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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.”—<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.”—<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—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—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—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.” +</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—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,—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—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—they are mixed—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—to——” +</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—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—I can’t beat it. And the way mother humbles +herself to him——!” +</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—I’m so sorry—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,—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. +</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——” +</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—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—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—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——” 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—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—“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——” +</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—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—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—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—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!—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?—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—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—“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—yes, a love song——” 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—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—half alive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—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—a fool!”—he replied, covered with confusion. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad to hear it,” she said—“but I didn’t mean that. I meant how did +the music make you feel?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know—whether—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—and thought awhile—and laughed again. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</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—quite early,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“But I believe—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——” she hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“She has another fish to fry,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not sure——” 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—no!” she said, blushing. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—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—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—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?—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—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——” +</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—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—it is true—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—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—“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. +</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!”—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—Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you be all right?” I asked, seeing him totter. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—all right—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—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—it set splendidly—look—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—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—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—it depends how far I had to walk,” was Lettie’s reply—“but if +I hadn’t to limp too far——” +</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—on the wrong side, understanding her malicious feminine +reference—and answered: +</p> + +<p> +“If they had, I should have looked happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear boy, smile now then,”—and she tipped me under the chin. I drew +away. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Gum—we are solemn! What’s the matter with you? Georgy—say +something—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—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.” +</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—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—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!” +</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—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!—why?—what makes you ask?” he replied, quite at a loss. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I only wondered if your people needed any indigestion mixture—pa +mixes it—1/1 ½ a bottle.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see——” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</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——” 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. +</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—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——” +</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—there isn’t any meaning in it all—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—a girl like that—half afraid—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—rather——” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t, sweet lad, don’t!” she cried laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“But I shouldn’t—” he insisted, “I don’t know whether I should like any +girl I know to——” +</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—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—but——” 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—full——” 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—“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—Poor Frank.” That was my father’s +name. +</p> + +<p> +“But what is it mother?—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—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—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—for ever—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—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. +</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—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—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——” +</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—we’ll go to him now, shall we?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow—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—in the morning. Lettie has her party to Chatsworth—don’t tell +her—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:—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—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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Fifty-one——” said my mother. “Come—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—but he’s dead—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——” said my mother, “we had a letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I must come in and settle things—I am his nearest relative,” said my +mother, trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—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—’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. +</p> + +<p> +“’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. +</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!—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!” +</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—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?”—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—“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—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—of poor old +Carlin’s?”—he nodded sideways towards the bed. +</p> + +<p> +“The nearest,” said my mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor fellow—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—silly devils as we are.—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—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—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. +</p> + +<p> +“We wanted the key of his desk,” said my mother. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</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—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. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, doctor—Eh, doctor—bless ye, I’m thankful ye’ve come. Ye’ll see +to ’em now, will ye?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“However—we shall miss him—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—one or two addressed to Paris. There were many bills, and +receipts, and notes—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—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: +</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—my little wife is lonely—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,—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. +</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—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;—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—no more need to worry over him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well!—He died all alone, Rebecca—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—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—if it’s ours, it’s yours.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for some minutes, then she said, “You might have had a +father——” +</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——” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she replied, “we’ll say no more. Sometime you must tell Lettie—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—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!—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. +</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’—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—“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;—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”—he rubbed them together—“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—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—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—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. +</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”—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——” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“If you began to run yourself—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”—another look, and a +comical little smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said George, “what’s the good finicking! If you feel like doing a +thing—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—she could not hold herself from asking, “Don’t you +think it’s brutal, now—that you <i>do</i> think—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—let us be still—it is all so still—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—five now. Is it there the moon will rise?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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”—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—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!—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!” +</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—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. +</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—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. +</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—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—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.” +</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—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—next to nothing—at a rent really absurd. Surely the little +that the rabbits eat——” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not a little—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—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.” +</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—so if I am to enjoy my glass.—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—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.” +</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—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—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—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—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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have to live,” I retorted. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—but it’s rotten. And father won’t move—and he won’t change his +methods.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—what about you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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!”—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—hand over my snare—<i>and</i> the +rabbit,” said George angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“What rabbit?” said Annable, turning sarcastically to me. +</p> + +<p> +“You know well enough—an’ you can hand it over—or——” +George replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Or what? Spit it out! The sound won’t kill me”—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—both you an’ ’im. You’ll get neither snare nor +rabbit—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—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—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!—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—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—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—you won’t say anything?” he asked as I was leaving him. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing at all—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;—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—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.” +</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—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?” +</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—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.” +</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—that sounds bad.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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—I don’t know—I’ve said nothing to mother. Not yet,—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—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——” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed, not having heard my words. +</p> + +<p> +“The time seems to go like lightning—thinking” he confessed—“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,—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—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—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.” +</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—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—that’s nothing! Can you get that off my skirt—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—you +ought—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—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—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;—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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you find any with nuts in?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Not many—here—here are two, three. You have them. No—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—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,—and +sat serenely unconcerned. +</p> + +<p> +“Could you”—I asked when the mother had put her bonny baby again to her +breast—“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;—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—made it all up,” she whispered proudly to +us—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—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—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—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——” 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—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!—and your skirts too, I know. Here, let me take them into the +kitchen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let Rebecca take them,” said Lettie—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—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—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—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—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—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.” +</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—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——” 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—or shall I say embarrassed—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 +dreēaming’—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——<br/> +I frightened a little mouse under a stair.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“She was not in London,” he replied sarcastically. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</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—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—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——” another pause, +another fixing, a pin to be taken from her lips—” 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——” she said loftily. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed sarcastically. +</p> + +<p> +“Well—if you’re so beastly cut up about it——” +</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—you—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?”—the question startled him. +</p> + +<p> +“Why!—forget it,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“You do care something for me, don’t you, Lettie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,”—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—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> +“—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—but—I’m sick of that word +‘but’—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—now she began to +doubt:—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—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—nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. We were silent for some time. +</p> + +<p> +“You were expecting me?” he murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—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—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—why!”—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—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—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—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? +</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—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—for +nothing, nothing, nothing,”—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—the light in it is like—oh—buttercups in the +sun.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is like me—it won’t be kept in bounds,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Shame if it were—like this, it brushes my face—so—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—well—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—I +believe she just lagged at last on purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded wickedly, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“All those—those—yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“All—she admits it—everything!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!—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—now you look——” +</p> + +<p> +“Did I look aside?” +</p> + +<p> +“With the inward eye. Suppose now we were two angels——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear—a sloppy angel!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—don’t interrupt now—suppose I were one—like the +‘Blessed Damosel.’” +</p> + +<p> +“With a warm bosom——!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be foolish, now—I a ‘Blessed Damosel’ and you kicking the brown +beech leaves below thinking——” +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>are</i> you driving at?” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you be thinking—thoughts like prayers?” +</p> + +<p> +“What on earth do you ask that for? Oh—I think I’d be cursing—eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“No—saying fragrant prayers—that your thin soul might mount +up——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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—you grudger!—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—I have you here—yes, I have you now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our life is but a fading dawn?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then poor old Horace.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha! Ha!—Well, I shan’t forget <i>you</i>. What’s that queer look in your +eyes?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay—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——” +</p> + +<p> +“I will—I will——” +</p> + +<p> +After a while he asked: +</p> + +<p> +“When shall we be properly engaged, Lettie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, wait till Christmas—till I am twenty-one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nearly three months! Why on earth——” +</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—it doesn’t matter about other people.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought we should be married in three months.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—married in haste——. 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—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?” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you making so many words about? You don’t know now, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No—that I don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then just be comfortable. Let me look at myself in your eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Narcissus, Narcissus!—Do you see yourself well? Does the image flatter +you?—Or is it a troubled stream, distorting your fair lineaments.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t see anything—only feel you looking—you are laughing at +me.—What have you behind there—what joke?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I’m thinking you’re just like Narcissus—a sweet, beautiful +youth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be serious—do.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be dangerous. You’d die of it, and I—I should——” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” +</p> + +<p> +“Be just like I am now—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—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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</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—blissful merely in the sound of our voices, a +murmured, soothing sound—a grateful, dispassionate love trio. +</p> + +<p> +At last George rose, put down his book—looked at his father—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—Father often forgets—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—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. +</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—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—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—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—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—what she wanted—at the bottom.” +</p> + +<p> +“You?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“If it hadn’t been that he was a prize—with a ticket—she’d have +had——” +</p> + +<p> +“You!” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“She was afraid—look how she turned and kept away——” +</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—she’s like a woman, like a cat—running to comforts—she +strikes a bargain. Women are all tradesmen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t generalise, it’s no good.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s like a prostitute——” +</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——?” +</p> + +<p> +“Loves him—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——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—said she +would come too. I suppose I looked at her curiously, for she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—if you would rather go alone——!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come—come—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—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—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—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.” +</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—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—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—but it’s not All Hallows’ Eve.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” cried Lettie, blushing. +</p> + +<p> +“G,” said the father, winking and laughing—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’—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,—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—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—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. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall never fret my fat away,” he said stolidly. +</p> + +<p> +“No—you and I—we are not like Cyril. We do not burn our bodies in +our heads—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—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: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m too excited to sit still—it’s so near Christmas—let us +play at something.” +</p> + +<p> +“A dance?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“A dance—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—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: +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve overdone it—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—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—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——” +</p> + +<p> +“—Less tomfoolery,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—you call it tomfoolery because you cannot do it. Myself, I like +it—so——” +</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—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—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?” +</p> + +<p> +“When? Who’s coming?” +</p> + +<p> +“The twenty-sixth.—Oh!—only the old people—Alice—Tom +Smith—Fanny—those from Highclose.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what will you do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sing charades—dance a little—anything you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Polka?” +</p> + +<p> +“And minuets—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—her dash and +devilry. When we had finished, the father said: +</p> + +<p> +“Very pretty—very pretty, indeed! They do look nice, don’t they, George? +I wish I was young.” +</p> + +<p> +“As I am——” said George, laughing bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“Show me how to do them—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—but you are not often here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am here now. Come——” 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—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—you must send us some mistletoe for the party—with +plenty of berries, you know. Are there many berries on your mistletoe this +year?” +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see—I think they are there—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—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?”—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—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— “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——” +</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—what’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. Who’m I, to have anything the matter! Nobody—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—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——” +</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—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—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—a +veritable rôdeur des femmes—and you look such a lamb too—such a +dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even my bleat reminds you of Mary’s pet.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are not my pet—at least—it is well that my Golaud doesn’t +hear you——” +</p> + +<p> +“If he is so very big——” 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—and he really is big.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—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—before——” +</p> + +<p> +“Would it have influenced you very much?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—of course—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—you can only marry one——” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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”—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—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——” She did so—“What do you see?” he +asked laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“You—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—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. +</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—By Heaven!” +</p> + +<p> +“But—oh, yes! We have made all preparations.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does that matter! Ten thousand folks here to-day——!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not ten thousand—only five or six. I shall be wild if they can’t come.” +</p> + +<p> +“You want them?” +</p> + +<p> +“We have asked them—and everything is ready—and I do want us to +have a party one day.” +</p> + +<p> +“But to-day—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——” she pouted. +</p> + +<p> +“Well I’ll be—! and you’ve set your mind on having a houseful of people +to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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—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—” She put the jewels round under +her finger, and looked at the plain gold band—then she twisted it back +quickly, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad it’s not—not yet. I begin to feel a woman, little +mother—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—no—o—!” +</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—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?” +</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—it’s all very well—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—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.’” +</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—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—but—still I don’t think she +feels——” +</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—sapphires and diamonds—for I don’t know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor do I. Blue for hope, because Speranza in ‘Fairy Queen’ had a blue +gown—and diamonds for—the crystalline clearness of my nature.” +</p> + +<p> +“Its glitter and hardness, you mean—You are a hard little mistress. But +why Hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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—and—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—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—discreetly—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—there is something about +it—oh—assuring—really—it comforts one—I’ve been +reading Maxim Gorky.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shouldn’t,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Just healthy living flesh,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t mean that, because one feels—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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said I, “we just live, nothing abnormal, nothing cruel and +extravagant—just natural—like doves in a dovecote.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!—doves!—they are so—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—what a mastery! I +wish I had her strength—she just marches straight through in the right +way—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—but then look at Hardy—life seems so terrible—it isn’t, +is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you don’t feel it, it isn’t—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—? 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——” He showed me his snow-shoes. +</p> + +<p> +“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”. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—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—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—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?” +</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—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. +</p> + +<p> +During all this he had straightened his cream and lavender waistcoat: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—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!—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!—Choir of Angels,” exclaimed Alice, clasping her hands and +gazing up at the lintel of the door like a sainted virgin. +</p> + +<p> +“Persephone—Europa——” 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—how can you say ‘take it calmly’—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,—came from +Canada—they’re just ripping.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—Aw-w <i>do</i> go and put them on and show +us—<i>do!—do</i> perform for us, Billy dear!” cried Alice. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—and so was Emily—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—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—the floor was all polished—and some of the furniture was +taken away—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—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—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—no—I thought not. Aren’t +my hands red?—it’s the cold—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—when I’ve done the analysis I’ll tell +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what do you think about it—?” +</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—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?” +</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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</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—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—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—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—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—I am rather tired—it is so +exciting—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—about you——” 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——” 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—except one, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“You?” she queried, ironically—“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—make it perfect next time.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s you who hang fire—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—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—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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!—I am very sorry, I am so sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be!—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—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—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—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—I am so sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +He said, very low and soft,—“Never mind—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—we can sit down now.” +</p> + +<p> +After the actors had played the last charade, Leslie came and claimed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Madam—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—Ah, but science is nothing without a girl to set it +going—Yes—Come on—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—he shall beluxurious,” and the dauntless girl perched on his +knee. +</p> + +<p> +“What if I singe your whiskers—would you send an Armada? +Aw—aw—pretty!—You do look sweet—doesn’t he suck +prettily?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you envy me?” he asked, smiling whimsically. +</p> + +<p> +“Ra—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—like Mrs. Daws,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t call yourself a cow,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Nasty thing—let me go,” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“No—you fit me—don’t go,” he replied, holding her. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you must have growed. Oh—what great hands—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—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—it looks lovely like that though——” +</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—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—play a waltz—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!—come on—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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you think I couldn’t?” he said. “You are pledged for a minuet and a valeta +with me—you remember?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You promise?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But——” +</p> + +<p> +“I went to Nottingham and learned.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</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—<i>that’s</i> real,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“By Heaven, Lettie, you make me laugh!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I?” she said—“What if you married Alice—soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve a couple of thousand or so of my own——” +</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—“It’s because things are altered too. They’re settled +one way now—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—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. +</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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have some more turkey, Mr. Saxton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks—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—you are a jewel.” +</p> + +<p> +“So will you be—a yellow topaz tomorrow!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! tomorrow’s tomorrow!” +</p> + +<p> +After supper was over, Alice cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Georgie, dear—have you finished?—don’t die the death of a +king—King John—I can’t spare you, pet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you so fond of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am—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—some Sunday, when I’m driving.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—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—blew Georgie many kisses—promised to love him +faithful and true—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—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,—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.” +</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—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. +</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—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—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—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—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. +</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—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. +</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—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—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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And hell?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are cruel! Kiss me—now—No, I don’t want your cheek—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—“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—more! I saw +him—the son—the other morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was carting manure—I made haste by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he speak to you—did you look at him?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Seeing that I usually wear them——” +</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—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—I was longing——” +</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—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—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—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”—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?” +</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?”—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—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.” +</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—when yer look down on a man he never looks +the same. I thought it was some young fools come here dallyin’—” +</p> + +<p> +“Damn you—shut up!” exclaimed Leslie—“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—a lady!” said Annable. “But I’ve nearly +forgot the sight o’ one—save the squire’s daughters, who are never out o’ +nights.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think you never have seen many—unless—! 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—if you will excuse me, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you deserved it—no doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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——’” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re very smart for a keeper.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are yours, are they?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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—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!—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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve done pretty badly, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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?—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.” +</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—no soul,” remarked Leslie, +dismissing the question. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” assented Emily. “No soul—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—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. +</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—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—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.” +</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—go +then—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—no,—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,”—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.” +</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—’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—sh’ is. My Dad says sh’ is—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—an’ mi mower says, Dun gie ’t ’im’—’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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where was that?” asked Lettie. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</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—had visitors?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never axed ’em—they come in ’earin’ th’ childer cryin’. I never +encouraged ’em——” +</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—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. +</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—I meant to tell you—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—half +eerie—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—just for a moment—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—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—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—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?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you like—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?—there’s only your shirt. +Aw!—there!”—she stuck a few flowers in his ruffled black +hair—“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—don’t I make a lovely fairy queen, Bully +Bottom?—and who’s jealous Oberon?” +</p> + +<p> +“He reminds me of that man in Hedda Gabler—crowned with vine +leaves—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—she’ll soon be all right, thanks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—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!”—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—you may have the game now,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Beaten, my boy!—don’t crow over a woman any more. Stale-mate—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——!” 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—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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—what a shame!” exclaimed Lettie. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” said he, looking round. “Your flowers? Do you feel sorry for +them?—you’re too tender hearted; isn’t she, Cyril?” +</p> + +<p> +“Always was—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—it’s the snowdrops, and the man, and the +children—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—really—I’m just the same—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—“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’—go forward—’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!—Ha—Ha—Ah!—Me, did ter say?—come ter see +me?—Ha—wheer’s Meg!—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—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—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?—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”—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;—No—I’m all gone but my +cap——” 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—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—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.” +</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—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—not +proper”—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—come +on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sit thee down an’ drink a drop wi’s—it’s not ivry night as we ’a’e +cumpny.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, let me take you to bed—I’m sure you must be ready.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sit thee down ’ere, I say, an’ get thee a drop o’ port. Come—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—là—dy—dà—là—dy—dà—dy—dà,” +cried the old woman in delight, and she clutched her wineglass. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on—chink!” she cried, “all together—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—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—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—what’s thai say, George—a deep un, +isna ’er?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dunna go, Aunt, dunna be hustled off.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tush—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—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—she—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—his excitement abated somewhat. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I suppose I knew, but it was unnecessary to say so. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</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—then, subsiding again, muttered, +with slovenly articulation: +</p> + +<p> +“I—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—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—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—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:—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. +</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—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!—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.” +</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,”—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—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!—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why—what’s up—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—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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</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—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. +</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!—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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</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—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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat looking up where the big moon swam through the black branches of the +yew. +</p> + +<p> +“So she’s dead—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—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—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. +</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—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—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—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—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—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—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!” +</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,—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—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—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——. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</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—“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. +</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—fearful!” she replied softly. +</p> + +<p> +“No!—why is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It makes you feel—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—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—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?—wait a bit—I’m coming.” +</p> + +<p> +I waited. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well—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——” 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?—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—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——!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“If she did perhaps she’d want me—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—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.” +</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—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—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.” +</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—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—no, put that old smooth cloth coat on—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—you want to leave your neck showing.” +</p> + +<p> +He put his hand to his throat, and said naïvely: +</p> + +<p> +“Do I?”—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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +When I was going he said: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</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—it was +perhaps as well he had kept them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</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—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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</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—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—in the other room—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—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?—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—or cream—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—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—if you won’t. They’re his violets you’re wearing by the +way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are they—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—! But what can he want me for?—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—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—run and +fetch that silk shawl out of my wardrobe—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”—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—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——” +</p> + +<p> +“What?—Who else?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody else—only I—well I’d—I’d thought about it +different—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—plainer.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes—better than those naked lines.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are quaint to-night—what did you want me for—to say good-bye?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where will you go—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—since I must.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Fate—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—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?—that was +what you wanted, was it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“To say good-bye?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—it wasn’t—I wanted, I wanted to ask you——” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what could I do—I could only hinder—what help should I be?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if—if you had—what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I had you I could go straight on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—I should take a farm in Canada——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, wouldn’t it be better to get it first and make sure——?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!—so you wanted me——?” +</p> + +<p> +“I only wanted you, I only wanted you. I would have given you——” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d have me—you’d have all me, and everything you wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>is</i> impossible, isn’t it +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know it is—Look at me now, and say if it’s not impossible—a +farmer’s wife—with you in Canada.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what will you do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not go to Canada.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you must not—you must not do anything rash.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—I shall get married.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I shall—since you are——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Lettie. “It is best. But I thought that you——” 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—I shall see you again sometime—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—it breaks the old life up. You said +I would see you again——” She left her hand in his a moment or two. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—his going—who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“He!—Oh,—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—in the interim, eh!”—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—don’t let us talk about him—talk about something else. I can’t +bear to talk about—him.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he replied—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—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—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?”—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?—I’ll stop playing if you don’t like it.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not, however, cease. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—and all this dry business.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you?—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—come and sit down,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t want to.—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—why?” she said, through the calm jingle of “Meine Ruh is +hin——” +</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—and be—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—what do you call yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“I?—nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well, I’m going then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Must you?—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—if that’s +what you want——” +</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——” 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?—There’s nothing to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my girl—what do you want to do? You have been moping about all +day—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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t help it, my dear—you must do something for yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what can I do?—I can do nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’d go to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“That I won’t—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—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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</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—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.” +</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—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—if I didn’t rush. I +didn’t know how you might have taken me, Lettie when I said—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—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.” +</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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate,” she said, “You could wash here——” +</p> + +<p> +“But I must get out of these clothes—and I want a bath.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you could stay here—and they needn’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +They looked at each other with wide, smiling eyes—like children on the +brink of a stolen pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but what would your mother think!—no, I’ll go.” +</p> + +<p> +“She won’t mind a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but——” +</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—and be straight.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is neither meanness nor grundyishness——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Ydgrun, Ydgrun——!” 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—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—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. +</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—she’s such +a one for raving about the perfection of the early morning—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—“thank you very much—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—don’t bother her—she’d come if she wanted——” +</p> + +<p> +But mother had called from the foot of the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Lettie, Lettie—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—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—are you—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—and——,” 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—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—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—,” 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—if you love me——” +</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—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?” +</p> + +<p> +“In Nottingham—don’t you like it?” said George referring to his tie. +“Hello, Lettie—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—Can’t you see we’ve come to be +chosen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well—I haven’t got any apple—I’ve eaten mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</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—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’—‘Love is a tickling,’—there—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—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’—ain’t it, Lettie? ‘One lick’s +enough’—‘and damned be he that first cries: Hold, enough!’—Which +one do you like? But <i>are</i> you going to take us to church, Georgie, +darling—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—and let us start now,” said Emily somewhat +testily. She did not like this nonsense. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are Syb—you’ve got your orders—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—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—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—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—“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 <i>do</i> know those who are kind +to them——” +</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—don’t you, Lettie?” cried Meg +in access of tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +Lettie did—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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s she gone there for?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose the squire wanted the Kennels—and she chose it herself. But +the way they live—it’s fearful to think of!” +</p> + +<p> +“And why haven’t you been?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know—I’ve meant to—but——” Emily stumbled. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t want, and you daren’t?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps not—would you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pah—let’s go now!—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!”—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—you go then—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—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—the +thievin’, brazen little devil——” thus she went on. +</p> + +<p> +“But what’s up!” interrupted the thin constable, “what’s up wi’ ’im?” +</p> + +<p> +“Up—it’s ’im as ’is up, an’ let ’im wait till I get ’im down. A crafty +little——” +</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—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. +</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—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—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: +</p> + +<p> +“Now then, no more on it—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—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——” +</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—they’d seen ter that, a thieving, +dirt-eatin’ lot.” +</p> + +<p> +“When was that?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“A fat lot o’ good it is—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—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—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: +</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—” +</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—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—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—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.” +</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—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——” +</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—to the Ram Inn,” said Lettie to +George when they came to the cross-roads. +</p> + +<p> +“Not now—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—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.” +</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—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—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.” +</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—like that——” +</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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And pray how will you manage it?” asked Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll begin by marrying—and then you’ll see.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily laughed with scorn—“Let us see you begin.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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—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?—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—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—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—it’s no good going before.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then you’ll marry?” asked Lettie of George. +</p> + +<p> +“Before then—oh, before then,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Why—how is it you are suddenly in such a hurry?—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—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—all things considered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—if she suits you——” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re cousins——” +</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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a poor life, that!” said the father, ruminating. +</p> + +<p> +George laughed. “A bit mucky!” he said—“But it’ll do. It would need Cyril +or Lettie to keep me alive in Canada.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a bold stroke—everybody was embarrassed. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she said. “You can generally get what you want if you want it +badly enough. Of course—if you <i>don’t mind</i>——” +</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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—the lad! I should. Yes—he’d be better here than up yonder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes—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—it’s no good—the grass is +wet—Good-night—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—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—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—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—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.—I really think we shall have thunder: I <i>hope</i> +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 +<i>is</i> 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.” +</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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +Lettie, who had turned pale, hurried to the door. The sky was very +dark—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—I dread +it so. Perhaps I had better wait——” +</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—let us take him home—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—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—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—perhaps so,” he drawled in his best reflective manner. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But——” he began, not looking up; and I laughed at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well—she was engaged to him——” +</p> + +<p> +“Pah—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—and, perhaps,—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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, doesn’t it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Silly boy—no, it’s myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure I’ve made no complaint about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not likely—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!”—he +held out his hands, frail and white with sickness. +</p> + +<p> +“You know you hold me—and I want you to let me go. I don’t want +to——” +</p> + +<p> +“To what?” +</p> + +<p> +“To get married at all—let me be, let me go.” +</p> + +<p> +“What for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—for my sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean you don’t love me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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!—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</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—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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</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—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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No—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—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—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—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!—wish <i>I</i> were!” +</p> + +<p> +“You can come if you like—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—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—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. +</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 +“—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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now go on,” she said, “—‘but you may’.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—you—may—shoot”:—he shouted away, reassured by the +rumble of the machine: “Shoot—the—fox. +I—I—It—is—at—the—rot——” +</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—of—the—tree.” +</p> + +<p> +“Next one!” cried Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Put—the—ol——” began the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” cried Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Ole—on——” +</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—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—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.” +</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—and the rest was +misty because there were so many faces lapped one over the +other—reflected.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I’m going in a Pub,” said George, “where it’s quite different—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——” 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—“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——” +</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—“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—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, “—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. +</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—’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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strike!” cried the fat young man, exploding: +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy th’ owd lady sayin’ ’er prayers!—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—’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—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. +</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—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. +</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—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—they don’t know yet what I can do—they +don’t know—<i>you</i> don’t know—none of you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ what shall you do when we’re rich, George?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“But you won’t do anything that’s not right, George!” +</p> + +<p> +“No—I don’t want to hurt nobody—but I don’t care—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—you don’t think I’m a +fool now, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure I don’t—who does?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—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—you wouldn’t do that.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I might—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—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—I’d niver leave thee—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—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—are ter glad?—in a bit—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—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. +</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—what’s a matter?” asked the father excitedly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a chicken been and walked into the fire—I put it on the hob to +warm,” explained his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Goodness—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—h—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—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——” +</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—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—such a splendid +world—it was so nice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Like Eve in a meadow in Eden—and Adam’s shadow somewhere on the grass,” +said I. +</p> + +<p> +“No—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—one stream and glitter of buttercups.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—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—but <i>I</i> can’t—you know we can’t”—and she looked at +him fiercely. +</p> + +<p> +“Why can’t you?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you want your flowers?” he asked humbly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thanks—they’d be dead before I got home—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—“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—“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!” +</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—a veritable +Samson!”—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—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.” +</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—instead of being fine humans with free active +life—we should hug our thinning lives, shouldn’t we?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose we should.” +</p> + +<p> +“You, for instance—fancy <i>your</i> sacrificing yourself—for the +next generation—that reminds you of Schopenhauer, doesn’t it?—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—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—a mate?” she asked, looking at him. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“The claws are spread—it fell dead off the perch,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed bitterly under the pain of her soft, sad tones. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me bury him—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—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—oh, wouldn’t I have +my own way!” +</p> + +<p> +“And don’t you now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—I don’t want it particularly—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—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—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"> +“—Ilion, Ilion<br/> +Fatalis incestusque judex<br/> +Et mulier peregrina vertit.<br/> +In pulverem——” +</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——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”—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!—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—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—the state! But come in—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—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. +</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——poke——” +</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——” +</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—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—let me say farewell—‘jamque Vale! Do you +remember how Eurydice sank back into Hell?” +</p> + +<p> +“But”—he stammered, “you must come down to tea—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—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!” +</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—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. +</p> + +<p> +“The clouds are going on again,” said Lettie. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he cried, “don’t go—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—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—yes, if you tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t tell you—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—and what should +I do with my love for you?—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—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——” +</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—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—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—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—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. +</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—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.” +</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—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—about half a dozen—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—and at every corner—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—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—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. +</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—they loved him for +the mellow, laughing modulation of his voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, then—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—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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—fit for old Theocritus, ain’t it, Miss +Denys?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you talk to me about those classic people—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,”—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.” +</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—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—ugh, sour!” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled up at her in his whimsical way: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll hear you first—I’m no judge of honey and cheese.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ darn little apples—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—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.” +</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—let us go and fetch him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—and those bell flowers. I suppose you needn’t go on +with your labours——” +</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—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—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——” +</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—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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said, “I’ll go on home—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—and your +father’s coming.” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” he replied pettishly, “I can’t have my tea with all those folks—I +don’t want to—look at me!” +</p> + +<p> +He held out his inflamed, barbaric hands. +</p> + +<p> +She winced and said: +</p> + +<p> +“It won’t matter—you’ll give the realistic touch.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed ironically. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>No</i>—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—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. +</p> + +<p> +He was the first to rise, saying he must get the cows up for milking. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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—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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Lettie,” said Leslie good-naturedly, “I know you have a farmyard +fondness—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—pitter-patter through the water, tiny little things,” as Marie +said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</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,—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—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. +</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—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.” +</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—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——!” +</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—and the story—it was +splendid,” said Marie, “—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—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. +</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—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——” +</p> + +<p> +It was midnight, full of sick thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“It is no good,” said I. “Go to bed—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——” +</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—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.—And you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must be gone before you,” he said decisively. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</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,”—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——” +</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”—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—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—“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—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—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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, dunna thee say so!—I’m just off to Nottingham—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’——” +</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—I niver +thought it on thee!—An’ what’s thy ’orry, all of a sudden?” +</p> + +<p> +“No hurry as I know of.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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—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!——” 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—you’ll be hurtin’ yourself, you know you +will——” +</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!—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: +</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——” +</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—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——!” wept Meg. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</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—“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—my mother keeps ’er,”—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—don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—she’s—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—so +little, she is—surely you don’t grumble at minding her a +bit——?” +</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—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, “—A sweet +little thing like that——” +</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?—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. +</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—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—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. +</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!—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. +</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——?” +</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—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——” +</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—“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. +</p> + +<p> +“As you see,” she replied laughing, interested in his attitude—“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?—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——. 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?” +</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—well——” +</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——.” +</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—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—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—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. +</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—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—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.’” +</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—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!—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—“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—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——” +</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—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?—‘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——.” +</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—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? +</p> + +<p> +“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——.” +</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——.” +</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> +“——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—— +</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—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—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—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. +</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—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. +</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—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?—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——!’ 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——” +</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—don’t tell Tom when ’e comes +in,”—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—haven’t you?” and she +laughed again. Then she sat down suddenly, and pointing above our heads, +shrieked: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</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—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——” 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—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?—What’s up wi’ thee? Have a ride +then—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—“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——” +</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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if you leave the public-house—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——” +</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—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—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——” +</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—not like yours——” +</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—they have neither of them our eyes, have they?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</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—but not so bad. You never gave yourself away so +much—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—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—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—“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—especially when there’s two. I never seem to have time to do my +hair up even—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?—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.” +</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——” +</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——” +</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—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—we never notice her, poor old gran’ma.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</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—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.” +</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!—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—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. +</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 & 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—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?—a marvellous little fellow, is he not, Leslie?—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—“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. +</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”—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——?” 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—and then of her and +them frittering away themselves and money in that idiocy——” +</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——’” +</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—and——” +</p> + +<p> +“And you—and Mayhew—and me——” 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!”—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?” +</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—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—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. +</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—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—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—you go to sleep,” he answered, resenting having to speak +at all. +</p> + +<p> +“Then put on a dressing gown—there’s one in that corner—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—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—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—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.” +</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—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——” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” I asked, as he hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</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—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——” +</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—and I am a trifle demented:—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:—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.” +</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——” +</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—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?” +</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—go to boh, go to +bohey!—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—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—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—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——” +</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—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——” +</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——” +</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—‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and ‘Hm Hm!’—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—I can no more talk than a +lobster——” +</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—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——!” 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—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—“Wait a bit, +Freddie,—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—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—but you are not another person. I often think—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—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—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—I can’t, any more than you could give kisses to a +stranger. And I feel that I’m losing—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—“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—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——” 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—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—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——” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Missis is gone to church—and the children—But Miss Saxton is +in, she might——” +</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——” +</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—how long is it ago——? +</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:—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—he is wonderfully sagacious—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——?” +</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?—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—not yet,”—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!—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. +</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——” +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.” +</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—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—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—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—“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—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—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—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. +</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—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. +</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—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. +</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—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. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s P. C. bidding ‘Good night and God Bless You’ to Brother Jakes, and no +supper ready——” +</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?—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—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing the matter with him—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—” 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—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—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—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—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. 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