hat, bent her head to the wind, too much occupied with her attire to weep.
+We swung round the hollow by the bog end, and rattled a short distance up the
+steep hill to Watnall. Then the mare walked slowly. Meg, at leisure to collect
+herself, exclaimed plaintively:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I’ve only got one glove!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked at the odd silk glove that lay in her lap, then peered about among
+her skirts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I must ’a left it in th’ bedroom,” she said piteously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed, and his anger suddenly vanished.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What does it matter? You’ll do without all right.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the sound of his voice, she recollected, and her tears and her weeping
+returned.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay,” he said, “don’t fret about the old woman. She’ll come round
+to-morrow&mdash;an’ if she doesn’t, it’s her lookout. She’s got Polly to attend
+to her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But she’ll be that miserable&mdash;&mdash;!” wept Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s her own fault. At any rate, don’t let it make you miserable”&mdash;he
+glanced to see if anyone were in sight, then he put his arm round her waist and
+kissed her, saying softly, coaxingly: “She’ll be all right to-morrow. We’ll go
+an’ see her then, an’ she’ll be glad enough to have us. We’ll give in to her
+then, poor old Gran’ma. She can boss you about, an’ me as well, tomorrow as
+much as she likes. She feels it hard, being tied to her bed. But to-day is
+ours, surely&mdash;isn’t it? To-day is ours, an’ you’re not sorry, are you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I’ve got no gloves, an’ I’m sure my hair’s a sight. I never thought she
+could ’a reached up like that.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George laughed, tickled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” he said, “she <i>was</i> in a temper. But we can get you some gloves
+directly we get to Nottingham.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I haven’t a farthing of money,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve plenty!” he laughed. “Oh, an’ let’s try this on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They were merry together as he tried on her wedding ring, and they talked
+softly, he gentle and coaxing, she rather plaintive. The mare took her own way,
+and Meg’s hat was disarranged once more by the sweeping elm-boughs. The yellow
+corn was dipping and flowing in the fields, like a cloth of gold pegged down at
+the corners under which the wind was heaving. Sometimes we passed cottages
+where the scarlet lilies rose like bonfires, and the tall larkspur like bright
+blue leaping smoke. Sometimes we smelled the sunshine on the browning corn,
+sometimes the fragrance of the shadow of leaves. Occasionally it was the dizzy
+scent of new haystacks. Then we rocked and jolted over the rough cobblestones
+of Cinderhill, and bounded forward again at the foot of the enormous pit hill,
+smelling of sulphur, inflamed with slow red fires in the daylight, and crusted
+with ashes. We reached the top of the rise and saw the city before us, heaped
+high and dim upon the broad range of the hill. I looked for the square tower of
+my old school, and the sharp proud spire of St. Andrews. Over the city hung a
+dullness, a thin dirty canopy against the blue sky.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We turned and swung down the slope between the last sullied cornfields towards
+Basford, where the swollen gasometers stood like toadstools. As we neared the
+mouth of the street, Meg rose excitedly, pulling George’s arm, crying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, look, the poor little thing!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the causeway stood two small boys lifting their faces and weeping to the
+heedless heavens, while before them, upside down, lay a baby strapped to a
+shut-up baby-chair. The gim-crack carpet-seated thing had collapsed as the boys
+were dismounting the curb-stone with it. It had fallen backwards, and they were
+unable to right it. There lay the infant strapped head downwards to its silly
+cart, in imminent danger of suffocation. Meg leaped out, and dragged the child
+from the wretched chair. The two boys, drenched with tears, howled on. Meg
+crouched on the road, the baby on her knee, its tiny feet dangling against her
+skirt. She soothed the pitiful tear-wet mite. She hugged it to her, and kissed
+it, and hugged it, and rocked it in an abandonment of pity. When at last the
+childish trio were silent, the boys shaken only by the last ebbing sobs, Meg
+calmed also from her frenzy of pity for the little thing. She murmured to it
+tenderly, and wiped its wet little cheeks with her handkerchief, soothing,
+kissing, fondling the bewildered mite, smoothing the wet strands of brown hair
+under the scrap of cotton bonnet, twitching the inevitable baby cape into
+order. It was a pretty baby, with wisps of brown-gold silken hair and large
+blue eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it a girl?” I asked one of the boys&mdash;“How old is she?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” he answered awkwardly, “We’ve ’ad ’er about a three week.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, isn’t she your sister?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No&mdash;my mother keeps ’er,”&mdash;they were very reluctant to tell us
+anything.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poor little lamb!” cried Meg, in another access of pity, clasping the baby to
+her bosom with one hand, holding its winsome slippered feet in the other. She
+remained thus, stung through with acute pity, crouching, folding herself over
+the mite. At last she raised her head, and said, in a voice difficult with
+emotion:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you love her&mdash;don’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes&mdash;she’s&mdash;she’s all right. But we ’ave to mind ’er,” replied the
+boy in great confusion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Surely,” said Meg, “Surely you don’t begrudge that. Poor little thing&mdash;so
+little, she is&mdash;surely you don’t grumble at minding her a
+bit&mdash;&mdash;?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The boys would not answer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, poor little lamb, poor little lamb!” murmured Meg over the child,
+condemning with bitterness the boys and the whole world of men.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I taught one of the lads how to fold and unfold the wretched chair. Meg very
+reluctantly seated the unfortunate baby therein, gently fastening her with the
+strap.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Wheer’s ’er dummy?” asked one of the boys in muffled, self-conscious tones.
+The infant began to cry thinly. Meg crouched over it. The ‘dummy’ was found in
+the gutter and wiped on the boy’s coat, then plugged into the baby’s mouth. Meg
+released the tiny clasping hand from over her finger, and mounted the dog cart,
+saying sternly to the boys:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mind you look after her well, poor little baby with no mother. God’s watching
+to see what you do to her&mdash;so you be careful, mind.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They stood very shamefaced. George clicked to the mare, and as we started threw
+coppers to the boys. While we drove away I watched the little group diminish
+down the road.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s such a shame,” she said, and the tears were in her voice, “&mdash;A sweet
+little thing like that&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay,” said George softly, “there’s all sorts of things in towns.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg paid no attention to him, but sat woman-like thinking of the forlorn baby,
+and condemning the hard world. He, full of tenderness and protectiveness
+towards her, having watched her with softening eyes, felt a little bit rebuffed
+that she ignored him, and sat alone in her fierce womanhood. So he busied
+himself with the reins, and the two sat each alone until Meg was roused by the
+bustle of the town. The mare sidled past the electric cars nervously, and
+jumped when a traction engine came upon us. Meg, rather frightened, clung to
+George again. She was very glad when we had passed the cemetery with its white
+population of tombstones, and drew up in a quiet street.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But when we had dismounted, and given the horse’s head to a loafer, she became
+confused and bashful and timid to the last degree. He took her on his arm; he
+took the whole charge of her, and laughing, bore her away towards the steps of
+the office. She left herself entirely in his hands; she was all confusion, so
+he took the charge of her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When, after a short time, they came out, she began to chatter with blushful
+animation. He was very quiet, and seemed to be taking his breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Wasn’t he a funny little man? Did I do it all proper?&mdash;I didn’t know what
+I was doing. I’m sure they were laughing at me&mdash;do you think they were?
+Oh, just look at my frock&mdash;what a sight! What would they
+think&mdash;&mdash;!” The baby had slightly soiled the front of her dress.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George drove up the long hill into the town. As we came down between the shops
+on Mansfield Road he recovered his spirits.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where are we going&mdash;where are you taking us?” asked Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We may as well make a day of it while we are here,” he answered, smiling and
+flicking the mare. They both felt that they were launched forth on an
+adventure. He put up at the “Spread Eagle,” and we walked towards the
+market-place for Meg’s gloves. When he had bought her these and a large lace
+scarf to give her a more clothed appearance, he wanted dinner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We’ll go,” he said, “to an hôtel.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His eyes dilated as he said it, and she shrank away with delighted fear.
+Neither of them had ever been to an hôtel. She was really afraid. She begged
+him to go to an eating house, to a café. He was obdurate. His one idea was to
+do the thing that he was half-afraid to do. His passion&mdash;and it was almost
+intoxication&mdash;was to dare to play with life. He was afraid of the town. He
+was afraid to venture into the foreign places of life, and all was foreign save
+the valley of Nethermere. So he crossed the borders flauntingly, and marched
+towards the heart of the unknown. We went to the Victoria Hôtel&mdash;the most
+imposing he could think of&mdash;and we had luncheon according to the menu.
+They were like two children, very much afraid, yet delighting in the adventure.
+He dared not, however, give the orders. He dared not address anybody, waiters
+or otherwise. I did that for him, and he watched me, absorbing, learning,
+wondering that things were so easy and so delightful. I murmured them
+injunctions across the table and they blushed and laughed with each other
+nervously. It would be hard to say whether they enjoyed that luncheon. I think
+Meg did not&mdash;even though she was with him. But of George I am doubtful. He
+suffered exquisitely from self consciousness and nervous embarrassment, but he
+felt also the intoxication of the adventure, he felt as a man who has lived in
+a small island when he first sets foot on a vast continent. This was the first
+step into a new life, and he mused delightedly upon it over his brandy. Yet he
+was nervous. He could not get over the feeling that he was trespassing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where shall we go this afternoon?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Several things were proposed, but Meg pleaded warmly for Colwick.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let’s go on a steamer to Colwick Park. There’ll be entertainments there this
+afternoon. It’ll be lovely.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a few moments we were on the top of the car swinging down to the Trent
+Bridges. It was dinner time, and crowds of people from shops and warehouses
+were hurrying in the sunshine along the pavements. Sunblinds cast their shadows
+on the shop-fronts, and in the shade streamed the people dressed brightly for
+summer. As our car stood in the great space of the market place we could smell
+the mingled scent of fruit, oranges, and small apricots, and pears piled in
+their vividly coloured sections on the stalls. Then away we sailed through the
+shadows of the dark streets, and the open pools of sunshine. The castle on its
+high rock stood in the dazzling dry sunlight; the fountain stood shadowy in the
+green glimmer of the lime trees that surrounded the alms-houses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There were many people at the Trent. We stood awhile on the bridge to watch the
+bright river swirling in a silent dance to the sea, while the light
+pleasure-boats lay asleep along the banks. We went on board the little paddle
+steamer and paid our “sixpence return.” After much waiting we set off, with
+great excitement, for our mile-long voyage. Two banjos were tumming somewhere
+below, and the passengers hummed and sang to their tunes. A few boats dabbled
+on the water. Soon the river meadows with their high thorn hedges lay green on
+our right, while the scarp of red rock rose on our left, covered with the dark
+trees of summer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We landed at Colwick Park. It was early, and few people were there. Dead glass
+fairy-lamps were slung about the trees. The grass in places was worn
+threadbare. We walked through the avenues and small glades of the park till we
+came to the boundary where the race-course stretched its level green, its
+winding white barriers running low into the distance. They sat in the shade for
+some time while I wandered about. Then many people began to arrive. It became
+noisy, even rowdy. We listened for some time to an open-air concert, given by
+the pierrots. It was rather vulgar, and very tiresome. It took me back to
+Cowes, to Yarmouth. There were the same foolish over-eyebrowed faces, the same
+perpetual jingle from an out-of-tune piano, the restless jigging to the songs,
+the same choruses, the same escapading. Meg was well pleased. The vulgarity
+passed by her. She laughed, and sang the choruses half audibly, daring, but not
+bold. She was immensely pleased. “Oh, it’s Ben’s turn now. I like him, he’s got
+such a wicked twinkle in his eye. Look at Joey trying to be funny!&mdash;he
+can’t to save his life. Doesn’t he look soft&mdash;&mdash;!” She began to
+giggle in George’s shoulder. He saw the funny side of things for the time and
+laughed with her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+During tea, which we took on the green verandah of the degraded hall, she was
+constantly breaking forth into some chorus, and he would light up as she looked
+at him and sing with her, <i>sotto voce</i>. He was not embarrassed at Colwick.
+There he had on his best careless, superior air. He moved about with a certain
+scornfulness, and ordered lobster for tea off-handedly. This also was a new
+walk of life. Here he was not hesitating or tremulously strung; he was
+patronising. Both Meg and he thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we got back into Nottingham she entreated him not to go to the hotel as he
+had proposed, and he readily yielded. Instead they went to the Castle. We stood
+on the high rock in the cool of the day, and watched the sun sloping over the
+great river-flats where the menial town spread out, and ended, while the river
+and the meadows continued into the distance. In the picture galleries, there
+was a fine collection of Arthur Melville’s paintings. Meg thought them very
+ridiculous. I began to expound them, but she was manifestly bored, and he was
+half-hearted. Outside in the grounds was a military band playing. Meg longed to
+be there. The townspeople were dancing on the grass. She longed to join them,
+but she could not dance. So they sat awhile looking on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We were to go to the theatre in the evening. The Carl Rosa Company was giving
+“Carmen” at the Royal. We went into the dress circle “like giddy dukes,” as I
+said to him, so that I could see his eyes dilate with adventure again as he
+laughed. In the theatre, among the people in evening dress, he became once more
+childish and timorous. He had always the air of one who does something
+forbidden, and is charmed, yet fearful, like a trespassing child. He had begun
+to trespass that day outside his own estates of Nethermere.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Carmen” fascinated them both. The gaudy, careless Southern life amazed them.
+The bold free way in which Carmen played with life startled them with hints of
+freedom. They stared on the stage fascinated. Between the acts they held each
+other’s hands, and looked full into each other’s wide bright eyes, and,
+laughing with excitement, talked about the opera. The theatre surged and roared
+dimly like a hoarse shell. Then the music rose like a storm, and swept and
+rattled at their feet. On the stage the strange storm of life clashed in music
+towards tragedy and futile death. The two were shaken with a tumult of wild
+feeling. When it was all over they rose bewildered, stunned, she with tears in
+her eyes, he with a strange wild beating of his heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They were both in a tumult of confused emotion. Their ears were full of the
+roaring passion of life, and their eyes were blinded by a spray of tears and
+that strange quivering laughter which burns with real pain. They hurried along
+the pavement to the “Spread Eagle,” Meg clinging to him, running, clasping her
+lace scarf over her white frock, like a scared white butterfly shaken through
+the night. We hardly spoke as the horse was being harnessed and the lamps
+lighted. In the little smoke room he drank several whiskies, she sipping out of
+his glass, standing all the time ready to go. He pushed into his pocket great
+pieces of bread and cheese, to eat on the way home. He seemed now to be
+thinking with much acuteness. His few orders were given sharp and terse. He
+hired an extra light rug in which to wrap Meg, and then we were ready.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who drives?” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at me and smiled faintly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You,” he answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg, like an impatient white flame stood waiting in the light of the lamps. He
+covered her, extinguished her in the dark rug.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER II<br/>
+PUFFS OF WIND IN THE SAIL</h2>
+
+<p>
+The year burst into glory to usher us forth out of the valley of Nethermere.
+The cherry trees had been gorgeous with heavy out-reaching boughs of red and
+gold. Immense vegetable marrows lay prostrate in the bottom garden, their great
+tentacles clutching the pond bank. Against the wall the globed crimson plums
+hung close together, and dropped occasionally with a satisfied plunge into the
+rhubarb leaves. The crop of oats was very heavy. The stalks of corn were like
+strong reeds of bamboo; the heads of grain swept heavily over like tresses
+weighted with drops of gold.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George spent his time between the Mill and the Ram. The grandmother had
+received them with much grumbling but with real gladness. Meg was re-installed,
+and George slept at the Ram. He was extraordinarily bright, almost gay. The
+fact was that his new life interested and pleased him keenly. He often talked
+to me about Meg, how quaint and naïve she was, how she amused him and delighted
+him. He rejoiced in having a place of his own, a home, and a beautiful wife who
+adored him. Then the public-house was full of strangeness and interest. No hour
+was ever dull. If he wanted company he could go into the smoke-room, if he
+wanted quiet he could sit with Meg, and she was such a treat, so soft and warm,
+and so amusing. He was always laughing at her quaint crude notions, and at her
+queer little turns of speech. She talked to him with a little language, she sat
+on his knee and twisted his mustache, finding small unreal fault with his
+features for the delight of dwelling upon them. He was, he said, incredibly
+happy. Really he could not believe it. Meg was, ah! she was a treat. Then he
+would laugh, thinking how indifferent he had been about taking her. A little
+shadow might cross his eyes, but he would laugh again, and tell me one of his
+wife’s funny little notions. She was quite uneducated, and such fun, he said. I
+looked at him as he sounded this note. I remembered his crude superiority of
+early days, which had angered Emily so deeply. There was in him something of
+the prig. I did not like his amused indulgence of his wife.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At threshing day, when I worked for the last time at the Mill, I noticed the
+new tendency in him. The Saxtons had always kept up a certain proud reserve. In
+former years, the family had moved into the parlour on threshing day, and an
+extra woman had been hired to wait on the men who came with the machine. This
+time George suggested: “Let us have dinner with the men in the kitchen, Cyril.
+They are a rum gang. It’s rather good sport mixing with them. They’ve seen a
+bit of life, and I like to hear them, they’re so blunt. They’re good studies
+though.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The farmer sat at the head of the table. The seven men trooped in, very
+sheepish, and took their places. They had not much to say at first. They were a
+mixed set, some rather small, young, and furtive looking, some unshapely and
+coarse, with unpleasant eyes, the eyelids slack. There was one man whom we
+called the Parrot, because he had a hooked nose, and put forward his head as he
+talked. He had been a very large man, but he was grey, and bending at the
+shoulders. His face was pale and fleshy, and his eyes seemed dull sighted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George patronised the men, and they did not object. He chaffed them, making a
+good deal of demonstration in giving them more beer. He invited them to pass up
+their plates, called the woman to bring more bread and altogether played mine
+host of a feast of beggars. The Parrot ate very slowly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come Dad,” said George “you’re not getting on. Not got many
+grinders&mdash;&mdash;?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What I’ve got’s in th’ road. Is’ll ’ae ter get em out. I can manage wi’ bare
+gums, like a baby again.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Second childhood, eh? Ah well, we must all come to it,” George laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The old man lifted his head and looked at him, and said slowly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’n got ter ower th’ first afore that.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George laughed, unperturbed. Evidently he was well used to the thrusts of the
+public-house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose you soon got over yours,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The old man raised himself and his eyes flickered into life. He chewed slowly,
+then said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’d married, an’ paid for it; I’d broke a constable’s jaw an’ paid for it; I’d
+deserted from the army, an’ paid for that: I’d had a bullet through my cheek in
+India atop of it all, by I was your age.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh!” said George, with condescending interest, “you’ve seen a bit of life
+then?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They drew the old man out, and he told them in his slow, laconic fashion, a few
+brutal stories. They laughed and chaffed him. George seemed to have a thirst
+for tales of brutal experience, the raw gin of life. He drank it all in with
+relish, enjoying the sensation. The dinner was over. It was time to go out
+again to work.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And how old are you, Dad?” George asked. The Parrot looked at him again with
+his heavy, tired, ironic eyes, and answered:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you’ll be any better for knowing&mdash;sixty-four.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a bit rough on you, isn’t it,” continued the young man, “going round with
+the threshing machine and sleeping outdoors at that time of life? I should ’a
+thought you’d ’a wanted a bit o’ comfort&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How do you mean, ‘rough on me’?” the Parrot replied slowly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I think you know what I mean,” answered George easily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t know as I do,” said the slow old Parrot. “Well, you haven’t made exactly
+a good thing out of life, have you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What d’you mean by a good thing? I’ve had my life, an’ I’m satisfied wi’ it.
+Is’ll die with a full belly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, so you have saved a bit?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” said the old man deliberately, “I’ve spent as I’ve gone on. An’ I’ve had
+all I wish for. But I pity the angels, when the Lord sets me before them like a
+book to read. Heaven won’t be heaven just then.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’re a philosopher in your way,” laughed George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you,” replied the old man, “toddling about your back-yard, think yourself
+mighty wise. But your wisdom ’ll go with your teeth. You’ll learn in time to
+say nothing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The old man went out and began his work, carrying the sacks of corn from the
+machine to the chamber.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s a lot in the old Parrot,” said George, “as he’ll never tell.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He makes you feel, as well, as if you’d a lot to discover in life,” he
+continued, looking thoughtfully over the dusty straw-stack at the chuffing
+machine.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+After the harvest was ended the father began to deplete his farm. Most of
+the stock was transferred to the “Ram.” George was going to take over his
+father’s milk business, and was going to farm enough of the land attaching to
+the Inn to support nine or ten cows. Until the spring, however, Mr. Saxton
+retained his own milk round, and worked at improving the condition of the land
+ready for the valuation. George, with three cows, started a little milk supply
+in the neighbourhood of the Inn, prepared his land for the summer, and helped
+in the public-house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily was the first to depart finally from the Mill. She went to a school in
+Nottingham, and shortly afterwards Mollie, her younger sister, went to her. In
+October I moved to London. Lettie and Leslie were settled in their home in
+Brentwood, Yorkshire. We all felt very keenly our exile from Nethermere. But as
+yet the bonds were not broken; only use could sever them. Christmas brought us
+all home again, hastening to greet each other. There was a slight change in
+everybody. Lettie was brighter, more imperious, and very gay; Emily was quiet,
+self-restrained, and looked happier; Leslie was jollier and at the same time
+more subdued and earnest; George looked very healthy and happy, and sounded
+well pleased with himself; my mother with her gaiety at our return brought
+tears to our eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We dined one evening at Highclose with the Tempests. It was dull as usual, and
+we left before ten o’clock. Lettie had changed her shoes and put on a fine
+cloak of greenish blue. We walked over the frost-bound road. The ice on
+Nethermere gleamed mysteriously in the moonlight, and uttered strange
+half-audible whoops and yelps. The moon was very high in the sky, small and
+brilliant like a vial full of the pure white liquid of light. There was no
+sound in the night save the haunting movement of the ice, and the clear tinkle
+of Lettie’s laughter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the drive leading to the wood we saw someone approaching. The wild grass was
+grey on either side, the thorn trees stood with shaggy black beards sweeping
+down, the pine trees were erect like dark soldiers. The black shape of the man
+drew near, with a shadow running at its feet. I recognised George, obscured as
+he was in his cap and his upturned collar. Lettie was in front with her
+husband. As George was passing, she said, in bright clear tones:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A Happy New Year to you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stopped, swung round, and laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought you wouldn’t have known me,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What, is it you George?” cried Lettie in great surprise&mdash;“Now, what a
+joke! How are you?”&mdash;she put out her white hand from her draperies. He
+took it, and answered, “I am very well&mdash;and you&mdash;?” However
+meaningless the words were, the tone was curiously friendly, intimate,
+informal.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As you see,” she replied laughing, interested in his attitude&mdash;“but where
+are you going?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am going home,” he answered, in a voice that meant “have you forgotten that
+I too am married?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, of course!” cried Lettie. “You are now mine host of the Ram. You must tell
+me about it. May I ask him to come home with us for an hour, mother?&mdash;It
+is New Year’s Eve, you know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You have asked him already,” laughed mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will Mrs. Saxton spare you for so long?” asked Lettie of George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Meg? Oh, she does not order my comings and goings.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Does she not?” laughed Lettie. “She is very unwise. Train up a husband in the
+way he should go, and in after life&mdash;&mdash;. I never could quote a text
+from end to end. I am full of beginnings, but as for a finish&mdash;&mdash;!
+Leslie, my shoe-lace is untied&mdash;shall I wait till I can put my foot on the
+fence?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leslie knelt down at her feet. She shook the hood back from her head, and her
+ornaments sparkled in the moonlight. Her face with its whiteness and its
+shadows was full of fascination, and in their dark recesses her eyes thrilled
+George with hidden magic. She smiled at him along her cheeks while her husband
+crouched before her. Then, as the three walked along towards the wood she flung
+her draperies into loose eloquence and there was a glimpse of her bosom white
+with the moon. She laughed and chattered, and shook her silken stuffs, sending
+out a perfume exquisite on the frosted air. When we reached the house Lettie
+dropped her draperies and rustled into the drawing-room. There the lamp was
+low-lit, shedding a yellow twilight from the window space. Lettie stood between
+the firelight and the dusky lamp glow, tall and warm between the lights. As she
+turned laughing to the two men, she let her cloak slide over her white shoulder
+and fall with silk splendour of a peacock’s gorgeous blue over the arm of the
+large settee. There she stood, with her white hand upon the peacock of her
+cloak, where it tumbled against her dull orange dress. She knew her own
+splendour, and she drew up her throat laughing and brilliant with triumph. Then
+she raised both her arms to her head and remained for a moment delicately
+touching her hair into order, still fronting the two men. Then with a final
+little laugh she moved slowly and turned up the lamp, dispelling some of the
+witchcraft from the room. She had developed strangely in six months. She seemed
+to have discovered the wonderful charm of her womanhood. As she leaned forward
+with her arm outstretched to the lamp, as she delicately adjusted the wicks
+with mysterious fingers, she seemed to be moving in some alluring figure of a
+dance, her hair like a nimbus clouding the light, her bosom lit with wonder.
+The soft outstretching of her hand was like the whispering of strange words
+into the blood, and as she fingered a book the heart watched silently for the
+meaning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Won’t you take off my shoes, darling?” she said, sinking among the cushions of
+the settee. Leslie kneeled again before her, and she bent her head and watched
+him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My feet are a tiny bit cold,” she said plaintively, giving him her foot, that
+seemed like gold in the yellow silk stocking. He took it between his hands,
+stroking it:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is quite cold,” he said, and he held both her feet in his hands.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, you dear boy!” she cried with sudden gentleness, bending forward and
+touching his cheek.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it great fun being mine host of ‘Ye Ramme Inne?’” she said playfully to
+George. There seemed a long distance between them now as she sat, with the man
+in evening dress crouching before her putting golden shoes on her feet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is rather,” he replied, “the men in the smoke room say such rum things. My
+word, you hear some tales there.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tell us, do!” she pleaded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! I couldn’t. I never could tell a tale, and even if I
+could&mdash;well&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I do long to hear,” she said, “what the men say in the smoke room of ‘Ye
+Ramme Inne.’ Is it quite untellable?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Quite!” he laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a pity! See what a cruel thing it is to be a woman, Leslie: we never know
+what men say in smoke rooms, while you read in your novels everything a woman
+ever uttered. It is a shame! George, you are a wretch, you should tell me. I do
+envy you&mdash;&mdash;.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you envy me, exactly?” he asked laughing always at her whimsical way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Your smoke room. The way you see life&mdash;or the way you hear it, rather.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I should have thought you saw life ten times more than me,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I! I only see manners&mdash;good manners and bad manners. You know ‘manners
+maketh a man.’ That’s when a woman’s there. But you wait awhile, you’ll see.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When shall I see?” asked George, flattered and interested.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When you have made the fortune you talked about,” she replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was uplifted by her remembering the things he had said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But when I have made it&mdash;when!”&mdash;he said sceptically,&mdash;“even
+then&mdash;well, I shall only be, or have been, landlord of ‘Ye Ramme Inne.’”
+He looked at her, waiting for her to lift up his hopes with her gay balloons.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, that doesn’t matter! Leslie might be landlord of some Ram Inn when he’s at
+home, for all anybody would know&mdash;mightn’t you, hubby, dear?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thanks!” replied Leslie, with good humoured sarcasm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You can’t tell a publican from a peer, if he’s a rich publican,” she
+continued. “Money maketh the man, you know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Plus manners,” added George, laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh they are always there&mdash;where I am. I give you ten years. At the end of
+that time you must invite us to your swell place&mdash;say the Hall at
+Eberwich&mdash;and we will come&mdash;‘with all our numerous array.’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She sat among her cushions smiling upon him. She was half ironical, half
+sincere. He smiled back at her, his dark eyes full of trembling hope, and
+pleasure, and pride.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How is Meg?” she asked. “Is she as charming as ever&mdash;or have you spoiled
+her?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, she is as charming as ever,” he replied. “And we are tremendously fond of
+one another.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That is right!&mdash;I do think men are delightful,” she added, smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am glad you think so,” he laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They talked on brightly about a thousand things. She touched on Paris, and
+pictures, and new music, with her quick chatter, sounding to George wonderful
+in her culture and facility. And at last he said he must go.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not until you have eaten a biscuit and drunk good luck with me,” she cried,
+catching her dress about her like a dim flame and running out of the room. We
+all drank to the New Year in the cold champagne.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To the <i>Vita Nuova</i>!” said Lettie, and we drank smiling:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hark!” said George, “the hooters.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We stood still and listened. There was a faint booing noise far away outside.
+It was midnight. Lettie caught up a wrap and we went to the door. The wood, the
+ice, the grey dim hills lay frozen in the light of the moon. But outside the
+valley, far away in Derbyshire, away towards Nottingham, on every hand the
+distant hooters and buzzers of mines and ironworks crowed small on the borders
+of the night, like so many strange, low voices of cockerels bursting forth at
+different pitch, with different tone, warning us of the dawn of the New
+Year.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER III<br/>
+THE FIRST PAGES OF SEVERAL ROMANCES</h2>
+
+<p>
+I found a good deal of difference in Leslie since his marriage. He had lost his
+assertive self-confidence. He no longer pronounced emphatically and ultimately
+on every subject, nor did he seek to dominate, as he had always done, the
+company in which he found himself. I was surprised to see him so courteous and
+attentive to George. He moved unobtrusively about the room while Lettie was
+chattering, and in his demeanour there was a new reserve, a gentleness and
+grace. It was charming to see him offering the cigarettes to George, or, with
+beautiful tact, asking with his eyes only whether he should refill the glass of
+his guest, and afterward replacing it softly close to the other’s hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To Lettie he was unfailingly attentive, courteous, and undemonstrative.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Towards the end of my holiday he had to go to London on business, and we agreed
+to take the journey together. We must leave Woodside soon after eight o’clock
+in the morning. Lettie and he had separate rooms. I thought she would not have
+risen to take breakfast with us, but at a quarter-past seven, just as Rebecca
+was bringing in the coffee, she came downstairs. She wore a blue morning gown,
+and her hair was as beautifully dressed as usual.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, my darling, you shouldn’t have troubled to come down so early,” said
+Leslie, as he kissed her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course, I should come down,” she replied, lifting back the heavy curtains
+and looking out on the snow where the darkness was wilting into daylight. “I
+should not let you go away into the cold without having seen you take a good
+breakfast. I think it is thawing. The snow on the rhododendrons looks sodden
+and drooping. Ah, well, we can keep out the dismal of the morning for another
+hour.” She glanced at the clock&mdash;“just an hour!” she added. He turned to
+her with a swift tenderness. She smiled to him, and sat down at the
+coffee-maker. We took our places at table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think I shall come back to-night,” he said quietly, almost appealingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She watched the flow of the coffee before she answered. Then the brass urn
+swung back, and she lifted her face to hand him the cup.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You will not do anything so foolish, Leslie,” she said calmly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He took his cup, thanking her, and bent his face over the fragrant steam.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can easily catch the 7:15 from St. Pancras,” he replied, without looking up.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have I sweetened to your liking Cyril?” she asked, and then, as she stirred
+her coffee she added, “It is ridiculous Leslie! You catch the 7.15 and very
+probably miss the connection at Nottingham. You can’t have the motor-car there,
+because of the roads. Besides, it is absurd to come toiling home in the cold
+slushy night when you may just as well stay in London and be comfortable.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“At any rate I should get the 10.30 down to Lawton Hill,” he urged.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But there is no need,” she replied, “there is not the faintest need for you to
+come home to-night. It is really absurd of you. Think of all the discomfort!
+Indeed I should not want to come trailing dismally home at midnight, I should
+not indeed. You would be simply wretched. Stay and have a jolly evening with
+Cyril.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He kept his head bent over his plate and did not reply. His persistence
+irritated her slightly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That is what you can do!” she said. “Go to the pantomime. Or wait&mdash;go to
+Maeterlinck’s ‘Blue Bird.’ I am sure that is on somewhere. I wonder if Rebecca
+has destroyed yesterday’s paper. Do you mind touching the bell, Cyril?” Rebecca
+came, and the paper was discovered. Lettie carefully read the notices, and
+planned for us with zest a delightful programme for the evening. Leslie
+listened to it all in silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the time had come for our departure Lettie came with us into the hall to
+see that we were well wrapped up. Leslie had spoken very few words. She was
+conscious that he was deeply offended, but her manner was quite calm, and she
+petted us both brightly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-bye dear!” she said to him, when he came mutely to kiss her. “You know it
+would have been miserable for you to sit all those hours in the train at night.
+You will have ever such a jolly time. I know you will. I shall look for you
+to-morrow. Good-bye, then, Good-bye!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He went down the steps and into the car without looking at her. She waited in
+the doorway as we moved round. In the black-grey morning she seemed to harbour
+the glittering blue sky and the sunshine of March in her dress and her
+luxuriant hair. He did not look at her till we were curving to the great,
+snow-cumbered rhododendrons, when, at the last moment he stood up in a sudden
+panic to wave to her. Almost as he saw her the bushes came between them and he
+dropped dejectedly into his seat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-bye!” we heard her call cheerfully and tenderly like a blackbird.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good-bye!” I answered, and: “Good-bye Darling, Good-bye!” he cried, suddenly
+starting up in a passion of forgiveness and tenderness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The car went cautiously down the soddened white path, under the trees.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I suffered acutely the sickness of exile in Norwood. For weeks I wandered the
+streets of the suburb, haunted by the spirit of some part of Nethermere. As I
+went along the quiet roads where the lamps in yellow loneliness stood among the
+leafless trees of the night I would feel the feeling of the dark, wet bit of
+path between the wood meadow and the brooks. The spirit of that wild little
+slope to the Mill would come upon me, and there in the suburb of London I would
+walk wrapt in the sense of a small wet place in the valley of Nethermere. A
+strange voice within me rose and called for the hill path; again I could feel
+the wood waiting for me, calling and calling, and I crying for the wood, yet
+the space of many miles was between us. Since I left the valley of home I have
+not much feared any other loss. The hills of Nethermere had been my walls, and
+the sky of Nethermere my roof overhead. It seemed almost as if, at home, I
+might lift my hand to the ceiling of the valley, and touch my own beloved sky,
+whose familiar clouds came again and again to visit me, whose stars were
+constant to me, born when I was born, whose sun had been all my father to me.
+But now the skies were strange over my head, and Orion walked past me
+unnoticing, he who night after night had stood over the woods to spend with me
+a wonderful hour. When does day now lift up the confines of my dwelling place,
+when does the night throw open her vastness for me, and send me the stars for
+company? There is no night in a city. How can I lose myself in the magnificent
+forest of darkness when night is only a thin scattering of the trees of shadow
+with barrenness of lights between!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I could never lift my eyes save to the Crystal Palace, crouching, cowering
+wretchedly among the yellow-grey clouds, pricking up its two round towers like
+pillars of anxious misery. No landmark could have been more foreign to me, more
+depressing, than the great dilapidated palace which lay forever prostrate above
+us, fretting because of its own degradation and ruin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I watched the buds coming on the brown almond trees; I heard the blackbirds,
+and I saw the restless starlings; in the streets were many heaps of violets,
+and men held forward to me snowdrops whose white mute lips were pushed upwards
+in a bunch: but these things had no meaning for me, and little interest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Most eagerly I waited for my letters. Emily wrote to me very constantly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you find it quite exhilarating, almost intoxicating, to be so free? I
+think it is quite wonderful. At home you cannot live your own life. You have to
+struggle to keep even a little apart for yourself. It is so hard to stand aloof
+from our mothers, and yet they are only hurt and insulted if you tell them what
+is in your heart. It is such a relief not to have to be anything to anybody,
+but just to please yourself. I am sure mother and I have suffered a great deal
+from trying to keep up our old relations. Yet she would not let me go. When I
+come home in the evening and think that I needn’t say anything to anybody, nor
+do anything for anybody, but just have the evening for myself, I am overjoyed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I have begun to write a story&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again, a little later, she wrote:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As I go to school by Old Brayford village in the morning the birds are
+thrilling wonderfully and everything seems stirring. Very likely there will be
+a set-back, and after that spring will come in truth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When shall you come and see me? I cannot think of a spring without you. The
+railways are the only fine exciting things here&mdash;one is only a few yards
+away from school. All day long I am watching the great Midland trains go south.
+They are very lucky to be able to rush southward through the sunshine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The crows are very interesting. They flap past all the time we’re out in the
+yard. The railways and the crows make the charm of my life in Brayford. The
+other day I saw no end of pairs of crows. Do you remember what they say at
+home?&mdash;‘One for sorrow.’ Very often one solitary creature sits on the
+telegraph wires. I almost hate him when I look at him. I think my badge for
+life ought to be&mdash;one crow&mdash;&mdash;.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again, a little later:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I have been home for the week-end. Isn’t it nice to be made much of, to be an
+important cherished person for a little time? It is quite a new experience for
+me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The snowdrops are full out among the grass in the front garden&mdash;and such
+a lot. I imagined you must come in the sunshine of the Sunday afternoon to see
+them. It did not seem possible you should not. The winter aconites are out
+along the hedge. I knelt and kissed them. I have been so glad to go away, to
+breathe the free air of life, but I felt as if I could not come away from the
+aconites. I have sent you some&mdash;are they much withered?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now I am in my lodgings, I have the quite unusual feeling of being contented
+to stay here a little while&mdash;not long&mdash;not above a year, I am sure.
+But even to be contented for a little while is enough for me&mdash;&mdash;.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the beginning of March I had a letter from the father:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ll not see us again in the old place. We shall be gone in a fortnight. The
+things are most of them gone already. George has got Bob and Flower. I have
+sold three of the cows, Stafford, and Julia and Hannah. The place looks very
+empty. I don’t like going past the cowsheds, and we miss hearing the horses
+stamp at night. But I shall not be sorry when we have really gone. I begin to
+feel as if we’d stagnated here. I begin to feel as if I was settling and
+getting narrow and dull. It will be a new lease of life to get away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But I’m wondering how we shall be over there. Mrs. Saxton feels very nervous
+about going. But at the worst we can but come back. I feel as if I must go
+somewhere, it’s stagnation and starvation for us here. I wish George would come
+with me. I never thought he would have taken to public-house keeping, but he
+seems to like it all right. He was down with Meg on Sunday. Mrs. Saxton says
+he’s getting a public-house tone. He is certainly much livelier, more full of
+talk than he was. Meg and he seem very comfortable, I’m glad to say. He’s got a
+good milk-round, and I’ve no doubt but what he’ll do well. He is very cautious
+at the bottom; he’ll never lose much if he never makes much.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sam and David are very great friends. I’m glad I’ve got the boy. We often talk
+of you. It would be very lonely if it wasn’t for the excitement of selling
+things and so on. Mrs. Saxton hopes you will stick by George. She worries a bit
+about him, thinking he may go wrong. I don’t think he will ever go far. But I
+should be glad to know you were keeping friends. Mrs. Saxton says she will
+write to you about it&mdash;&mdash;.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George was a very poor correspondent. I soon ceased to expect a letter from
+him. I received one directly after the father’s.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My Dear Cyril,
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Forgive me for not having written you before, but you see, I cannot sit down
+and write to you any time. If I cannot do it just when I am in the mood, I
+cannot do it at all. And it so often happens that the mood comes upon me when I
+am in the fields at work, when it is impossible to write. Last night I sat by
+myself in the kitchen on purpose to write to you, and then I could not. All
+day, at Greymede, when I was drilling in the fallow at the back of the church,
+I had been thinking of you, and I could have written there if I had had
+materials, but I had not, and at night I could not.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am sorry to say that in my last letter I did not thank you for the books. I
+have not read them both, but I have nearly finished Evelyn Innes. I get a bit
+tired of it towards the end. I do not do much reading now. There seems to be
+hardly any chance for me, either somebody is crying for me in the smoke room,
+or there is some business, or else Meg won’t let me. She doesn’t like me to
+read at night, she says I ought to talk to her, so I have to.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is half-past seven, and I am sitting ready dressed to go and talk to Harry
+Jackson about a young horse he wants to sell to me. He is in pretty low water,
+and it will make a pretty good horse. But I don’t care much whether I have it
+or not. The mood seized me to write to you. Somehow at the bottom I feel
+miserable and heavy, yet there is no need. I am making pretty good money, and
+I’ve got all I want. But when I’ve been ploughing and getting the oats in those
+fields on the hillside at the back of Greymede church, I’ve felt as if I didn’t
+care whether I got on or not. It’s very funny. Last week I made over five
+pounds clear, one way and another, and yet now I’m as restless, and
+discontented as I can be, and I seem eager for something, but I don’t know what
+it is. Sometimes I wonder where I am going. Yesterday I watched broken white
+masses of cloud sailing across the sky in a fresh strong wind. They all seemed
+to be going somewhere. I wondered where the wind was blowing them. I don’t seem
+to have hold on anything, do I? Can you tell me what I want at the bottom of my
+heart? I wish you were here, then I think I should not feel like this. But
+generally I don’t, generally I am quite jolly, and busy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“By jove, here’s Harry Jackson come for me. I will finish this letter when I
+get back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“&mdash;&mdash;I have got back, we have turned out, but I cannot finish. I
+cannot tell you all about it. I’ve had a little row with Meg. Oh, I’ve had a
+rotten time. But I cannot tell you about it to-night, it is late, and I am
+tired, and have a headache. Some other time perhaps&mdash;&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+GEORGE SAXTON.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The spring came bravely, even in south London, and the town was filled with
+magic. I never knew the sumptuous purple of evening till I saw the round
+arc-lamps fill with light, and roll like golden bubbles along the purple dusk
+of the high road. Everywhere at night the city is filled with the magic of
+lamps: over the river they pour in golden patches their floating luminous oil
+on the restless darkness; the bright lamps float in and out of the cavern of
+London Bridge Station like round shining bees in and out of a black hive; in
+the suburbs the street lamps glimmer with the brightness of lemons among the
+trees. I began to love the town.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the mornings I loved to move in the aimless street’s procession, watching
+the faces come near to me, with the sudden glance of dark eyes, watching the
+mouths of the women blossom with talk as they passed, watching the subtle
+movements of the shoulders of men beneath their coats, and the naked warmth of
+their necks that went glowing along the street. I loved the city intensely for
+its movement of men and women, the soft, fascinating flow of the limbs of men
+and women, and the sudden flash of eyes and lips as they pass. Among all the
+faces of the street my attention roved like a bee which clambers drunkenly
+among blue flowers. I became intoxicated with the strange nectar which I sipped
+out of the eyes of the passers-by.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I did not know how time was hastening by on still bright wings, till I saw the
+scarlet hawthorn flaunting over the road, and the lime-buds lit up like wine
+drops in the sun, and the pink scarves of the lime-buds pretty as louse-wort
+a-blossom in the gutters, and a silver-pink tangle of almond boughs against the
+blue sky. The lilacs came out, and in the pensive stillness of the suburb, at
+night, came the delicious tarry scent of lilac flowers, wakening a silent
+laughter of romance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Across all this, strangely, came the bleak sounds of home. Alice wrote to me at
+the end of May:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Cyril dear, prepare yourself. Meg has got twins&mdash;yesterday. I went up to
+see how she was this afternoon, not knowing anything, and there I found a pair
+of bubs in the nest, and old ma Stainwright bossing the show. I nearly fainted.
+Sybil dear, I hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry when I saw those two rummy
+little round heads, like two larch cones cheek by cheek on a twig. One is a
+darkie, with lots of black hair, and the other is red, would you believe it,
+just lit up with thin red hair like a flicker of firelight. I gasped. I believe
+I did shed a few tears, though what for, I don’t know.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The old grandma is a perfect old wretch over it. She lies chuckling and
+passing audible remarks in the next room, as pleased as punch really, but so
+mad because ma Stainwright wouldn’t have them taken in to her. You should have
+heard her when we took them in at last. They are both boys. She did make a
+fuss, poor old woman. I think she’s going a bit funny in the head. She seemed
+sometimes to think they were hers, and you should have heard her, the way she
+talked to them, it made me feel quite funny. She wanted them lying against her
+on the pillow, so that she could feel them with her face. I shed a few more
+tears, Sybil. I think I must be going dotty also. But she came round when we
+took them away, and began to chuckle to herself, and talk about the things
+she’d say to George when he came&mdash;awful shocking things, Sybil, made me
+blush dreadfully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Georgie didn’t know about it then. He was down at Bingham, buying some horses,
+I believe. He seems to have got a craze for buying horses. He got in with Harry
+Jackson and Mayhew’s sons&mdash;you know, they were horse dealers&mdash;at
+least their father was. You remember he died bankrupt about three years ago.
+There are Fred and Duncan left, and they pretend to keep on the old business.
+They are always up at the Ram, and Georgie is always driving about with them. I
+don’t like it&mdash;they are a loose lot, rather common, and poor enough now.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I thought I’d wait and see Georgie. He came about half-past five. Meg
+had been fidgeting about him, wondering where he was, and how he was, and so
+on. Bless me if I’d worry and whittle about a man. The old grandma heard the
+cart, and before he could get down she shouted&mdash;you know her room is in
+the front&mdash;‘Hi, George, ma lad, sharpen thy shins an’ com’ an’ a’e a look
+at ’em&mdash;thee’r’s two on ’em, two on ’em!’ and she laughed something awful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘’Ello Granma, what art ter shoutin’ about?’ he said, and at the sound of his
+voice Meg turned to me so pitiful, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘He’s been wi’ them Mayhews.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘Tha’s gotten twins, a couple at a go ma lad!’ shouted the old woman, and you
+know how she gives squeal before she laughs! She made the horse shy, and he
+swore at it something awful. Then Bill took it, and Georgie came upstairs. I
+saw Meg seem to shrink when she heard him kick at the stairs as he came up, and
+she went white. When he got to the top he came in. He fairly reeked of whisky
+and horses. Bah, a man is hateful when he reeks of drink! He stood by the side
+of the bed grinning like a fool, and saying, quite thick:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘You’ve bin in a bit of a ’urry, ’aven’t you Meg. An’ how are ter feelin’
+then?’
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘Oh, I’m a’ right,’ said Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘Is it twins, straight?’ he said, ‘wheer is ’em?’
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Meg looked over at the cradle, and he went round the bed to it, holding to the
+bed-rail. He had never kissed her, nor anything. When he saw the twins, asleep
+with their fists shut tight as wax, he gave a laugh as if he was amused, and
+said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘Two right enough&mdash;an’ one on ’em red! Which is the girl, Meg, the black
+un?’
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘They’re both boys,’ said Meg, quite timidly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He turned round, and his eyes went little.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘Blast ’em then!’ he said. He stood there looking like a devil. Sybil dear, I
+did not know our George could look like that. I thought he could only look like
+a faithful dog or a wounded stag. But he looked fiendish. He stood watching the
+poor little twins, scowling at them, till at last the little red one began to
+whine a bit. Ma Stainwright came pushing her fat carcass in front of him and
+bent over the baby, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘Why, my pretty, what are they doin’ to thee, what are they?&mdash;what are
+they doin’ to thee?’
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Georgie scowled blacker than ever, and went out, lurching against the
+wash-stand and making the pots rattle till my heart jumped in my throat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘Well, if you don’t call that scandylos&mdash;&mdash;!’ said old Ma
+Stainwright, and Meg began to cry. You don’t know, Cyril! She sobbed fit to
+break her heart. I felt as if I could have killed him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That old gran’ma began talking to him, and he laughed at her. I do hate to
+hear a man laugh when he’s half drunk. It makes my blood boil all of a sudden.
+That old grandmother backs him up in everything, she’s a regular nuisance. Meg
+has cried to me before over the pair of them. The wicked, vulgar old thing that
+she is&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went home to Woodside early in September. Emily was staying at the Ram. It
+was strange that everything was so different. Nethermere even had changed.
+Nethermere was no longer a complete, wonderful little world that held us
+charmed inhabitants. It was a small, insignificant valley lost in the spaces of
+the earth. The tree that had drooped over the brook with such delightful,
+romantic grace was a ridiculous thing when I came home after a year of absence
+in the south. The old symbols were trite and foolish.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily and I went down one morning to Strelley Mill. The house was occupied by a
+labourer and his wife, strangers from the north. He was tall, very thin, and
+silent, strangely suggesting kinship with the rats of the place. She was small
+and very active, like some ragged domestic fowl run wild. Already Emily had
+visited her, so she invited us into the kitchen of the mill, and set forward
+the chairs for us. The large room had the barren air of a cell. There was a
+small table stranded towards the fireplace, and a few chairs by the walls; for
+the rest, desert spaces of flagged floor retreating into shadow. On the walls
+by the windows were five cages of canaries, and the small sharp movements of
+the birds made the room more strange in its desolation. When we began to talk
+the birds began to sing, till we were quite bewildered, for the little woman
+spoke Glasgow Scotch, and she had a hare lip. She rose and ran toward the
+cages, crying herself like some wild fowl, and flapping a duster at the
+warbling canaries.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Stop it, stop it!” she cried, shaking her thin weird body at them. “Silly
+little devils, fools, fools, fools!!” and she flapped the duster till the birds
+were subdued. Then she brought us delicious scones and apple jelly, urging us,
+almost nudging us with her thin elbows to make us eat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you like ’em, don’t you? Well eat ’em, eat ’em then. Go on Emily, go on,
+eat some more. Only don’t tell Tom&mdash;don’t tell Tom when ’e comes
+in,”&mdash;she shook her head and laughed her shrilling, weird laughter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As we were going she came out with us, and went running on in front. We could
+not help noting how ragged and unkempt was her short black skirt. But she
+hastened around us, hither and thither like an excited fowl, talking in her
+high-pitched, unintelligible manner. I could not believe the brooding mill was
+in her charge. I could not think this was the Strelley Mill of a year ago. She
+fluttered up the steep orchard bank in front of us. Happening to turn round and
+see Emily and me smiling at each other she began to laugh her strident, weird
+laughter saying, with a leer:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Emily, he’s your sweetheart, your sweetheart Emily! You never told me!” and
+she laughed aloud.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We blushed furiously. She came away from the edge of the sluice gully, nearer
+to us, crying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ve been here o’ nights, haven’t you Emily&mdash;haven’t you?” and she
+laughed again. Then she sat down suddenly, and pointing above our heads,
+shrieked:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, look there”&mdash;we looked and saw the mistletoe. “Look at her, look at
+her! How many kisses a night, Emily?&mdash;Ha! Ha! kisses all the year! Kisses
+o’ nights in a lonely place.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She went on wildly for a short time, then she dropped her voice and talked in
+low, pathetic tones. She pressed on us scones and jelly and oat-cakes, and we
+left her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we were out on the road by the brook Emily looked at me with shamefaced,
+laughing eyes. I noticed a small movement of her lips, and in an instant I
+found myself kissing her, laughing with some of the little woman’s
+wildness.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER IV<br/>
+DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE RAM</h2>
+
+<p>
+George was very anxious to receive me at his home. The Ram had as yet only a
+six days licence, so on Sunday afternoon I walked over to tea. It was very warm
+and still and sunny as I came through Greymede. A few sweethearts were
+sauntering under the horse-chestnut trees, or crossing the road to go into the
+fields that lay smoothly carpeted after the hay-harvest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I came round the flagged track to the kitchen door of the Inn I heard the
+slur of a baking tin and the bang of the oven door, and Meg saying crossly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, don’t you take him Emily&mdash;naughty little thing! Let his father hold
+him!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One of the babies was crying.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I entered, and found Meg all flushed and untidy, wearing a large white apron,
+just rising from the oven. Emily, in a cream dress, was taking a red-haired,
+crying baby from out of the cradle. George sat in the small arm-chair, smoking
+and looking cross.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t shake hands,” said Meg, rather flurried. “I am all floury. Sit down,
+will you&mdash;&mdash;” and she hurried out of the room. Emily looked up from
+the complaining baby to me and smiled a woman’s rare, intimate smile, which
+says: “See, I am engaged thus for a moment, but I keep my heart for you all the
+time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George rose and offered me the round arm-chair. It was the highest honour he
+could do me. He asked me what I would drink. When I refused everything, he sat
+down heavily on the sofa, frowning, and angrily cudgelling his wits for
+something to say&mdash;in vain.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The room was large and comfortably furnished with rush-chairs, a glass-knobbed
+dresser, a cupboard with glass doors, perched on a shelf in the corner, and the
+usual large sofa whose cosy loose-bed and pillows were covered with red cotton
+stuff. There was a peculiar reminiscence of victuals and drink in the room;
+beer, and a touch of spirits, and bacon. Teenie, the sullen, black-browed
+servant girl came in carrying the other baby, and Meg called from the scullery
+to ask her if the child were asleep. Meg was evidently in a bustle and a
+flurry, a most uncomfortable state.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” replied Teenie, “he’s not for sleep this day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mend the fire and see to the oven, and then put him his frock on,” replied Meg
+testily. Teenie set the black-haired baby in the second cradle. Immediately he
+began to cry, or rather to shout his remonstrance. George went across to him
+and picked up a white furry rabbit, which he held before the child:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here, look at bun-bun! Have your nice rabbit! Hark at it squeaking!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The baby listened for a moment, then, deciding that this was only a put-off,
+began to cry again. George threw down the rabbit and took the baby, swearing
+inwardly. He dandled the child on his knee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What’s up then?&mdash;What’s up wi’ thee? Have a ride
+then&mdash;dee-de-dee-de-dee!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But the baby knew quite well what was the father’s feeling towards him, and he
+continued to cry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hurry up, Teenie!” said George as the maid rattled the coal on the fire. Emily
+was walking about hushing her charge, and smiling at me, so that I had a
+peculiar pleasure in gathering for myself the honey of endearment which she
+shed on the lips of the baby. George handed over his child to the maid, and
+said to me with patient sarcasm:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will you come in the garden?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I rose and followed him across the sunny flagged yard, along the path between
+the bushes. He lit his pipe and sauntered along as a man on his own estate
+does, feeling as if he were untrammeled by laws or conventions.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know,” he said, “she’s a dam rotten manager.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I laughed, and remarked how full of plums the trees were.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes!” he replied heedlessly&mdash;“you know she ought to have sent the girl
+out with the kids this afternoon, and have got dressed directly. But no, she
+must sit gossiping with Emily all the time they were asleep, and then as soon
+as they wake up she begins to make cake&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose she felt she’d enjoy a pleasant chat, all quiet,” I answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But she knew quite well you were coming, and what it would be. But a woman’s
+no dam foresight.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay, what does it matter!” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sunday’s the only day we can have a bit of peace, so she might keep ’em quiet
+then.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose it was the only time, too, that she could have a quiet gossip,” I
+replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you don’t know,” he said, “there seems to be never a minute of freedom.
+Teenie sleeps in now, and lives with us in the kitchen&mdash;Oswald as
+well&mdash;so I never know what it is to have a moment private. There doesn’t
+seem a single spot anywhere where I can sit quiet. It’s the kids all day, and
+the kids all night, and the servants, and then all the men in the house&mdash;I
+sometimes feel as if I should like to get away. I shall leave the pub as soon
+as I can&mdash;only Meg doesn’t want to.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But if you leave the public-house&mdash;what then?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should like to get back on a farm. This is no sort of a place, really, for
+farming. I’ve always got some business on hand, there’s a traveller to see, or
+I’ve got to go to the brewers, or I’ve somebody to look at a horse, or
+something. Your life’s all messed up. If I had a place of my own, and farmed it
+in peace&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’d be as miserable as you could be,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Perhaps so,” he assented, in his old reflective manner. “Perhaps so! Anyhow, I
+needn’t bother, for I feel as if I never shall go back&mdash;to the land.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Which means at the bottom of your heart you don’t intend to,” I said laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Perhaps so!” he again yielded. “You see I’m doing pretty well here&mdash;apart
+from the public-house: I always think that’s Meg’s. Come and look in the
+stable. I’ve got a shire mare and two nags: pretty good. I went down to Melton
+Mowbray with Tom Mayhew, to a chap they’ve had dealings with. Tom’s all right,
+and he knows how to buy, but he is such a lazy careless devil, too lazy to be
+bothered to sell&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George was evidently interested. As we went round to the stables, Emily came
+out with the baby, which was dressed in a new silk frock. She advanced, smiling
+to me with dark eyes:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“See, now he is good! Doesn’t he look pretty?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She held the baby for me to look at. I glanced at it, but I was only conscious
+of the near warmth of her cheek, and of the scent of her hair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who is he like?” I asked, looking up and finding myself full in her eyes. The
+question was quite irrelevant: her eyes spoke a whole clear message that made
+my heart throb; yet she answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who is he? Why, nobody, of course! But he <i>will</i> be like father, don’t
+you think?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The question drew my eyes to hers again, and again we looked each other the
+strange intelligence that made her flush and me breathe in as I smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay! Blue eyes like your father’s&mdash;not like yours&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again the wild messages in her looks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!” she answered very softly. “And I think he’ll be jolly, like
+father&mdash;they have neither of them our eyes, have they?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” I answered, overcome by a sudden hot flush of tenderness. “No&mdash;not
+vulnerable. To have such soft, vulnerable eyes as you used makes one feel
+nervous and irascible. But you have clothed over the sensitiveness of yours,
+haven’t you?&mdash;like naked life, naked defenceless protoplasm they were, is
+it not so?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She laughed, and at the old painful memories she dilated in the old way, and I
+felt the old tremor at seeing her soul flung quivering on my pity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And were mine like that?” asked George, who had come up.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He must have perceived the bewilderment of my look as I tried to adjust myself
+to him. A slight shadow, a slight chagrin appeared on his face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” I answered, “yes&mdash;but not so bad. You never gave yourself away so
+much&mdash;you were most cautious: but just as defenceless.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And am I altered?” he asked, with quiet irony, as if he knew I was not
+interested in him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, more cautious. You keep in the shadow. But Emily has clothed herself, and
+can now walk among the crowd at her own gait.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was with an effort I refrained from putting my lips to kiss her at that
+moment as she looked at me with womanly dignity and tenderness. Then I
+remembered, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you are taking me to the stable George! Come and see the horses too,
+Emily.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will. I admire them so much,” she replied, and thus we both indulged him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He talked to his horses and of them, laying his hand upon them, running over
+their limbs. The glossy, restless animals interested him more than anything. He
+broke into a little flush of enthusiasm over them. They were his new interest.
+They were quiet and yet responsive; he was their master and owner. This gave
+him real pleasure.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But the baby became displeased again. Emily looked at me for sympathy with him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is a little wanderer,” she said, “he likes to be always moving. Perhaps he
+objects to the ammonia of stables too,” she added, frowning and laughing
+slightly, “it is not very agreeable, is it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not particularly,” I agreed, and as she moved off I went with her, leaving him
+in the stables. When Emily and I were alone we sauntered aimlessly back to the
+garden. She persisted in talking to the baby, and in talking to me about the
+baby, till I wished the child in Jericho. This made her laugh, and she
+continued to tantalise me. The holly-hock flowers of the second whorl were
+flushing to the top of the spires. The bees, covered with pale crumbs of
+pollen, were swaying a moment outside the wide gates of the florets, then they
+swung in with excited hum, and clung madly to the fury white capitols, and
+worked riotously round the waxy bases. Emily held out the baby to watch,
+talking all the time in low, fond tones. The child stretched towards the bright
+flowers. The sun glistened on his smooth hair as on bronze dust, and the
+wondering blue eyes of the baby followed the bees. Then he made small sounds,
+and suddenly waved his hands, like rumpled pink holly-hock buds.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look!” said Emily, “look at the little bees! Ah, but you mustn’t touch them,
+they bite. They’re coming!” she cried, with sudden laughing apprehension,
+drawing the child away. He made noises of remonstrance. She put him near to the
+flowers again till he knocked the spire with his hand and two indignant bees
+came sailing out. Emily drew back quickly crying in alarm, then laughing with
+excited eyes at me, as if she had just escaped a peril in my presence. Thus she
+teased me by flinging me all kinds of bright gages of love while she kept me
+aloof because of the child. She laughed with pure pleasure at this state of
+affairs, and delighted the more when I frowned, till at last I swallowed my
+resentment and laughed too, playing with the hands of the baby, and watching
+his blue eyes change slowly like a softly sailing sky.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Presently Meg called us in to tea. She wore a dress of fine blue stuff with
+cream silk embroidery, and she looked handsome, for her hair was very hastily
+dressed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What, have you had that child all this time?” she exclaimed, on seeing Emily.
+“Where is his father?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know&mdash;we left him in the stable, didn’t we Cyril? But I like
+nursing him, Meg. I like it ever so much,” replied Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes, you may be sure George would get off it if he could. He’s always in
+the stable. As I tell him, he fair stinks of horses. He’s not that fond of the
+children, I can tell you. Come on, my pet&mdash;why, come to its mammy.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She took the baby and kissed it passionately, and made extravagant love to it.
+A clean shaven young man with thick bare arms went across the yard.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here, just look and tell George as tea is ready,” said Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where is he?” asked Oswald, the sturdy youth who attended to the farm
+business.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know where to find him,” replied Meg, with that careless freedom which was
+so subtly derogatory to her husband.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George came hurrying from the out-building. “What, is it tea already?” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a wonder you haven’t been crying out for it this last hour,” said Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a marvel you’ve got dressed so quick,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, is it?” she answered&mdash;“well, it’s not with any of your help that I’ve
+done it, that is a fact. Where’s Teenie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The maid, short, stiffly built, very dark and sullen looking, came forward from
+the gate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Can you take Alfy as well, just while we have tea?” she asked. Teenie replied
+that she should think she could, whereupon she was given the ruddy-haired baby,
+as well as the dark one. She sat with them on a seat at the end of the yard. We
+proceeded to tea.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a very great spread. There were hot cakes, three or four kinds of cold
+cakes, tinned apricots, jellies, tinned lobster, and trifles in the way of jam,
+cream, and rum.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know what those cakes are like,” said Meg. “I made them in such a
+fluster. Really, you have to do things as best you can when you’ve got
+children&mdash;especially when there’s two. I never seem to have time to do my
+hair up even&mdash;look at it now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She put up her hands to her head, and I could not help noticing how grimy and
+rough were her nails.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The tea was going on pleasantly when one of the babies began to cry. Teenie
+bent over it crooning gruffly. I leaned back and looked out of the door to
+watch her. I thought of the girl in Tchekoff’s story, who smothered her charge,
+and I hoped the grim Teenie would not be driven to such desperation. The other
+child joined in this chorus. Teenie rose from her seat and walked about the
+yard, gruffly trying to soothe the twins.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s a funny thing, but whenever anybody comes they’re sure to be cross,” said
+Meg, beginning to simmer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They’re no different from ordinary,” said George, “it’s only that you’re
+forced to notice it then.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, it is not!” cried Meg in a sudden passion: “Is it now, Emily? Of course,
+he has to say something! Weren’t they as good as gold this morning,
+Emily?&mdash;and yesterday!&mdash;why they never murmured, as good as gold they
+were. But he wants them to be as dumb as fishes: he’d like them shutting up in
+a box as soon as they make a bit of noise.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I was not saying anything about it,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, you were,” she retorted. “I don’t know what you call it
+then&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The babies outside continued to cry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Bring Alfy to me,” called Meg, yielding to the mother feeling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, no, damn it!” said George, “let Oswald take him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” replied Meg bitterly, “let anybody take him so long as he’s out of your
+sight. You never ought to have children, you didn’t&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George murmured something about “to-day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come then!” said Meg with a whole passion of tenderness, as she took the
+red-haired baby and held it to her bosom, “Why, what is it then, what is it, my
+precious? Hush then pet, hush then!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The baby did not hush. Meg rose from her chair and stood rocking the baby in
+her arms, swaying from one foot to the other.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’s got a bit of wind,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We tried to continue the meal, but everything was awkward and difficult.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wonder if he’s hungry,” said Meg, “let’s try him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She turned away and gave him her breast. Then he was still, so she covered
+herself as much as she could, and sat down again to tea. We had finished, so we
+sat and waited while she ate. This disjointing of the meal, by reflex action,
+made Emily and me more accurate. We were exquisitely attentive, and polite to a
+nicety. Our very speech was clipped with precision, as we drifted to a
+discussion of Strauss and Debussy. This of course put a breach between us two
+and our hosts, but we could not help it; it was our only way of covering over
+the awkwardness of the occasion. George sat looking glum and listening to us.
+Meg was quite indifferent. She listened occasionally, but her position as
+mother made her impregnable. She sat eating calmly, looking down now and again
+at her baby, holding us in slight scorn, babblers that we were. She was secure
+in her high maternity; she was mistress and sole authority. George, as father,
+was first servant; as an indifferent father, she humiliated him and was hostile
+to his wishes. Emily and I were mere intruders, feeling ourselves such. After
+tea we went upstairs to wash our hands. The grandmother had had a second stroke
+of paralysis, and lay inert, almost stupified. Her large bulk upon the bed was
+horrible to me, and her face, with the muscles all slack and awry, seemed like
+some cruel cartoon. She spoke a few thick words to me. George asked her if she
+felt all right, or should he rub her. She turned her old eyes slowly to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My leg&mdash;my leg a bit,” she said in her strange guttural.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He took off his coat, and pushing his hand under the bed-clothes, sat rubbing
+the poor old woman’s limb patiently, slowly, for some time. She watched him for
+a moment, then without her turning her eyes from him, he passed out of her
+vision and she lay staring at nothing, in his direction.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There,” he said at last, “is that any better then, mother?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay, that’s a bit better,” she said slowly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Should I gi’e thee a drink?” he asked, lingering, wishing to minister all he
+could to her before he went.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked at him, and he brought the cup. She swallowed a few drops with
+difficulty.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Doesn’t it make you miserable to have her always there?” I asked him, when we
+were in the next room. He sat down on the large white bed and laughed shortly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We’re used to it&mdash;we never notice her, poor old gran’ma.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But she must have made a difference to you&mdash;she must make a big
+difference at the bottom, even if you don’t know it,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She’d got such a strong character,” he said musing, “&mdash;she seemed to
+understand me. She was a real friend to me before she was so bad. Sometimes I
+happen to look at her&mdash;generally I never see her, you know how I
+mean&mdash;but sometimes I do&mdash;and then&mdash;it seems a bit
+rotten&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He smiled at me peculiarly, “&mdash;it seems to take the shine off things,” he
+added, and then, smiling again with ugly irony&mdash;“She’s our skeleton in the
+closet.” He indicated her large bulk.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The church bells began to ring. The grey church stood on a rise among the
+fields not far away, like a handsome old stag looking over towards the inn. The
+five bells began to play, and the sound came beating upon the window.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hate Sunday night,” he said restlessly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because you’ve nothing to do?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” he said. “It seems like a gag, and you feel helpless. I don’t
+want to go to church, and hark at the bells, they make you feel uncomfortable.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you generally do?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Feel miserable&mdash;I’ve been down to Mayhew’s these last two Sundays, and
+Meg’s been pretty mad. She says it’s the only night I could stop with her, or
+go out with her. But if I stop with her, what can I do?&mdash;and if we go out,
+it’s only for half an hour. I hate Sunday night&mdash;it’s a dead end.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we went downstairs, the table was cleared, and Meg was bathing the dark
+baby. Thus she was perfect. She handled the bonny, naked child with beauty of
+gentleness. She kneeled over him nobly. Her arms and her bosom and her throat
+had a nobility of roundness and softness. She drooped her head with the grace
+of a Madonna, and her movements were lovely, accurate and exquisite, like an
+old song perfectly sung. Her voice, playing and soothing round the curved limbs
+of the baby, was like water, soft as wine in the sun, running with delight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We watched humbly, sharing the wonder from afar.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily was very envious of Meg’s felicity. She begged to be allowed to bathe the
+second baby. Meg granted her bounteous permission:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, you can wash him if you like, but what about your frock?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily, delighted, began to undress the baby whose hair was like crocus petals.
+Her fingers trembled with pleasure as she loosed the little tapes. I always
+remember the inarticulate delight with which she took the child in her hands,
+when at last his little shirt was removed, and felt his soft white limbs and
+body. A distinct, glowing atmosphere seemed suddenly to burst out around her
+and the child, leaving me outside. The moment before she had been very near to
+me, her eyes searching mine, her spirit clinging timidly about me. Now I was
+put away, quite alone, neglected, forgotten, outside the glow which surrounded
+the woman and the baby.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ha!&mdash;Ha-a-a!” she said with a deep throated vowel, as she put her face
+against the child’s small breasts, so round, almost like a girl’s, silken and
+warm and wonderful. She kissed him, and touched him, and hovered over him,
+drinking in his baby sweetnesses, the sweetness of the laughing little mouth’s
+wide, wet kisses, of the round, waving limbs, of the little shoulders so
+winsomely curving to the arms and the breasts, of the tiny soft neck hidden
+very warm beneath the chin, tasting deliciously with her lips and her cheeks
+all the exquisite softness, silkiness, warmth, and tender life of the baby’s
+body.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A woman is so ready to disclaim the body of a man’s love; she yields him her
+own soft beauty with so much gentle patience and regret; she clings to his
+neck, to his head and his cheeks, fondling them for the soul’s meaning that is
+there, and shrinking from his passionate limbs and his body. It was with some
+perplexity, some anger and bitterness that I watched Emily moved almost to
+ecstasy by the baby’s small, innocuous person.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Meg never found any pleasure in me as she does in the kids,” said George
+bitterly, for himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The child, laughing and crowing, caught his hands in Emily’s hair and pulled
+dark tresses down, while she cried out in remonstrance, and tried to loosen the
+small fists that were shut so fast. She took him from the water and rubbed him
+dry, with marvellous gentle little rubs, he kicking and expostulating. She
+brought his fine hair into one silken up-springing of ruddy gold like an
+aureole. She played with his tiny balls of toes, like wee pink mushrooms, till
+at last she dare detain him no longer, when she put on his flannel and his
+night-gown and gave him to Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Before carrying him to bed Meg took him to feed him. His mouth was stretched
+round the nipple as he sucked, his face was pressed close and closer to the
+breast, his fingers wandered over the fine white globe, blue veined and heavy,
+trying to hold it. Meg looked down upon him with a consuming passion of
+tenderness, and Emily clasped her hands and leaned forward to him. Even thus
+they thought him exquisite.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the twins were both asleep, I must tiptoe upstairs to see them. They lay
+cheek by cheek in the crib next the large white bed, breathing little, ruffling
+breaths, out of unison, so small and pathetic with their tiny shut fingers. I
+remembered the two larks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From the next room came a heavy sound of the old woman’s breathing. Meg went in
+to her. As in passing I caught sight of the large, prone figure in the bed, I
+thought of Guy de Maupassant’s “Toine,” who acted as an incubator.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER V<br/>
+THE DOMINANT MOTIF OF SUFFERING</h2>
+
+<p>
+The old woman lay still another year, then she suddenly sank out of life.
+George ceased to write to me, but I learned his news elsewhere. He became more
+and more intimate with the Mayhews. After old Mayhew’s bankruptcy, the two sons
+had remained on in the large dark house that stood off the Nottingham Road in
+Eberwich. This house had been bequeathed to the oldest daughter by the mother.
+Maud Mayhew, who was married and separated from her husband, kept house for her
+brothers. She was a tall, large woman with high cheek-bones and oily black hair
+looped over her ears. Tom Mayhew was also a handsome man, very dark and ruddy,
+with insolent bright eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Mayhews’ house was called the “Hollies.” It was a solid building, of old
+red brick, standing fifty yards back from the Eberwich highroad. Between it and
+the road was an unkempt lawn, surrounded by very high black holly trees. The
+house seemed to be imprisoned among the bristling hollies. Passing through the
+large gate, one came immediately upon the bare side of the house and upon the
+great range of stables. Old Mayhew had in his day stabled thirty or more horses
+there. Now grass was between the red bricks, and all the bleaching doors were
+shut, save perhaps two or three which were open for George’s horses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The “Hollies” became a kind of club for the disconsolate, “better-off” men of
+the district. The large dining-room was gloomily and sparsely furnished, the
+drawing-room was a desert, but the smaller morning-room was comfortable enough,
+with wicker arm-chairs, heavy curtains, and a large sideboard. In this room
+George and the Mayhews met with several men two or three times a week. There
+they discussed horses and made mock of the authority of women. George provided
+the whisky, and they all gambled timidly at cards. These bachelor parties were
+the source of great annoyance to the wives of the married men who attended
+them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He’s quite unbearable when he’s been at those Mayhews’,” said Meg. “I’m sure
+they do nothing but cry us down.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maud Mayhew kept apart from these meetings, watching over her two children. She
+had been very unhappily married, and now was reserved, silent. The women of
+Eberwich watched her as she went swiftly along the street in the morning with
+her basket, and they gloried a little in her overthrow, because she was too
+proud to accept consolation, yet they were sorry in their hearts for her, and
+she was never touched with calumny. George saw her frequently, but she treated
+him coldly as she treated the other men, so he was afraid of her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He had more facilities now for his horse-dealing. When the grandmother died, in
+the October two years after the marriage of George she left him seven hundred
+pounds. To Meg she left the Inn, and the two houses she had built in Newerton,
+together with brewery shares to the value of nearly a thousand pounds. George
+and Meg felt themselves to be people of property. The result, however, was only
+a little further coldness between them. He was very careful that she had all
+that was hers. She said to him once when they were quarrelling, that he needn’t
+go feeding the Mayhews on the money that came out of her business.
+Thenceforward he kept strict accounts of all his affairs, and she must audit
+them, receiving her exact dues. This was a mortification to her woman’s
+capricious soul of generosity and cruelty.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Christmas after the grandmother’s death another son was born to them. For
+the time George and Meg became very good friends again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When in the following March I heard he was coming down to London with Tom
+Mayhew on business, I wrote and asked him to stay with me. Meg replied, saying
+she was so glad I had asked him: she did not want him going off with that
+fellow again; he had been such a lot better lately, and she was sure it was
+only those men at Mayhew’s made him what he was.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He consented to stay with me. I wrote and told him Lettie and Leslie were in
+London, and that we should dine with them one evening. I met him at King’s
+Cross and we all three drove west. Mayhew was a remarkably handsome, well-built
+man; he and George made a notable couple. They were both in breeches and
+gaiters, but George still looked like a yeoman, while Mayhew had all the
+braggadocio of the stable. We made an impossible trio. Mayhew laughed and
+jested broadly for a short time, then he grew restless and fidgety. He felt
+restrained and awkward in my presence. Later, he told George I was a damned
+parson. On the other hand, I was content to look at his rather vulgar
+beauty&mdash;his teeth were blackened with smoking&mdash;and to listen to his
+ineffectual talk, but I could find absolutely no response. George was
+go-between. To me he was cautious and rather deferential, to Mayhew he was
+careless, and his attitude was tinged with contempt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the son of the horse-dealer at last left us to go to some of his father’s
+old cronies, we were glad. Very uncertain, very sensitive and wavering, our old
+intimacy burned again like the fragile burning of alcohol. Closed together in
+the same blue flames, we discovered and watched the pageant of life in the town
+revealed wonderfully to us. We laughed at the tyranny of old romance. We
+scorned the faded procession of old years, and made mock of the vast pilgrimage
+of by-gone romances travelling farther into the dim distance. Were we not in
+the midst of the bewildering pageant of modern life, with all its confusion of
+bannerets and colours, with its infinite interweaving of sounds, the screech of
+the modern toys of haste striking like keen spray, the heavy boom of busy
+mankind gathering its bread, earnestly, forming the bed of all other sounds;
+and between these two the swiftness of songs, the triumphant tilt of the joy of
+life, the hoarse oboes of privation, the shuddering drums of tragedy, and the
+eternal scraping of the two deep-toned strings of despair?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We watched the taxicabs coursing with their noses down to the street, we
+watched the rocking hansoms, and the lumbering stateliness of buses. In the
+silent green cavern of the park we stood and listened to the surging of the
+ocean of life. We watched a girl with streaming hair go galloping down the Row,
+a dark man, laughing and showing his white teeth, galloping more heavily at her
+elbow. We saw a squad of life-guards enter the gates of the park, erect and
+glittering with silver and white and red. They came near to us, and we thrilled
+a little as we watched the muscles of their white smooth thighs answering the
+movement of the horses, and their cheeks and their chins bending with proud
+manliness to the rhythm of the march. We watched the exquisite rhythm of the
+body of men moving in scarlet and silver further down the leafless avenue, like
+a slightly wavering spark of red life blown along. At the Marble Arch Corner we
+listened to a little socialist who was flaring fiercely under a plane tree. The
+hot stream of his words flowed over the old wounds that the knowledge of the
+unending miseries of the poor had given me, and I winced. For him the world was
+all East-end, and all the East-End was as a pool from which the waters are
+drained off, leaving the water-things to wrestle in the wet mud under the sun,
+till the whole of the city seems a heaving, shuddering struggle of black-mudded
+objects deprived of the elements of life. I felt a great terror of the little
+man, lest he should make me see all mud, as I had seen before. Then I felt a
+breathless pity for him, that his eyes should be always filled with mud, and
+never brightened. George listened intently to the speaker, very much moved by
+him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At night, after the theatre, we saw the outcasts sleep in a rank under the
+Waterloo bridge, their heads to the wall, their feet lying out on the pavement:
+a long, black, ruffled heap at the foot of the wall. All the faces were covered
+but two, that of a peaked, pale little man, and that of a brutal woman. Over
+these two faces, floating like uneasy pale dreams on their obscurity, swept now
+and again the trailing light of the tram cars. We picked our way past the line
+of abandoned feet, shrinking from the sight of the thin bare ankles of a young
+man, from the draggled edge of the skirts of a bunched-up woman, from the
+pitiable sight of the men who had wrapped their legs in newspaper for a little
+warmth, and lay like worthless parcels. It was raining. Some men stood at the
+edge of the causeway fixed in dreary misery, finding no room to sleep. Outside,
+on a seat in the blackness and the rain, a woman sat sleeping, while the water
+trickled and hung heavily at the ends of her loosened strands of hair. Her
+hands were pushed in the bosom of her jacket. She lurched forward in her sleep,
+started, and one of her hands fell out of her bosom. She sank again to sleep.
+George gripped my arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Give her something,” he whispered in panic. I was afraid. Then suddenly
+getting a florin from my pocket, I stiffened my nerves and slid it into her
+palm. Her hand was soft, and warm, and curled in sleep. She started violently,
+looking up at me, then down at her hand. I turned my face aside, terrified lest
+she should look in my eyes, and full of shame and grief I ran down the
+embankment to him. We hurried along under the plane trees in silence. The
+shining cars were drawing tall in the distance over Westminster Bridge, a
+fainter, yellow light running with them on the water below. The wet streets
+were spilled with golden liquor of light, and on the deep blackness of the
+river were the restless yellow slashes of the lamps.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+Lettie and Leslie were staying up at Hampstead with a friend of the Tempests,
+one of the largest shareholders in the firm of Tempest, Wharton &amp; Co. The
+Raphaels had a substantial house, and Lettie preferred to go to them rather
+than to an hotel, especially as she had brought with her her infant son, now
+ten months old, with his nurse. They invited George and me to dinner on the
+Friday evening. The party included Lettie’s host and hostess, and also a
+Scottish poetess, and an Irish musician, composer of songs and pianoforte
+rhapsodies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie wore a black lace dress in mourning for one of Leslie’s maternal aunts.
+This made her look older, otherwise there seemed to be no change in her. A
+subtle observer might have noticed a little hardness about her mouth, and
+disillusion hanging slightly on her eyes. She was, however, excited by the
+company in which she found herself, therefore she overflowed with clever
+speeches and rapid, brilliant observations. Certainly on such occasions she was
+admirable. The rest of the company formed, as it were, the orchestra which
+accompanied her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George was exceedingly quiet. He spoke a few words now and then to Mrs Raphael,
+but on the whole he was altogether silent, listening.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Really!” Lettie was saying, “I don’t see that one thing is worth doing any
+more than another. It’s like dessert: you are equally indifferent whether you
+have grapes, or pears, or pineapple.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you already dined so far?” sang the Scottish poetess in her musical,
+plaintive manner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The only thing worth doing is producing,” said Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Alas, that is what all the young folk are saying nowadays!” sighed the Irish
+musician.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That is the only thing one finds any pleasure in&mdash;that is to say, any
+satisfaction,” continued Lettie, smiling, and turning to the two artists.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you not think so?” she added.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You do come to a point at last,” said the Scottish poetess, “when your work is
+a real source of satisfaction.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you write poetry then?” asked George of Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I! Oh, dear no! I have tried strenuously to make up a Limerick for a
+competition, but in vain. So you see, I am a failure there. Did you know I have
+a son, though?&mdash;a marvellous little fellow, is he not, Leslie?&mdash;he is
+my work. I am a wonderful mother, am I not, Leslie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Too devoted,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There!” she exclaimed in triumph&mdash;“When I have to sign my name and
+occupation in a visitor’s book, it will be ‘&mdash;&mdash;Mother’. I hope my
+business will flourish,” she concluded, smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a touch of ironical brutality in her now. She was, at the bottom,
+quite sincere. Having reached that point in a woman’s career when most, perhaps
+all of the things in life seem worthless and insipid, she had determined to put
+up with it, to ignore her own self, to empty her own potentialities into the
+vessel of another or others, and to live her life at second hand. This peculiar
+abnegation of self is the resource of a woman for the escaping of the
+responsibilities of her own development. Like a nun, she puts over her living
+face a veil, as a sign that the woman no longer exists for herself: she is the
+servant of God, of some man, of her children, or may be of some cause. As a
+servant, she is no longer responsible for her self, which would make her
+terrified and lonely. Service is light and easy. To be responsible for the good
+progress of one’s life is terrifying. It is the most insufferable form of
+loneliness, and the heaviest of responsibilities. So Lettie indulged her
+husband, but did not yield her independence to him; rather it was she who took
+much of the responsibility of him into her hands, and therefore he was so
+devoted to her. She had, however, now determined to abandon the charge of
+herself to serve her children. When the children grew up, either they would
+unconsciously fling her away, back upon herself again in bitterness and
+loneliness, or they would tenderly cherish her, chafing at her love-bonds
+occasionally.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George looked and listened to all the flutter of conversation, and said
+nothing. It seemed to him like so much unreasonable rustling of pieces of
+paper, of leaves of books, and so on. Later in the evening Lettie sang, no
+longer Italian folk songs, but the fragmentary utterances of Debussy and
+Strauss. These also to George were quite meaningless, and rather wearisome. It
+made him impatient to see her wasting herself upon them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you like those songs?” she asked in the frank, careless manner she
+affected.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not much,” he replied, ungraciously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you?” she exclaimed, adding with a smile, “Those are the most wonderful
+things in the world, those little things”&mdash;she began to hum a Debussy
+idiom. He could not answer her on the point, so he sat with the arrow sticking
+in him, and did not speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She enquired of him concerning Meg and his children and the affairs of
+Eberwich, but the interest was flimsy, as she preserved a wide distance between
+them, although apparently she was so unaffected and friendly. We left before
+eleven.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we were seated in the cab and rushing down hill, he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know, she makes me mad.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was frowning, looking out of the window away from me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who, Lettie? Why, what riles you?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was some time in replying.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, she’s so affected.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I sat still in the small, close space and waited.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know&mdash;&mdash;?” he laughed, keeping his face averted from me. “She
+makes my blood boil. I could hate her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why?” I said gently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know. I feel as if she’d insulted me. She does lie, doesn’t she?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I didn’t notice it,” I said, but I knew he meant her shirking, her shuffling
+of her life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you think of those poor devils under the bridge&mdash;and then of her and
+them frittering away themselves and money in that idiocy&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He spoke with passion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are quoting Longfellow,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” he asked, looking at me suddenly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“‘Life is real, life is earnest&mdash;&mdash;’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He flushed slightly at my good-natured gibe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know what it is,” he replied. “But it’s a pretty rotten business, when
+you think of her fooling about wasting herself, and all the waste that goes on
+up there, and the poor devils rotting on the
+embankment&mdash;and&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you&mdash;and Mayhew&mdash;and me&mdash;&mdash;” I continued.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at me very intently to see if I were mocking. He laughed. I could see
+he was very much moved.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is the time quite out of joint?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why!”&mdash;he laughed. “No. But she makes me feel so angry&mdash;as if I
+should burst&mdash;I don’t know when I felt in such a rage. I wonder why. I’m
+sorry for him, poor devil. ‘Lettie and Leslie’&mdash;they seemed christened for
+one another, didn’t they?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What if you’d had her?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We should have been like a cat and dog; I’d rather be with Meg a thousand
+times&mdash;now!” he added significantly. He sat watching the lamps and the
+people and the dark buildings slipping past us.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shall we go and have a drink?” I asked him, thinking we would call in
+Frascati’s to see the come-and-go.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I could do with a brandy,” he replied, looking at me slowly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We sat in the restaurant listening to the jigging of the music, watching the
+changing flow of the people. I like to sit a long time by the hollyhocks
+watching the throng of varied bees which poise and hesitate outside the wild
+flowers, then swing in with a hum which sets everything aquiver. But still more
+fascinating it is to watch the come and go of people weaving and intermingling
+in the complex mesh of their intentions, with all the subtle grace and mystery
+of their moving, shapely bodies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I sat still, looking out across the amphitheatre. George looked also, but he
+drank glass after glass of brandy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I like to watch the people,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay&mdash;and doesn’t it seem an aimless, idiotic business&mdash;look at them!”
+he replied in tones of contempt. I looked instead at him, in some surprise and
+resentment His face was gloomy, stupid and unrelieved. The amount of brandy he
+had drunk had increased his ill humour.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Shall we be going?” I said. I did not want him to get drunk in his present
+state of mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay&mdash;in half a minute,” he finished the brandy, and rose. Although he had
+drunk a good deal, he was quite steady, only there was a disagreeable look
+always on his face, and his eyes seemed smaller and more glittering than I had
+seen them. We took a bus to Victoria. He sat swaying on his seat in the dim,
+clumsy vehicle, saying not a word. In the vast cavern of the station the
+theatre-goers were hastening, crossing the pale grey strand, small creatures
+scurrying hither and thither in the space beneath the lonely lamps. As the
+train crawled over the river we watched the far-flung hoop of diamond lights
+curving slowly round and striping with bright threads the black water. He sat
+looking with heavy eyes, seeming to shrink from the enormous unintelligible
+lettering of the poem of London.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The town was too large for him, he could not take in its immense, its
+stupendous poetry. What did come home to him was its flagrant discords. The
+unintelligibility of the vast city made him apprehensive, and the crudity of
+its big, coarse contrasts wounded him unutterably.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is the matter?” I asked him as we went along the silent pavement at
+Norwood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing!” and I did not trouble him further.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We occupied a large, two-bedded room&mdash;that looked down the hill and over
+to the far woods of Kent. He was morose and untalkative. I brought up a
+soda-syphon and whisky, and we proceeded to undress. When he stood in his
+pajamas he waited as if uncertain.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you want a drink?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I did not. He crossed to the table, and as I got into my bed I heard the brief
+fizzing of the syphon. He drank his glass at one draught, then switched off the
+light. In the sudden darkness I saw his pale shadow go across to the sofa in
+the window-space. The blinds were undrawn, and the stars looked in. He gazed
+out on the great bay of darkness wherein, far away and below, floated a few
+sparks of lamps like herring boats at sea.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Aren’t you coming to bed?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m not sleepy&mdash;you go to sleep,” he answered, resenting having to speak
+at all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then put on a dressing gown&mdash;there’s one in that corner&mdash;turn the
+light on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not answer, but fumbled for the garment in the darkness. When he had
+found it, he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you mind if I smoke?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I did not. He fumbled again in his pockets for cigarettes, always refusing to
+switch on the light. I watched his face bowed to the match as he lighted his
+cigarette. He was still handsome in the ruddy light, but his features were
+coarser. I felt very sorry for him, but I saw that I could get no nearer to
+him, to relieve him. For some time I lay in the darkness watching the end of
+his cigarette like a ruddy, malignant insect hovering near his lips, putting
+the timid stars immensely far away. He sat quite still, leaning on the sofa
+arm. Occasionally there was a little glow on his cheeks as the cigarette burned
+brighter, then again I could see nothing but the dull red bee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I suppose I must have dropped asleep. Suddenly I started as something fell to
+the floor. I heard him cursing under his breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What’s the matter?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve only knocked something down&mdash;cigarette case or something,” he
+replied, apologetically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Aren’t you coming to bed?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, I’m coming,” he answered quite docile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He seemed to wander about and knock against things as he came. He dropped
+heavily into bed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you sleepy now?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I dunno&mdash;I shall be directly,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What’s up with you?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I dunno,” he answered. “I am like this sometimes, when there’s nothing I want
+to do, and nowhere I want to go, and nobody I want to be near. Then you feel so
+rottenly lonely, Cyril. You feel awful, like a vacuum, with a pressure on you,
+a sort of pressure of darkness, and you yourself&mdash;just nothing, a
+vacuum&mdash;that’s what it’s like&mdash;a little vacuum that’s not dark, all
+loose in the middle of a space of darkness, that’s pressing on you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good gracious!” I exclaimed, rousing myself in bed. “That sounds bad!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed slightly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s all right,” he said, “it’s only the excitement of London, and that little
+man in the park, and that woman on the seat&mdash;I wonder where she is
+to-night, poor devil&mdash;and then Lettie. I seem thrown off my
+balance.&mdash;I think really, I ought to have made something of
+myself&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” I asked, as he hesitated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” he replied slowly, “&mdash;a poet or something, like
+Burns&mdash;I don’t know. I shall laugh at myself for thinking so, to-morrow.
+But I am born a generation too soon&mdash;I wasn’t ripe enough when I came. I
+wanted something I hadn’t got. I’m something short. I’m like corn in a wet
+harvest&mdash;full, but pappy, no good. Is’ll rot. I came too soon; or I wanted
+something that would ha’ made me grow fierce. That’s why I wanted
+Lettie&mdash;I think. But am I talking damn rot? What am I saying? What are you
+making me talk for? What are you listening for?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I rose and went across to him, saying: “I don’t want you to talk! If you sleep
+till morning things will look different.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I sat on his bed and took his hand. He lay quite still.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m only a kid after all, Cyril,” he said, a few moments later.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We all are,” I answered, still holding his hand. Presently he fell asleep.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I awoke the sunlight was laughing with the young morning in the room. The
+large blue sky shone against the window, and the birds were calling in the
+garden below, shouting to one another and making fun of life. I felt glad to
+have opened my eyes. I lay for a moment looking out on the morning as on a blue
+bright sea in which I was going to plunge.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then my eyes wandered to the little table near the couch. I noticed the glitter
+of George’s cigarette case, and then, with a start, the whisky decanter. It was
+nearly empty. He must have drunk three-quarters of a pint of liquor while I was
+dozing. I could not believe it. I thought I must have been mistaken as to the
+quantity the bottle contained. I leaned out to see what it was that had
+startled me by its fall the night before. It was the large, heavy drinking
+glass which he had knocked down but not broken. I could see no stain on the
+carpet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George was still asleep. He lay half uncovered, and was breathing quietly. His
+face looked inert like a mask. The pallid, uninspired clay of his features
+seemed to have sunk a little out of shape, so that he appeared rather haggard,
+rather ugly, with grooves of ineffectual misery along his cheeks. I wanted him
+to wake, so that his inert, flaccid features might be inspired with life again.
+I could not believe his charm and his beauty could have forsaken him so, and
+left his features dreary, sunken clay.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I looked he woke. His eyes opened slowly. He looked at me and turned away,
+unable to meet my eyes. He pulled the bedclothes up over his shoulders, as
+though to cover himself from me, and he lay with his back to me, quite still,
+as if he were asleep, although I knew he was quite awake; he was suffering the
+humiliation of lying waiting for his life to crawl back and inhabit his body.
+As it was, his vitality was not yet sufficient to inform the muscles of his
+face and give him an expression, much less to answer by challenge.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER VI<br/>
+PISGAH</h2>
+
+<p>
+When her eldest boy was three years old Lettie returned to live at Eberwich.
+Old Mr. Tempest died suddenly, so Leslie came down to inhabit “Highclose.” He
+was a very much occupied man. Very often he was in Germany or in the South of
+England engaged on business. At home he was unfailingly attentive to his wife
+and his two children. He had cultivated a taste for public life. In spite of
+his pressure of business he had become a County Councillor, and one of the
+prominent members of the Conservative Association. He was very fond of
+answering or proposing toasts at some public dinner, of entertaining political
+men at “Highclose,” of taking the chair at political meetings, and finally, of
+speaking on this or that platform. His name was fairly often seen in the
+newspapers. As a mine owner, he spoke as an authority on the employment of
+labour, on royalties, land-owning and so on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At home he was quite tame. He treated his wife with respect, romped in the
+nursery, and domineered the servants royally. They liked him for it&mdash;her
+they did not like. He was noisy, but unobservant, she was quiet and exacting.
+He would swear and bluster furiously, but when he was round the corner they
+smiled. She gave her orders and passed very moderate censure, but they went
+away cursing to themselves. As Lettie was always a very good wife, Leslie
+adored her when he had the time, and when he had not, forgot her comfortably.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was very contradictory. At times she would write to me in terms of
+passionate dissatisfaction: she had nothing at all in her life, it was a barren
+futility.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hope I shall have another child next spring,” she would write, “there is
+only that to take away the misery of this torpor. I seem full of passion and
+energy, and it all fizzles out in day to day domestics&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I replied to her urging her to take some work that she could throw her
+soul into, she would reply indifferently. Then later:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You charge me with contradiction. Well, naturally. You see I wrote that
+screeching letter in a mood which won’t come again for some time. Generally I
+am quite content to take the rain and the calm days just as they come, then
+something flings me out of myself&mdash;and I am a trifle demented:&mdash;very,
+very blue, as I tell Leslie.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Like so many women, she seemed to live, for the most part contentedly, a small
+indoor existence with artificial light and padded upholstery. Only
+occasionally, hearing the winds of life outside, she clamoured to be out in the
+black, keen storm. She was driven to the door, she looked out and called into
+the tumult wildly, but feminine caution kept her from stepping over the
+threshold.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George was flourishing in his horse-dealing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the morning, processions of splendid shire horses, tied tail and head, would
+tramp grandly along the quiet lanes of Eberwich, led by George’s man, or by Tom
+Mayhew, while in the fresh clean sunlight George would go riding by, two
+restless nags dancing beside him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I came home from France five years after our meeting in London I found him
+installed in the “Hollies.” He had rented the house from the Mayhews, and had
+moved there with his family, leaving Oswald in charge of the “Ram.” I called at
+the large house one afternoon, but George was out. His family surprised me. The
+twins were tall lads of six. There were two more boys, and Meg was nursing a
+beautiful baby-girl about a year old. This child was evidently mistress of the
+household. Meg, who was growing stouter, indulged the little creature in every
+way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How is George?” I asked her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, he’s very well,” she replied. “He’s always got something on hand. He
+hardly seems to have a spare moment; what with his socialism, and one thing and
+another.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was true, the outcome of his visit to London had been a wild devotion to the
+cause of the down-trodden. I saw a picture of Watt’s “Mammon,” on the walls of
+the morning-room, and the works of Blatchford, Masterman, and Chiozza Money on
+the side table. The socialists of the district used to meet every other
+Thursday evening at the “Hollies” to discuss reform. Meg did not care for these
+earnest souls.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They’re not my sort,” she said, “too jerky and bumptious. They think
+everybody’s slow-witted but them. There’s one thing about them, though, they
+don’t drink, so that’s a blessing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why!” I said, “Have you had much trouble that way?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She lowered her voice to a pitch which was sufficiently mysterious to attract
+the attention of the boys.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shouldn’t say anything if it wasn’t that you were like brothers,” she said.
+“But he did begin to have dreadful drinking bouts. You know it was always
+spirits, and generally brandy:&mdash;and that makes such work with them. You’ve
+no idea what he’s like when he’s evil-drunk. Sometimes he’s all for talk,
+sometimes he’s laughing at everything, and sometimes he’s just snappy. And
+then&mdash;&mdash;” here her tones grew ominous, “&mdash;&mdash;he’ll come home
+evil-drunk.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the memory she grew serious.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You couldn’t imagine what it’s like, Cyril,” she said. “It’s like having Satan
+in the house with you, or a black tiger glowering at you. I’m sure nobody knows
+what I’ve suffered with him&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The children stood with large awful eyes and paling lips, listening.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But he’s better now?” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes&mdash;since Gertie came,”&mdash;she looked fondly at the baby in her
+arms&mdash;“He’s a lot better now. You see he always wanted a girl, and he’s
+very fond of her&mdash;isn’t he, pet?&mdash;are you your Dadda’s
+girlie?&mdash;and Mamma’s too, aren’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The baby turned with sudden coy shyness, and clung to her mother’s neck. Meg
+kissed her fondly, then the child laid her cheek against her mother’s. The
+mother’s dark eyes, and the baby’s large, hazel eyes looked at me serenely. The
+two were very calm, very complete and triumphant together. In their
+completeness was a security which made me feel alone and ineffectual. A woman
+who has her child in her arms is a tower of strength, a beautiful, unassailable
+tower of strength that may in its turn stand quietly dealing death.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I told Meg I would call again to see George. Two evenings later I asked Lettie
+to lend me a dog-cart to drive over to the “Hollies.” Leslie was away on one of
+his political jaunts, and she was restless. She proposed to go with me. She had
+called on Meg twice before in the new large home.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We started about six o’clock. The night was dark and muddy. Lettie wanted to
+call in Eberwich village, so she drove the long way round Selsby. The horse was
+walking through the gate of the “Hollies” at about seven o’clock. Meg was
+upstairs in the nursery, the maid told me, and George was in the dining-room
+getting baby to sleep.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“All right!” I said, “we will go in to him. Don’t bother to tell him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As we stood in the gloomy, square hall we heard the rumble of a rocking-chair,
+the stroke coming slow and heavy to the tune of “Henry Martin,” one of our
+Strelley Mill folk songs. Then, through the man’s heavily-accented singing
+floated the long light crooning of the baby as she sang, in her quaint little
+fashion, a mischievous second to her father’s lullaby. He waxed a little
+louder; and without knowing why, we found ourselves smiling with piquant
+amusement. The baby grew louder too, till there was a shrill ring of laughter
+and mockery in her music. He sang louder and louder, the baby shrilled higher
+and higher, the chair swung in long, heavy beats. Then suddenly he began to
+laugh. The rocking stopped, and he said, still with laughter and enjoyment in
+his tones:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now that is very wicked! Ah, naughty Girlie&mdash;go to boh, go to
+bohey!&mdash;at once.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The baby chuckled her small, insolent mockery.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come, Mamma!” he said, “come and take Girlie to bohey!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The baby laughed again, but with an uncertain touch of appeal in her tone. We
+opened the door and entered. He looked up very much startled to see us. He was
+sitting in a tall rocking-chair by the fire, coatless, with white shirtsleeves.
+The baby, in her high-waisted, tight little night-gown, stood on his knee, her
+wide eyes fixed on us, wild wisps of her brown hair brushed across her forehead
+and glinting like puffs of bronze dust over her ears. Quickly she put her arms
+round his neck and tucked her face under his chin, her small feet poised on his
+thigh, the night-gown dropping upon them. He shook his head as the puff of soft
+brown hair tickled him. He smiled at us, saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You see I’m busy!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then he turned again to the little brown head tucked under his chin, blew away
+the luminous cloud of hair, and rubbed his lips and his moustache on the small
+white neck, so warm and secret. The baby put up her shoulders, and shrank a
+little, bubbling in his neck with hidden laughter. She did not lift her face or
+loosen her arms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She thinks she is shy,” he said. “Look up, young hussy, and see the lady and
+gentleman. She is a positive owl, she won’t go to bed&mdash;will you, young
+brown-owl?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He tickled her neck again with his moustache, and the child bubbled over with
+naughty, merry laughter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The room was very warm, with a red bank of fire up the chimney mouth. It was
+half lighted from a heavy bronze chandelier, black and gloomy, in the middle of
+the room. There was the same sombre, sparse furniture that the Mayhews had had.
+George looked large and handsome, the glossy black silk of his waistcoat
+fitting close to his sides, the roundness of the shoulder muscle filling the
+white linen of his sleeves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly the baby lifted her head and stared at us, thrusting into her mouth
+the dummy that was pinned to the breast of her night-gown. The faded pink
+sleeves of the night-gown were tight on her fat little wrists. She stood thus
+sucking her dummy, one arm round her father’s neck, watching us with hazel
+solemn eyes. Then she pushed her fat little fist up among the bush of small
+curls, and began to twist her fingers about her ear that was white like a
+camelia flower.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is really sleepy,” said Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come then!” said he, folding her for sleep against his breast. “Come and go to
+boh.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But the young rascal immediately began to cry her remonstrance. She stiffened
+herself, freed herself, and stood again on his knee, watching us solemnly,
+vibrating the dummy in her mouth as she suddenly sucked at it, twisting her
+father’s ear in her small fingers till he winced.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Her nails <i>are</i> sharp,” he said, smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He began asking and giving the small information that pass between friends who
+have not met for a long time. The baby laid her head on his shoulder, keeping
+her tired, owl-like eyes fixed darkly on us. Then gradually the lids fluttered
+and sank, and she dropped on to his arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is asleep,” whispered Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Immediately the dark eyes opened again. We looked significantly at one another,
+continuing our subdued talk. After a while the baby slept soundly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Presently Meg came downstairs. She greeted us in breathless whispers of
+surprise, and then turned to her husband.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Has she gone?” she whispered, bending over the sleeping child in astonishment.
+“My, this is wonderful, isn’t it!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She took the sleeping drooping baby from his arms, putting her mouth close to
+its forehead, murmuring with soothing, inarticulate sounds.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We stayed talking for some time when Meg had put the baby to bed. George had a
+new tone of assurance and authority. In the first place he was an established
+man, living in a large house, having altogether three men working for him. In
+the second place he had ceased to value the conventional treasures of social
+position and ostentatious refinement. Very, very many things he condemned as
+flummery and sickly waste of time. The life of an ordinary well-to-do person he
+set down as adorned futility, almost idiocy. He spoke passionately of the
+monstrous denial of life to the many by the fortunate few. He talked at Lettie
+most flagrantly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course,” she said, “I have read Mr. Wells and Mr. Shaw, and even Niel Lyons
+and a Dutchman&mdash;what is his name, Querido? But what can I do? I think the
+rich have as much misery as the poor, and of quite as deadly a sort. What can I
+do? It is a question of life and the development of the human race. Society and
+its regulations is not a sort of drill that endless Napoleons have forced on
+us: it is the only way we have yet found of living together.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pah!” said he, “that is rank cowardice. It is feeble and futile to the last
+degree.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We can’t grow consumption-proof in a generation, nor can we grow
+poverty-proof.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We can begin to take active measures,” he replied contemptuously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We can all go into a sanatorium and live miserably and dejectedly warding off
+death,” she said, “but life is full of goodliness for all that.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is fuller of misery,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nevertheless, she had shaken him. She still kept her astonishing power of
+influencing his opinions. All his passion, and heat, and rude speech, analysed
+out, was only his terror at her threatening of his life-interest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was rather piqued by his rough treatment of her, and by his contemptuous
+tone. Moreover, she could never quite let him be. She felt a driving force
+which impelled her almost against her will to interfere in his life. She
+invited him to dine with them at Highclose. He was now quite possible. He had,
+in the course of his business, been sufficiently in the company of gentlemen to
+be altogether <i>“comme it faut”</i> at a private dinner, and after dinner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She wrote me concerning him occasionally:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“George Saxton was here to dinner yesterday. He and Leslie had frightful
+battles over the nationalisation of industries. George is rather more than a
+match for Leslie, which, in his secret heart, makes our friend gloriously
+proud. It is very amusing. I, of course, have to preserve the balance of power,
+and, of course, to bolster my husband’s dignity. At a crucial dangerous moment,
+when George is just going to wave his bloody sword and Leslie lies bleeding
+with rage, I step in and prick the victor under the heart with some little
+satire or some esoteric question, I raise Leslie and say his blood is luminous
+for the truth, and vous voilà! Then I abate for the thousandth time Leslie’s
+conservative crow, and I appeal once more to George&mdash;it is no use my
+arguing with him, he gets so angry&mdash;I make an abtruse appeal for all the
+wonderful, sad, and beautiful expressions on the countenance of life,
+expressions which he does not see or which he distorts by his oblique vision of
+socialism into grimaces&mdash;and there I am! I think I am something of a
+Machiavelli, but it is quite true, what I say&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again she wrote:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We happened to be motoring from Derby on Sunday morning, and as we came to the
+top of the hill, we had to thread our way through quite a large crowd. I looked
+up, and whom should I see but our friend George, holding forth about the state
+endowment of mothers. I made Leslie stop while we listened. The market-place
+was quite full of people. George saw us, and became fiery. Leslie then grew
+excited, and although I clung to the skirts of his coat with all my strength,
+he jumped up and began to question. I must say it with shame and
+humility&mdash;he made an ass of himself. The men all round were jeering and
+muttering under their breath. I think Leslie is not very popular among them, he
+is such an advocate of machinery which will do the work of men. So they cheered
+our friend George when he thundered forth his replies and his demonstrations.
+He pointed his finger at us, and flung his hand at us, and shouted till I
+quailed in my seat. I cannot understand why he should become so frenzied as
+soon as I am within range. George had a triumph that morning, but when I saw
+him a few days later he seemed very uneasy, rather
+self-mistrustful&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Almost a year later I heard from her again on the same subject.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I have had such a lark. Two or three times I have been to the ‘Hollies’; to
+socialist meetings. Leslie does not know. They are great fun. Of course, I am
+in sympathy with the socialists, but I cannot narrow my eyes till I see one
+thing only. Life is like a large, rather beautiful man who is young and full of
+vigour, but hairy, barbaric, with hands hard and dirty, the dirt ingrained. I
+know his hands are very ugly, I know his mouth is not firmly shapen, I know his
+limbs are hairy and brutal: but his eyes are deep and very beautiful. That is
+what I tell George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The people are so earnest, they make me sad. But then, they are so didactic,
+they hold forth so much, they are so cock-sure and so narrow-eyed, they make me
+laugh. George laughs too. I am sure we made such fun of a straight-haired
+goggle of a girl who had suffered in prison for the cause of women, that I am
+ashamed when I see my “Woman’s League” badge. At the bottom, you know, Cyril, I
+don’t care for anything very much, except myself. Things seem so frivolous. I
+am the only real thing, I and the children&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Gradually George fell out of the socialist movement. It wearied him. It did not
+feed him altogether. He began by mocking his friends of the confraternity. Then
+he spoke in bitter dislike of Hudson, the wordy, humorous, shallow leader of
+the movement in Eberwich; it was Hudson with his wriggling and his clap-trap
+who disgusted George with the cause. Finally the meetings at the ‘Hollies’
+ceased, and my friend dropped all connection with his former associates.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He began to speculate in land. A hosiery factory moved to Eberwich, giving the
+place a new stimulus to growth. George happened to buy a piece of land at the
+end of the street of the village. When he got it, it was laid out in allotment
+gardens. These were becoming valueless owing to the encroachment of houses. He
+took it, divided it up, and offered it as sites for a new row of shops. He sold
+at a good profit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Altogether he was becoming very well off. I heard from Meg that he was
+flourishing, that he did not drink “anything to speak of,” but that he was
+always out, she hardly saw anything of him. If getting-on was to keep him so
+much away from home, she would be content with a little less fortune. He
+complained that she was narrow, and that she would not entertain any sympathy
+with any of his ideas.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nobody comes here to see me twice,” he said. “Because Meg receives them in
+such an off-hand fashion. I asked Jim Curtiss and his wife from Everley Hall
+one evening. We were uncomfortable all the time. Meg had hardly a word for
+anybody&mdash;‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and ‘Hm Hm!’&mdash;They’ll never come again.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg herself said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, I can’t stand stuck-up folks. They make me feel uncomfortable. As soon as
+they begin mincing their words I’m done for&mdash;I can no more talk than a
+lobster&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thus their natures contradicted each other. He tried hard to gain a footing in
+Eberwich. As it was he belonged to no class of society whatsoever. Meg visited
+and entertained the wives of small shop-keepers and publicans: this was her
+set.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George voted the women loud-mouthed, vulgar, and narrow&mdash;not without some
+cause. Meg, however, persisted. She visited when she thought fit, and
+entertained when he was out. He made acquaintance after acquaintance: Dr.
+Francis; Mr. Cartridge, the veterinary surgeon; Toby Heswall, the brewer’s son;
+the Curtisses, farmers of good standing from Everley Hall. But it was no good.
+George was by nature a family man. He wanted to be private and secure in his
+own rooms, then he was at ease. As Meg never went out with him, and as every
+attempt to entertain at the “Hollies” filled him with shame and mortification,
+he began to give up trying to place himself, and remained suspended in social
+isolation at the “Hollies.”
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+The friendship between Lettie and himself had been kept up, in spite of all
+things. Leslie was sometimes jealous, but he dared not show it openly, for fear
+of his wife’s scathing contempt. George went to “Highclose” perhaps once in a
+fortnight, perhaps not so often. Lettie never went to the “Hollies,” as Meg’s
+attitude was too antagonistic.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg complained very bitterly of her husband. He often made a beast of himself
+drinking, he thought more of himself than he ought, home was not good enough
+for him, he was selfish to the back-bone, he cared neither for her nor the
+children, only for himself.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+I happened to be at home for Lettie’s thirty-first birthday. George was then
+thirty-five. Lettie had allowed her husband to forget her birthday. He was now
+very much immersed in politics, foreseeing a general election in the following
+year, and intending to contest the seat in parliament. The division was an
+impregnable Liberal stronghold, but Leslie had hopes that he might capture the
+situation. Therefore he spent a great deal of time at the conservative club,
+and among the men of influence in the southern division. Lettie encouraged him
+in these affairs. It relieved her of him. It was thus that she let him forget
+her birthday, while, for some unknown reason, she let the intelligence slip to
+George. He was invited to dinner, as I was at home.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George came at seven o’clock. There was a strange feeling of festivity in the
+house, although there were no evident signs. Lettie had dressed with some
+magnificence in a blackish purple gauze over soft satin of lighter tone, nearly
+the colour of double violets. She wore vivid green azurite ornaments on the
+fairness of her bosom, and her bright hair was bound by a band of the same
+colour. It was rather startling. She was conscious of her effect, and was very
+excited. Immediately George saw her his eyes wakened with a dark glow. She
+stood up as he entered, her hand stretched straight out to him, her body very
+erect, her eyes bright and rousing, like two blue pennants.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thank you so much,” she said softly, giving his hand a last pressure before
+she let it go. He could not answer, so he sat down, bowing his head, then
+looking up at her in suspense. She smiled at her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Presently the children came in. They looked very quaint, like acolytes, in
+their long straight dressing-gowns of quilted blue silk. The boy, particularly,
+looked as if he were going to light the candles in some childish church in
+paradise. He was very tall and slender and fair, with a round fine head, and
+serene features. Both children looked remarkably, almost transparently clean:
+it is impossible to consider anything more fresh and fair. The girl was a
+merry, curly headed puss of six. She played with her mother’s green jewels and
+prattled prettily, while the boy stood at his mother’s side, a slender and
+silent acolyte in his pale blue gown. I was impressed by his patience and his
+purity. When the girl had bounded away into George’s arms, the lad laid his
+hand timidly on Lettie’s knee and looked with a little wonder at her dress.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How pretty those green stones are, mother!” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” replied Lettie brightly, lifting them and letting their strange pattern
+fall again on her bosom. “I like them.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you going to sing, mother?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Perhaps. But why?” said Lettie, smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because you generally sing when Mr. Saxton comes.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He bent his head and stroked Lettie’s dress shyly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do I,” she said, laughing, “Can you hear?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Just a little,” he replied. “Quite small, as if it were nearly lost in the
+dark.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was hesitating, shy as boys are. Lettie laid her hand on his head and
+stroked his smooth fair hair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sing a song for us before we go, mother” he asked, almost shamefully. She
+kissed him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You shall sing with me,” she said. “What shall it be?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She played without a copy of the music. He stood at her side, while Lucy, the
+little mouse, sat on her mother’s skirts, pressing Lettie’s silk slippers in
+turn upon the pedals. The mother and the boy sang their song.
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“Gaily the troubadour touched his guitar<br/>
+As he was hastening from the war.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The boy had a pure treble, clear as the flight of swallows in the morning. The
+light shone on his lips. Under the piano the girl child sat laughing, pressing
+her mother’s feet with all her strength, and laughing again. Lettie smiled as
+she sang.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last they kissed us a gentle “good-night,” and flitted out of the room. The
+girl popped her curly head round the door again. We saw the white cuff on the
+nurse’s wrist as she held the youngster’s arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ll come and kiss us when we’re in bed, Mum?” asked the rogue. Her mother
+laughed and agreed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lucy was withdrawn for a moment; then we heard her, “Just a tick, nurse, just
+half-a-tick!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The curly head appeared round the door again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And <i>one</i> teenie sweetie,” she suggested, “only <i>one!</i>”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go, you&mdash;&mdash;!” Lettie clapped her hands in mock wrath. The child
+vanished, but immediately there appeared again round the door two blue laughing
+eyes and the snub tip of a nose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A nice one, Mum&mdash;not a jelly-one!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lettie rose with a rustle to sweep upon her. The child vanished with a glitter
+of laughter. We heard her calling breathlessly on the stairs&mdash;“Wait a bit,
+Freddie,&mdash;wait for me!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George and Lettie smiled at each other when the children had gone. As the smile
+died from their faces they looked down sadly, and until dinner was announced
+they were very still and heavy with melancholy. After dinner Lettie debated
+pleasantly which bon-bon she should take for the children. When she came down
+again she smoked a cigarette with us over coffee. George did not like to see
+her smoking, yet he brightened a little when he sat down after giving her a
+light, pleased with the mark of recklessness in her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is ten years to-day since my party at Woodside,” she said, reaching for the
+small Roman salt-cellar of green jade that she used as an ash-tray.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My Lord&mdash;ten years!” he exclaimed bitterly. “It seems a hundred.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It does and it doesn’t,” she answered, smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I look straight back, and think of my excitement, it seems only yesterday.
+If I look between then and now, at all the days that lie between, it is an
+age.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I look at myself,” he said, “I think I am another person altogether.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You have changed,” she agreed, looking at him sadly. “There is a great
+change&mdash;but you are not another person. I often think&mdash;there is one
+of his old looks, he is just the same at the bottom!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They embarked on a barge of gloomy recollections and drifted along the soiled
+canal of their past.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The worst of it is,” he said. “I have got a miserable carelessness, a contempt
+for things. You know I had such a faculty for reverence. I always believed in
+things.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I know you did,” she smiled. “You were so humbly-minded&mdash;too
+humbly-minded, I always considered. You always thought things had a deep
+religious meaning, somewhere hidden, and you reverenced them. Is it different
+now?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know me very well,” he laughed. “What is there left for me to believe in,
+if not in myself?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You have to live for your wife and children,” she said with firmness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Meg has plenty to secure her and the children as long as they live,” he said,
+smiling. “So I don’t know that I’m essential.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you are,” she replied. “You are necessary as a father and a husband, if
+not as a provider.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think,” said he, “marriage is more of a duel than a duet. One party wins and
+takes the other captive, slave, servant&mdash;what you like. It is so, more or
+less.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well?” said Lettie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well!” he answered. “Meg is not like you. She wants me, part of me, so she’d
+kill me rather than let me go loose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, no!” said Lettie, emphatically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know nothing about it,” he said quietly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“In the marital duel Meg is winning. The woman generally does; she has the
+children on her side. I can’t give her any of the real part of me, the vital
+part that she wants&mdash;I can’t, any more than you could give kisses to a
+stranger. And I feel that I’m losing&mdash;and don’t care.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” she said, “you are getting morbid.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He put the cigarette between his lips, drew a deep breath, then slowly sent the
+smoke down his nostrils.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Look here!” she said. “Let me sing to you, shall I, and make you cheerful
+again?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She sang from Wagner. It was the music of resignation and despair. She had not
+thought of it. All the time he listened he was thinking. The music stimulated
+his thoughts and illuminated the trend of his brooding. All the time he sat
+looking at her his eyes were dark with his thoughts. She finished the “Star of
+Eve” from Tannhäuser and came over to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why are you so sad to-night, when it is my birthday?” she asked plaintively.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Am I slow?” he replied. “I am sorry.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is the matter?” she said, sinking onto the small sofa near to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nothing!” he replied&mdash;“You are looking very beautiful.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There, I wanted you to say that! You ought to be quite gay, you know, when I
+am so smart to-night.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay,” he said, “I know I ought. But the to-morrow seems to have fallen in love
+with me. I can’t get out of its lean arms.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why!” she said. “To-morrow’s arms are not lean. They are white, like mine.”
+She lifted her arms and looked at them, smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How do you know?” he asked, pertinently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, of course they are,” was her light answer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed, brief and sceptical.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!” he said. “It came when the children kissed us.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“These lean arms of tomorrow’s round me, and the white arms round you,” he
+replied, smiling whimsically. She reached out and clasped his hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You foolish boy,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed painfully, not able to look at her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You know,” he said, and his voice was low and difficult “I have needed you for
+a light. You will soon be the only light again.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who is the other?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My little girl!” he answered. Then he continued, “And you know, I couldn’t
+endure complete darkness, I couldn’t. It’s the solitariness.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You mustn’t talk like this,” she said. “You know you mustn’t.” She put her
+hand on his head and ran her fingers through the hair he had so ruffled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is as thick as ever, your hair,” she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not answer, but kept his face bent out of sight. She rose from her seat
+and stood at the back of his low arm-chair. Taking an amber comb from her hair,
+she bent over him, and with the translucent comb and her white fingers she
+busied herself with his hair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I believe you <i>would</i> have a parting,” she said softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He laughed shortly at her playfulness. She continued combing, just touching,
+pressing the strands in place with the tips of her fingers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I was only a warmth to you,” he said, pursuing the same train of thought. “So
+you could do without me. But you were like the light to me, and otherwise it
+was dark and aimless. Aimlessness is horrible.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had finally smoothed his hair, so she lifted her hands and put back her
+head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There!” she said. “It looks fair fine, as Alice would say. Raven’s wings are
+raggy in comparison.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not pay any attention to her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Aren’t you going to look at yourself?” she said, playfully reproachful. She
+put her finger-tips under his chin. He lifted his head and they looked at each
+other, she smiling, trying to make him play, he smiling with his lips, but not
+with eyes, dark with pain.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We can’t go on like this, Lettie, can we?” he said softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she answered him, “Yes; why not?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It can’t!” he said, “It can’t, I couldn’t keep it up, Lettie.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But don’t think about it,” she answered. “Don’t think of it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lettie,” he said. “I have to set my teeth with loneliness.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hush!” she said. “No! There are the children. Don’t say anything&mdash;do not
+be serious, will you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, there are the children,” he replied, smiling dimly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes! Hush now! Stand up and look what a fine parting I have made in your hair.
+Stand up, and see if my style becomes you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is no good, Lettie,” he said, “we can’t go on.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, but come, come, come!” she exclaimed. “We are not talking about going on;
+we are considering what a fine parting I have made you down the middle, like
+two wings of a spread bird&mdash;&mdash;” she looked down, smiling playfully on
+him, just closing her eyes slightly in petition.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He rose and took a deep breath, and set his shoulders.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” he said, and at the sound of his voice, Lettie went pale and also
+stiffened herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!” he repeated. “It is impossible. I felt as soon as Fred came into the
+room&mdash;it must be one way or another.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very well then,” said Lettie, coldly. Her voice was “muted” like a violin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” he replied, submissive. “The children.” He looked at her, contracting
+his lips in a smile of misery.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you sure it must be so final?” she asked, rebellious, even resentful. She
+was twisting the azurite jewels on her bosom, and pressing the blunt points
+into her flesh. He looked up from the fascination of her action when he heard
+the tone of her last question. He was angry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Quite sure!” he said at last, simply, ironically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She bowed her head in assent. His face twitched sharply as he restrained
+himself from speaking again. Then he turned and quietly left the room. She did
+not watch him go, but stood as he had left her. When, after some time, she
+heard the grating of his dog-cart on the gravel, and then the sharp trot of
+hoofs down the frozen road, she dropped herself on the settee, and lay with her
+bosom against the cushions, looking fixedly at the wall.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER VII<br/>
+NETHERMTHE SCARP SLOPEERE</h2>
+
+<p>
+Leslie won the conservative victory in the general election which took place a
+year or so after my last visit to “Highclose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the interim the Tempests had entertained a continuous stream of people. I
+heard occasionally from Lettie how she was busy, amused, or bored. She told me
+that George had thrown himself into the struggle on behalf of the candidate of
+the Labour Party; that she had not seen him, except in the streets, for a very
+long time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I went down to Eberwich in the March succeeding the election, I found
+several people staying with my sister. She had under her wing a young literary
+fellow who affected the “Doady” style&mdash;Dora Copperfield’s “Doady.” He had
+bunches of half-curly hair, and a romantic black cravat; he played the
+impulsive part, but was really as calculating as any man on the stock-exchange.
+It delighted Lettie to “mother” him. He was so shrewd as to be less than
+harmless. His fellow guests, a woman much experienced in music and an elderly
+man who was in the artistic world without being of it, were interesting for a
+time. Bubble after bubble of floating fancy and wit we blew with our breath in
+the evenings. I rose in the morning loathing the idea of more bubble-blowing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I wandered around Nethermere, which had now forgotten me. The daffodils under
+the boat-house continued their golden laughter, and nodded to one another in
+gossip, as I watched them, never for a moment pausing to notice me. The yellow
+reflection of daffodils among the shadows of grey willow in the water trembled
+faintly as they told haunted tales in the gloom. I felt like a child left out
+of the group of my playmates. There was a wind running across Nethermere, and
+on the eager water blue and glistening grey shadows changed places swiftly.
+Along the shore the wild birds rose, flapping in expostulation as I passed,
+peewits mewing fiercely round my head, while two white swans lifted their
+glistening feathers till they looked like grand double water-lilies, laying
+back their orange beaks among the petals, and fronting me with haughty
+resentment, charging towards me insolently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I wanted to be recognised by something. I said to myself that the dryads were
+looking out for me from the wood’s edge. But as I advanced they shrank, and
+glancing wistfully, turned back like pale flowers falling in the shadow of the
+forest. I was a stranger, an intruder. Among the bushes a twitter of lively
+birds exclaimed upon me. Finches went leaping past in bright flashes, and a
+robin sat and asked rudely: “Hello! Who are you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The bracken lay sere under the trees, broken and chavelled by the restless wild
+winds of the long winter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The trees caught the wind in their tall netted twigs, and the young morning
+wind moaned at its captivity. As I trod the discarded oak-leaves and the
+bracken they uttered their last sharp gasps, pressed into oblivion. The wood
+was roofed with a wide young sobbing sound, and floored with a faint hiss like
+the intaking of the last breath. Between, was all the glad out-peeping of buds
+and anemone flowers and the rush of birds. I, wandering alone, felt them all,
+the anguish of the bracken fallen face-down in defeat, the careless dash of the
+birds, the sobbing of the young wind arrested in its haste, the trembling,
+expanding delight of the buds. I alone among them could hear the whole
+succession of chords.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The brooks talked on just the same, just as gladly, just as boisterously as
+they had done when I had netted small, glittering fish in the rest-pools. At
+Strelley Mill a servant girl in a white cap, and white apron-bands, came
+running out of the house with purple prayer-books, which she gave to the elder
+of two finicking girls who sat disconsolately with their black-silked mother in
+the governess cart at the gate, ready to go to church. Near Woodside there was
+barbed-wire along the path, and at the end of every riding it was tarred on the
+tree-trunks, “Private.”
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+I had done with the valley of Nethermere. The valley of Nethermere had cast me
+out many years before, while I had fondly believed it cherished me in memory.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went along the road to Eberwich. The church bells were ringing boisterously,
+with the careless boisterousness of the brooks and the birds and the rollicking
+coltsfoots and celandines.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few people were hastening blithely to service. Miners and other labouring men
+were passing in aimless gangs, walking nowhere in particular, so long as they
+reached a sufficiently distant public house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I reached the ‘Hollies.’ It was much more spruce than it had been. The yard,
+however, and the stables had again a somewhat abandoned air. I asked the maid
+for George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, master’s not up yet,” she said, giving a little significant toss of her
+head, and smiling. I waited a moment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But he rung for a bottle of beer about ten minutes since, so I should
+think&mdash;&mdash;” she emphasised the word with some ironical contempt,
+“&mdash;he won’t be very long,” she added, in tones which conveyed that she was
+not by any means sure. I asked for Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Missis is gone to church&mdash;and the children&mdash;But Miss Saxton is
+in, she might&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Emily!” I exclaimed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The maid smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She’s in the drawing-room. She’s engaged, but perhaps if I tell
+her&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, do,” said I, sure that Emily would receive me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I found my old sweetheart sitting in a low chair by the fire, a man standing on
+the hearthrug pulling his moustache. Emily and I both felt a thrill of old
+delight at meeting.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can hardly believe it is really you,” she said, laughing me one of the old
+intimate looks. She had changed a great deal. She was very handsome, but she
+had now a new self-confidence, a fine, free indifference.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me introduce you. Mr. Renshaw, Cyril. Tom, you know who it is you have
+heard me speak often enough of Cyril. I am going to marry Tom in three weeks’
+time,” she said, laughing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The devil you are!” I exclaimed involuntarily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If he will have me,” she added, quite as a playful afterthought.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom was a well-built fair man, smoothly, almost delicately tanned. There was
+something soldierly in his bearing, something self-conscious in the way he bent
+his head and pulled his moustache, something charming and fresh in the way he
+laughed at Emily’s last preposterous speech.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why didn’t you ask me?” she retorted, arching her brows.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Renshaw,” I said. “You have out-manoeuvred me all unawares, quite
+indecently.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am very sorry,” he said, giving one more twist to his moustache, then
+breaking into a loud, short laugh at his joke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you really feel cross?” said Emily to me, knitting her brows and smiling
+quaintly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do!” I replied, with truthful emphasis.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She laughed, and laughed again, very much amused.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is such a joke,” she said. “To think you should feel cross now, when it
+is&mdash;how long is it ago&mdash;&mdash;?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will not count up,” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you not sorry for me?” I asked of Tom Renshaw.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at me with his young blue eyes, eyes so bright, so naïvely
+inquisitive, so winsomely meditative. He did not know quite what to say, or how
+to take it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very!” he replied in another short burst of laughter, quickly twisting his
+moustache again and looking down at his feet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was twenty-nine years old; had been a soldier in China for five years, was
+now farming his father’s farm at Papplewick, where Emily was schoolmistress. He
+had been at home eighteen months. His father was an old man of seventy who had
+had his right hand chopped to bits in the chopping machine. So they told me. I
+liked Tom for his handsome bearing and his fresh, winsome way. He was
+exceedingly manly: that is to say he did not dream of questioning or analysing
+anything. All that came his way was ready labelled nice or nasty, good or bad.
+He did not imagine that anything could be other than just what it appeared to
+be:&mdash;and with this appearance, he was quite content. He looked up to Emily
+as one wiser, nobler, nearer to God than himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am a thousand years older than he,” she said to me, laughing. “Just as you
+are centuries older than I.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you love him for his youth?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she replied. “For that and&mdash;he is wonderfully sagacious&mdash;and
+so gentle.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And I was never gentle, was I?” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No! As restless and as urgent as the wind,” she said, and I saw a last flicker
+of the old terror.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where is George?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“In bed,” she replies briefly. “He’s recovering from one of his orgies. If I
+were Meg I would not live with him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is he so bad?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Bad!” she replied. “He’s disgusting, and I’m sure he’s dangerous. I’d have him
+removed to an inebriate’s home.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’d have to persuade him to go,” said Tom, who had come into the room again.
+“He does have dreadful bouts, though! He’s killing himself, sure enough. I feel
+awfully sorry for the fellow.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It seems so contemptible to me,” said Emily, “to become enslaved to one of
+your likings till it makes a beast of you. Look what a spectacle he is for his
+children, and what a disgusting disgrace for his wife.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, if he can’t help it, he can’t, poor chap,” said Tom. “Though I do think
+a man should have more backbone.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We heard heavy noises from the room above.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is getting up,” said Emily. “I suppose I’d better see if he’ll have any
+breakfast.” She waited, however. Presently the door opened, and there stood
+George with his hand on the knob, leaning, looking in.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought I heard three voices,” he said, as if it freed him from a certain
+apprehension. He smiled. His waistcoat hung open over his woollen shirt, he
+wore no coat and was slipperless. His hair and his moustache were dishevelled,
+his face pale and stupid with sleep, his eyes small. He turned aside from our
+looks as from a bright light. His hand as I shook it was flaccid and chill.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How do you come to be here, Cyril?” he said subduedly, faintly smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will you have any breakfast?” Emily asked him coldly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll have a bit if there’s any for me,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It has been waiting for you long enough,” she answered. He turned and went
+with a dull thud of his stockinged feet across to the dining-room. Emily rang
+for the maid, I followed George, leaving the betrothed together. I found my
+host moving about the dining-room, looking behind the chairs and in the
+corners.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wonder where the devil my slippers are!” he muttered explanatorily.
+Meanwhile he continued his search. I noticed he did not ring the bell to have
+them found for him. Presently he came to the fire, spreading his hands over it.
+As he was smashing the slowly burning coal the maid came in with the tray. He
+desisted, and put the poker carefully down. While the maid spread his meal on
+one corner of the table, he looked in the fire, paying her no heed. When she
+had finished:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s fried white-bait,” she said. “Shall you have that?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He lifted his head and looked at the plate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay,” he said. “Have you brought the vinegar?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Without answering, she took the cruet from the sideboard and set it on the
+table. As she was closing the door, she looked back to say:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’d better eat it now, while it’s hot.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He took no notice, but sat looking in the fire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And how are you going on?” he asked me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I? Oh, very well! And you&mdash;&mdash;?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As you see,” he replied, turning his head on one side with a little gesture of
+irony.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As I am very sorry to see,” I rejoined.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, tapping the back of his hand with
+one finger, in monotonous two-pulse like heart-beats.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Aren’t you going to have breakfast?” I urged. The clock at that moment began
+to ring a sonorous twelve. He looked up at it with subdued irritation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay, I suppose so,” he answered me, when the clock had finished striking. He
+rose heavily and went to the table. As he poured out a cup of tea he spilled it
+on the cloth, and stood looking at the stain. It was still some time before he
+began to eat. He poured vinegar freely over the hot fish, and ate with an
+indifference that made eating ugly, pausing now and again to wipe the tea off
+his moustache, or to pick a bit of fish from off his knee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are not married, I suppose?” he said in one of his pauses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No,” I replied. “I expect I shall have to be looking round.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’re wiser not,” he replied, quiet and bitter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A moment or two later the maid came in with a letter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“This came this morning,” she said, as she laid it on the table beside him. He
+looked at it, then he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You didn’t give me a knife for the marmalade.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Didn’t I?” she replied. “I thought you wouldn’t want it. You don’t as a rule.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And do you know where my slippers are?” he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They ought to be in their usual place.” She went and looked in the corner. “I
+suppose Miss Gertie’s put them somewhere. I’ll get you another pair.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As he waited for her he read the letter. He read it twice, then he put it back
+in the envelope, quietly, without any change of expression. But he ate no more
+breakfast, even after the maid had brought the knife and his slippers, and
+though he had had but a few mouthfuls.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At half-past twelve there was an imperious woman’s voice in the house. Meg came
+to the door. As she entered the room, and saw me, she stood still. She sniffed,
+glanced at the table, and exclaimed, coming forward effusively:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well I never, Cyril! Who’d a thought of seeing you here this morning! How are
+you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She waited for the last of my words, then immediately she turned to George, and
+said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I must say you’re in a nice state for Cyril to see you! Have you
+finished?&mdash;if you have, Kate can take that tray out. It smells quite
+sickly. Have you finished?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not answer, but drained his cup of tea and pushed it away with the back
+of his hand. Meg rang the bell, and having taken off her gloves, began to put
+the things on the tray, tipping the fragments of fish and bones from the edge
+of his plate to the middle with short, disgusted jerks of the fork. Her
+attitude and expression were of resentment and disgust. The maid came in.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Clear the table Kate, and open the window. Have you opened the bedroom
+windows?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No’m&mdash;not yet,”&mdash;she glanced at George as if to say he had only been
+down a few minutes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then do it when you have taken the tray,” said Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You don’t open this window,” said George churlishly. “It’s cold enough as it
+is.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You should put a coat on then if you’re starved,” replied Meg contemptuously.
+“It’s warm enough for those that have got any life in their blood. You do not
+find it cold, do you Cyril?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is fresh this morning,” I replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course it is, not cold at all. And I’m sure this room needs airing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The maid, however, folded the cloth and went out without approaching the
+windows.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg had grown stouter, and there was a certain immovable confidence in her. She
+was authoritative, amiable, calm. She wore a handsome dress of dark green, and
+a toque with opulent ostrich feathers. As she moved about the room she seemed
+to dominate everything, particularly her husband, who sat ruffled and dejected,
+his waistcoat hanging loose over his shirt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A girl entered. She was proud and mincing in her deportment. Her face was
+handsome, but too haughty for a child. She wore a white coat, with ermine
+tippet, muff, and hat. Her long brown hair hung twining down her back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Has dad only just had his breakfast?” she exclaimed in high censorious tones
+as she came in.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He has!” replied Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl looked at her father in calm, childish censure.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And we have been to church, and come home to dinner,” she said, as she drew
+off her little white gloves. George watched her with ironical amusement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hello!” said Meg, glancing at the opened letter which lay near his elbow. “Who
+is that from?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He glanced round, having forgotten it. He took the envelope, doubled it and
+pushed it in his waistcoat pocket.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s from William Housley,” he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! And what has he to say?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George turned his dark eyes at her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nothing!” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hm-Hm!” sneered Meg. “Funny letter, about nothing!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose,” said the child, with her insolent, high-pitched superiority, “It’s
+some money that he doesn’t want us to know about.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s about it!” said Meg, giving a small laugh at the child’s perspicuity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So’s he can keep it for himself, that’s what it is,” continued the child,
+nodding her head in rebuke at him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve no right to any money, have I?” asked the father sarcastically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, you haven’t,” the child nodded her head at him dictatorially, “you
+haven’t, because you only put it in the fire.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ve got it wrong,” he sneered. “You mean it’s like giving a child fire to
+play with.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Um!&mdash;and it is, isn’t it Mam?”&mdash;the small woman turned to her mother
+for corroboration. Meg had flushed at his sneer, when he quoted for the child
+its mother’s dictum.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you’re very naughty!” preached Gertie, turning her back disdainfully on
+her father.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is that what the parson’s been telling you?” he asked, a grain of amusement
+still in his bitterness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No it isn’t!” retorted the youngster. “If you want to know you should go and
+listen for yourself. Everybody that goes to church looks nice&mdash;&mdash;”
+she glanced at her mother and at herself, pruning herself proudly, “&mdash;and
+God loves them,” she added. She assumed a sanctified expression, and continued
+after a little thought: “Because they look nice and are meek.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What!” exclaimed Meg, laughing, glancing with secret pride at me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because they’re meek!” repeated Gertie, with a superior little smile of
+knowledge.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’re off the mark this time,” said George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, I’m not, am I Mam? Isn’t it right Mam? ‘The meek shall inevit the erf’?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg was too much amused to answer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The meek shall have herrings on earth,” mocked the father, also amused. His
+daughter looked dubiously at him. She smelled impropriety.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s not, Mam, is it?” she asked, turning to her mother. Meg laughed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The meek shall have herrings on earth,” repeated George with soft banter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No it’s not Mam, is it?” cried the child in real distress.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tell your father he’s always teaching you something wrong,” answered Meg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then I said I must go. They pressed me to stay.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes&mdash;do stop to dinner,” suddenly pleaded the child, smoothing her
+wild ravels of curls after having drawn off her hat. She asked me again and
+again, with much earnestness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But why?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So’s you can talk to us this afternoon&mdash;an’ so’s Dad won’t be so
+dis’greeable,” she replied plaintively, poking the black spots on her muff.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meg moved nearer to her daughter with a little gesture of compassion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But,” said I, “I promised a lady I would be back for lunch, so I must. You
+have some more visitors, you know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, well!” she complained, “They go in another room, and Dad doesn’t care
+about them.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But come!” said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, he’s just as dis’greeable when Auntie Emily’s here&mdash;he is with her
+an’ all.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You <i>are</i> having your character given away,” said Meg brutally, turning
+to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I bade them good-bye. He did me the honour of coming with me to the door. We
+could neither of us find a word to say, though we were both moved. When at last
+I held his hand and was looking at him as I said “Good-bye”, he looked back at
+me for the first time during our meeting. His eyes were heavy and as he lifted
+them to me, seemed to recoil in an agony of shame.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br/>
+A PROSPECT AMONG THE MARSHES OF LETHE</h2>
+
+<p>
+George steadily declined from this time. I went to see him two years later. He
+was not at home. Meg wept to me as she told me of him, how he let the business
+slip, how he drank, what a brute he was in drink, and how unbearable
+afterwards. He was ruining his constitution, he was ruining her life and the
+children’s. I felt very sorry for her as she sat, large and ruddy, brimming
+over with bitter tears. She asked me if I did not think I might influence him.
+He was, she said, at the “Ram.” When he had an extra bad bout on he went up
+there, and stayed sometimes for a week at a time, with Oswald, coming back to
+the “Hollies” when he had recovered&mdash;“though,” said Meg, “he’s sick every
+morning and almost after every meal.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All the time Meg was telling me this, sat curled up in a large chair their
+youngest boy, a pale, sensitive, rather spoiled lad of seven or eight years,
+with a petulant mouth and nervous dark eyes. He sat watching his mother as she
+told her tale, heaving his shoulders and settling himself in a new position
+when his feelings were nearly too much for him. He was full of wild, childish
+pity for his mother, and furious, childish hate of his father, the author of
+all their trouble. I called at the “Ram” and saw George. He was half drunk.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went up to Highclose with a heavy heart. Lettie’s last child had been born,
+much to the surprise of everybody, some few months before I came down. There
+was a space of seven years between her youngest girl and this baby. Lettie was
+much absorbed in motherhood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I went up to talk to her about George I found her in the bedroom nursing
+the baby, who was very good and quiet on her knee. She listened to me sadly,
+but her attention was caught away by each movement made by the child. As I was
+telling her of the attitude of George’s children towards their father and
+mother, she glanced from the baby to me, and exclaimed:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“See how he watches the light flash across your spectacles when you turn
+suddenly&mdash;Look!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But I was weary of babies. My friends had all grown up and married and
+inflicted them on me. There were storms of babies. I longed for a place where
+they would be obsolete, and young, arrogant, impervious mothers might be a
+forgotten tradition. Lettie’s heart would quicken in answer to only one pulse,
+the easy, light ticking of the baby’s blood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I remembered, one day as I sat in the train hastening to Charing Cross on my
+way from France, that that was George’s birthday. I had the feeling of him upon
+me, heavily, and I could not rid myself of the depression. I put it down to
+travel fatigue, and tried to dismiss it. As I watched the evening sun glitter
+along the new corn-stubble in the fields we passed, trying to describe the
+effect to myself, I found myself asking: “But&mdash;what’s the matter? I’ve not
+had bad news, have I, to make my chest feel so weighted?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was surprised when I reached my lodging in New Maiden to find no letters for
+me, save one fat budget from Alice. I knew her squat, saturnine handwriting on
+the envelope, and I thought I knew what contents to expect from the letter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had married an old acquaintance who had been her particular aversion. This
+young man had got himself into trouble, so that the condemnations of the
+righteous pursued him like clouds of gnats on a summer evening. Alice
+immediately rose to sting back his vulgar enemies, and having rendered him a
+service, felt she could only wipe out the score by marrying him. They were
+fairly comfortable. Occasionally, as she said, there were displays of small
+fireworks in the back yard. He worked in the offices of some iron foundries
+just over the Erewash in Derbyshire. Alice lived in a dirty little place in the
+valley a mile and a half from Eberwich, not far from his work. She had no
+children, and practically no friends; a few young matrons for acquaintances. As
+wife of a superior clerk, she had to preserve her dignity among the
+work-people. So all her little crackling fires were sodded down with the sods
+of British respectability. Occasionally she smouldered a fierce smoke that made
+one’s eyes water. Occasionally, perhaps once a year, she wrote me a whole
+venomous budget, much to my amusement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was not in any haste to open this fat letter until, after supper, I turned to
+it as a resource from my depression.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh dear Cyril, I’m in a bubbling state, I want to yell, not write. Oh, Cyril,
+why didn’t <i>you</i> marry me, or why didn’t our Georgie Saxton, or somebody.
+I’m deadly sick. Percival Charles is enough to stop a clock. Oh, Cyril, he
+lives in an eternal Sunday suit, holy broadcloth and righteous three inches of
+cuffs! He goes to bed in it. Nay, he wallows in Bibles when he goes to bed. I
+can feel the brass covers of all his family Bibles sticking in my ribs as I lie
+by his side. I could weep with wrath, yet I put on my black hat and trot to
+chapel with him like a lamb.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Cyril, nothing’s happened. Nothing has happened to me all these years. I
+shall die of it. When I see Percival Charles at dinner, after having asked a
+blessing, I feel as if I should never touch a bit at his table again. In about
+an hour I shall hear him hurrying up the entry&mdash;prayers always make him
+hungry&mdash;and his first look will be on the table. But I’m not fair to
+him&mdash;he’s really a good fellow&mdash;I only wish he wasn’t.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s George Saxton who’s put this seidlitz powder in my marital cup of cocoa.
+Cyril, I must a tale unfold. It is fifteen years since our George married Meg.
+When I count up, and think of the future, it nearly makes me scream. But my
+tale, my tale!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Can you remember his faithful-dog, wounded-stag, gentle-gazelle eyes? Cyril,
+you can see the whisky or the brandy combusting in them. He’s got d&mdash;t’s,
+blue-devils&mdash;and I’ve seen him, and I’m swarming myself with little red
+devils after it. I went up to Eberwich on Wednesday afternoon for a pound of
+fry for Percival Charles’ Thursday dinner. I walked by that little path which
+you know goes round the back of the ‘Hollies’&mdash;it’s as near as any way for
+me. I thought I heard a row in the paddock at the back of the stables, so I
+said I might as well see the fun. I went to the gate, basket in one hand,
+ninepence in coppers in the other, a demure deacon’s wife. I didn’t take in the
+scene at first.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There was our Georgie, in leggings and breeches as of yore, and a whip. He was
+flourishing, and striding, and yelling. ‘Go it old boy,’ I said, ‘you’ll want
+your stocking round your throat to-night.’ But Cyril, I had spoken too soon.
+Oh, lum! There came raking up the croft that long, wire-springy racehorse of
+his, ears flat, and, clinging to its neck, the pale-faced lad, Wilfred. The kid
+was white as death, and squealing ‘Mam! mam!’ I thought it was a bit rotten of
+Georgie trying to teach the kid to jockey. The race-horse,
+Bonny-Boy&mdash;Boney Boy I call him&mdash;came bouncing round like a spiral
+egg-whish. Then I saw our Georgie rush up screaming, nearly spitting the
+moustache off his face, and fetch the horse a cut with the whip. It went off
+like a flame along hot paraffin. The kid shrieked and clung. Georgie went
+rushing after him, running staggery, and swearing, fairly
+screaming,&mdash;awful&mdash;‘a lily-livered little swine!’ The high lanky
+race-horse went larroping round as if it was going mad. I was dazed. Then Meg
+came rushing, and the other two lads, all screaming. She went for George, but
+he lifted his whip like the devil. She daren’t go near him&mdash;she rushed at
+him, and stopped, rushed at him, and stopped, striking at him with her two
+fists. He waved his whip and kept her off, and the race-horse kept tearing
+along. Meg flew to stop it, he ran with his drunken totter-step, brandishing
+his whip. I flew as well. I hit him with my basket. The kid fell off, and Meg
+rushed to him. Some men came running. George stood fairly shuddering. You would
+never have known his face, Cyril. He was mad, demoniacal. I feel sometimes as
+if I should burst and shatter to bits like a sky-rocket when I think of it.
+I’ve got such a weal on my arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I lost Percival Charles’ ninepence and my nice white cloth out of the basket,
+and everything, besides having black looks on Thursday because it was mutton
+chops, which he hates. Oh, Cyril, ‘I wish I was a cassowary, on the banks of
+the Timbuctoo.’ When I saw Meg sobbing over that lad&mdash;thank goodness he
+wasn’t hurt&mdash;! I wished our Georgie was dead; I do now, also; I wish we
+only had to remember him. I haven’t been to see them lately&mdash;can’t stand
+Meg’s ikeyness. I wonder how it all will end.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s P. C. bidding ‘Good night and God Bless You’ to Brother Jakes, and no
+supper ready&mdash;&mdash;”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As soon as I could, after reading Alice’s letter, I went down to Eberwich to
+see how things were. Memories of the old days came over me again till my heart
+hungered for its old people.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They told me at the “Hollies” that, after a bad attack of delirium tremens,
+George had been sent to Papplewick in the lonely country to stay with Emily. I
+borrowed a bicycle to ride the nine miles. The summer had been wet, and
+everything was late. At the end of September the foliage was heavy green, and
+the wheat stood dejectedly in stook. I rode through the still sweetness of an
+autumn morning. The mist was folded blue along the hedges; the elm trees loomed
+up along the dim walls of the morning, the horse-chestnut trees at hand
+flickered with a few yellow leaves like bright blossoms. As I rode through the
+tree tunnel by the church where, on his last night, the keeper had told me his
+story, I smelled the cold rotting of the leaves of the cloudy summer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I passed silently through the lanes, where the chill grass was weighed down
+with grey-blue seed-pearls of dew in the shadow, where the wet woollen
+spider-cloths of autumn were spread as on a loom. Brown birds rustled in flocks
+like driven leaves before me. I heard the far-off hooting of the “loose-all” at
+the pits, telling me it was half-past eleven, that the men and boys would be
+sitting in the narrow darkness of the mines eating their “snap,” while shadowy
+mice darted for the crumbs, and the boys laughed with red mouths rimmed with
+grime, as the bold little creatures peeped at them in the dim light of the
+lamps. The dogwood berries stood jauntily scarlet on the hedge-tops, the
+bunched scarlet and green berries of the convolvulus and bryony hung amid
+golden trails, the blackberries dropped ungathered. I rode slowly on, the
+plants dying around me, the berries leaning their heavy ruddy mouths, and
+languishing for the birds, the men imprisoned underground below me, the brown
+birds dashing in haste along the hedges.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Swineshed Farm, where the Renshaws lived, stood quite alone among its fields,
+hidden from the highway and from everything. The lane leading up to it was deep
+and unsunned. On my right, I caught glimpses through the hedge of the
+corn-fields, where the shocks of wheat stood like small yellow-sailed ships in
+a widespread flotilla. The upper part of the field was cleared. I heard the
+clank of a wagon and the voices of men, and I saw the high load of sheaves go
+lurching, rocking up the incline to the stackyard.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The lane debouched into a close-bitten field, and out of this empty land the
+farm rose up with its buildings like a huddle of old, painted vessels floating
+in still water. White fowls went stepping discreetly through the mild sunshine
+and the shadow. I leaned my bicycle against the grey, silken doors of the old
+coach-house. The place was breathing with silence. I hesitated to knock at the
+open door. Emily came. She was rich as always with her large beauty, and
+stately now with the stateliness of a strong woman six months gone with child.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She exclaimed with surprise, and I followed her into the kitchen, catching a
+glimpse of the glistening pans and the white wood baths as I passed through the
+scullery. The kitchen was a good-sized, low room that through long course of
+years had become absolutely a home. The great beams of the ceiling bowed
+easily, the chimney-seat had a bit of dark-green curtain, and under the high
+mantel-piece was another low shelf that the men could reach with their hands as
+they sat in the ingle-nook. There the pipes lay. Many generations of peaceful
+men and fruitful women had passed through the room, and not one but had added a
+new small comfort; a chair in the right place, a hook, a stool, a cushion, a
+certain pleasing cloth for the sofa covers, a shelf of books. The room, that
+looked so quiet and crude, was a home evolved through generations to fit the
+large bodies of the men who dwelled in it, and the placid fancy of the women.
+At last, it had an individuality. It was the home of the Renshaws, warm,
+lovable, serene. Emily was in perfect accord with its brownness, its shadows,
+its ease. I, as I sat on the sofa under the window, felt rejected by the kind
+room. I was distressed with a sense of ephemerality, of pale, erratic
+fragility.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily, in her full-blooded beauty, was at home. It is rare now to feel a
+kinship between a room and the one who inhabits it, a close bond of blood
+relation. Emily had at last found her place, and had escaped from the torture
+of strange, complex modern life. She was making a pie, and the flour was white
+on her brown arms. She pushed the tickling hair from her face with her arm, and
+looked at me with tranquil pleasure, as she worked the paste in the yellow
+bowl. I was quiet, subdued before her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are very happy?” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah very!” she replied. “And you?&mdash;you are not, you look worn.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” I replied. “I am happy enough. I am living my life.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you find it wearisome?” she asked pityingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She made me tell her all my doings, and she marvelled, but all the time her
+eyes were dubious and pitiful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You have George here,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes. He’s in a poor state, but he’s not as sick as he was.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What about the delirium tremens?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, he was better of that&mdash;very nearly&mdash;before he came here. He
+sometimes fancies they’re coming on again, and he’s terrified. Isn’t it awful!
+And he’s brought it all on himself. Tom’s very good to him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s nothing the matter with him&mdash;physically, is there?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” she replied, as she went to the oven to turn a pie that was
+baking. She put her arm to her forehead and brushed aside her hair, leaving a
+mark of flour on her nose. For a moment or two she remained kneeling on the
+fender, looking into the fire and thinking. “He was in a poor way when he came
+here, could eat nothing, sick every morning. I suppose it’s his liver. They all
+end like that.” She continued to wipe the large black plums and put them in the
+dish.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Hardening of the liver?” I asked. She nodded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And is he in bed?” I asked again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” she replied. “It’s as I say, if he’d get up and potter about a bit, he’d
+get over it. But he lies there skulking.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And what time will he get up?” I insisted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know. He may crawl down somewhere towards tea-time. Do you want to see
+him? That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She smiled at me with a little sarcasm, and added: “You always thought more of
+him than anybody, didn’t you? Ah, well, come up and see him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I followed her up the back stairs, which led out of the kitchen, and which
+emerged straight in a bedroom. We crossed the hollow-sounding plaster-floor of
+this naked room and opened a door at the opposite side. George lay in bed
+watching us with apprehensive eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here is Cyril come to see you,” said Emily, “so I’ve brought him up, for I
+didn’t know when you’d be downstairs.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A small smile of relief came on his face, and he put out his hand from the bed.
+He lay with the disorderly clothes pulled up to his chin. His face was
+discoloured and rather bloated, his nose swollen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you feel so well this morning?” asked Emily, softening with pity when
+she came into contact with his sickness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, all right,” he replied, wishing only to get rid of us.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You should try to get up a bit, it’s a beautiful morning, warm and
+soft&mdash;” she said gently. He did not reply, and she went downstairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I looked round to the cold, whitewashed room, with its ceiling curving and
+sloping down the walls. It was sparsely furnished, and bare of even the
+slightest ornament. The only things of warm colour were the cow and horse skins
+on the floor. All the rest was white or grey or drab. On one side, the roof
+sloped down so that the window was below my knees, and nearly touching the
+floor, on the other side was a larger window, breast high. Through it one could
+see the jumbled, ruddy roofs of the sheds and the skies. The tiles were shining
+with patches of vivid orange lichen. Beyond was the corn-field, and the men,
+small in the distance, lifting the sheaves on the cart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You will come back to farming again, won’t you?” I asked him, turning to the
+bed. He smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” he answered dully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Would you rather I went downstairs?” I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, I’m glad to see you,” he replied, in the same uneasy fashion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve only just come back from France,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah!” he replied, indifferent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am sorry you’re ill,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stared unmovedly at the opposite wall. I went to the window and looked out.
+After some time, I compelled myself to say, in a casual manner:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Won’t you get up and come out a bit?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I suppose Is’ll have to,” he said, gathering himself slowly together for the
+effort. He pushed himself up in bed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When he took off the jacket of his pajamas to wash himself I turned away. His
+arms seemed thin, and he had bellied, and was bowed and unsightly. I remembered
+the morning we swam in the mill-pond. I remembered that he was now in the prime
+of his life. I looked at his bluish feeble hands as he laboriously washed
+himself. The soap once slipped from his fingers as he was picking it up, and
+fell, rattling the pot loudly. It startled us, and he seemed to grip the sides
+of the washstand to steady himself. Then he went on with his slow, painful
+toilet. As he combed his hair he looked at himself with dull eyes of shame.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The men were coming in from the scullery when we got downstairs. Dinner was
+smoking on the table. I shook hands with Tom Renshaw, and with the old man’s
+hard, fierce left hand. Then I was introduced to Arthur Renshaw, a clean-faced,
+large, bashful lad of twenty. I nodded to the man, Jim, and to Jim’s wife,
+Annie. We all sat down to table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, an’ ’ow are ter feelin’ by now, like?” asked the old man heartily of
+George. Receiving no answer, he continued, “Tha should ’a gor up an’ com’ an’
+gen us a ’and wi’ th’ wheat, it ’ud ’a done thee good.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You will have a bit of this mutton, won’t you?” Tom asked him, tapping the
+joint with the carving knife. George shook his head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s quite lean and tender,” he said gently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, thanks,” said George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Gi’e ’im a bit, gi’e ’im a bit!” cried the old man. “It’ll do ’im
+good&mdash;it’s what ’e wants, a bit o’ strengthenin’ nourishment.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s no good if his stomach won’t have it,” said Tom, in mild reproof, as if
+he were speaking of a child. Arthur filled George’s glass with beer without
+speaking. The two young men were full of kind, gentle attention.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let ’im ’a’e a spoonful o’ tonnup then,” persisted the old man. “I canna eat
+while ’is plate stands there emp’y.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So they put turnip and onion sauce on George’s plate, and he took up his fork
+and tasted a few mouthfuls. The men ate largely, and with zest. The sight of
+their grand satisfaction, amounting almost to gusto, sickened him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When at last the old man laid down the dessert spoon which he used in place of
+a knife and fork, he looked again at George’s plate, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why tha ’asna aten a smite, not a smite! Tha non goos th’ raight road to be
+better.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George maintained a stupid silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t bother him, father,” said Emily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tha art an öwd whittle, feyther,” added Tom, smiling good-naturedly. He spoke
+to his father in dialect, but to Emily in good English. Whatever she said had
+Tom’s immediate support. Before serving us with pie, Emily gave her brother
+junket and damsons, setting the plate and the spoon before him as if he were a
+child. For this act of grace Tom looked at her lovingly, and stroked her hand
+as she passed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After dinner, George said, with a miserable struggle for an indifferent tone:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Aren’t you going to give Cyril a glass of whisky?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked up furtively, in a conflict of shame and hope. A silence fell on the
+room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay!” said the old man softly. “Let ’im ’ave a drop.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes!” added Tom, in submissive pleading.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All the men in the room shrank a little, awaiting the verdict of the woman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t know,” she said clearly, “that Cyril wants a glass.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t mind.” I answered, feeling myself blush. I had not the courage to
+counteract her will directly. Not even the old man had that courage. We waited
+in suspense. After keeping us so for a few minutes, while we smouldered with
+mortification, she went into another room, and we heard her unlocking a door.
+She returned with a decanter containing rather less than half a pint of liquor.
+She put out five tumblers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tha nedna gi’e me none,” said the old man. “Ah’m non a proud chap. Ah’m not.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nor me neither,” said Arthur.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You will Tom?” she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you want me to?” he replied, smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t,” she answered sharply. “I want nobody to have it, when you look at
+the results of it. But if Cyril is having a glass, you may as well have one
+with him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom was pleased with her. She gave her husband and me fairly stiff glasses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Steady, steady!” he said. “Give that George, and give me not so much. Two
+fingers, two of your fingers, you know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But she passed him the glass. When George had had his share, there remained but
+a drop in the decanter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Emily watched the drunkard coldly as he took this remainder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George and I talked for a time while the men smoked. He, from his glum
+stupidity, broke into a harsh, almost imbecile loquacity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you seen my family lately?” he asked, continuing. “Yes! Not badly set up,
+are they, the children? But the little devils are soft, mard-soft, every one of
+’em. It’s their mother’s bringin’ up&mdash;she marded ’em till they were soft,
+an’ would never let me have a say in it. I should ’a brought ’em up different,
+you know I should.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom looked at Emily, and, remarking her angry contempt, suggested that she
+should go out with him to look at the stacks. I watched the tall,
+square-shouldered man leaning with deference and tenderness towards his wife as
+she walked calmly at his side. She was the mistress, quiet and self-assured, he
+her rejoiced husband and servant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George was talking about himself. If I had not seen him, I should hardly have
+recognised the words as his. He was lamentably decayed. He talked stupidly,
+with vulgar contumely of others, and in weak praise of himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The old man rose, with a:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I suppose we mun ma’e another dag at it,” and the men left the house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George continued his foolish, harsh monologue, making gestures of emphasis with
+his head and his hands. He continued when we were walking round the buildings
+into the fields, the same babble of bragging and abuse. I was wearied and
+disgusted. He looked, and he sounded, so worthless.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Across the empty cornfield the partridges were running. We walked through the
+September haze slowly, because he was feeble on his legs. As he became tired he
+ceased to talk. We leaned for some time on a gate, in the brief glow of the
+transient afternoon, and he was stupid again. He did not notice the brown haste
+of the partridges, he did not care to share with me the handful of ripe
+blackberries, and when I pulled the bryony ropes off the hedges, and held the
+great knots of red and green berries in my hand, he glanced at them without
+interest or appreciation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poison-berries, aren’t they?” he said dully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Like a tree that is falling, going soft and pale and rotten, clammy with small
+fungi, he stood leaning against the gate, while the dim afternoon drifted with
+a flow of thick sweet sunshine past him, not touching him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the stackyard, the summer’s splendid monuments of wheat and grass were
+reared in gold and grey. The wheat was littered brightly round the rising
+stack. The loaded wagon clanked slowly up the incline, drew near, and rode like
+a ship at anchor against the scotches, brushing the stack with a crisp, sharp
+sound. Tom climbed the ladder and stood a moment there against the sky, amid
+the brightness and fragrance of the gold corn, and waved his arm to his wife
+who was passing in the shadow of the building. Then Arthur began to lift the
+sheaves to the stack, and the two men worked in an exquisite, subtle rhythm,
+their white sleeves and their dark heads gleaming, moving against the mild sky
+and the corn. The silence was broken only by the occasional lurch of the body
+of the wagon, as the teamer stepped to the front, or again to the rear of the
+load. Occasionally I could catch the blue glitter of the prongs of the forks.
+Tom, now lifted high above the small wagon load, called to his brother some
+question about the stack. The sound of his voice was strong and mellow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I turned to George, who also was watching, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You ought to be like that.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We heard Tom calling, “All right!” and saw him standing high up on the tallest
+corner of the stack, as on the prow of a ship.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George watched, and his face slowly gathered expression. He turned to me, his
+dark eyes alive with horror and despair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shall soon&mdash;be out of everybody’s way!” he said. His moment of fear and
+despair was cruel. I cursed myself for having roused him from his stupor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You will be better,” I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He watched again the handsome movement of the men at the stack.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I couldn’t team ten sheaves,” he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You will in a month or two,” I urged.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He continued to watch, while Tom got on the ladder and came down the front of
+the stack.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay, the sooner I clear out, the better,” he repeated to himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we went in to tea, he was, as Tom said, “downcast.” The men talked
+uneasily with abated voices. Emily attended to him with a little, palpitating
+solicitude. We were all uncomfortably impressed with the sense of our
+alienation from him. He sat apart and obscure among us, like a condemned
+man.</p>
+
+<h4>THE END</h4>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap27"></a>Transcribers Notes:</h2>
+
+There is one obvious typesetter error which has been retained:<br/><br/>
+
+1) “She smiled at her.” could have meant “She smiled at him.” or “He smiled at
+her.”
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE PEACOCK ***</div>
+<div style='text-align:left'>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Updated editions will replace the previous one&#8212;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&#8482; electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG&#8482;
+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. If you do not charge anything for
+copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
+easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
+of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
+Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may
+do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
+by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
+license, especially commercial redistribution.
+</div>
+
+<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br />
+<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br />
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span>
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+To protect the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &#8220;Project
+Gutenberg&#8221;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; License available with this file or online at
+www.gutenberg.org/license.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
+destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in your
+possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
+by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
+or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.B. &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is a registered trademark. It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
+paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works if you follow the terms of this
+agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&#8220;the
+Foundation&#8221; or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
+of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works. Nearly all the individual
+works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
+States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
+United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
+claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
+displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
+all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
+that you will support the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting
+free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; name associated with the work. You can easily
+comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
+same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License when
+you share it without charge with others.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
+in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
+check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
+agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
+distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
+other Project Gutenberg&#8482; work. The Foundation makes no
+representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
+country other than the United States.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
+immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License must appear
+prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work (any work
+on which the phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; appears, or with which the
+phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is associated) is accessed, displayed,
+performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
+</div>
+
+<blockquote>
+  <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>
+</blockquote>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is
+derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
+contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
+copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
+the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
+redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase &#8220;Project
+Gutenberg&#8221; associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
+either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
+obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
+additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
+will be linked to the Project Gutenberg&#8482; License for all works
+posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
+beginning of this work.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg&#8482;.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; License.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
+any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
+to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work in a format
+other than &#8220;Plain Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other format used in the official
+version posted on the official Project Gutenberg&#8482; website
+(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
+to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
+of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original &#8220;Plain
+Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other form. Any alternate format must include the
+full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg&#8482; works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+provided that:
+</div>
+
+<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'>
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+        the use of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works calculated using the method
+        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
+        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, but he has
+        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
+        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
+        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
+        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
+        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
+        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
+        Section 4, &#8220;Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
+        Literary Archive Foundation.&#8221;
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
+        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
+        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+        works.
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
+        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
+        receipt of the work.
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+        distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works.
+    </div>
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work or group of works on different terms than
+are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
+from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
+the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
+forth in Section 3 below.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
+contain &#8220;Defects,&#8221; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
+or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
+intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
+other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
+cannot be read by your equipment.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &#8220;Right
+of Replacement or Refund&#8221; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
+with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
+with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
+lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
+or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
+opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
+the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
+without further opportunities to fix the problem.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you &#8216;AS-IS&#8217;, WITH NO
+OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
+LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
+damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
+violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
+agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
+limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
+unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
+remaining provisions.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in
+accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
+production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
+including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
+the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
+or any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, (b) alteration, modification, or
+additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, and (c) any
+Defect you cause.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
+computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
+exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
+from people in all walks of life.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg&#8482;&#8217;s
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg&#8482; collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg&#8482; and future
+generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
+Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service. The Foundation&#8217;s EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
+U.S. federal laws and your state&#8217;s laws.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Foundation&#8217;s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
+Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
+to date contact information can be found at the Foundation&#8217;s website
+and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
+public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
+DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
+visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
+donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; concept of a library of electronic works that could be
+freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
+distributed Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks with only a loose network of
+volunteer support.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
+the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
+necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
+edition.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
+facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This website includes information about Project Gutenberg&#8482;,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+</body>
+
+</html>
+
+
diff --git a/38561-h/images/cover.jpg b/38561-h/images/cover.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..67468f8
--- /dev/null
+++ b/38561-h/images/cover.jpg
diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6312041
--- /dev/null
+++ b/LICENSE.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
diff --git a/README.md b/README.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..2face70
--- /dev/null
+++ b/README.md
@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #38561 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38561)
diff --git a/old/2012-01-13_38561-0.zip b/old/2012-01-13_38561-0.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ea55d84
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/2012-01-13_38561-0.zip
diff --git a/old/2012-01-13_38561-h.zip b/old/2012-01-13_38561-h.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..61b018f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/2012-01-13_38561-h.zip