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diff --git a/48813-h/48813-h.htm b/48813-h/48813-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc0b172 --- /dev/null +++ b/48813-h/48813-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16510 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Black Diamond, by F. Brett Young</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Black Diamond, by F. Brett Young + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Black Diamond + + +Author: F. Brett Young + + + +Release Date: April 27, 2015 [eBook #48813] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK DIAMOND*** +</pre> +<p>This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler</p> +<h1>THE<br /> +BLACK DIAMOND</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>by</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center">FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/bd-logo.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Logo" +title= +"Logo" + src="images/bd-logo.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">LONDON AND +GLASGOW</span><br /> +COLLINS’ CLEAR-TYPE PRESS</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. ii</span>Copyright</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>First Impression</p> +</td> +<td><p>February, 1921</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Second ,,</p> +</td> +<td><p>March, 1921</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Third ,,</p> +</td> +<td><p>March, 1922</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Fourth ,,</p> +</td> +<td><p>April, 1922</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Fifth ,,</p> +</td> +<td><p>May, 1922</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Sixth ,,</p> +</td> +<td><p>September, 1922</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Manufactured in Great +Britain</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. iii</span><span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br +/> +M. <span class="smcap">Compton Mackenzie</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">GRATEFULLY : AFFECTIONATELY</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>The +First Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Abner Fellows</span> was born in the front +bedroom of Number Eleven Hackett’s Cottages, a four-roomed +house of old brickwork that stood in the middle of a row of +twenty-one, set diagonally across a patch of waste land on the +outskirts of Halesby. The terrace was fifty years old, and +looked older, for the smoke and coal dust of the neighbouring +pits had corroded the surface of the bricks, while the +‘crowning in’ of the earth’s crust above the +gigantic burrowings of the Great Mawne Colliery had loosened the +mortar between them and even produced a series of long cracks +that clove the house-walls from top to bottom like conventional +forked lightning. One of these lines of cleavage split the +face of Number Eleven and ran through the middle of a plaster +plaque on which the pious owner of the cottages had carved the +words:—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>ISAIAH HACKETT</i>:<br /> +<i>GLORY BE TO GOD</i>, <i>1839</i>.</p> +<p>This plaque, together with the metal medallion of a fire +insurance corporation and two iron bosses connected with the +system of stays by which Mr Hackett’s descendants had tried +to save their property from collapsing, made the Fellows’s +house the most decorative feature of the row, and gave Abner a +feeling of enviable distinction in his childhood long before he +knew what they meant.</p> +<p>His father, John Fellows, like the rest of the tenants, was a +miner. He had chosen to live in Hackett’s Cottages +because they lay nearer to the colliery than any other buildings +in Halesby and were within a reasonable distance of the +cross-roads where stood his favourite public-house, the Lyttleton +Arms. Hackett’s Cottages, in fact, hung poised, as it +were, between two magnetic poles: the pit where the money was +earned and the pub where it was spent. To remain there <a +name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>contented would +have implied a nice equilibrium, had it not been that eastward of +the cross-roads and the Lyttleton Arms ran the Stourton Road, +with houses on both sides of it, and amongst them the Lord +Nelson, the Greyhound, and the Royal Oak. Next to the Royal +Oak came the entrance of the Mawne United football ground, and +since John Fellows’s passion for football was only exceeded +by his devotion to ‘four-penny,’ the pull of the +colliery was hopelessly overbalanced by these delights.</p> +<p>At the side of the Royal Oak, on Saturday afternoons, the +entrance to the football ground swarmed with black coats; and the +crowd of small boys, of whom Abner made one, peering through +cracks in the match-board palings could see nothing but the backs +of other black coats, or perhaps, above the tilted heads of the +spectators, the sphere of a football leaping gaily into the +dreary gray that passes for heaven in a black-country +winter. It cost threepence (ladies and children half-price) +to enter the football ground, and since John Fellows never wasted +the price of a pint on any one but himself, Abner had to be +content with an occasional sight of the football soaring above +this or that quarter of the field of play and with the hoarse +waves of encouragement or derision that went up from the crowd +inside.</p> +<p>Later, in the happy days before his father’s second +marriage and the second family, John Fellows used to take the boy +along with him to the football field on Saturday afternoons, or +rather Abner would trail behind him as far as the gate and then +pass through the turnstile in front of him, wedged between his +father’s trousers and those of the man in front, breathing +perpetually the acrid smell of oily coal-dust which he accepted +as the natural odour of humanity. Whenever he could get +himself washed in time John Fellows made a point of going early +to the ground so that he might place himself in his favourite +position, immediately behind the nearer goal-posts, so close to +the net that he could talk with George Harper, the Mawne United +goalkeeper, who, before this translation, had been a collier +working in the same shift as himself, or <a +name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>under-mine the +self-possession of the visiting ‘custodian’ with +jeers and abuse.</p> +<p>Even at these close quarters, where Abner felt the pressure of +his father’s protecting legs and heard him spitting into +the net over his head, there was no conversation between +them. John Fellows kept his speech for his mates, for +George Harper, or, on occasion, for the referee; but at +half-time, when most of the players ran in to the pavilion and +the ball was free, he would give Abner a poke in the back and his +neighbours a wink, and the lad would slip under the wire roping +and plunge into the <i>mêlée</i> of boys who were +scrambling for its possession. Once Abner had dribbled the +ball away from the others and sent a shot at the goal which +George Harper, who had stayed behind talking, moved mechanically +to stop, and missed; a ripple of laughter had spread round the +field, and when Abner ran back under the ropes with his face +flaming, his father pulled him in by the ear and said with his +clay pipe between his teeth: ‘Damn’ little blood-worm +yo’ are! Bain’t he, George?’ And +George Harper, staring down at him with his big, melancholy eyes, +said, ‘Ah . . .’</p> +<p>Next day, as a reward for his prowess, John Fellows took Abner +with him on his afternoon walk, past the cherry orchard, past the +stationary cages at the pithead and the silent engine-house of +the Great Mawne Colliery, down between the smoking spoil-banks to +the bridge over the Stour which separates the two counties of +Worcester and Stafford, in either of which the police of the +other are providentially powerless. Here, on a cinder +pathway shaded by the sooty chestnuts of Mawne Hall, there was +racing between the limber fawn-skinned whippets that the miners +fancy: timid, quivering creatures, with their slim waists bound +in flannel jackets like frail women in their stays. It was +thrilling to watch them slip from the leash, race with their +pointed heads converging, and roll over at the finish in a cloud +of cinder-dust.</p> +<p>On that Sunday the police of Staffordshire were +quiescent. George Harper was there, his massive thighs +bulging striped cashmere trousers. There was joking between +<a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>George and +Abner’s father about the goal that the boy had +kicked. John Fellows won five shillings on a dog called +Daisy, and Abner trailed home behind him at six o’clock, +when the steam in the engine-house was beginning to hiss from its +exhaust in preparation for Monday’s work. John +Fellows retired to the Lyttleton Arms with his five shillings and +spent a dozen more, while Abner went home, too tired to play and +clammed for his tea. It surprised him to find number eleven +locked up, though he ought to have remembered that before they +went out dog-racing his father had left the key with Mrs Moseley, +who did the housework, and cooked their dinner; but when he +walked round to Mrs Moseley’s he found that she had gone to +church and forgotten to take the key out of her pocket. He +tramped back home again and fell asleep on the doorstep.</p> +<p>In later years, when the conflict with his father began, he +always remembered these untroubled days with regrets: the +Saturday football matches; the Sunday whippet-racing and +terrier-fighting, together with certain afternoon walks along the +tow-path of the canal, where the bodies of puppies that were old +enough to be taxed floated into beds of loose-strife and +willow-weed, and jack-bannocks hung swimming in shoals through +the yellow water. In all these memories John Fellows was a +benignant figure; and this one would hardly have guessed, for +John Fellows was not prepossessing. He was a short man with +a low-set head and an immense shoulder-girdle. His eyes +were small and lost in deep orbits, so that when his face was +ingrained with carbon the white of the sclerotics was intensified +in a way that made them seem grudging and malignant. +Walking home in his pit clothes, bow-legged and with the dazed +and hampered gait which is the mark of men who labour +underground, he always looked as if he had been drinking. +Generally he <i>had</i> been drinking, but at his soberest he was +an ugly customer, and the blue enamelled tin pot in which he +carried his tea struck one as a dangerous weapon.</p> +<p>Poverty their household never knew. John Fellows could +reckon on picking up his three pounds a week, and spent every +penny of it. There was always meat <a +name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>in the house, +and Mrs Moseley knew better than to serve him with food that was +not freshly cooked. In his way he was an epicure. +Although the Lyttleton Arms was the nearest public-house, Abner +would often be sent out with a jug to fetch his father’s +supper beer from the Greyhound, or even from the Royal Oak, next +the football ground, where they kept Astill’s Guaranteed +Old Stingo. John Fellows had no use for bottled beer. +Bottled belly-ache, he called it. He rarely smoked a pipe, +for lights were forbidden in the pit, and the habit of chewing +plug-tobacco had made him prefer his nicotine neat.</p> +<p>He was shaved once a week, on Saturday nights, and upon this +function depended another of Abner’s special joys: the +privilege of going with him to the barber’s shop, a low, +boarded room heated by gas-jets and the breath of expectant, +expectorant men. Here, wedged upon a bench at his +father’s side, he would read the comic papers that Mr Evans +provided for his customers. Some were printed on pink paper +and some on green; and while Abner absorbed the adventures of two +alliterative tramps, he would hear the sing-song of Mr Evans, a +Welshman from some remote Radnorshire village, as he talked to +the victim of his razor and the other waiting customers. Mr +Evans was a great authority on local football, and subscribed to +a news-agency that sent him a sheet of half-time and final scores +long before the evening edition of the <i>North Bromwich +Argus</i> arrived. His knowledge of football politics and +personalities was all the more remarkable because Saturday was +his busiest day, and for that reason he could never see a game of +football played. Abner envied him this abstract knowledge +of the game; but more than Mr Evans he envied a small boy with +pink face and plastered hair who, wearing a long white jacket, +lathered the customers’ chins, and when Mr Evans had +scraped them, sprayed their faces with bay-rum. At last, +with dramatic suddenness, this entertainment was withdrawn. +John Fellows developed a rash on his chin which Mr Ingleby, the +chemist, declared to be barber’s itch, and Mr Evans became +the object of his most particular hatred.</p> +<p><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +6</span>‘That bloody Welshman!’ said John +Fellows. ‘I reckon shaving’s a dirty +business.’</p> +<p>And so he grew a beard . . . but he wouldn’t let that +Evans trim it, not he!</p> +<p>All Abner’s early pleasures were in some way or other +related to his father. It was natural that John Fellows +should take a pride in his only child. He didn’t talk +to him much—a man who chews tobacco has better work for his +jaws than talking—but he was sometimes amused by his +company and proud of his sturdiness and capacity for +mischief. He rejoiced that his son was a +‘bloodworm’ much in the same way as his mates +rejoiced that their terriers were good fighters. He liked +him to be hard, and boasted that Abner could take the strap (as +he called it) without yelling. Indeed there was something +to boast about in this, for the miner chastened his son with a +brown leather belt which, as the buckle witnessed, had once +belonged to a member of the South Staffordshire Regiment. +This belt, he sometimes affirmed, had been all round the world +before it came into his possession; but Abner was too well +acquainted with its other qualities to pursue the history of +this.</p> +<p>In spite of his weekly lickings Abner’s life was +generally happy. He had no cares for the future. He +knew that when his schooling was over he would be sent to work at +the pit. He wouldn’t be sorry for that, for it seemed +to him quite natural to work underground, to earn big money and +spend it freely. When that day came he felt that he and his +father would be able to drink together on equal terms. By +the time that he was fourteen he was already taller than John +Fellows, and meant to grow a lot taller still. He was going +to be strong and to learn boxing: perhaps, in a few years’ +time, he would be able to strip and fight in one of the +boxing-booths at the wakes: perhaps, in stripes of chocolate and +yellow, he might even play football for Mawne United and talk +like a brother with the great George Harper.</p> +<p>In this manly, indefinite future, women had no place. He +had never had a sister; as far as he remembered he had never had +a mother; and so he followed the <a name="page7"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 7</span>example of his father whose +domineering attitude towards the widow, Mrs Moseley, was beyond +any doubt correct, while Mrs Moseley, who had her living to make, +accepted it without protest, as a woman should do. Towards +girls themselves Abner felt no positive hostility, though he +passed them in the street as a well-mannered dog passes cats, +with a solid appreciation of their potential evil; but for +members of his own sex who dallied with emasculating tendernesses +he and the boys with whom he played were full of scorn and even +of active malice. The worst libel that any of his +companions could suffer was a chalk inscription on his own back +door of the words: ‘Tommy So-and-so goes with Cissy +Something-else.’</p> +<p>Abner and his friends even went so far as to pester these +votaries of passion in their own most sheltered haunts. +Above the pithead of the Great Mawne Colliery runs a lane +skirting the ancient cherry orchard of Old Mawne Hall. It +is short: at the end of it the pit-mound stands up black, and +over beyond the Stour valley a desert of blackness stretches +westward, with smoke-stacks thronging thick as masts of shipping +in a harbour. Over its hedges, in the dusk, light clouds of +cherry-blossom may be seen, but even before the wind has tumbled +the petals down they are blackened by smuts from the colliery +chimney. This lane, indeed, was a decorous walking place +where one might hear a patter of moving feet and low laughter on +any evening in May; but lower down the slope, past the colliery, +it turned into another, shadowed with hot-smelling elder, stunted +hawthorns and oak-apple trees, which had a darker +reputation. Dipping down over the hillside this lane climbs +back upon itself and opens out again into the orchard road. +This loop, which is called in Halesby the ‘Dark +Half-hour,’ was the favourite hunting ground for Abner and +his friends. Carrying the smelly dark-lanterns that are +sold on Guy Fawkes’ day, they would creep as quietly as +possible under the shadows of the trees, selecting at a signalled +moment some unfortunate couple locked in each other’s arms +whom they might shame with their lights. Often they got +their heads smacked, but this only served to reinforce <a +name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>their opinion +that lovemaking which shrank from publicity was +discreditable.</p> +<p>One evening in summer when Abner was fourteen he took part in +one of these expeditions. The day had been hot. His +father had promised him that he would make him a kite in the +evening. The split lath lay ready on the table with a roll +of blue paper. Mrs Moseley had boiled some paste, and Abner +had borrowed enough string and folded newspaper to make a +tail. As the heat of the afternoon declined a gusty wind +began to blow from the west, filling the street with dust and +scraps of paper. At six o’clock John Fellows came +back from the pit. The dust had blown into his eyes, that +were never very strong. Tears and sweat together were +tracking down through the grime on his cheeks. He seemed to +have forgotten all about Abner’s kite.</p> +<p>‘What’s that?’ he cried, irritably. +‘Can’t yo’ give us a moment’s +peace? Wait till I’ve swilled!’</p> +<p>He had his swill in the brewhouse, filling a tin bath with +black soap-suds. The kite had become a grievance. +‘Nattering away . . .’ he muttered, with his head in +a roller towel, ‘werriting about kites on a day that would +make a pig sweat blood!’</p> +<p>Abner, who knew his father, got away without any further +discussion, leaving Mrs Moseley to soothe him. He went out +and played cricket in the sloping field above the pit where the +ponies that have worked so long underground that they are blind +are put out to green grass and to a white mockery that they get +to know as daylight. When the boys came down to play, these +shaggy creatures stood huddled in a corner and edged against one +another, rubbing the coal-dust out of their matted coats. +If they strayed over the field of play Abner and his friends +pelted them with pieces of slag from the cinder heap behind the +wickets. They also threw slag at a group of little girls +who dared to look at them over the broken hedge. When the +light faded so much that they could no longer see to play, and +the beam-engine in the power-house ceased to grunt, the boys all +lay down talking in the hedgerow, and the ponies wandered back to +pull at the grass on either side of the pitch. At last +Abner, who was the leader of the set, <a name="page9"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 9</span>because he was the strongest, said: +‘Let’s go down the Dark Half-hour and scare some of +’em.’</p> +<p>On such a clammy evening there were certain to be many +lovers. One of the boys produced a halfpenny packet of red +Bengal-lights. Abner snatched them from him, left him +crying, and with three others ran down to the mouth of the +lane. In the hedge-side couples stirred uneasily. The +tunnel under the elders was full of a hot odour of dust and +nettles and some kind of mint. They crept forward through +the darkness in Indian file. ‘Let’s try this +one, kid,’ whispered a boy named Hodgetts, ‘him over +there up agen’ the tree. ’Ere, where’s +the bloody box?’</p> +<p>‘There’s somebody coming,’ whispered a +woman’s voice.</p> +<p>They struck three lights together. The tunnel glowed +like a furnace. Against the trunk of a tree a short man was +leaning with a pale young woman clutched in his arms. Abner +saw that it was his father. He dropped his match and +ran.</p> +<p>The boy Hodgetts came panting behind him. He was +shouting: ‘Kid . . . kid . . . did yo’ see who he +were? It were your gaffer!’ Abner turned and +swiped at him viciously as he ran. Joe Hodgetts crumpled up +in the hedge howling. Abner went on blindly into the Cherry +Orchard Road. His heart thudded in his throat like a +water-hammer. He didn’t know where he was. He +only knew that he was crying and that he had broken his knuckles +on Joe Hodgett’s skull. He rubbed them in the black +dust of the roadway, and that stopped the bleeding. But +nothing, it seemed, could stop his tears.</p> +<h2><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>The +Second Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> he reached home, half an hour +later, he was ashamed of himself. It didn’t matter to +him what his father did. He only hoped that John Fellows +hadn’t recognised him, for that would make him sure of a +belting. Still, he was glad that he had given Joe Hodgetts +what for. He wasn’t going to have a fellow of his own +age laughing at his father even if his father had let him down by +making a fool of himself.</p> +<p>A year later John Fellows was married. In spite of +Abner’s scorn the proceeding was natural enough. The +man was under forty, and had been a widower for more than +fourteen years. The new wife, the woman of the tunnel, was +a girl named Alice Higgins, the elder daughter of an old friend +of Fellows, the timekeeper at the colliery, who had lost his left +leg many years ago in a crushing fall of coal. She was +tall, slight, with a fair complexion and honey-coloured hair: in +every physical particular the opposite of her swart and stubby +husband. If such a thing had to be, Abner would have +preferred the maturer charms of Mrs Moseley, whom he knew so well +and liked, to those of any stranger. Indeed, from the day +of his father’s marriage onward his life became more +complicated.</p> +<p>The very presence in the house of this new inmate, a woman +wielding authority, whom he remembered only a little time ago as +a girl with a pigtail down her back, made him awkward. His +father had never even mentioned their meeting in the +lane—probably he had not recognised Abner, but the boy was +certain that Alice had seen him and remembered. The +consciousness of this mystery that they shared only aggravated +the distrust and shyness that separated them: a shyness which +Alice herself honestly tried to overcome by little overtures of +affection. She was quite determined, in her quiet way, that +she wasn’t going to be like the stepmothers of +tradition. She would try to be a real mother to +Abner. But how did real mothers feel?</p> +<p><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>‘Why don’t you call me mother, like other +boys would, Abner?’ she said one day, coaxingly. +Abner only laughed. She hated him for laughing at +her. A boy of his age!</p> +<p>But the real trouble did not begin till a year later when the +first baby of the new family was coming. It was a bad time +for all of them. John Fellows, after fifteen years of a +widower’s life, had forgotten anything that he had ever +learnt in the way of matrimonial tactics. He wasn’t +any longer a young man, and his nature had inevitably +stiffened. Besides, the coming of this child was not like +the adventure of Abner’s birth, when he and his first wife +had been two tender young people rather overwhelmed by the +responsibilities of marriage. Alice became more conscious +than ever of the gap of years that separated them, the distance +which had always been implicit in her idea of her father’s +friend, ‘Mr Fellows.’ With her it could never +be naturally ‘John.’ And now that she wanted +somebody to take hold of her and share her fears she found +herself face to face with an elderly stranger. She was +frightened at the thought of being so utterly alone. Abner, +a member of her own generation, and the son of her baby’s +father, was a symbol of the whole disastrous circumstance.</p> +<p>In spite of all her good resolutions she couldn’t help +letting off a little of her unhappiness on him. It was +against her will that she did so. Sometimes she cried with +vexation at her own irritability and resolved to overcome +it. Then, as the months dragged on, she began to wonder if +it were worth while tiring herself out with good resolutions or +anything else in the world. She found herself becoming +wilfully vixenish with her husband. That didn’t +matter, for she seldom saw him; but a little later a new emotion, +stronger and more positively devastating than any that she had +known before, seized her. It was a thing that she +couldn’t understand. She felt as if some strange, +dark spirit had invaded and perverted her consciousness, making +her think madly and not in the least as she wanted to think, +filling her with a mixture of hate and jealousy towards +Abner. This passion would not let <a +name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>her be. +However tired and jaded she were the fiend was ready to tear +her. She could not see the boy without hating him. +She felt just like a cat with kittens, who spits at the kittens +of another cat.</p> +<p>She had plenty of opportunities for showing her hatred. +Abner was now fifteen. His schooling was finished, and he +had begun to work at the colliery, leading the ponies that drag +trollies of coal along the galleries of the pit. He found +it quite good fun. The pony of which he had charge was very +old and quite blind, for it had worked in Mawne pit since before +Abner was born. He found it slower than a pony should be +and spent the first Sunday after he had started work in searching +Uffdown Wood for an ash-plant with which he might induce the pony +to go faster. When he had found one he fitted a pin in the +end of it.</p> +<p>A few minutes after six every evening the cage would come +clanking up to the pit-head, and before it settled with a jerk, +Abner, black with coal-grime, would shoot out like a hare and go +whistling home to his tea. He whistled because there was +always a curious lightening of his heart at the change from the +murk of the pit to daylight. It was spring when he started +work. Every evening as he passed the cherry orchard he +heard the whistle of a blackbird poised on the topmost bough of +one of the foamy trees. He wondered exuberantly if he could +find its nest some day. He even collected a couple of +pebbles to put in the place of eggs. But when he got home +there was no Mrs Moseley, waiting with a ‘piece’ +ready buttered and a cup of steaming tea—only Alice, +dragging about the kitchen, greeting him with jealous eyes.</p> +<p>‘Abner, you dirty little beast,’ she would say, +‘don’t you dare soil that table now. Mind your +filthy hands! It’s summat to have your father, let +alone yo’. Here, that’s your father’s +towel. Loose it quick!’</p> +<p>None of this was very serious, but it made a great difference +to Abner. He was continually being shocked to find that +small details in the arrangement of the house, such as the +position of a chair which had always been his favourite, were +being altered from day to day. Alice had a fever for making +freakish variations in the <a name="page13"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 13</span>kitchen furniture. She +couldn’t be happy to see things in the same place for two +days running. She was never satisfied, making alterations, +as it seemed, simply for the sake of finding fresh work to do, +yet always working under protest. Her presence became +dragged and unhappy, and the only results of her unnatural +labours were untidiness and confusion.</p> +<p>Even John Fellows could not help being irritated by these +fruitless activities. His first wife, and later Mrs +Moseley, had known that it was as much as their lives were worth +not to have the house swept and speckless by evening ready to +receive the pit dirt of the master. Now, when he came home +to find Alice crouching over the fireplace in her bulged apron +smearing red raddle on the hearth without as much as a kettle +boiling, he would stand still in the doorway, a short, aggressive +figure, and ask the wench what she thought she was doing croodled +down there in the grate and him waiting for his tea. Then +Alice, with her pale face averted, would snarl back at him and +his dirt in the high-pitched voice in which she used to gossip +with Mrs Hobbs, three doors down. All the women in +Hackett’s Cottages eventually developed the same sort of +voice.</p> +<p>John Fellows really behaved rather well. He knew that it +wasn’t worth while grumbling, reflected that all women were +more than usually unreasonable at these times, and so he would +sometimes start his washing in the scullery with cold water, +knowing well that in a moment the little vixen would be at his +elbow with a boiling saucepan. Then he would catch hold of +her in his grimy arms, and she would cry out shrilly that he was +a great mucky beast and tell him to ‘give +over.’ A little sparring of this kind often put him +in a good humour, and Alice, quick to recognise the peculiar +power which her physical presence still exercised on her husband, +sometimes presumed on it so far that these passages of arms ended +in tears. At such times it frightened her to see him +suddenly revealed to her as a strange, hard man, nearly double +her own age, with whom she was unaccountably living. Even +maternity couldn’t make her feel anything but <a +name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>a little girl +in the face of his strange maturity. She felt that John +Fellows knew, as well as she did, that she was only making +believe to be a grown-up married woman; he had shown it more than +once by his roughness to her; but that didn’t really matter +as long as the neighbours never guessed her secret—the +neighbours, and more particularly Abner. For if Abner once +knew the truth she could never again be mistress in her own house +(that was how she put it) and she was so jealous of this +imaginary dignity, and at the same time so conscious of its +artificiality, that she could never cease trying to put Abner in +his place.</p> +<p>It was bad enough for Alice that her husband should laugh at +her. Certainly, she determined, she wasn’t going to +stand anything of that kind from Abner; and though Abner himself +had not yet shown her any signs of disrespect she took great +pains to give him no opportunity of doing so by repressing him +whenever she had the chance. Just as John Fellows had once +approved in Abner the aggressive tendencies that went to the +making of a ‘bloodworm,’ he now approved in Alice, so +little and so desperately game, the temper that made things so +uncomfortable for Abner. As long as she kept her temper for +the boy and didn’t try any of her tricks on him it +didn’t matter. And since it pleased John Fellows, who +loved nothing better than a dog-fight, to see his little Alice +bare her teeth, the girl played up to him, knowing that her +husband would keep Abner from hitting back as long as the game +pleased him.</p> +<p>Abner suffered her sullenly. He soon found out that it +wasn’t worth while disputing with her, and indeed, +sometimes her violence, wasting itself against his unconcern, +recoiled on her, so that he had the satisfaction of seeing her in +tears. This vexed her, partly for shame and partly because +she saw that crying, which she had always regarded as her last +and most telling weapon, had no effect on him. They were +both of them little more than children.</p> +<p>In the end it came to this: Abner, realising that +Hackett’s Cottages could never again be a real home to him, +decided, with the philosophy which is learned <a +name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>early among +people who have to fight for themselves, that he must cut his +losses and strike out for himself as soon as he could manage to +do so. He knew that for the present he could not afford to +find another lodging, but already he was doing a man’s work +at the colliery and soon he would be earning a man’s +wages. When she realised this Alice was sorry that she had +helped to drive him away, for she had dreamed pleasantly of all +the money that she would soon be able to handle, and had decided +to buy a piano for the parlour and a marble-topped +washhand-stand, with a pink toilet set, for the front +bedroom. It would be a pity, she reflected, to get rid of a +full wage-earner in exchange for a little personal dignity.</p> +<p>So, suddenly relenting, she became towards Abner the +incarnation of sweetness. Abner, however, wasn’t +having any. Even though he didn’t see through her, he +felt that her attitude was rather too good to be true. For +the present he went on his way, paying regularly his weekly +‘lodge’ and the subscription to an industrial +death-policy that had been taken out in the year of his birth to +provide for his burial. But with the fulfilment of these +obligations, his dealings with Hackett’s Cottages +ceased. He became a lodger pure and simple, only appearing +at night, when the others had gone to bed, tired, and ready to +tumble into the nest of blankets which Alice had not disturbed +since he left them in the morning.</p> +<p>She wasn’t going to put herself out for him, she +said. In those days she didn’t feel inclined to put +herself out for anybody. Unfortunately she couldn’t +have it both ways; for by frightening Abner away with her temper +she had lost the use of his strength in the heavier work of the +house. She knew that she couldn’t ask her husband to +help her. He hadn’t married her for that. Her +weary, and palpably interested attempts to coax Abner back to her +were a failure. Without showing a vestige of bitterness he +went stolidly on his way, and so she resigned herself, with a +sort of tired pride, to the heaviness of her lot.</p> +<p>In a way this desertion of Hackett’s Cottages was a good +thing for Abner, for it drove him out into the <a +name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>open air and +rid his lungs of the coal-dust that he breathed in the galleries +of the pit. Joe Hodgetts, now more than ever his friend and +admirer, shared these joys. Together they roamed over all +the sweet country-side that ponders above the smoke of +Mawne. They did not know that it was beautiful. They +only knew that there were banks of hazel under which one might +play pitch and toss or nap without the fear of a policeman; that +there were cool streams with bottoms of red sand in which it was +good to bathe; that there were rabbits that came out timidly in +the evening to be shot with catapults, and wood-pigeons that +rustled the trees on the edge of Uffdown Wood and then emerged +with clapping wings.</p> +<p>Both boys had the instincts of poachers, and in the spring +another partner joined them: an equivocal terrier with a sandy +coat, a long, thin tail and a guttersnipe’s intelligence +which Abner got for the asking from a miner at Mawne who +didn’t think the beast worth the cost of a licence. +He couldn’t house the animal in Hackett’s Cottages, +for Alice couldn’t abear dogs . . . the dirty beasts! +Abner’s old friend, Mrs Moseley, came to his help. +The dog, now christened Tiger, found a home in her washhouse, +living among his hoarded bones on a strip of sacking in the +ash-hole beneath the copper. Here he would lie in the +evening waiting for his master, his thin snout pressed to the +ground between extended paws, motionless, pretending to be +asleep. When he heard Abner’s step approaching he +would lie still, with gleaming open eyes, and wait for his name +to be called. Then he would leap out and lick the pit-dust +from Abner’s face with his tongue. Even Mrs Moseley, +who fed him, was nothing to Tiger if Abner were there.</p> +<p>Together they would go out into the golden evening hunting +rabbits which Abner would sometimes bring home to Mrs Moseley, +who had a way of cooking them with onions soused in milk. +They were a great treat to her, for being a widow and no longer +employed in John Fellows’s house, she rarely tasted +meat. Sharing the proceeds of their hunting Abner and Mrs +Moseley would sit late over their tea next day, and Tiger, under +the table, would crack the rabbit’s head and lick out <a +name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>the brains +with his pointed tongue. Later in the week Mrs Moseley +would sell the rabbit-skin to a rag-and-bones man for +twopence. She was really very fond of Abner, and even if he +hadn’t brought food to the house she would have been glad +of his visits, ‘for company’ as she called it.</p> +<p>Because he kept the dog there, and because he was happy in Mrs +Moseley’s society, Abner made her cottage his real +home. It stood last in one of a series of parallel streets +that climbed desperately out of the dust of the Stourton Road +towards a low crest facing Uffdown and the other hills of its +chain. The lower story looked out on a wall of the local +blue brick; but the windows of the bedroom, a stuffy chamber in +which the widow spent the greater part of her day, and which the +district nurse penetrated every morning in a whiff of iodoform +for the purpose of dressing Mrs Moseley’s bad leg, +commanded, beyond a foreground of cinder-waste, blue distances +from which the hill air could have blown in cleanly. The +doctor had told Mrs Moseley that her leg would never heal unless +she gave it rest, and since all her relatives were now married +and too prosperous to give the old woman a thought, she was left +to herself, hobbling from the bedroom to the kitchen whenever it +was necessary to bank up the fire. On the hob stood a +teapot, brewing a decoction of tannin which had long since ruined +her digestion but was the thing for which she cared most in +life. She called it her ‘cup of tea.’</p> +<p>Abner rarely noticed what an effort she made to receive him +cheerfully when he came for his dog. He didn’t see +how slow and painful her movements were becoming. She never +seemed to him any different from the Mrs Moseley whom he had +always known and taken for granted, until, one day, she was put +to bed and forbidden to move at all. She had spent the +whole morning crying to herself, for it seemed to her that the +day was not distant when she would have to be moved to Stourton +workhouse, to be carried downstairs and placed in the black van +before a crowd of gaping neighbours, dirty women with babies in +their arms. She had always been shy of the people who <a +name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>lived near +her. A country woman, she felt out of place with these +industrial folk. She wished very much that she might +die.</p> +<p>When Abner came into the house that evening he found the grate +cold and full of ashes. He ran into the washhouse to fetch +Tiger, but the dog was not there. Then he heard the voice +of Mrs Moseley, distressed and quavering, calling him from above, +and a minute later Tiger came scampering downstairs, thoroughly +ashamed of himself, from his nest on Mrs Moseley’s +bed. Abner, standing at the bottom of the stairs, listened +to the story of her troubles. She wouldn’t tell him +much about them, and nothing at all about the deeper fears that +haunted her. She told him to get a cup of tea for himself, +but when he suggested bringing another upstairs to her she was +scandalised. Even though she was old enough to be his +grandmother she thought that this would be indelicate; besides, +she couldn’t be quite certain that the cleanliness of her +bedroom was beyond reproach, and had determined that before any +one visited her, leg or no leg, she must spend a day putting +things straight. And of course the floor must be scrubbed +with carbolic soap. She begged Abner to get her some from +Mr Ingleby’s shop.</p> +<p>Later, as the days of her imprisonment lengthened, she found +that she couldn’t be so independent after all. At an +immense sacrifice she consented to the presence of Abner in her +room, that narrow, ill-lighted chamber which the bulging +four-poster nearly filled, where, in fact, it was the only piece +of furniture. Here Abner would sit in the hot evenings of +summer, staring through the closed windows at the distant hills, +while Mrs Moseley, in a tired, unhurried voice, talked of things +that had happened in his childhood and other days, more remote, +when his mother had been alive. The old woman had always +been fond of Abner, always a little frightened of his father; and +now that this tall youth was repaying her in some degree for the +care that she had given him in his childhood, she became very +tender toward him. At times his coming made her vaguely +emotional, her tenderness helping her to realise how very lonely +she was. Sometimes, when <a name="page19"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 19</span>she heard his step in the room +beneath her, she would very nearly cry, and the dog Tiger, lying +on the patchwork quilt, would lick her outstretched arm. +She began to count on his visits. Indeed, rather than lose +him, she would even have consented to have the bedroom windows +opened.</p> +<p>He never spoke of his own accord about Alice, but Mrs Moseley +compelled him to do so, inquiring every day how she was getting +on. She had promised John Fellows, to whom she was always +grateful for her old employment, that she would be in the house +during the confinement, and to lend the doctor a hand. John +Fellows remembered well what a tower of strength she had been at +the time when Abner was born. In those days she had +possessed a comfortable figure and a jolly laugh.</p> +<p>‘I don’t want her there!’ Alice had +protested. ‘I’d rather have <i>anyone</i> with +me nor her!’</p> +<p>She didn’t object to Mrs Moseley in herself, but she was +suspicious of any one who had known the house before she came +there, convinced that the old woman would sniff at her +improvements and perhaps make mischief, poking her nose into all +the drawers and cupboards while she, the mistress, was in +bed. And perhaps John Fellows would compare Mrs +Moseley’s cooking with her own! But her husband +wasn’t having any nonsense of that kind. ‘Silly +wench, yo’ don’t know what’s good for +you!’ he said, considering the matter settled. Alice +cried; but he didn’t take any notice of that sort of +thing.</p> +<p>As the time drew nearer it distressed Mrs Moseley to think +that she might still be in bed when she was wanted. She +wished to be there not only for the sake of the husband but also +because she couldn’t afford to miss the ten shillings that +her fortnight’s work would bring her, to say nothing of the +fortnight’s keep. Abner was impatient with her +questions.</p> +<p>‘Oh, don’t yo’ worry about +<i>her</i>,’ he said. ‘She’s not worth +it. Got a temper like a cat.’</p> +<p>‘You shouldn’t say that, dear,’ said Mrs +Moseley. ‘She’s the mother that the +Lord’s given you. And it’s hard days for women +when they’re like that. <a name="page20"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 20</span>I’ve been through it myself, so +I know what they feels like. It’ll be different when +the baby comes along.’</p> +<p>But Abner was sure it wouldn’t be different. It +would take more than a baby to change Alice. +‘Besides, she bain’t my mother,’ he said. +‘A regular cat . . . that’s what she bin! +You’m the nearest I’ve ever had to a +mother.’</p> +<p>Mrs Moseley smiled. Secretly, when he wasn’t +looking, she wiped her left eye on the patchwork counterpane.</p> +<h2><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>The +Third Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the middle of a summer night +Abner’s father came blundering into his son’s +bedroom. ‘Come along, get a shift on you!’ he +said. ‘Go and holler to Mrs Moseley, and then run on +to the doctor’s.’</p> +<p>In his hand he carried a candle which lit up his surly face +and threw the folds on either side of the grimy wrinkles into +relief. His eyes were bleared and angry, for he had been +sleeping like a log and resented any disturbance at night.</p> +<p>‘It bain’t no good my going for her,’ said +Abner sleepily. ‘She’s got a bad +leg.’</p> +<p>‘Bad leg be bosted!’ shouted John Fellows. +‘She’ll have to come if I send for her. +Tak’ your hook now!’</p> +<p>While Abner dressed, his father was prowling from room to room +letting the tallow from the candle drip down the front of his +trousers, and shouting at the boy to hurry up from time to +time. In a few minutes Abner was ready and had crossed the +patch of waste ground that lay between the terrace and the +Stourton Road. This highway was more desolate than he had +ever seen it before. In some of the upper windows subdued +gas-jets were burning, but most of them took on the gray light of +a moon that could not be seen. He was halfway into Halesby +before he really woke. Then, in the cool night air, he +forgot his grudge against his father for waking him. Even +the foul dust of the Stourton Road smelt sweet. He had +never felt fitter nor more awake in his life.</p> +<p>As he reached Mrs Moseley’s door Tiger began to +bark. He heard the voice of Mrs Moseley trying to soothe +the beast. Then he picked up some pebbles and threw them +against the window panes, and a moment later the old woman looked +out, Tiger scrambling into the window beside her.</p> +<p>‘Our father wants you,’ he called. +‘And I’ve got to go for the doctor.’</p> +<p>‘Dear, dear,’ said Mrs Moseley, ‘I knew it +would <a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>happen like this. I wouldn’t disappoint your +father for anything . . . that I wouldn’t!’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you take no notice of it!’ Abner +urged. ‘Don’t you come! I’ll tell +’em the doctor won’t let you.’</p> +<p>She shook her head solemnly and disappeared from the +window.</p> +<p>Abner, exhilarated with the night air, ran on to the +doctor’s house. This gentleman appeared to resent his +call. Abner was told to wait below so that he might carry +the bag. He stood there in a garden heavy with the perfume +of stocks. In the meadows along the Stour a corncrake was +calling. He wondered what kind of bird it was, and whether +it was easy to kill. He didn’t mind how long the +doctor kept him waiting.</p> +<p>On the way back to Hackett’s Cottages Dr Moorhouse spoke +very little. He asked Abner the kind of questions he +usually put to young people, and grunted in reply, as if he +hadn’t heard what Abner said.</p> +<p>‘Are you John Fellows’s son?’ he +asked. And then: ‘How old are you?’</p> +<p>When Abner said that he was going in seventeen, he +grunted. It scarcely seemed possible that more than sixteen +years had passed since, in the same small house of +Hackett’s Cottages, he had ushered this tall youth into the +world. It filled him with a kind of discontent to realise +that for all these years he had been moving in the same groove, +in a vicious circle that had brought him back once more to this +identical point. Only it hadn’t been so hard to turn +out at night sixteen years ago. A dog’s life! +People didn’t realise it. There was Ingleby, the +chemist, a sensible man in most things, fool enough to make his +only son a doctor!</p> +<p>When they reached Hackett’s Cottages they found the door +of number eleven open and a light shining in it. John +Fellows came out to meet them and insisted on shaking hands with +the doctor. It was obvious that he had been sampling the +bottle of brandy that is always in evidence on these +occasions.</p> +<p>‘She’s all right,’ he said. +‘She’s all right, doctor. A tough wench she +is! Tougher than the other one.’</p> +<p><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>He +turned on Abner. ‘Get the fire lit. Sharp, +now! Else I’ll drap thee one. Fill the big +kettle. Plenty of hot water. That’s it, +isn’t it, doctor? I know . . . don’t I, doctor? +. . . I know.’</p> +<p>Somebody came limping downstairs. It was Mrs +Moseley.</p> +<p>‘What . . .?’ shouted the doctor. +‘What’s the meaning of this? What do you mean +by it, woman? Didn’t I tell you to stay in bed till I +let you out? Of all the damned pig-headed foolishness . . +‘</p> +<p>Mrs Moseley smiled her tired, patient smile; but the doctor +knew she was in pain. He couldn’t help admiring +her.</p> +<p>‘You’ll forgive me all right, doctor,’ she +said. ‘Now, what could I do with the poor young thing +lying here like that . . . and after all I’d promised Mr +Fellows here? Don’t you remember the last +time?’</p> +<p>‘No, I’m hanged if I’ll forgive you,’ +he smiled. ‘You’re an obstinate old fool. +Now run along upstairs. If you lose your leg it’s not +my fault.’</p> +<p>Abner was left alone in the kitchen with his father. +While the boy raked out the ashes from the grate and lit the fire +John Fellows took the brandy from the cupboard and had another +swig, putting the neck of the bottle in his mouth. He said +‘Ah!’ and smacked his lips. Then he went out +into the strip of garden at the back and walked violently up and +down. It was almost light when he returned. He was +sweating and quarrelsome. Abner had a bad time of it. +Now that his poor mother was suffering like this John Fellows +hoped he’d be sorry for the way he’d used her. +If anything went wrong—he implied gloomily that something +probably would—Abner would be to blame for it. To +give his fuddled brain the chance for indignation that it wanted +there entered the dog Tiger, fawning, ingratiating. He had +escaped from Mrs Moseley’s house and followed the scent of +her or of Abner. He jumped up at Abner, yelping with +joy.</p> +<p>For a second John Fellow’s stared at him stupidly. +Then he burst out with: ‘And here’s that bloody dog +again! Your mother’s told you she can’t a-bear +it, but she’s no sooner upstairs . . .’ He +slipped the <a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>belt from his waist and lashed at the wretched +Tiger’s quarters. The dog squealed piteously. +For a moment Abner saw red. He didn’t see his father +any longer, only a stubby man, shorter than himself, staring at +him with bloodshot eyes, and sweat trickling down two grimy +wrinkles. He would have knocked his father down if Mrs +Moseley hadn’t suddenly appeared at the foot of the stairs +asking what the noise was about. The sound of her voice +steadied both of them as they stood staring hatred at one +another, and Abner’s anger passed as quickly as it had +come. Mrs Moseley, standing between them, brought with her +a pungent odour of some antiseptic. The smell impressed +Abner with the moment’s seriousness. He was suddenly +sorry for Alice. He even wished that he had been more +patient with her. Then the whole sky was shaken with the +vibrations of the great bull at Mawne Colliery. +Five-thirty. He slipped into his pit clothes, left his +father staring, and hurried from the house.</p> +<p>When he came back from his turn at night the sense of stress +that he had quite forgotten in the work of the day +returned. On the doorstep of Number Eleven he felt +intensely nervous. Something was going to happen, perhaps +something had happened already. The house was quiet. +In the kitchen a fire was burning that made for cheerfulness in +spite of the heat. All this was attributable to Mrs +Moseley, who now appeared with an encouraging smile. She +told him that Alice’s baby had been born at ten +o’clock. ‘And when I got her clean and +comfortable and washed the baby, I thought, “Well, now, +while I’m on my legs I may as well have a bit of a tidy +round.” A lovely boy!’ she said. +‘Oh, what a beautiful babby—just like his +father!’</p> +<p>Abner didn’t want to hear about the baby. He stuck +to his obstinate determination not to countenance the affair at +all, and Mrs Moseley laughed at him for behaving like a baby +himself. He asked her what had happened to his father.</p> +<p>‘I haven’t seen him, not since you went to +work. But men’s best out of the way at these +times.’</p> +<p>Abner guessed that, once having started to drink, his <a +name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>father had +probably been drinking all day and might well by this time be +lying drunk in some hedge at the back of the Royal Oak. Mrs +Moseley rebuked him.</p> +<p>‘You’re hard on your father, Abner,’ she +said. ‘It’s a bad time for a man when he feels +he can’t do nothing. You don’t love and honour +your father the way you ought.’</p> +<p>All through the fortnight of Alice’s lying-in Mrs +Moseley did her best to keep the peace of the house and to +reconcile Abner to the new state of things. She made him +feel almost as much at home as he had been in the old days, +limping downstairs in the evening to talk to him. Alice was +very jealous when she heard them talking below. On most +evenings they sat alone in the kitchen together, but sometimes +they went out into the strip of garden at the back of the house +to a wooden bench screened by a straggling hedge of scarlet +runners. They sat there, often in silence, till the sky +darkened, reflecting above the western horizon all the furnaces +of Mawne; and no one disturbed them, for John Fellows, having +once yielded to the bottle, had continued his celebrations of the +event. After all, such things didn’t happen very +often.</p> +<p>One evening Mrs Moseley brought down the baby for Abner to +see. ‘Look at him, Abner,’ she said, +‘bain’t he a pretty dear? bain’t he a little +lovee?’</p> +<p>Whatever the baby may have been he certainly wasn’t +pretty; but there was something in his helplessness that appealed +to Abner’s generosity. In spite of his prejudices he +couldn’t see himself being vindictive toward this comical +creature. He touched the baby’s downy, wrinkled face +with his hand. The creature made a sucking noise, seeking +Abner’s fingers with his lips, and at the same moment +Tiger, with a snarl, took Abner’s calf between his teeth, +and, with the gentlest pressure, threatened to bite him.</p> +<p>‘There you are,’ said Mrs Moseley. +‘Look at jealousy! You and Tiger are a pair, and +that’s the truth!’</p> +<p>He laughed, but for all that he didn’t look forward +happily to Mrs Moseley’s departure. He felt that the +baby would only serve to make Alice more intolerably +important. When, on the thirteenth night, a <a +name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>dead-white, +incredibly diminished Alice came down to sit for a couple of +hours on the sofa, he decided to ask Mrs Moseley to take him into +her house as a lodger. ‘The money will come in +handy,’ he urged. ‘I could sleep in the +washhouse with old Tiger.’</p> +<p>But she wouldn’t think of it. ‘I +couldn’t do it,’ she said. ‘I +wouldn’t like to put your father out, not if it was ever +so! John’s been a good friend to me. I +don’t know how I could have lived all these years without +him.’</p> +<p>‘He’s got a sight more out of yo’ than ever +yo’ got out of him!’ Abner grumbled.</p> +<p>But again she said ‘No’—partly, it is true, +because she felt that Alice might make it the occasion for a +quarrel, and partly because, much as she loved Abner she knew +that her strength would not allow her to look after him +properly. On many days of late she hadn’t really been +fit to do her own housework, and so she fought shy, for +Abner’s sake as much as her own, of the arrangement that he +suggested. The money, alas! was very tempting.</p> +<p>Abner, who didn’t generally notice things particularly +and had always taken people like Mrs Moseley for granted, had not +appreciated the changes that were slowly overtaking her. He +didn’t see the slight contraction of her brows that had +lately become a fixed expression of the pain that wouldn’t +let her be. Neither he nor Alice nor John Fellows were +aware of Mrs Moseley’s suffering; but the doctor, on his +daily visits, saw how gamely she was fighting, and said nothing; +for he knew that to abstain from obvious advice was the highest +tribute that he could pay to her fortitude. He knew that +there was trouble ahead, but he still joked with Mrs Moseley, and +she, in answer, returned him a smile that struck him as +particularly sweet in this plain old woman, making excuse for the +reproach that remained unspoken. In the end, Abner, piqued +at her refusal, quarrelled with her.</p> +<p>‘Any one ‘d think I was likely to be a +nuisance,’ he said.</p> +<p>Mrs Moseley shook her head. She nearly told him all her +reasons against his plan, but when she came to <a +name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>speak of them +her lips trembled. She knew that she couldn’t keep up +much longer. On the fifteenth day she left Hackett’s +Cottages. Alice, who paid her the agreed ten shillings from +a leather purse that she kept wrapped up in a handkerchief under +her pillow, thought it rather shabby of her not to offer to stay +longer. ‘You’d think it ‘d be the least +she could do after all your kindness,’ she said to her +husband. John Fellows, not to be buttered with flattery, +merely grunted.</p> +<p>It took Mrs Moseley more than an hour to walk the mile +home. The doctor passing in his trap, saw her resting on a +doorstep in the Stourton Road. He pretended not to +recognise her, but scribbled a note on his list that she was to +be visited in the afternoon. Toward evening he stumped up +the crooked stairs and stood at the bottom of her bed looking at +her with a curious smile on his lips. She knew it was no +good making excuses.</p> +<p>‘Let’s have a look at it,’ he said. +And then: ‘Well, my dear, this means six weeks in +bed. You know that, don’t you? Ten +shillings’ worth, eh?’</p> +<p>Mrs Moseley, conscious of the fact that it was worth a good +deal more than ten shillings, said nothing. If he only +realised what a blessed relief it was to her to be off her feet +again!</p> +<p>When Alice ‘came downstairs’ again, butter +wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Abner had never known her +so studiously charming. From the first it was as if she +smiled: ‘For goodness’ sake let us forget what has +happened and make a new start!’ and he couldn’t very +well refuse to meet her. At the same time he found it +difficult to conceal his suspicions that she was getting at him +in some covert, female way. The situation would have been +easier to handle if Alice hadn’t been a trifle pale and +interesting. She didn’t pick up very quickly, and +now, of course, in addition to the ordinary housework she had to +look after the baby, who was already suffering from its +mother’s dietetic indiscretions. Like many thin young +women Alice could never conquer her inclination for sweets and +for vinegar, and as a consequence the child was noisy and +irritable. Her housework went to the wall, <a +name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>and in +despair she turned to Abner to help her out. Nothing could +have been sweeter than her temper, and though he didn’t +believe in it he couldn’t help being sorry for her, and did +what she asked him. As a matter of fact, he was already a +little interested in the baby. The smallness of its limbs +and the timid uncertainty of its movements fascinated him. +He regarded it with a certain benignant curiosity, much as he +might have looked at a nestling taken from a hedge in April.</p> +<p>Of course Alice was feeding her child at the breast. If +Abner came into the kitchen in the middle of this performance she +would turn round quickly and take the baby upstairs or out into +the washhouse, blushing. Abner wondered why she did +this. Other women weren’t so sensitive. +Sometimes he would pass a couple of them standing at their garden +gates gossiping and feeding their babies at the same time. +He had never taken any notice of them. Nobody else took any +notice of them. There was something in Alice’s +blushes that embarrassed him unreasonably. Afterward he +asked himself why this should be; but when next he saw Alice +hiding her white breast he blushed himself.</p> +<p>The new relation was very curious. If it hadn’t +been for Abner’s profound distrust of her they might even +have become intimate. It was no good for Alice to pretend +that she wasn’t lonely. In spite of all her pride in +being a married woman and the mother of a family’s +beginning, she couldn’t conceal the fact that since the +baby’s birth her husband took very little notice of +her. It was as if he had said: ‘Now that I’ve +done my duty by the nation and given you something to play with +you can just attend to my comforts without bothering +me.’ He had lately transferred his custom from the +Greyhound to the Lyttleton Arms. A shorter walk at closing +time. So far he had never maltreated Alice, but she knew +very well that she couldn’t now play him the tricks that +had pleased him in their courting days.</p> +<p>So, from being with her husband like a little girl in school, +with Abner she behaved like a schoolgirl <a +name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>released, +chattering, eager and friendly. It puzzled him, for he had +never had a sister and didn’t understand the creature in +the least. Her flatteries and sudden kindnesses surprised +him every bit as much as her spurts of temper. In each case +she seemed equally childish, particularly on days when she had +been too busy to do her hair and wore it in a honey-coloured +pigtail at the back. Then, there was another Alice who +could assert with something very near to dignity the fact that +she was mistress of the house; and another, blushing Alice, +before whom he too had blushed.</p> +<p>On the whole, however, her most obvious feature was her +kindness. In the evening, when Abner came home dirty from +the pit, he would find the soap-suds waiting for him and tea laid +ready on the kitchen table. Alice, as likely as not, would +be bathing the baby, who already showed a native sturdiness in +spite of his mother’s indiscretions. While Abner ate +his tea she would talk to the baby in a low, cooing voice, which +she was evidently convinced would fetch him. From time to +time in the middle of these whispers, she would look up sideways +to where Abner sat munching bread and butter with the sunlight in +his hair. Abner, who knew that he was good-looking, and was +now a little conscious of his manly superiority, took no notice +of her.</p> +<p>And yet, in the end, he couldn’t help being dragged into +the atmosphere of intimacy which her small attentions +created. Grudgingly he was forced to admit that she had +changed for the better. He was now old enough to be +flattered too. They became almost good friends, and only +Abner’s native cautiousness prevented a complete +reconciliation. Alice knew this. She knew the shy +spirit with which she had to deal, but was happy to feel that she +had accomplished so much already. Somewhere in the back of +her mind she suspected that a time might come in which she would +rely on Abner’s strength to protect her and her baby. +Some day she might need his help. It was of John Fellows, +her husband, that she was afraid.</p> +<p>This new relation, Abner thought, was all very well. <a +name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>Still, just +because they had patched up their old quarrel, they needn’t +necessarily be always together. He wasn’t going to +abandon his friend, Joe Hodgetts, and Tiger for the sake of +feminine small talk. Nor did he mean to forsake Mrs +Moseley, at whose house the dog still slept. Those early +autumn evenings were great times for Tiger. Abner knew of a +dozen fields in which he could be certain of putting up a +hare.</p> +<p>It annoyed Alice to see him so eager to get away just when she +wanted him most. She knew that he went in to see Mrs +Moseley. She told herself that she had always hated the old +woman, even before she had been forced on her by her +husband. One evening when Abner was hurrying away after tea +she called him back.</p> +<p>‘Where are you going, Abner?’</p> +<p>‘Down town.’</p> +<p>‘You’m going to Mrs Moseley’s.’</p> +<p>‘And why shouldn’t I go to Mrs +Moseley’s? You can’t stop me!’</p> +<p>‘Stay with us to-night, Abner,’ she coaxed.</p> +<p>Abner only laughed at her. Then she flew into a passion, +standing up white and trembling at the side of the table.</p> +<p>‘How can you go to Mrs Moseley’s?’ she +cried. ‘Who’s Mrs Moseley, I should like to +know? You’re all cracked on your Mrs Moseley, you and +your father! That fat old woman in her nasty smelly +house! And you didn’t ought to leave me when I want +you. You didn’t ought to! I’m your mother +. . ‘</p> +<p>‘Oh, you’m my mother, are you?’ Abner +burst into a laugh. ‘That’s bloody funny, that +is!’</p> +<p>‘Oh, you and your swearing . . .’ she cried.</p> +<p>He didn’t wait to hear any more. When he was gone +she fell down on her knees beside the table and sobbed with her +head in her hands: a frail, pathetic figure with her hair in +curling rags. Her sobs woke the baby, whose cradle had been +carefully placed in a draught between the open door and the +fireplace.</p> +<p>‘Oh, you now!’ she cried, rocking the cradle +roughly. She might easily have upset it. Then, +suddenly repenting, she picked up her son tenderly, and hugging +him to her breast, buried her sobs in his downy face.</p> +<h2><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>The +Fourth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">As</span> the autumn hardened into an iron +winter Abner had less time than ever to spend on these +distractions. When the football season opened he began to +play for the little club named Halesby Swifts, from which Mawne +United usually drew its recruits. Technically it was a +professional club, but the gate money that it drew from its +adventures in pursuit of the local charity cups did no more than +pay for the boots and clothes and footballs of the players. +In the first round of the North Bromwich Hospital Cup competition +the Swifts had the good luck to be drawn against their big +neighbours, Mawne United, on the Mawne ground, and Abner, playing +centre-half, repeated the exploit of his childhood by scoring a +goal against the goalkeeper who had succeeded the celebrated +Harper. It was an elevating moment. The captain and +others of the Swifts came running up to Abner and wrung his +hand. All Mawne and Halesby on the touchline waved black +bowler hats under the flag of Mawne United languidly flying from +its staff beside the Royal Oak. A great moment! Abner +did not see his father standing in his old place behind the Mawne +goal posts with his hands thrust into the pockets of his reefer +coat and his eyes sparkling as he puffed away at his black clay +pipe. That was how John Fellows showed his emotion. +Later in the evening he showed it in another way.</p> +<p>This match, however, made a considerable difference in John +Fellows’s attitude. It gave Abner a standing with his +father that had never been granted to him before. Nor was +this the only result of his success; for on the following Monday +Mr Hudson, the chief clerk in Mr Willis’s works at Mawne, +and secretary of the United, an irreproachable expert in a game +that he had never played, sent up a message to the pit for Abner, +and on Tuesday he had ‘signed on’ for the senior +club.</p> +<p>‘A lad like you, growing and that,’ said Mr +Hudson, <a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>‘didn’t ought to be working in the +pit. I’ll speak to the manager, and if you’ll +come down to the Furnaces next Monday we’ll see what sort +of job we can find you.’</p> +<p>On Monday morning Abner walked over to the Stour valley in +which the great works lay angrily seething, and picked his way +through the gigantic debris of the iron age: huge discarded +boilers, brown with rust; scrap-heaps of tangled metal that had +served its day; stacks of rails; purple mountains of iron ore +standing ready for the blast-furnaces that snored like dragons in +their sleep and made the air around them quiver with hot +breath. Over a network of rails on which an officious +shunting-engine that the head of the firm had christened Lilian, +in honour of his daughter, ran to and fro, whistling shrill +warnings; over many steam pipes, snaky tentacles of the central +power-house, that hissed steam from their leaky joints, he passed +to the office that Mr Hudson inhabited. On the steps in the +middle of his path stood a tall, pale young man who stared out +over the works as though some vision entranced him. Abner, +wondering what he was looking at, and following the direction of +his eyes, saw nothing unusual. He knew that this was young +Mr Willis, Mr Edward, as Hudson called him. He asked Abner +what he wanted.</p> +<p>‘Mr Hudson, gaffer.’</p> +<p>‘You’ll find him inside.’</p> +<p>He moved out of the way, still, apparently in the toils of his +dream, and Abner was shown into Mr Hudson, whom he found sitting +at a desk with a pencil behind either ear. ‘Ah, here +you are,’ said Mr Hudson. ‘There’s a good +chap!’ and took him straightway to one of the foremen, an +old butty of John Fellows, who gave him an indefinite labouring +job that consisted of moving metallic rubbish from one part of +the works to another as occasion demanded. At Mawne, it +seemed, no fragment of iron was ever allowed to leave the works +as long as there was a foot of space in which it could be +stored. Abner also had to grease the wheels of a little +line of trolley-trucks that blundered up and down the hill in +front of the manager’s house, between the furnaces and the +high colliery of Timbertree.</p> +<p><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>‘This is work for an old man, not for a strong lad +like you,’ the foreman grumbled. He knew that there +was always work above ground and good pay at Mawne for a +promising footballer. ‘They’ll fause you up +now! Wait till your footballing’s over,’ he +said, ‘wait till you’ve broke your leg, and then you +ask your Mr Hudson for a job like this and see what he’ll +tell you!’</p> +<p>But Abner was seventeen and had no thoughts for age. The +greatest delight of all was that he now breathed the air of the +open sky all day instead of the darkness of the pit; and even if +the ecstasy of his evening’s relief was now blunted, there +seemed to be no end to his capacity for physical enjoyment. +Beneath the caresses of air and light his physique began to +expand. He took a delight in the strict training that the +Mawne United directors enforced on their players. With +skipping and rubbing and sprinting his muscles became hard and +supple and his whole body marvellously fit. Football became +his whole life. In his work at Mawne, even in his dreams, +he pondered on its tactics. All his friends were players +absorbed in the same game. He gained confidence and skill, +and by the end of the season he had become one of the +crowd’s idols, followed from the arena by a trail of small +boys and patted on the back by strangers as he walked home after +a match in his muddy clothes. The girls also used to turn +and look at him with bold glances; but his life was far too full +in those days for him to worry his head about women.</p> +<p>His relation with Alice had now passed its first emotional +stage, and though she was more interested in him than she had +ever been before, she had grown to understand him better, so that +the storms which had made life at Hackett’s Cottages so +intense no longer occurred. She washed his football clothes +with care and fed him regularly and well, as indeed she should +have done, for he was now earning good money. She had +discovered that it paid her best not to worry him. +Sometimes a fit of restlessness would make him say that he must +change his lodging; but although he often grumbled, he still +stayed on in the room that he had occupied since he was a +child. In her anxiety <a name="page34"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 34</span>to please him she even offered of her +own accord to have the dog Tiger in the house; but Abner only +stared at her, wondering what she was getting at, and +laughed. ‘Still jealous of the poor old woman?’ +he said.</p> +<p>Of course she was still jealous of Mrs Moseley. She +couldn’t help being jealous; but though she denied this +indignantly, and even tried to prove her goodwill by paying +several awkward visits with the baby to Mrs Moseley’s +bedroom, she knew very well that the old woman’s +attractions for Abner were the very least that she had to +fear. She was really and deeply jealous of the young women +who stared at him on the football field or in the Stourton +Road. She knew how handsome he was growing; realised, with +an agony that was not wholly maternal, that sooner or later he +was bound to fall in love, and that was a calamity which somehow +she felt she could not bear. Little by little John Fellows +was becoming less important to her. All her life seemed +more and more centred in her baby and in Abner. Thinking +the matter over she decided that it was her best policy to +encourage him in his friendship for the old woman, and she did so +gradually, insidiously, so that Abner should not guess what she +was doing or wonder why she was doing it.</p> +<p>Abner needed no encouragement. He had never wavered from +his loyalty, and now more than ever he felt that he owed some +attention to his old friend. Since the day when she had +taken to her bed after the fortnight’s work at +Hackett’s Cottages, she had never recovered sufficiently to +resume her former activities. Sometimes, indeed, it had +seemed that her leg was on the point of healing; but as soon as +she crawled downstairs and tried to go about her business it +broke down again, which was not surprising seeing how much her +lying in bed had weakened her. The doctor could do nothing +but preach patience and leave her in the hands of the district +nurse.</p> +<p>For a whole year she struggled along on the pittance that the +relieving officer gave her; but at last the disorder of the +cottage became so overwhelming that the nurse took the law into +her own hands and, in spite of all Mrs Moseley’s protests, +wrote a letter to <a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>the nearest of the old woman’s relatives, a +younger sister, the wife of a North Bromwich brass-worker named +Wade.</p> +<p>In answer to the letter Mrs Wade came over to see her sister, +dressed as for a funeral in closely-fitting black sateen. +Being rather afraid that she might find it awkward to get out of +taking Mrs Moseley home with her, the sight of the old +woman’s helplessness gave her a distinct feeling of relief +which showed itself in the warmth of her condolences.</p> +<p>‘Well, Eliza, this is a shame, isn’t it? And +my! won’t George be shocked when I tell him? To think +of your never ’aving let us know! Just to think of +it!’</p> +<p>Mrs Moseley feebly protested that it wasn’t her fault +that the Wades had been told even now. ‘I don’t +want to be a trouble to people,’ she said. Mrs Wade +assured her that she wasn’t anything of the kind.</p> +<p>‘George, he says to me: “Now, Florrie, you mind +you bring Eliza hack with you.” But, of course, any +one could see with half a glance that that’s impossible +like you are. We could have made you that comfortable, +too! We ’ave a lovely little ’ouse. What +with the money George is picking up, and what we’ve +saved.’</p> +<p>By the time of the evening train on which her sister had +promised to return to North Bromwich, Mrs Moseley was heartily +sick of George’s name and achievements. She +hadn’t really ever known her sister Florrie, and now she +felt that in spite of her suave manner and affectation of +kindnesses that cost nothing she had really come to spy out the +nakedness of the land, to check the value of her sister’s +scanty effects, to reckon just how much lay between her and the +workhouse. And all the time Mrs Moseley was in a fever +wondering what the house was like downstairs; whether, in her +absence, dirt had accumulated; whether Tiger had made the +washhouse in a mess. Indeed, when Mrs Wade departed, she +crept downstairs to see for herself. ‘Whatever they +says’—this was always her cry—‘they +can’t say I bain’t clean!’</p> +<p>The upshot of this visit was revealed to Abner a week or two +later, when he arrived one evening to find the faithless Tiger +playing at the knee of a stranger, <a name="page36"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 36</span>a girl with the city’s matte +complexion, hair that was almost black with a gleam of copper in +it, and brown, long-lashed eyes.</p> +<p>‘That your dog?’ she said, smiling. Her +voice was low. Abner was now used to the high-pitched +voices of Alice and her neighbours. He had never heard a +woman speak so quietly.</p> +<p>He said ‘Yes,’ and she, with the utmost +self-possession, told him that Tiger was a beauty. It +wasn’t strictly true, but it gave Abner a flush of +pleasure, for he loved Tiger. Then she said: +‘I’m Susan Wade. Mother sent me here to look +after Auntie Liza for a week or two.’</p> +<p>As a matter of fact mother, warned by a snuffy shilling-doctor +in Lower Sparkdale that Susan was anæmic and needed country +air, had suddenly felt more than usually generous toward her +sister, and sent Susan to ‘help,’ with no more than +the price of her keep.</p> +<p>‘Afford it?’ she said, when her husband questioned +her about Mrs Moseley’s ability to feed another mouth, +‘Afford it? You don’t know our Liza! She +was always the quiet one of the family. And a saving kind, +too. I know well enough she’s got a stocking +somewhere!’</p> +<p>Mr Wade was not in the habit of arguing with his wife, and Mrs +Moseley, when Susan arrived at Halesby with a small wicker basket +containing her best dress and a bag of apples with mother’s +love, was so deeply touched that when she kissed her her eyes +filled with tears.</p> +<p>‘You’ll be lonely,’ she said, ‘with an +old woman like me.’</p> +<p>‘I shall go out into the lanes,’ said Susan. +‘Mother told me I must get all the fresh air I can. +For the blood, you know.’ That put the matter quite +plainly.</p> +<p>Mrs Moseley assured Abner that Susan was a dear, sweet child, +and such a little woman; but he never met her in Mrs +Moseley’s presence, for the old lady had decided against +the impropriety of Susan and himself together beholding her in +bed. Awkward, at first, he found in a little while that she +wasn’t as formidable as he imagined, though all his +triumphs in the <a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>football field could not have given him one half of her +staggering self-possession. What impressed him most about +her was, without doubt, the sense of personal cleanliness that +she carried with her. Susan was on a holiday, and had time +for such refinements. She wore clean print dresses, while +Alice and her shrill-voiced neighbours in Hackett’s +Cottages, by whose appearance Abner had regulated his ideas of +feminine nicety, wore, as a rule, the livery of their toil. +Susan, on the other hand, lived like a lady, having no better +work for her fingers than the braiding of her dark hair. In +the mornings she stayed with Mrs Moseley, listening, in a kind of +dream, to her aunt’s recitation of the virtues of people +whom, in the days before her marriage, she had served. It +seemed as if that were the time in her life toward which her +thoughts now returned most happily, and the mere scraping +together of its unimportant details filled her with a mild +afterglow of enjoyment.</p> +<p>‘I remember,’ she would begin, in a weak, +contented voice that was soothing in its tiredness, ‘I +remember one day Mrs Willis—the first Mrs Willis that is, +old Mr Hackett’s daughter down the Holloway and Mr +Edward’s mother—I remember her coming into the +kitchen with a beautiful basketful of cherries. Fine, black +fruit they was! And she says +“Hannah”—that’s the Hannah that’s +still there, but I expect she’s forgotten +<i>me</i>—“Hannah,” she says, “look what +the master’s sent from the cherry-orchard.” +They always call it the cherry-orchard, you know, up above Mawne +bank, and that was a wonderful year for cherries. +“We’ll make them into jam, Hannah,” she +says. “And Liza”—that’s +me—“will help you stone them.” <i>Stone +them</i>, she says! And how we laughed to be sure! I +can see her standing there now, a bit red in the face, for she +was new to housekeeping and never knew you don’t stone +cherries. She had a couple of black-hearts in her lips, +like the game you play. A dear lady, she was! I can +see her again in Mr Edward. Time passes, doesn’t +it? You’ll know that some day, Susan.’</p> +<p>Susan tossed her head. Perhaps some day she would know, +but sufficient unto this were its quiet languors <a +name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>and the +breath of summer air drifting in at a chink in her aunt’s +window from the fields towards the hills. She herself had +grown up in the cramped quarter of Sparkdale, where, in +summer-time the blue-brick pavements burn under a pale sky, where +there is always a smell of dust and fire and rotting remnants of +fruit dropped from the hawkers’ barrows into the +gutter. At the back of their house in Sparkdale lay a +little garden plot; but her father had always given it over to +fowls that made it an arid, gritty patch littered with shed +feathers. All the parks lay miles away over the streets, +and the only green that Susan knew was the grass that grew within +the railings of an ugly Georgian church standing in a square that +had once been fashionable but was now neglected and +unkempt. For this reason the sloping fields beyond Halesby +were wonderful to her, and things that would have seemed common +to a country child, enchanting. In the afternoon she went +out walking with Tiger. There was no need for Abner to be +jealous, for these walks bore no comparison in Tiger’s mind +with his evening visits to rabbit-haunted banks.</p> +<p>Susan had come to Halesby thrilled by her first experience of +romance. She had been initiated by a pale young clerk named +Bagley who taught in the Sunday-school of the decayed Georgian +church. It had happened at their annual +‘outing’ to Sutton Park. There, in a hot slade +of larches, Mr Bagley had held her hand, a small and very sticky +hand in a lace mitten. While he did so he had confided to +her that his was an extremely passionate nature, and that nothing +but his hold on the Anglican faith restrained him from exploiting +it, and after this, immediately before tea, he had kissed her +once. That had been all; for after tea Mr Bagley, weighed +down no doubt by a sense of shame, had avoided her. All +that remained to her of this adventure was the power of making Mr +Bagley blush; and this was no very signal achievement, for Mr +Bagley flushed easily and had already written privily to +advertisers in the weekly papers who claimed to cure this +weakness. It appeared indeed that there would never be any +more between them than a bond of secret <a +name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>guilt; and +since Susan had liked being kissed, even by Mr Bagley, she +decided to continue her experiments whenever the chance came.</p> +<p>From the first sight of him Abner had pleased her. He +was eighteen, just a year older than herself. His handsome +head, his excellent teeth, his contrasting fairness, the size and +strength of his body, all attracted her. She thought she +would like to be alone with him and see what would happen. +Therefore she began by inviting herself to accompany him on one +of his evening excursions with Tiger. Abner resented the +proposal, partly because he had never quite shaken off the +convention of his boyhood that girls were soft and any dealings +with them shameful, and partly because he was jealous of any +stranger invading a world that was so particularly his own and so +specially guarded from the feminine influence hitherto +represented by Alice. But Susan, by her quiet +determination, made it impossible for him to refuse. She +had always been—after the poultry—her father’s +principal pet, and when Abner put her off, she simply declined to +believe that he meant it.</p> +<p>He grumbled and submitted. He supposed that he was doing +a kindness to Mrs Moseley by taking her, and comforted himself +with the thought that, after all, Susan wasn’t like other +girls: a conclusion at which he arrived without difficulty, +seeing that he had known no other girl but Alice. On his +side, indeed, the relationship was as natural as it might +be. It was Susan who found it rather a failure in the +absence of sentimental developments. Abner treated her, she +found, very much as if she had been a boy; and though this was +the pose with which she had started their acquaintance, she +didn’t want it to remain at that. Mrs Moseley’s +looking-glass, in which she could see herself when she sat in her +favourite place at the foot of the bed in the morning, assured +her that she was much nicer to look at now than when she first +came to Halesby from the city. She was plumper, her cheeks +and lips were more brightly coloured and her eyes clearer. +Mr Bagley would have noticed the difference. Abner, +apparently, didn’t. She comforted herself <a +name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>with the +reflection that he was too rough and rugged to realise her +delicacy, that he was only a common labourer and no fit associate +for a foreman’s daughter, but when she came to think of it, +her social quality should really have made her more attractive to +him.</p> +<p>She was a very direct young woman. One evening when they +went out for their walk down the lane that leads to the woody +basin known as Dovehouse Fields they came to a lonely stile at +the end of a bridge over a tributary of the Stour, beyond which +the red bank was tunnelled by many rabbits. Tiger ran +forward eagerly over the bridge and began to sniff at the holes +in the bank, and Abner would have followed him if Susan had not +barred the way, sitting complacently on the top of the +stile. She sat there in the low sunlight that warmed her +cheeks, lighted gleams of copper in her hair, and made her brown +eyes amber.</p> +<p>‘I want to stay here, Abner,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘Well, let us pass then,’ said Abner, thinking +only of rabbits. ‘Wait till I come back.’</p> +<p>But she wouldn’t move from her perch. She sat +there smiling and swinging her long legs. Tiger, who +couldn’t realise why any scentless human should hesitate on +the verge of such excitements, ran back and looked at them, +making little quick noises of encouragement. Susan called +him, and rather reluctantly he scuttled back over the bridge and +jumped up to her knees licking her hands. She said:</p> +<p>‘Don’t you think I look nice, Abner?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t see nothing wrong with you,’ said +Abner, without enthusiasm.</p> +<p>‘Don’t be soft!’ she said. ‘I +mean, don’t you want to kiss me?’</p> +<p>He didn’t. He hadn’t thought about such a +thing. It was she who was being soft now. And yet he +couldn’t help wanting to try when he saw her smiling at him +from the stile. He kissed her, very clumsily, on the +cheek. He had never kissed any one before, and its softness +and coolness bewildered him. But she wasn’t content +with this. She took his face in both her hands and kissed +his lips. He lost his head. He didn’t know what +he was doing. He took her in his <a name="page41"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 41</span>arms in a way that was very different +from Mr Bagley’s passionate embrace. It seemed as if +he wanted to kiss the life out of her. She drew back, +almost frightened of him, but he wouldn’t let her go. +They left Tiger to his rabbits and wandered off into the +woods. When Susan returned in the darkness Mrs Moseley +could not help remarking how well she looked.</p> +<p>This was no more than the beginning of the adventure. +There was nothing lukewarm about the passion that Susan had thus +precipitated. Her education, which had brought her very +nearly to the level of middle-class prudishness, had not prepared +her for Abner’s love-making. Mr Bagley, she +reflected, would have made her timid presents of sweets and, +perhaps, occupied the pew behind hers in church. He would +have taken her for walks in one of the decorous parks on the +other side of the city. He would have held her hand on the +tram and paid her spoony compliments. Abner paid her no +compliments, gave her no presents. Nor did he hold her +hand: he held her whole body till she felt that her will was +failing and that her only duty was to obey him. She was +terrified by his violence, ashamed of responding to its +crudity. She was almost sorry that she had provoked him, +for now it was she who fled from him and feared to be overtaken, +and though the excitement of the chase thrilled her she could +never escape from the vague threat of its inevitable end. +Her mother, she knew, would have approved of Mr Bagley. +What would she think of this handsome young labourer, this +professional footballer? She knew that she was bound to +resist him as long as she could.</p> +<p>This was no easy matter. Abner absorbed her, gave her no +chance. Once having got her he would not let her go. +Her calculations of the future didn’t trouble him. +Every evening when he had knocked off work he came along to Mrs +Moseley’s house and called for her, and in spite of any +excuse that she might make, he took her off over the fields and +into the woods. Mrs Moseley unconsciously abetted him.</p> +<p>‘Your mother’s anxious that you should get all the +fresh air you can, dear,’ she used to say, ‘and +it’s a beautiful evening. I wish I could go with +you!’</p> +<p><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>The old +woman was sure that she could trust them together, and for three +weeks of brilliant summer weather they spent the evening and the +twilight in each other’s arms. Susan tried a series +of tactics that she invented for her own protection. She +pretended to shrink from his coarseness and from the dirt of the +works in contrast with her own clean fragility. She adopted +another, distant attitude, proprietary and maternal. Abner +laughed at both of them. She even, in an extremity, played +her last card: the attentions of the elegant Bagley. +‘You give him five minutes alone with me, and I’ll +settle that!’ said Abner. ‘You’re my +wench, and don’t you forget it!’</p> +<p>Providence, in the shape of a calamity, saved her. Her +mother sprained an ankle in the fowl-pen, and wired for Susan to +return to North Bromwich at once. The telegram came while +Abner was at work, and when he reached Mrs Moseley’s +cottage in the evening, Susan was gone. She left a +carefully written note behind her in which she addressed him as +Mr Fellows and said that she hoped he would always think of her +as kindly as she did of him. She said it would be nice to +get back to North Bromwich after so long in the country, but +carefully omitted to supply him with her address. At first +Abner was stunned, then angry. He couldn’t put up +with Mrs Moseley’s mild meanderings. He hadn’t +the heart to go out into the desecrated woods. When Tiger +leapt at him, in anticipation of a walk, he kicked the dog in the +ribs. The football season would not begin for another +month, and since he had nothing to do he returned to +Hackett’s Cottages. Alice, who had kept an eye full +of jealous suspicions on him for the last month, received +him. She saw that something had bowled him over. It +gave her a secret satisfaction.</p> +<p>‘Early to-night, Abner,’ she said.</p> +<p>He would not answer her.</p> +<p>‘Whatever’s up with you?’ she said. +‘You’m all moithered.’ And then, with a +laugh, she answered her own question by another: ‘Too much +sweethearting?’ in a tone that pretended to be merely +bantering but in reality carried a sting. He knew that +faint touch of malice in her so well that it made him flare up at +once <a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>with: +‘I don’t want no bloody girls.’ It +didn’t strike him that her malice might be taken as a +compliment, and when she laughed at his reply he walked out of +the house in a temper.</p> +<p>He didn’t know where to go; but taking his +father’s example he wandered down to the Royal Oak, where +he sat drinking pint after pint with one of his football friends +and a couple of women. At closing time the whole party were +turned out together and walked down into Halesby. It was +nearly daybreak when he returned to Hackett’s Cottages, +still the worse for liquor, and blundered upstairs to bed. +He slept so heavily that he did not hear the Mawne bull in the +morning. At ten o’clock a feeling that some one was +in the room aroused him. He opened his eyes to a blinding +light and saw that Alice had placed a cup of hot tea at his +bedside. He drank it so eagerly that he scalded his +mouth.</p> +<h2><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>The +Fifth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">This</span> sudden outburst was +sufficiently violent to satisfy Abner that for the present he +could do without liquor or women. It wasn’t very +difficult to forget Susan, for she had really been more trouble +than she was worth. The affair would never have begun but +for her provocation, and since she hadn’t the pluck to go +through with it, Abner satisfied himself by exaggerating her +insipidity in his own mind.</p> +<p>After the first sting of malice with which she had sent him +off on the drink, Alice showed her repentance, first symbolised +by the waiting cup of tea, in a hundred attentions and +kindnesses. He never told her about his affair with Susan, +but she appeared to understand more or less what had happened and +even to sympathise with him in his violent methods of getting +over it. She made him so comfortable at Hackett’s +Cottages that there was no more talk of his finding other +lodgings. In the early days of her married life the +responsibilities of the house and its two male inhabitants had +been too much for her inexperience, and the coming of the baby in +the first year had made her abandon all attempts to keep pace +with domestic demands. In the second year she regained her +strength and a great deal of the physical charm that had +originally attracted John Fellows. The baby, a normal, +healthy child, had also prospered, and now that he was weaned +slept away most of the day on his mother’s bed upstairs or +in his cradle in the kitchen. Nothing marred the smoothness +of domestic life at Number Eleven but the uncertainty of John +Fellows’s temper and his periodical bouts of drinking; and +even in these emergencies Alice’s increasing knowledge of +life and her absorption in the care of Abner and her baby +sustained her.</p> +<p>The strangest part of the whole business was that Abner and +his father never fell foul of one another. Since that one +dangerous moment on the morning of the baby’s birth there +had never been any danger of this. <a +name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>It was as if +they had agreed to go on their own ways. Abner kept clear +of his father because his natural love of peace and increasing +concern for the convenience of Alice made him anxious to avoid a +quarrel; and John Fellows condoned his son’s unreasonable +abstinence from liquor on the grounds of his success in the +football field. Although he never said so he was proud of +Abner’s prowess, gathering indeed a little reflected glory +from it among his mates at the pit and his boon companions at the +pub.</p> +<p>It was fortunate for Alice that her family was so small; for +it meant not only that she was unburdened with housework, but +also that the question of money never troubled her. John +Fellows never did anything by halves. He worked as hard as +he drank, and since all colliers are paid by piecework, he earned +enough to keep the house going and himself in liquor. Abner +also was well paid for the work he did at Mawne, and in addition +to this received a pound a week from the United Football Club +during the season. Out of these earnings he paid Alice +eighteen shillings for his board and keep, and this, together +with her husband’s weekly allowance, enabled her to make +the house exactly what she wanted. There seemed to be no +reason why this happy state of affairs should not go on for ever, +or, at any rate, until Abner found some other wretched girl who +took his fancy. This was the event that Alice dreaded most, +and for the present Abner’s life was too full of work and +training to make it probable.</p> +<p>They spent most of their evenings together while John Fellows +was down at the Royal Oak and the baby placidly sleeping in its +cradle. They were the happiest of Alice’s life, for +they realised all her ideals of what domesticity should be. +The little room was cheerful with firelight and always warm, for +John Fellows had the privilege of buying coal for next to nothing +at the pit. On the table she used to spread a cloth of +bright red chequers. A lamp in the middle of it cast a mild +and homely light. Alice would sit on one side of the fire, +knitting woollen vests for the baby or mending the men’s +clothes. She sat in her rocking chair, enthroned with +content, glancing from time to time at <a name="page46"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 46</span>the sleeping baby, at the shining +brass, on which she particularly prided herself, at all the +tokens of comfort with which she was surrounded. The door +of Number Eleven was ill-made or warped with age so that a +draught blew in beneath it towards the fire; but Abner had +arranged a curtain of red rep on a running string above it, so +that the draught was not felt and the swaying of the curtain only +emphasised the contrast between the winter without and that +glowing cosiness within. All these things that surrounded +her were her own, her world. She would not have changed one +of them. The glances that she gave to them were proprietary +and richly satisfied.</p> +<p>Sometimes, in the same way, she would let her eyes fall on +Abner: a big, loose-limbed fellow, over six feet high, with the +closely cropped hair of the footballer and a yellow +moustache. In the evenings at home he wore no collar and +the firelight played on his powerful neck and lit the fair down +on his arm when he sat in his shirtsleeves. Even with him +her glance was proprietary. He also belonged to her, and +she mended his clothes with the same delight and devotion that +she experienced in making the ridiculous garments of her +son. She rejoiced in his beauty and in his strength. +Perhaps, sometimes, the physical comparison that he suggested +with John Fellows made her admiration more poignant.</p> +<p>Usually these long evenings were lonely. At times, +however, Alice’s father, the timekeeper at Mawne, would +come stumping up on his wooden leg and take a seat before the +fire between them. He was very fond of Alice. He +would pinch her cheek and hold her arm and make her blush by +asking every time he came when she was going to give him another +grandson. He was a poor old man. His pay, like most +pensions, was inadequate, and the cottage on the edge of the +works which the company allowed him rent-free was old and so damp +that he suffered from rheumatism, particularly, as he always said +with a chuckle, in the leg that he had lost. Here +Alice’s younger sister, Elsie, kept house for him. +She had never been a favourite of his and was a bad +manager. She and her sister, who had always quarrelled +before Alice’s marriage, were now, for <a +name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>reasons which +Alice attributed to jealousy, no longer on speaking terms. +Mr Higgins always tried to gloss this unfortunate circumstance +with one of his little jokes.</p> +<p>‘When I come up here,’ he said, ‘Abner ought +to go and keep our Elsie company.’</p> +<p>Abner would laugh, but Alice glanced sharply at him. She +hated to hear any woman’s name mentioned in connection with +his, and most of all her sister’s; but Mr Higgins, unaware +of these fine shades of feeling, constantly pursued the +project. ‘Now if Abner here went and married our +Elsie what a queer kettle of fish it would be to be sure! +Which would you be, his mother or his sister-in-law? Both +on ’em. Likewise Elsie’d be your +daughter-in-law and your sister. And if our Elsie was +Abner’s aunt she’d be the great-aunt of her own +babbies, surely!’</p> +<p>‘Oh, don’t go on so, dad!’ said Alice, +sharply. ‘Do give over!’</p> +<p>‘You can say what you like, Alice,’ said Mr +Higgins, ‘but that’s a knot it’d take more than +a parson to get over.’</p> +<p>At half-past nine the old man would leave them with another of +his little jokes. Abner would see him out, and then, +yawning, stretch his legs and say that it was time he was turning +in. He used to ask Alice, before he went upstairs, if there +was anything he could do for her. It was only a formula, +but the words always gave her a flush of pleasure. When he +was gone upstairs she would busy herself with preparing his can +of tea, and bacon sandwiches to take to the works next day. +Then she would settle down again in her chair at the fireside and +sit with her work in her lap dreaming and waiting for the +unsteady, deliberate step of her husband on the path. This +was the worst moment of her day.</p> +<p>John Fellows rarely returned home until half an hour after +closing time, and for this reason it was seldom that he saw Abner +off the football field. At home he never approached him +except with the hope of extracting inside information as to the +probable results of the league matches on which he proposed to +bet, and in this he found Abner unsympathetic, for <a +name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>although +league football had not sunk in those days to its present depths +of unabashed commercialism, Abner knew that the result of a match +was sometimes decided in accordance with the bookmaker’s +instructions. John Fellows never backed horses, for he +regarded the turf as a resort of crooks and sharks. He put +his money on dogs and football teams, and even if he lost it he +had at any rate the satisfaction of seeing it lost with his own +eyes. He didn’t mind losing money as long as he had a +run for it. According to his lights he was a sportsman.</p> +<p>The football season had opened with a flourish as far as Mawne +United were concerned. In the North Bromwich league they +had beaten all their principal rivals, Wolverbury, Dulston, and +even the Albion Reserves. Now, in the semi-final of the +Midland Cup they were to meet the Albion again. The members +of the team became more than ever popular heroes, and Abner, down +at the works, was conscious of his share in the +distinction. The winter had set in early with a November of +black frost that made the scrap-iron with which he was still +engaged under the same grumbling foreman harder and more icy to +the touch, and congealed the grease in the running guide-wheels +of the trolley railway. It was some compensation that the +blast furnaces, which were surrounded in summer by a zone of air +undulant with intolerable heat, now gave a sense of neighbourly +warmth to the centre of the works.</p> +<p>Abner, who knew that his position was more secure than ever, +managed to spend most of his day near these black towers, talking +football to the men who were engaged in making the moulds of sand +into which the molten metal would flow when the furnaces were +tapped. It was an idle and a pleasant life; but he enjoyed +it, knowing, as did every one else in the works, that it was no +more than a preparation for the sterner business of +Saturdays.</p> +<p>One Wednesday, in the middle of the afternoon, he was at work +loading some pigs of iron into a truck that stood waiting on the +siding near the furnace. It was good warm work for a +winter’s day, and Abner had <a name="page49"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 49</span>thrown off his coat, rolled up his +sleeves, and unfastened the neck of his shirt. He and his +mate had just hoisted the last of the pigs into the truck when +the furnace foreman gave the signal for the tapping of the +nearest tower. Abner watched the proceeding as he put on +his coat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The men, +stripped to the waist, approached the vent of the furnace +carrying a heavy crowbar with which they loosened the plug of +fireclay which kept the contents of the furnace from +escaping. They leapt aside as the first stream of molten +mineral gushed out. The foreman watched them, shading his +eyes from the heat. The fluid that came first was the dross +of the ore which had sunk to the bottom of the furnace, and this +was diverted so that it flowed into a wide pan where it would +cool into a cake of brittle, iridescent slag. A moment +later pure iron began to flow. The puddlers closed the +entrance to the pool of slag, and molten metal crept, with the +slow persistence of a lava-flow, down the central channel and +into the moulds of sand that were ready to receive it. The +damp air above the beds first steamed, then swam with heat. +Not molten gold could have seemed more beautiful than this harsh, +intractable metal. It ran into the moulds sluggishly and +with a soft, hissing sound.</p> +<p>Some one tapped Abner on the shoulder and drew him +aside. It was Mr Hudson, who had walked down delicately +from the office, so delicately that he had not even disturbed the +two pencils wedged above his ears. He shivered slightly, +for he had been shut up all day with a coke stove. Drawing +Abner aside behind the line of trucks he began to talk to him +about the cup-tie with the Albion. With the utmost +friendliness he discussed the prospects of Mawne United in the +match, which was now only ten days ahead. Abner answered +him respectfully. Mr Hudson had not only given him his +present comfortable job, but also carried in his pocket the +future of every man employed in the works, for Mr Willis, whose +eager mind was always set on expansions of the monster that he +had created out of the fortune which his father-in-law had made +<a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>in the +Franco-Prussian war, was far too busy to worry his head about +such details.</p> +<p>‘So you think we’ll win?’ said Mr Hudson, +fingering the bronze cross on his watch-chain.</p> +<p>‘It bain’t no good playing any match if you +don’t think you’ll win,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>Mr Hudson stroked his red moustache. ‘I may say +that the Albion has offered us a hundred pounds to play the match +at North Bromwich, on their ground. The club could do with +the money.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you take it,’ Abner replied. +‘Don’t you take it. The Mawne ground’s +worth a couple of goals to our chaps in a match of that +kind. That slope down by the Royal Oak puzzled the Albion +last time. Our forwards know how to use it.’</p> +<p>‘The Albion’s particular anxious to win,’ +said Hudson. ‘What’s more, the bookmakers are +giving three to one against Mawne. That shows you which way +the wind’s blowing.’</p> +<p>‘Well, I hope to God it busts them!’ said +Abner. ‘I’m no friend to football +bookmakers.’</p> +<p>Mr Hudson blenched at this loose employment of the +deity’s name. He took Abner by the arm. +‘Look here,’ he said, ‘speaking in the +strictest confidence, I can tell you that the club will accept +Albion’s offer to play at North Bromwich. +What’s more, if Albion win, I can safely say it will be +worth ten pounds to you personally.’</p> +<p>Abner shook himself free from Mr Hudson’s friendly +arm. If he had followed the inclination of the moment he +would have laid Mr Hudson flat there and then on the +cinders. His feelings had passed beyond the stage of +words. But while he stood glaring at Mr Hudson’s +face, now weakly smiling and white with fear, he saw something +else that stopped him: the figure of a woman running towards them +as fast as she could over the cumbered ground of the works. +She was hatless and had a shawl thrown round her shoulders. +He knew, even at a distance, that it was Alice. She ran +straight up to Abner, with her hair blown loose and with a flush +of excitement that made her singularly beautiful.</p> +<p><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>Mr +Hudson snatched at the opportunity for retreat. ‘This +lady wants you,’ he said.</p> +<p>Abner, still under the influence of a divided emotion, took a +step in his direction, but Alice pulled at his sleeve. The +tears that she had been restraining as she ran overcame her and +she could only cry ‘Abner . . . Abner . .’</p> +<p>‘What the hell’s up with <i>you</i>?’ he +said roughly.</p> +<p>‘Your father, Abner . . .’ she sobbed. +‘It’s your father.’</p> +<p>‘What’s that? What’s he +done?’</p> +<p>‘It’s an accident at the pit. Father sent up +Elsie with the message.’</p> +<p>‘You mean he’s dead?’ said Abner, suddenly +sobered.</p> +<p>‘No . . . not dead. . . . I don’t think +so. It’s an accident. Some kind of +accident. Elsie was that moithered she couldn’t say +proper. So I left her there and ran off for you. I +couldn’t take him in myself. I couldn’t think +of nowt but running for you.’</p> +<p>‘Nell, if he bain’t dead what the hell’s the +matter?’ said Abner practically.</p> +<p>They left the works together. Alice, still out of +breath, could scarcely keep pace with Abner’s long strides, +but now her nervous sobbing had ceased and she even smiled. +At the corner of Hackett’s Cottages they met the procession +from the colliery. For some obscure reason Alice’s +father had lost the key of the store in which the stretchers were +kept, and so they carried John Fellows home on a door. In +his progress from the pit they had fallen in with a stream of +children suddenly disgorged from the Ragged Schools, and a train +of these had swollen the <i>cortège</i>, curious to find +out who, or what, lay under the brown blanket. All the +women of Hackett’s Cottages gathered at the gateway of +Number Eleven to receive him, many of them carrying babies and +offering haphazard advice in the intervals of giving them +refreshment. The doorway of the house was too small to +admit the improvised stretcher, so they laid it down at the side +of the garden.</p> +<p>‘Be careful of my bloody tomatters,’ John Fellows +growled. It was the first sign of life he had given. +Abner and two others lifted him from the door and <a +name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>carried him +through the kitchen and up the twisting stairs. The boards +creaked under their weight as though they were on the point of +splintering. It was his right thigh that had been broken; +and once, on the journey upstairs, they jolted him so much that +he unclenched his teeth and roared like a bull. The crowd +in the roadway shuddered. This was their first considerable +sensation.</p> +<p>They laid him on the bed. Alice, now very pale and +composed, followed them upstairs with a cup of tea.</p> +<p>‘God! if I’m come to tea drinking it’s a +gonner,’ said John Fellows. ‘Send out for a +spot of brandy!’</p> +<p>A small boy was sent running to the Lyttleton Arms. +Elsie had already gone for the doctor. The news had spread +quickly in various forms, and all Halesby heard with sensation +that John Fellows had had his skull smashed in Mawne pit. +The brandy came. He wouldn’t have it spoiled with +water and swallowed it neat, but even the brandy could not alter +the ashen pallor of his face beneath its coating of coal +dust.</p> +<p>John Fellows was a hard case and could bear pain or any other +human calamity with fortitude. He lay on his back, gritting +his teeth and squirting the floor with tobacco-juice. +Whenever he spoke it was with a curious dry humour that seldom +appeared in his ordinary conversation. He never complained +of his own sufferings, though he cursed the criminal economy of +the Mawne management in the matter of pit-props. +‘They might as well use match-sticks as this Norway +stuff. They’ve put a stopper on my football!’ +he said. ‘But I’ll see that they pay for +it. I will, and no fear!’</p> +<p>Indeed they owed him something. The collapse of coal +that had buried him had taken place in a remote gallery on one of +the lower levels of the mine; and though Mr Willis, proud of his +electric lighting and American coal-cutting machinery, was in the +habit of describing Mawne as a drawing-room pit, the arrangements +for salvage were by no means elegant. John Fellows had lain +for three hours beneath a ton or more of coal; and though the +weight of it saved him from <a name="page53"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 53</span>the pain of movement, acting as a +kind of ponderous splint to the broken limb, the suspense of +waiting till he was dug out would have broken the nerve of a more +sensitive man. From this purgatory he had been hauled to +one of the trolley-lines that traverse the galleries of the pit: +his only moment of relative smoothness between the scene of the +accident and his home being his upward journey in the hoisting +cage.</p> +<p>They waited anxiously for the doctor. The boy made three +more journeys to the Lyttleton Arms for brandy. +‘It’s the only thing that keeps the life in +me,’ John Fellows said.</p> +<p>In a couple of hours Dr Moorhouse arrived. ‘Sorry +to see you like this, Fellows,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘You’d be sorrier if you was me!’ Fellows +grunted.</p> +<p>With the help of Alice they split up his trouser leg, and the +doctor manipulated the thigh until he felt the crepitus of the +broken bone. Then he disturbed the patient no longer. +‘It’s a three months’ job,’ he +said. ‘You can’t have it seen to properly +here. You want X-rays. You’ll have to go into +hospital.’</p> +<p>‘Hospital . . .’ John Fellows cried.</p> +<p>Then, at last, he became fluent. The brandy had +stimulated his imagination even if it had dulled the pain, and he +launched into an uncompromising statement of the opinions with +which poor people regard the institutions that are erected for +their care. He made it plain that <i>he</i>, at any rate, +wasn’t going to die in any hospital, or be pulled about by +any students, and not a spot of drink.</p> +<p>‘I don’t want you to die in any hospital,’ +the doctor said. He was painfully used to this kind of +outburst. It was always a long and bitter controversy, and +it always ended, as he knew well, in submission. While John +Fellows was fuming he fixed him up on a temporary splint and then +went home to telephone for the ambulance. At the foot of +the stairs his eyes fell on the patient face of Mrs Moseley, who +had driven up on the cart of a friendly baker as soon as she +heard the news.</p> +<p>‘You here again!’ he cried. ‘Upon my +word a lunatic asylum’s the place for you. Take your +leg out of my sight. I never want to see it again. I +wash my hands <a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>of you!’ He went off grumbling, and Mrs +Moseley climbed the stairs.</p> +<p>It pleased John Fellows to see her. Indeed, from the +moment of her arrival, he would not let any one else touch +him. In the old days Alice would have been jealous; but +hardship and difficulty had so changed her nature that she even +concerned herself with Mrs Moseley’s comfort. The old +woman moved about the room like a soothing influence, and when, +an hour later, the ambulance arrived, she insisted on +accompanying her old friend to the infirmary at North +Bromwich. John Fellows went off cheerfully, with a quartern +of brandy in his coat pocket. He was even bright enough to +joke with Mr Higgins, who now arrived on the scene, having just +discovered the key of the stretcher-store in his hip-pocket.</p> +<p>John Fellows’s removal to hospital made no great +difference to any one but Alice. To her the relief was +enormous, for it not only saved her the trouble of irregular +meals, allowing her to devote her days to her baby, but freed her +nights from, at the best, uncertainty, and, at the worst, +terror. Now, when Abner had said good-night to her, she +need no longer sit with her nerves on edge, waiting for Fellows +to come home, wondering what would be the humour of his +entrance. Instead of this she now sat over the fire for +half an hour of luxurious drowsiness, then picked up the baby and +went off placidly to bed.</p> +<p>Of course she had to go easy with her housekeeping +expenditure, for all John Fellows’s club pay would be +absorbed in paying for tobacco and other luxuries, such as +butter, which the hospital did not provide for its patients, but +Abner, as soon as he realised this, told her that she could count +on the pound a week that he earned from the football club, and +more, if necessary, for during the last year he had found it +possible to put by a few sovereigns for himself. Alice did +not find it necessary, however, to draw on his reserves. +Her own tastes were simple and Abner was easily pleased. +Indeed, John Fellows had always been the most expensive member of +the household.</p> +<p>Abner was now in strict training for the cup-tie with <a +name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>the Albion +and went to bed early every night. The Mawne directors, as +Mr Hudson had foretold, jumped at the big club’s offer to +play the match at North Bromwich, tempted not only by the welcome +hundred pounds but by the prospect of an even bigger share of +gate-money. The team went through their training with the +greatest earnestness. Every afternoon they turned out on +the Mawne ground practising passing, shooting, and tactics, +followed by the eyes of the trainer, an international long since +retired, who walked about the field carrying always a black bag +that contained lemons, elastic bandages, and a patent embrocation +of his own that smelt like Elliman’s.</p> +<p>Nobody who saw these men at practice could possibly have +suspected that they thought of anything but winning their match, +though each of them must have known that all the others had been +offered ten pounds a head to lose it. In the dressing-room, +where they stood rubbing each other down with flesh-gloves in the +clouds of steam that the cold air condensed from half a dozen tin +baths of hot water, they talked of plans and prospects just as if +no shadow of corruption had ever approached them. Nobody +had mentioned the subject to Abner since Hudson had tackled him +at the works. That, no doubt, was the policy of those who +had put up the money: to let the thought of it sink in over a +period of ten days and trust to the frailty of human nature on +the eleventh. They knew their business, for the mere +presence of such a disturbing problem was enough to demoralise +the team.</p> +<p>On the day before the match the Mawne goalkeeper sprained his +ankle at practice, and neither the bandages nor the embrocation +of the trainer could restore him. In this emergency the +committee called upon George Harper, who had retired four or five +years before and was now a man of substance and landlord of a +public-house, to take his place. Abner, who had always been +on good terms with this idol of his boyhood, went up to him after +the last practice game and told him of Hudson’s +offer. Harper listened to him in silence, nodding his head, +but when Abner asked him if he too had been approached by Hudson, +he only laughed. <a name="page56"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 56</span>‘Hudson?’ he said, +‘that red-whiskered b—? No fear of that! +He dursen’t come near me. He knows what he’d +get, does Mr Hudson.’</p> +<p>In spite of this, when the team were assembled in the +dressing-room of the Albion ground on the day of the cup-tie, +Abner saw the trainer take George Harper aside. He talked +excitedly in a low voice, but Harper only went red in the face +and said nothing. As they left the dressing-room Abner +winked at George, and George, solemnly, winked back at him. +The captain kicked the ball into the middle of the field, and the +Mawne team ran out after him, amid a spreading uproar of +cheers.</p> +<p>The turf of the Albion ground was incredibly smooth and level +after the rough field in which they were accustomed to play at +Mawne. The place was, indeed, a vast oval amphitheatre, +with high stands rising above the dressing-rooms on the west and +on every other side a sloping embankment so packed with people +that the ground on which they stood could nowhere be seen. +The vastness of this white-faced multitude was imposing in its +ugliness. Its pale, restless masses, represented on a +horrible scale the grimy flatness of the city complexion. +From the crowd a low murmur arose like the noise of the sea +breaking on distant shingles, and over all its surface floated a +fume of tobacco smoke. A moment later the Albion team +emerged; the crowd swayed, and the murmur swelled to a roar of +welcome. The chocolate and yellow jerseys of Mawne so +nearly resembled the Albion’s colours that the home team +turned out in white shirts and knickers. It was partly the +spotlessness of this attire that made them seem like a company of +athletic giants, swifter, more flexible and stronger than their +opponents. Even Abner’s six feet were dwarfed by the +diverse colours of his clothes. It seemed a ridiculous +thing to match this shabby team of stunted pitmen with eleven +picked athletes.</p> +<p>The game began. Almost at once the white line of the +Albion forwards was in motion. It was a lovely sight, a +lesson in fleetness, elasticity and precision. The Albion, +taking no risks, had included a number of <a +name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>their first +league players in the team, and it looked as if Mawne must be +nowhere. Abner, at centre half, the pivotal position of the +whole field, felt that he could do no more than play a spoiling +game against this perfect machine. In the back of his mind +he knew also that a certain number, probably the majority of the +Mawne players, were not anxious to win. It is not easy, +however, to play deliberately a losing game, or indeed to play +football with any degree of deliberation. The heat of the +game seemed to inspire the Mawne team to a stubborn, almost +desperate, defence. As a last barrier to the Albion attacks +he knew that George Harper, even if he were an old stager, was +incorruptible; and George Harper, in his prime, had never played +a more marvellous game. Perhaps the feeling that he +belonged to an older and more gifted generation of footballers +helped him. Time after time, when the Albion forwards came +swinging down the field in a perfect crescent, he saved the Mawne +goal. His play was inspired, and when half-time came, no +goal had been scored. The players stood sweating in the +dressing-room. The trainer handed round cut lemons. +Once again Abner saw him approach George Harper and take him by +the sleeve; but this time the goalkeeper pushed him away. +Mr Willis came down into the dressing-room to congratulate the +players. He was smoking a big cigar, and evidently +immensely pleased with himself. He, at any rate, was above +suspicion. The referee called the players out again.</p> +<p>In the second half Abner worked as he had never worked +before. The Mawne team was tiring; play grew scrappy and +spiteful; but though the Albion players could do what they liked +with the ball in midfield, they did not seem able to score. +Even if Mawne were equally ineffective it seemed probable that +the match would end in a draw. The Albion crowd grew +restless, and began to think that the referee was favouring their +opponents. The Albion players, now a little rattled, tried +to effect by roughness what they could not achieve by +skill. Several free-kicks were given against them for +fouls, and the crowd began to boo the referee. It was like +the hollow voice of some sullen ocean-monster. <a +name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>The Albion, +encouraged by the support of the crowd, pursued these +tactics. Two men were ordered off for fighting. A +moment later the crowd regained its good humour stimulated by the +sight of a shot from the Albion centre-forward that hit the +cross-bar above George Harper’s head. If the shot had +been three inches lower he could not possibly have saved +it. The kick that followed transferred the play to the +other end of the field. It was close on time and everybody +was nervous. A centre from the Mawne outside right came to +Abner’s feet in front of the Albion goal. One of the +Albion backs tried to trip him, getting cleverly on the blind +side of the referee. Abner stumbled free, and since the +goal was now open, the player lashed out at his ear. +Abner’s temper was up. He left the ball and closed +with his opponent. The Mawne team held up their hands and +called on the referee like one man. A violent fight had +begun when the referee arrived, shaking himself free from a +gesticulating escort of Mawne players. The Albion men +separated the fighters, and though the referee warned both of +them that if anything more happened he would send them off, he +gave a free kick to Mawne. The crowd howled. It +seemed for a moment as if they would burst their barriers and +swarm on to the field. Very grimly, his face streaming with +blood, Abner took the kick. The Albion goalkeeper, making a +high save, tipped the ball over the cross-bar. A +corner. The players lined up, panting, in front of the +Albion goal. The young outside right, whose centre had been +the beginning of the trouble, took the kick. The ball +sailed high and fell slowly into the <i>mêlée</i> of +players. Abner, who had proved his dangerousness, was +carefully marked and charged at as the ball fell, but he butted +his opponent aside, and making full use of his superior height, +managed to head it into the top left-hand corner of the +net. A shout of ‘goal’ rose from the crowd, but +there was no applause. The strange thing about the whole +business was the attitude of the Mawne players. These men, +who had been playing a half-hearted game all afternoon, appeared +to be overwhelmed with joy. They ran up to Abner and shook +both his hands as if <a name="page59"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 59</span>there had been no matter of ten +pounds depending on his achievement. Even George Harper +came running down the field and patted him on the back. +George had his work cut out, for in the last three minutes of the +game the Albion made a desperate effort to equalise, and +subjected him to an incessant bombardment. Luck aided his +skill, and when the whistle went for time Mawne had won their +match.</p> +<p>Abner went home that night with a thick ear and a slowly +closing right eye. He was tired and sore but elated. +He wanted to do nothing but sit in front of the fire and think +over again the progress of the match. Alice, on the other +hand, was terribly concerned with his injuries. She dressed +his face with some ointment that Mrs Moseley had recommended her +for the baby, and sat opposite to him burning with pain and +indignation.</p> +<p>‘I wish you’d give it up, Abner,’ she +said. ‘One of these days you’ll get +killed. It’s downright brutal. It’s worse +than prize-fighting.’</p> +<p>‘That’s what it was,’ Abner chuckled.</p> +<p>He pretended that he didn’t want her to fuss over him; +but all the same this devotion was very pleasant. As for +Alice, the pain of seeing him so battered was almost equalled by +her pleasure in tending him. And they were alone. She +was thankful that they were alone. Time after time she +returned to her pleading that he would give up football. +‘You’ve never come home in a state like this,’ +she said.</p> +<p>‘Give up football?’ said Abner. ‘And +what would we live on then? You couldn’t manage, and +that’s straight!’</p> +<p>‘I’d do it,’ she said. +‘I’d manage somehow.’</p> +<p>He laughed at her intensity. ‘Don’t you fret +yourself about me,’ he said, ‘I’m all +right.’ He went to bed and slept like a log. +She brought him breakfast and clean dressings to his bedroom.</p> +<p>On Monday morning down at the works Mr Willis met him. +‘Good lad!’ he said. ‘Good +lad!’ Later in the day Mr Hudson came down from the +office to the place where he was working. He smiled to +conceal his annoyance. ‘Well, I suppose we’ve +got to thank you and Harper for the win,’ he said.</p> +<p><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +60</span>‘I reckon we’ve not got to thank you!’ +Abner replied.</p> +<p>‘H’m, that’s it, is it?’ said +Hudson. ‘You’d better go up to the pay-office +for your money.’</p> +<p>‘Time enough when I’ve finished,’ said +Abner. Football always prevented him from collecting his +pay on a Saturday morning with the other men. At the end of +the day he went to the pay clerk. Instead of twenty-five +shillings as usual he was given fifty.</p> +<p>‘What’s this for?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Lieu of a week’s notice,’ said the +clerk. ‘The gaffer says we have to cut down. Mr +Hudson’s orders.’</p> +<p>‘B—r Hudson!’ said Abner angrily.</p> +<h2><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>The +Sixth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">That</span> night he went down to the +public-house for the first time since the day of Susan’s +defection more than a year before. The crowd at the Royal +Oak were glad to see him, for they were still talking about +nothing else but the result of the cup-tie. Every one was +anxious to treat him and to condole with him on his black eye, +and he was prepared to drink as much as they would give him, +standing his own share up to the limit of the fifty shillings in +his pocket, as long as he could forget the anger with which he +had left the works. If he didn’t, somehow, get the +idea of his injury out of his mind, he felt that he would +probably go down to Hudson’s private house and wring his +neck.</p> +<p>In the Royal Oak, drinking nothing but hot whisky, he managed +to lose himself and the troubles of the day. He was +conscious of nothing but the warmth and comfort of the private +bar, the dark varnished walls, the polished beer engine, the +shining rows of bottles, the crackle of the bright fire. +For a time the room was also full of jolly people who laughed and +spoke with loud, buoyant voices, the happiest company +imaginable. The spirituous air was exhilarating and endowed +all the contents of the bar, from the postage stamps on the +ceiling to the brass spittoons and sawdust of the floor, with a +quality of unusual vividness. At last this curious clarity +faded and the details that had seemed for some curious reason +exciting, became blurred. Abner tucked up his feet on a +settle covered with American leather and tried to go to +sleep. When he awoke, his old friend Joe Hodgetts was +piloting him home along the Stourton Road under a sky of dancing +stars.</p> +<p>Alice was waiting up for him. Supper was laid on the +table and she rose from her chair by the fire to welcome him as +he entered. The new light dazzled him, and as he stood +uncertainly at the door he took hold of the red curtain to steady +himself, and, lurching, <a name="page62"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 62</span>pulled it down from its string. +Alice gave a cry. Even though she knew the symptoms well +enough in her husband she couldn’t believe that Abner was +drunk. She only saw him standing there with the great +discoloured bruise on his flushed face. He held the curtain +in his hand and looked at it stupidly, as if he didn’t know +what to do with it.</p> +<p>‘Abner . . . what’s up with you?’ she said, +running to take it from him.</p> +<p>‘There’s nowt up with me,’ he said +solemnly. ‘I’m drunk. That’s +all. If any one’s a right to be drunk it’s +me.’</p> +<p>The equanimity with which she had trained herself to receive +John Fellows in such circumstances deserted her. She knew +perfectly well that it was no use arguing with a drunken man, but +the case of Abner was so exceptional that she began to do +so. He took no notice of her, and then she rated him +violently, so that overcome by a sudden flush of anger he took +hold of her arms as if he were going to throw her down. He +had never taken hold of her like that before. She faced +him, panting for breath, and they stared into each other’s +eyes. He felt the warmth of her arms through the sleeve of +her bodice and realised her for the first time as a living, +warm-blooded creature. She trembled under his gaze, but did +not try to free herself. He felt that something like this +had happened before; remembered Susan. Suddenly sobered, +almost frightened, he relaxed his grip on her arms. Still +she did not move. She stood dazed, with her breath coming +and going. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he +said. He staggered to the foot of the stairs and left her +standing there.</p> +<p>When he had gone she pulled herself together and put her hands +to her eyes as though she wanted to shut out what she had +seen. She had forgotten her first resentment and the +emotion with which she trembled now was one that frightened her +and put her to shame. She felt that she had just +experienced the most thrilling moment of her life. After +that she could never pretend to herself that she was not in love +with Abner.</p> +<p>In the morning he woke early. Before Alice knew that he +was astir he went downstairs in his stockinged <a +name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>feet and lit +the kitchen fire. By the time that she herself appeared he +had made himself a cup of tea and laid the table for +breakfast. Neither of them spoke of his violent homecoming +the night before or of the stranger scene that followed it. +She had half expected that he would ask her pardon for what had +happened, but such a proceeding didn’t seem to him +important. He had been drunk, now he was sober, and that +was the end of the matter. When breakfast was over he went +out into the dank washhouse and shaved. She was puzzled to +see that he was not going to work, for he had dressed in his +Sunday clothes and wore his watch-chain, decorated with a couple +of silver football medals. At last she plucked up courage +to ask him if he was not going to Mawne.</p> +<p>‘No,’ he said. ‘I bain’t going +there no more.’</p> +<p>‘What’s up then?’</p> +<p>‘Got the sack,’ he said laconically.</p> +<p>‘But the money . . .’ she said. +‘We’ve got to live.’</p> +<p>‘I picked up two weeks’ pay last night. You +can have what’s left.’</p> +<p>He turned out his pockets and gave her a handful of small +change. ‘That’s more than I reckoned +there’d be,’ he said.</p> +<p>She threw down the money on the table and stared at him. +‘I owe more nor this!’ she said. ‘What +about the football money?’</p> +<p>‘Don’t talk to me about football,’ he +said. ‘I’ve done with football as long as that +Hudson’s on the committee.’</p> +<p>The situation baffled her. Money they must have, and she +was quick to rack her brains for some way in which it could be +got. An inspiration came to her. ‘You +didn’t ought to work with your eye in that state,’ +she said. ‘Better go down to the doctor’s and +put yourself on the box. You’ve been paying into that +club long enough and not had a penny out of it.’</p> +<p>‘Club?’ said Abner. ‘I don’t +sponge on no clubs! I’m going down to the pit to see +the doggy. I reckon he’ll find me a job +underground.’ He lit his pipe and went out into the +frosty morning. A delayed impulse made her want to give him +his knitted <a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>neck-scarf, but it came too late. She didn’t +know what to make of it. In a single night all the +pleasant, ordered happiness of the life that they had been +leading since John Fellows’s accident had been +overwhelmed. She felt it unreasonable, incredible, that +this should have happened. She could not even solace +herself with the care of her baby, who was now beginning to +babble and to stagger with uncertain steps from chair to +chair. She found herself wishing, for a moment, that there +wasn’t a kid to worry about, and was as quickly bitten with +remorse, for she knew that the baby was her most precious +possession on earth. She could settle down to +nothing. The foundations of her routine life had been +dissolved. She had not even money enough to meet the bills +that she always paid on Mondays. But the thought of money +was nothing to her compared with her anxiety as to Abner’s +attitude toward herself. She found a little comfort in +thinking that he had not yet recovered from the effects of his +debauch, and that when he returned in the evening they might take +up their relation at the point where it had been so abruptly +convulsed. On this her whole happiness depended.</p> +<p>Abner’s visit to the pit was satisfactory in so far as +it procured him without the least difficulty a job +underground. He was a trained miner, and in those days, +when the output of the mine had been diminished by a series of +accidents and a growing tendency to work short time, any new hand +was welcome at Mawne pit. When he came back in the evening +he reassured Alice that even if they had to go easy in the matter +of expenditure they need not starve in the interval before John +Fellows returned to double their income. To meet the +present emergency he handed her the sovereign that he had +received from the football club. ‘If that sod Hudson +had had his way you’d have had ten,’ he said +enigmatically. ‘You’d better send a nipper to +the Oak with my boots and football gear,’ he told +her. ‘I’ve done with Mawne United.’</p> +<p>She was thankful for his solution of her money difficulties, +for pride would not have allowed her to face the butcher and the +grocer without the money <a name="page65"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 65</span>in her hand. In spite of the +loss that it implied, she couldn’t reasonably refuse to be +glad that he had abandoned football since she had so often begged +him to do so. What troubled her far more than this was the +fact that his attitude toward her was changed. It was clear +that he had not been too drunk to realise the significance of the +moment when he had held her in his arms and they had looked into +each other’s eyes. He had seen the emotional +precipice on the edge of which they were standing. Well, so +had she; but that seemed to her no reason why they should not +pretend that things were as they had always been. She was +content to play her part; even, for their common comfort, to +forget what had happened. The only thing that she could not +bear was that he should avoid her as though she were an evil +thing to be feared and distrusted.</p> +<p>This, in effect, was what he did. To drink habitually +was not in his nature. When he drank he did so simply as a +means to escape from himself or from some harassing emotion; and +so he did not seek a refuge, as she had feared he would, in a +public house. None the less it soon became clear that the +pleasant homely evenings at Hackett’s Cottages were now at +an end. The chair which Alice always arranged for him at +the fireside was never occupied. When he came home from the +pit at night and had washed himself in the scullery he now went +out again to spend the evenings with his friends, with old Mr +Higgins, with George Harper, or with Mrs Moseley. He hated +his work at the colliery: the dark, cramped labour in remote +subterranean stalls was a terrible change from his free and easy +life at the furnaces. He hated the dirt no less than the +darkness and it scarcely mended matters to realise that he was +wanted at the pit.</p> +<p>Opportunities of escape soon presented themselves. The +retirement of their most promising player from the United team +created a sensation not only in Mawne but in the surrounding +towns. Abner would give no explanation for it. When +people asked him why he was not playing for Mawne he merely told +them to go and ask Hudson. It was impossible for him to +change <a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>his +team in the middle of the season without an official +transfer. The secretary of the Albion made a special +journey to Halesby to ask him to consent to this; but since this +proceeding would have presented the Mawne club with a handsome +transfer fee, he refused. The Albion offered him good and +easy work in North Bromwich if he would sign on for them next +season. ‘You can have it for the asking,’ they +said—but he refused, for though he would have liked nothing +better he felt that it would be wrong to desert Alice in her +present emergency. Until his father returned it was his +duty to stay with her.</p> +<p>The winter wore on, and John Fellows, whose alcoholic history +made him a bad subject for a fractured thigh-bone, still lay in +hospital. Abner stuck to his thankless labours at the +pit. He worked longer underground than he need have done, +simply for the reason that he did not want to spend his evenings +in the dangerous company of Alice. After that night he knew +that he could not wholly trust himself. His earnings were +now sufficient to keep the household in comfort, and the money +that he drew from his overtime he put aside for an emergency, +concealing them in an old stocking underneath the mattress of his +bed. He wanted to be sure of his liberty as soon as his +father returned.</p> +<p>At Christmas, Alice made a heroic attempt to recover her lost +happiness. A week before the festival she went down into +the market at Halesby and bought a branch of berried holly which +she hung above the middle of the table from a nail that had once +supported a hanging lamp. She decorated the branch with +cheap trifles, flags, lustred balls and candles of coloured wax +in metal clips shaped like butterflies. Over the +mantelpiece she pinned a scroll of varnished paper with +‘God Bless Our Home’ in gothic characters upon it, +and in various inaccessible places she put sprigs of +mistletoe. Although she said nothing to Abner it was +evident that she was counting on him to celebrate the feast at +home. A few days before the event she showed him a present +that she had bought for the child, a wooden horse with red +nostrils, a lambskin mane, and a ridiculous dab of a tail. +Even this failed to move him, and up to the last moment she was +in doubt as to whether he would forsake her. <a +name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>She schemed +her very hardest to keep him, using as a bait the child whose +curious ways and stumbling attempts at speech amused him. +This creature loved, above all things, to be caught up and +perched on the dizzy height of Abner’s shoulder, so high +that he was able to examine the unexplored country of the +ceiling. He also loved to play with Tiger, who now came and +went in Hackett’s Cottages of his own accord. Tiger +liked children, and he and little John would roll over together +on the kitchen floor. Alice always made the dog welcome, +tempting him with such bones as never entered Mrs Moseley’s +house. He was a link with Abner, and therefore to be +encouraged.</p> +<p>In the end Abner spent Christmas Day at Hackett’s +Cottages, or, to be exact, the morning and evening of it, for the +afternoon he devoted to watching the league match between Mawne +United and Dulston on the Royal Oak ground. He could not +bring himself to forget football altogether even though he +persisted in his determination not to play. In spite of all +Alice’s pathetic efforts, the day was not a success. +In the evening, when they sat over the fire and Mr Higgins, who +had brought in a basket of oranges, had left them alone together, +she made a direct attempt to have the matter out with him.</p> +<p>‘Why are you so funny with me, Abner?’ she +said. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done that +you should treat me distant like this. You didn’t use +to do it.’ But he would not answer. +‘You’ve took a turn against me,’ she +said. ‘I know you have. What is it I’ve +done?’</p> +<p>‘<i>You</i> ain’t done nothing,’ he +said. ‘And <i>I</i> ain’t took a turn +again’ you neither. I’m all right if so be +you’ll leave me alone.’</p> +<p>‘Yo’m different even with our John,’ she +said.</p> +<p>‘Don’t yo’ bother,’ he said at +last. ‘It’ll be different time ourn comes +back. He must be getting on a bit now.’</p> +<p>She had to leave it at that. It had been a difficult +evening for Abner, for in spite of her troubles the firelight and +the excitement that the baby’s pleasure in his presents had +given her made her look very attractive in her own fragile +way. ‘When ourn comes back . . .’ She +sighed, for she felt that John <a name="page68"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 68</span>Fellows’s return would put an +end even to the small measure of happiness that she managed to +extract from the present. When John Fellows came back she +would be faced with all the old desperate problems, the old +terrible nights. As they sat over the fire she turned her +face aside to hide the tears that came into her eyes. Abner +puffed stolidly at his pipe. ‘When he comes +back,’ he said, ‘I reckon I’ll have a look +round for another job.’</p> +<p>‘Where?’ she asked, in alarm.</p> +<p>‘Oh, anywhere out of this place,’ he said. +‘I’m sick of Halesby. I reckon I’ll go to +Coventry or Wales. There’s good money in +Wales.’</p> +<p>‘Abner,’ she cried. ‘Oh, Abner, +you’m not going to leave me? Not with him. . . +. I couldn’t abide it, Abner. Abner, if you +leave me, I’ll make a hole in the cut, God strike me if I +won’t!’ She could contain herself no longer and +went sobbing upstairs. Abner found it difficult to resist +an impulse to follow her and comfort her. He was not used +to a woman’s tears. He got as far as the foot of the +stairs, then slowly turned back and sat on, smoking till midnight +amid the pathetic decorations of that poor room. His +reflections determined him more than ever to cut himself free +from the embarrassments of life at Halesby. Coventry was +almost too near. Yes, he would go down into Wales. On +his way upstairs he listened for a moment outside her bedroom +door. He thought he heard her still sobbing under the +sheets, but when he listened the sound of sobbing stopped.</p> +<p>Next day she had quite regained her self-possession. +They went together, taking the baby with them, to visit John +Fellows in the North Bromwich Infirmary. They found him +lying in a long, clean ward festooned with Christmas +decorations. The ominous erection of an apparatus of +weights and pulleys at the foot of his bed emphasised his +helplessness. He did not appear to be very pleased to see +them, and his embraces so frightened the baby that he set up a +howl. The baby need not have been frightened, for John +Fellows was far less impressive than he had been in his former +state. The whole man seemed to have shrunk. He <a +name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>was newly +shaved; his rough hands had become clean and almost transparent; +but though he now looked as if he couldn’t hurt any one, +the presence of the visitors set him grumbling at once. +From the first he appeared to be offended with Abner because he +had not thought to smuggle in any liquor for him.</p> +<p>‘You ain’t brought a spot,’ he said. +‘Well, you’re a b—y fine son!’ Even +three months of abstinence had not diminished his craving. +He told them that he dreamed of liquor, but that there seemed to +be no chance of him getting any nearer to it than in dreams, for, +as far as he could see, his leg was exactly as it had been when +he came into hospital. After this outburst of discontent he +softened a little, pinched Alice’s cheek, played a little +with the baby, who had by this time overcome his fears, and even +talked to Abner about football. In this way he heard the +story of the Albion match and Mawne committee’s attempt to +square the players. At first he was enthusiastic about +George Harper’s resistance to the corrupting influence; but +on second thoughts he disapproved of it. ‘I reckon +you and George done your mates a bad turn. It ain’t +every day you can pick up ten pound for nothing.’ The +only thing that modified his opinion was the dislike that he +shared with all the other men at Mawne of Hudson. +‘Hudson . . .’ he said. ‘I wish +you’d a’ finished him!’</p> +<p>While Abner and his father were talking football Alice had +approached the sister, a dark, capable-looking woman whose +features and hair and eyes were as rigid and sharp and metallic +as the scissors hanging from her starched belt, on the subject of +John Fellows’s progress. This woman stared at her for +a moment. ‘Are you Fellows’s daughter?’ +she asked.</p> +<p>‘No, sister, I’m his wife.’</p> +<p>‘He’s the worst grumbler we’ve ever had in +this ward,’ said the sister; ‘but as a matter of fact +he’s getting on finely. The doctor says the bone is +set nicely, and he should be out in a couple of weeks now. +I expect they’ll send him out on a Thomas’s +splint. You don’t know what that is,’ she +added, with a rather scornful intonation, but then, noticing that +Alice looked tired, she took her into her bunk and gave her a cup +of tea.</p> +<p><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>‘I couldn’t imagine that you were +Fellows’s wife,’ she said, ‘and this his +baby. I thought your husband was the young man who came +with you.’</p> +<p>‘He and baby’s half-brothers,’ Alice +explained, blushing. ‘By Mr Fellows’s first +wife, you know.’</p> +<p>‘Well, I hope you’ll be happy,’ replied the +sister doubtfully. ‘It’s time the visitors were +going. Is Fellows a very heavy drinker?’</p> +<p>‘I’m afraid he is,’ said Alice mildly.</p> +<p>‘I thought so,’ said the sister. ‘We +ought to keep him in here for your sake. But there’s +always a rush on surgical beds at Christmas time. +You’d better call your stepson.’</p> +<h2><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>The +Seventh Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Abner</span> was genuinely relieved when +Alice told him the good report that the sister had given her on +his father’s condition, for it promised him a speedy +release from the discomfort of the situation. Alice, who +had accustomed herself to examine every shade of expression that +he showed, knew that he was rejoicing at the prospect of leaving +her. The thought piqued her, for she had forced herself +always to behave toward him exactly as if there had never been a +moment of embarrassment between them. Her pride would not +let the matter rest.</p> +<p>‘You’m glad he’s coming back,’ she +said. ‘I know you be.’</p> +<p>‘I’m glad his leg’s joined, if that’s +what you mean,’ he replied. ‘That’s only +human-like. Besides, it’s best for +everybody.’</p> +<p>‘And what about me?’ she asked, passionately.</p> +<p>He would not answer, and she flowed on with a stream of +reproaches, telling him that she knew he hated her and +couldn’t bear the sight of her, in the hope that he would +be driven to say that he did nothing of the sort. Abner +remained passive. He knew very well that if he were to lose +his temper with her the situation might easily become just as +dangerous as if he were tender. The main thing to be +avoided with her was emotion of any kind. Life had been +made difficult enough for him already simply because he knew that +their relation was capable of passionate developments. He +knew what passion was, and in spite of himself he could not +always banish the thought of Alice from his mind. Admitting +this, he had mapped out a course of conduct for himself, and he +meant to stick to it until the happy day of his relief.</p> +<p>It was not a fortnight but a month before John Fellows left +the hospital. He came back, as the sister had anticipated, +with a Thomas’s splint on his thigh and instructions to +attend the infirmary as an <a name="page72"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 72</span>out-patient in another month’s +time. The splint was an embarrassment that he resented, for +it compelled him to sit in an uncomfortable position with the +right leg extended, but it did not prevent him walking or +drinking, and as soon as he had mastered the first of these +processes he lost no time in making up for his long abstinence +from the second. The rules of the friendly society to which +he belonged forbade its members to visit public-houses as long as +they were receiving sick pay, so that the invalid was forced to +enter the Lyttleton Arms by a back door which he reached by +crossing the garden of a friend, and having once solved this +problem Fellows managed to put in the day without any +difficulty.</p> +<p>Every Friday morning he hobbled down on his crutches to the +doctor’s surgery and obtained a certificate by means of +which he drew his weekly pay. It was only twelve shillings +a week, and he never parted with a penny of it to Alice, so that +the household now depended entirely on Abner’s +earnings. It puzzled both of them to imagine how he managed +to live in a state of fuddled alcoholism on this small sum. +They supposed that his old friend the landlord, trusting him, put +it on the slate in the hope of being paid when Fellows went back +to work. He had always been free with his money, and no +doubt his boon companions of the past were ready to treat him as +often as they could afford it.</p> +<p>At the end of February he went in to North Bromwich in +accordance with the hospital orders and returned without his +splint. The doctors had told him that it would now be wise +to use the leg as much as possible and suggested that the +colliery authorities, who were partly responsible for the +accident, should now give him a light job at the pit-head. +John Fellows, however, didn’t see the point of this. +He had paid into the Loyal United Free Gardeners for more than +thirty years and now that he had the chance he meant to get some +of his money back by staying on the box as long as they would let +him. He could get quite enough exercise for his leg in his +clandestine approaches to the Lyttleton Arms. What was +more, he would not do a stroke of work until his claim against +the colliery was settled. <a name="page73"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 73</span>He had consulted a solicitor, and a +claim under the Workmen’s Compensation Act was pending.</p> +<p>Abner meanwhile waited impatiently for his release. The +presence of his father in the house had eased the awkwardness of +his relation with Alice by abolishing the sense of lonely +isolation that surrounded it. Alice herself was almost +complacent. She did not mind how long John Fellows +abstained from work as long as Abner was left to her. At +the end of May the doctor refused to continue the farce of +signing the miner’s certificates. John Fellows +grumbled, but had to admit that he had done fairly well out of +the club. He pushed on his claim for compensation, which +was settled for fifty pounds. Alice was overjoyed at this +windfall, for the strain of her straitened housekeeping had +forced her to run up a few small debts with tradesmen. She +took the opportunity of asking her husband for money when Abner +was in the room.</p> +<p>‘Money . . .?’ said John Fellows. +‘Money . . .? What do yo’ want with +money? What’s money to do with me when I’ve a +son at work earning a man’s wages? If yo’ want +money better ask our Abner. Didn’t I keep him all +through his schooling in food and clothes? working day and +night? I reckon it’s his turn now.’</p> +<p>‘I bain’t goin’ to keep you in pub-crawling +any longer,’ said Abner. ‘You’d best give +her some, while you’ve got it. I’m going off to +work in Wales.’</p> +<p>‘Work in Wales!’ cried John Fellows. +‘I’ll teach you to talk to your father like +that,’ he cried, coming over to him with his head low +between his shoulders like an angry bull. When he reached +his son he stopped, for Abner had thrown back his elbow. +Alice ran to separate them. There was no need for her to +have done so, for Fellows knew better than to appeal to +force.</p> +<p>‘You’re a fine pair, the two on you!’ he +said. ‘And don’t you go thinking I can’t +see.’</p> +<p>He went out of the room with the limp that he now cultivated, +and it was well that he did so, for by this time Abner was white +with rage. He would have followed his father if Alice had +not withheld him.</p> +<p>‘Abner, don’t!’ she cried. ‘What +did he mean?’</p> +<p><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>‘You know what he meant as well as I do,’ +said Abner with a laugh. ‘Still, that don’t +matter. I’m off to-morrow.’</p> +<p>But he did not go. Thinking the matter over he could not +bring himself to abandon Alice and her child to the desolation +that he knew must follow his departure. It even seemed to +him that his going might suggest to his father that he had hit +the right nail on the head. The fact that, this time, Alice +knew better than beg him to stay, also influenced him. By +this token she accepted his independence and appealed only to his +generosity. She never had a penny of her husband’s +fifty pounds. Some of it, no doubt, he owed to the landlord +of the Lyttleton Arms: but in any case it became clear that as +long as it lasted he could not be expected to return to +work. In the meantime he took great pains to avoid crossing +Abner, feeling less obligation towards the housekeeping expenses +from the fact that his nourishment in these days was mainly +liquid and taken elsewhere.</p> +<p>It was difficult to say how long the money would last +him. For the present he was managing extraordinarily well +and there seemed no reason why he should ever take up work again, +although there was now no physical reason why he should not +begin. The summer passed without any change in their +arrangements. Abner still disliked his work. The +prolonged strain of working in cramped positions was beginning to +tell on his eyes; but in the lower levels of the pit he suffered +little from the extremity of heat which made work above ground +almost impossible in the July of that year, and made his father +thirstier than ever. Under the new conditions he found it +impossible to save money for the needs of the day when he should +be free. All his earnings but a few shillings went to Alice +every Saturday night, and it was with difficulty that he +refrained from breaking into the small store that he had kept +intact in his stocking.</p> +<p>On August bank-holiday the men at the pit stopped work. +This was the day of Dulston Wake, the principal festival of the +black-country year. Each of the small towns that lie like +knots on the network of tramways <a name="page75"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 75</span>that has its centre in North Bromwich +has its own minor fair of swing-boats, roundabouts, and cocoa-nut +shies, but none of these have half the significance of Dulston +Wake, which is prominent not only by its magnitude but also by +the weight of tradition that belongs to it and by the +magnificence of its setting. In all his life Abner had +never missed it, nor, for that matter, had his father; and when +the day drew near it was taken as a matter of course that the +whole family should put on its Sunday clothes and go to the Wake +together. They left soon after midday, John Fellows already +mildly intoxicated, Abner in his blue suit with a white silk +neckerchief, and Alice, carrying the baby breeched for the +occasion, in her best black costume.</p> +<p>They had to walk more than a mile from Hackett’s +Cottages to the terminus of the electric tramway system that had +not yet come to Mawne. John Fellows, who had forgotten his +limp, led the way at a great pace down Mawne bank, so fast indeed +that Alice grew tired by the weight of the child. The day +was one of sweltering heat, of the kind in which the people of +the black-country prefer to take their pleasures. John +Fellows carried a bottle of draught beer in each pocket of his +coat and a red pocket-handkerchief escaped from under the brim of +his bowler hat. He turned to swear at Alice for delaying +the progress of the party, and then, mumbling something under his +breath, put on a spurt of ridiculous energy and left them +behind.</p> +<p>Abner relieved the panting Alice of her burden, and carried +the child on his shoulder. Soon they had crossed the Stour +at the bridge by the gun-barrel works and had gained the relative +coolness of shade under the chestnuts of Mr Willis’s +hanging gardens. They arrived at the tramway terminus ten +minutes later than John Fellows to find that he had not profited +by his exertions since the trams were overcrowded and a breakdown +had disorganised the service. He had taken the opportunity +of sitting down on the cinder path and emptying one of his beer +bottles, and as fast as he drank beer sweat oozed from every pore +of his body. When the tram appeared in the distance he +pulled himself up <a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>with a grunt and prepared to fight for a seat in +it. It was quite impossible for Alice to compete in this +kind of scrimmage. John Fellows pushed his way in first and +sat fanning himself with his hat while Abner, Alice and the baby +were left behind. They did not see him again during the +day.</p> +<p>They waited for twenty minutes in the sun before they found a +place in one of those reckless tramway-cars that go roaring like +spent shells through all the wastes of the black country. +They could not speak for the jolt and jangle of its progress, for +the clanging of its bell and the alarming sputter of electric +sparks when it swayed on its springs and threatened to jump the +rails. In all their four miles of journey they could see no +green. They passed through endless streets of grimy brick, +baked culverts from which a blast of acrid and lifeless air +rushed through the front of the car like a sirocco. Even +though the fires of the furnaces and factories had been banked +down for the holidays they could still smell the heat which had +scorched and blackened this volcanic country on every side.</p> +<p>At last they were jolted through the narrow streets of +Dulston, happily without catastrophe, and ejected at the foot of +the hill on which its medieval castle stands. Here the +crowd was at its thickest. Noisy hawkers sold ticklers and +leaden water-squirts and programmes of the fête. Tram +after tram disgorged its sweaty contents to mix with the cooler +occupants of brakes and char-a-bancs. Through the dense +foliage of the castle woods that hung limp in the heat like +painted leafage in a theatre, the discordant music of competing +roundabouts floated down, and beneath it one could hear the low, +exciting rumour of the fair, toward which the steady stream of +new arrivals was setting. It was a stiff pull up the slope +of the castle hill and every one who climbed it seemed bitten +with an infectious speed. At the top of it the crowd +thickened beneath the constriction of a narrow Norman arch and +then burst and scattered into the huge central courtyard where +gray ruins looked down upon this modern substitute for the +tourneys of the middle ages.</p> +<p>Abner and Alice were caught up in the excitements of <a +name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>the +fair. He soon added to his burdens by knocking down three +cocoa-nuts. At a shooting-gallery to the admiration of +Alice he smashed thin globes of glass spinning above a jet of +water. For his prize he chose a brooch of imitation gold: a +heart pierced by an arrow and surmounted by the word +‘Alice.’ She laughed and pinned it in the neck +of her black bodice. She marvelled at the sureness of his +hand and eye. There was no one in all that crowd whom she +would have chosen for her escort rather than him. She +rejoiced, for the first time in many months, to find him a happy +and natural companion, only wishing that she could forget the +fact that John Fellows also was there, drinking, no doubt, in one +of the canvas marquees that the firm of Astill had erected in +each corner of the courtyard. Once, and only once, she +spoke her thoughts. ‘I wonder where he is, Abner. . . +.’ she said. He only laughed at her.</p> +<p>‘I’ll find him if you like.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, don’t be soft, Abner,’ she said. +‘I was only wondering. . .’</p> +<p>They spent their coppers at a dozen booths, seeing the fattest +lady and the smallest horse in the world, the riders of bucking +bronchos with woolly trousers and slouch hats, who were even +better shots than Abner; and the lady of mystery, who divined the +name and age of Alice and the dates on Abner’s football +medals and told them that their married happiness was threatened +by a dark woman. To this seeress Alice protested blushing +Abner was not her husband. ‘Well, my love,’ +said that lady, pointing to the baby, ‘that bain’t +nothing to boast about.’ The crowd in the tent +laughed, and Alice was annoyed with Abner for laughing with +them. ‘You ought to have told ’er,’ she +said crossly as they emerged. ‘It’s enough to +take my character for life!’</p> +<p>By this time the cause of the mystery lady’s +speculations was getting tired and peevish. Abner took him +for a ride on one of the galloping roundabout horses, but the +motion only made him sick, and so they left the courtyard and sat +resting in the tepid air under the shadow of the castle beeches, +undisturbed by any <a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>but casual lovers who had sought the same kind of +privacy.</p> +<p>‘I think it’s awful the way they +be’ave!’ said Alice, hugging the baby to her breast +as though she thought he might be corrupted by the sight of so +much unbridled passion. It came natural to her to adopt +this pose of modesty in Abner’s company. She expected +him to agree with her; but he only laughed, and this set her +thinking of the dark episode of Susan Wade and wishing she knew +what actually had happened. ‘You didn’t ought +to laugh,’ she said, ‘it bain’t +decent.’</p> +<p>But Abner was too contented to pursue the argument.</p> +<p>The child slept for an hour, and Abner sat smoking beside +them. He went back to the fair-ground and brought her a cup +of tea. Thus refreshed they returned to the castle +courtyard. The sun was setting; the uppermost storeys of +the ruins were tinged with warm and mellow light, but the crowded +space beneath them had grown cooler. Hissing flares of +naphtha were lighted. Swing-boats soared out of the pit of +the ruins into the glowing sky. The crowd, released from +the burden of heat under which it had laboured, began to pluck up +spirits. There was a good deal of friendly horse-play, from +which Alice shrank into the protection of Abner’s +bulk. Little John did not seem much the better for his +sleep. He was tired and irritable, and frightened by the +squirts of water and the feathered teasers. It seemed as if +they would have to take him home. ‘But I did want him +to see the fireworks!’ Alice said regretfully. +Already two monstrous fire-balloons had ascended and drifted away +till they showed no bigger than the moon.</p> +<p>‘Come on then,’ said Abner. +‘I’ve had enough of it if yo’ have. +Let’s get back before the trams is crowded.’</p> +<p>He took the baby from her arms and she, almost unwillingly, +followed him.</p> +<p>At the end of the courtyard, near the Norman archway by which +they had entered, stood a boxing-booth, inside which the show was +just on the point of beginning. The proprietor, a +heavy-jowled ruffian in a sweater, whose board proclaimed him to +be an ex-welter-weight champion of Bermondsey, had collected a +crowd round <a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>his platform by inveighing, in the intervals between +ringing his bell, against the sporting reputation of the +black-country. At the back of the platform two of his +staff, a nigger and a Hebrew, were sparring gently like kittens +at play. It seemed that the reason for his resentment was +his failure to get the Dulston audience to do anything but watch +him and his pets. What he wanted, he said, was sport . . . +just to see what the local talent was made of.</p> +<p>‘Sport?’ he said, ‘you don’t know the +meaning of the word in this gord-forsaken ’ole. When +I puts up this tent in Durham or Middlesborough or Wales, they +flock into it, flock in . . . ready to take a turn with the boys +and give a little exhibition. Frightened to use your fists, +that’s what you are here. What the hell’s +England coming to? That’s what I want to know. +It’s enough to make me sick, you people! It’s +enough to make me want to take down the saloon and burn the whole +bleedin’ bag of tricks, damme if it isn’t, an’ +the boys waiting here for a bit of sport.’ The nigger +had stopped sparring and was grinning insolently at the crowd, +among the younger women of which his strangeness exercised an +attraction. Nobody, however, seemed inclined to enter the +booth.</p> +<p>‘Come along, Abner,’ Alice whispered, tugging at +his arm.</p> +<p>The proprietor rang his bell again. ‘Now, for the +last time,’ he said. ‘Just commencing! If +you haven’t the spunk to put on the gloves yourselves, come +and see a pretty exhibition of scientific boxing. And I +give you my word this is the last time I ever bring my +entertainment into the bleedin’ black-country!’</p> +<p>‘Good job, gaffer,’ said somebody.</p> +<p>The laughter of the crowd made the big man lose his +temper. ‘Good job, is it?’ he cried. +‘I’d ask the gentleman that made that remark to come +up here and say it to my face. Ever hear the name of Budge +Garside? That’s mine! ’Ere, I’ll +give five pounds’—he pulled out a leather bag of +money and jingled it—‘I’ll give two pounds to +any of you chaps that’ll stand up to me for six +rounds. That’s what I think of the bloody lot of +you. Men! There’s not one of you <a +name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>black-country +chaps worth the name. All you’re fit for, as far as I +can see, is to carry the babby about and ’old the +missis’s ’and. Yes, sir, it’s you +I’m talkin’ to!’</p> +<p>Everybody looked at Abner. Alice again tried to pull him +away. ‘That’s right, my dear,’ said +Garside, encouraged, ‘take ’im ’ome before +’e gets ’is pretty face spoiled!’</p> +<p>Abner shook himself free from her hand and shoved the baby +into her arms.</p> +<p>‘Come on, gaffer,’ he said, ‘I’m +game.’ He moved forward through the crowd. +Alice, clinging to him desperately, tried to hold him back, but +the people made way for him, and even helped him forward, +swarming up on to the platform after him. Garside, pleased +with the result of his stratagem, shook hands with him. +‘That’s the spirit I like,’ he said +thickly. ‘Come on in and strip. Let’s +have a drink to start with.’ They disappeared +together into the tent. Sixpences rattled into the wooden +bowl that the negro held to receive them. Men and women +poured into the booth anxious to see what kind of battering the +representative of the district would get. The little Jew +pushed back the crowd and held up a piece of boarding with the +words ‘House Full’ painted on it, while the negro +fastened the strings of the tent door.</p> +<p>Alice was left alone in the crowd outside clutching the baby +nervously in her arms. She could not have borne to see +Abner fight. All she could do was to wait patiently outside +and listen in agony for any sounds within. She could hear +very little but the buzz of conversation. Even when she +crept round to the side of the tent and put her ear to the canvas +the sounds that came to her were indistinct, unreal, and blurred +by the nearer rumour of the multitude, the hiss of naphtha +flares, the creaking of swing-boats, cracks of rifles, and above +all the raucous blaring of the steam organs and the shriek of +their whistles. If only she could have heard something she +would have been happier. She could not bear to think of +Abner’s white flesh being bruised, and yet, curiously +enough, she was thrilled and proud of him. Her distaste for +violence couldn’t get the better of her exultation in her +man’s <a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +81</span>virility. She stood at the side of the tent +tensely listening. A rocket screamed into the sky; there +was a moment of relative silence from the crowd in which she +thought she heard a sound of dull thuds mingled with another +pattering noise. The rocket burst into a shower of gold +amid a salvo of ‘Oh’s!’ The crowd, +noisily streaming towards the ramparts, from which they could see +the fireworks against a blacker sky, jostled her, passing between +the boxing-booth and the next tent. Six rounds! It +could not last much longer. Why had he left her so +roughly? Why hadn’t he taken her with him? Of +course you couldn’t take a baby into a +boxing-booth—not even a black-country baby—but there +was no reason why he should have pushed her aside like +that. She wouldn’t forgive him that roughness in a +hurry! But she knew that she would: she would forgive Abner +anything as long as he did not disregard her. The crowd +still streamed past her. Showers of starred rockets and +tadpoles of fire were bursting above her in the velvet sky. +A whole battery of maroons shook the ruins. He would be +sorry to have missed the fireworks! If he were badly +knocked about she still had some of Mrs Moseley’s ointment +left—a fine thing for bruises or broken skin. That +was the night, she remembered, when he had come home drunk: the +night when, for a moment they had gazed into each other’s +eyes. She knew how dangerous the emotion of pity was. +A set-piece suddenly sputtered out of the darkness. Letters +of fire began to form themselves. What would they +say? <span class="GutSmall">GOD SAVE</span> . . . +‘The king,’ of course. Little John began to +cry, saying that he wanted to go to bed. ‘Yes, my +precious!’ she crooned, ‘mammy’ll take you +home.’ Six rounds. . . . She suddenly +remembered how a young pitman at Mawne had once been killed in a +boxing-booth by a knock-out blow on the chin. A knock-out +blow . . . she remembered old Mr Higgins talking of it. But +Abner was strong. Nothing of that kind could possibly +happen to him. Even so, she couldn’t get the sinister +picture of Budge Garside with his heavy jowl out of her +head. He was such a deadly-looking customer! Suppose +. . .</p> +<p><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>A sound +of cheering came from inside the tent. She ran round to the +front, wishing to goodness that John would hold his noise. +The curtains opened. The negro came out with another +signboard: ‘Just Commencing.’ People surged out +of the tent laughing and talking together. A bold girl +burst out laughing in the nigger’s face. Alice took +hold of the sleeve of one of the men who came out alone and +looked as if he were sober. ‘Tell us what’s +happened?’ she gasped; but he only stared at her and shook +his head and went on straight forward as if he had mistaken her +motive for accosting him. The tent emptied. After a +moment she saw Abner shaking hands with the giant in the +door. He didn’t seem to notice her, and when he came +down the wooden steps and she called his name he did not look +pleased to see her. His lip was cut and his forehead still +damp from a vigorous sponging. She took his arm; she wanted +to show him how glad she was. He was too dazed to resent +this familiarity, simply saying: ‘Come on out of +this!’ In the gate of the courtyard he stopped. +‘Wait a jiff,’ he said, ‘You’d better +take the two quid.’ He gave her the coins and then, +suddenly realising the tiredness of her face in the lamplight, +asked her to give him the kid. ‘I reckon this is a +man’s job,’ he said with a deep laugh.</p> +<p>This time they caught their tram without difficulty. +They spoke very little, and in whispers, for John had fallen +asleep in his mother’s arms, and even if he had wanted to +talk, Abner would have known better than to risk waking +him. As a matter of fact he had taken a good deal of +punishment from Garside’s left. On points he would +have been thoroughly outmatched and nothing but his stubborn will +had kept him on his feet until the end of the sixth round. +The mild elation that had sustained him when he left the booth +had now faded, and in its place he began to feel the effects of +the terrific hammering that he had undergone. His lip was +beginning to swell and his body felt cold in spite of the sultry +weather. He dozed in the corner of the tram-car, and when +they came to the terminus and Alice roused him by a touch on his +sleeve, he felt it an unreasonable effort to pull himself +together and carry <a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>the child up Mawne bank. The creature was still +asleep and hung a dead weight on his shoulder. Rather than +wake him when they reached Hackett’s Cottages Alice carried +him upstairs and laid him still asleep in his cot.</p> +<p>When she came downstairs again she found Abner in the +washhouse bathing his face in cold water. +‘Don’t do that, Abner,’ she said, ‘let me +see to it proper.’ She took Mrs Moseley’s +ointment and some strips of linen from the cupboard, but he +wouldn’t let her touch him, saying that he was tired as a +dog and would rather turn in. She gazed at him sorrowfully, +knowing that she could not drive him and fearing to +persuade. He rallied her weakly: ‘If you stand +lookin’ at me like that yo’ll be late for the +funeral,’ he said, and then, softening, ‘You look +dead tired yourself. Put the light out and leave the door +open.’</p> +<p>‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve never done +that. I shall wait up for him.’</p> +<p>‘Well, you women takes the biscuit!’ said +Abner.</p> +<p>He left her there, and rolling up in his blankets soon fell +asleep. It was not often that he dreamed, but on that night +his dreams would not let him be. From the very moment that +he first slept he seemed to be fighting, fighting with Budge +Garside on a platform of creaking boards with a rope barrier +round it, lit by hissing naphtha flares. Every moment he +grew more exhausted; but he had to go on fighting in spite of the +violent jabs of Garside’s fist over his heart. The +crowd in the booth, whose faces could not be seen for tobacco +smoke, were laughing at him, and this filled him with an angry +determination to go through with it. The round seemed +endless. He waited for the umpire’s bell to save him, +but the umpire had vanished. And now he was fighting all +three: Garside with his broad, shaggy chest, the small-headed +negro, and the little Jew who skipped about like a flea. He +hadn’t bargained to take on all three at once, but there +was nobody to whom he could appeal, and so he had to go on boxing +as well as he could in this hurricane of six fists. He +thought of Alice and the baby whom he had left outside. If +he were knocked out, as he surely must be in a <a +name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>moment, she +would have to look to herself. That couldn’t be +helped. Suddenly he heard her calling from outside the +tent: ‘Abner . . . Abner!’ He tried to call +back to her, just to show her that he was still keeping up, but +no voice would come through his cut lips. Garside landed a +terrific blow on the point of his chin. He woke. . . +. He supposed he was awake. But the voice that he had +heard in his dream still followed him. She was calling +‘Abner . . Abner!’ He tumbled out of bed, +pulled on his trousers, and ran downstairs. The mild light +of the kitchen dazzled him.</p> +<p>In the corner, beyond a pile of overturned furniture, he saw +Alice cowering, and above her John Fellows. In the struggle +which he had not heard his father had ripped her bodice and torn +away the gilt brooch that Abner had given her. Now he had +her at his mercy, holding her by the hair, shaking her from time +to time like a terrier with a rat and making her scream with +pain. Abner had never seen such terror in a human +creature’s eyes. When she saw him she cried for his +help. ‘Abner . . . Abner . . . make him give +over. Tell him I done nothing!’</p> +<p>‘Abner,’ said John Fellows savagely. +‘Abner . . . there’s a bleedin’ side too much +Abner in this ’ouse! You’ll get out of it +quick, the pair of you.’</p> +<p>‘Loose her!’ Abner shouted.</p> +<p>‘Loose her?’ John Fellows laughed. +‘I reckon I’ve let her go too much as it is. +Give me the slip, the two of you. Took her off into the +woods, tickin’ and tannin’, you dirty devil! +Give her joolry! Give your own mother joolry! +An’ what happened when I was on my back in the +hospital?’</p> +<p>‘Leave go of her!’ said Abner, coming nearer.</p> +<p>‘In the very bed you was born in,’ cried John +Fellows. ‘Yo’re a fine bloody fossack! +Out you go, the both of you! Joolry! Give me the +slip, would you? No — fear! Gerrup, I +say!’</p> +<p>He pulled Alice up from her knees. Her sobs rose to a +scream. ‘John, you’m killing me!’</p> +<p>Abner took him by the arm.</p> +<p>‘Lay hands on your own father, would you? Take +that, you . . . !’ He hit Abner full on his bruised +<a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>mouth with +all his strength. Alice, released, ran to the other side of +the room and stood panting, her hands clutching at her torn +bodice. The baby started crying upstairs.</p> +<p>Abner put his hand to his mouth. His lip was bleeding +again. He pulled himself together. +‘You’re boozed,’ he said. ‘Get on +upstairs!’ He tried to lead his father to the door, +but John Fellows was not to be put off. +‘Boozed!’ he said, ‘and what would drive a man +to booze worse nor a bad wife? No, yo’ don’t +get out of it like that. What’ve you done to +’er?’</p> +<p>‘I never touched her,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘Never touch ’er, an’ give her +joolry!’ Fellows scoffed. ‘Maybe +I’m boozed, but I’m not too boozed to put you to +rights.’ He launched a savage blow at Abner’s +face, and encouraged by the fact that Abner did not return it, +followed it up with another. Alice, crying +‘Oh!’ ran to the door. ‘Stay where +yo’ are!’ Abner shouted. John Fellows closed +with him, lashing out viciously. He had been something of a +boxer in his day, and his attack was so violent that Abner found +it difficult to defend himself. Fellows fought like a tiger +cat, with boots and finger-nails and teeth. His bloodshot +eyes were fixed on Abner’s throat. It was as if all +the suppressed malice of seven years had been suddenly +released. Then, suddenly, he dropped Abner and flew at the +frightened Alice. Abner stopped him with a blow under the +right ear. He crumpled up and fell on the floor like a +sack.</p> +<p>‘Abner . . . you’ve done him in!’ Alice +cried.</p> +<p>He fell to his knees and listened for his father’s +heart. The impulse still fluttered there. ‘No . +. . he’s only stunned. I reckon he’ll wake up +sober,’ he said. Alice stood trembling and sobbing in +short gasps: a strange, mechanical noise. Abner remained +bent over his father’s body in silence.</p> +<p>‘Johnnie’s crying . . . bless his little +’eart!’ she said. He took no notice of +her. ‘Put the rug over ’im. Leave him +here till ’e comes to.’</p> +<p>‘Abner, ’e spoke something awful! ’E +said you’n me had been going together while he was +away. ’E took up this brooch. . . . A thing +like that!’</p> +<p><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>‘I don’t want to ’ear what he +said.’</p> +<p>‘’E said our John wasn’t his child . . . +said I’d always been rotten bad. . .’</p> +<p>John Fellows gave a groan.</p> +<p>‘Hark, ’e’s coming round,’ said +Abner.</p> +<p>‘An’ I never done nothing! . . . +nothing!’</p> +<p>‘You’d better look to the babby.’</p> +<p>‘Poor lamb! Nothing, I never done, Abner . . +.’</p> +<p>‘I know you done nothing. You don’t take no +notice what a man says when ’e’s boozed. You +look to the kid, while I get my clothes on.’</p> +<p>‘Yo’ bain’t goin’ to +dress?’ She picked up the alarm clock that Fellows +had knocked down from the mantelpiece. It was still going, +with a harsh metallic click. ‘It’s not two +o’clock yet.’</p> +<p>But he had gone. Left alone she glanced fearfully at the +form of her husband. For a moment he lay quite still. +Then he shuddered, rolled over and began to snore. The baby +was still wailing upstairs. If only John Fellows had been +dead! But that would have been murder. What was Abner +doing? She could not live without Abner. She went +upstairs to his room and tapped at the door. Candlelight +glinted through cracks in the boards. He answered angrily, +she thought, but she came in.</p> +<p>‘What are you doing now?’ she whispered.</p> +<p>‘Putting two-three things together.’</p> +<p>‘What’s up now?’</p> +<p>‘I’m off out of this.’</p> +<p>‘Going?’ she cried. ‘Abner . . . you +can’t go and leave me like this. Not with +him!’</p> +<p>He laughed. ‘I can’t take you along with +me. Not likely!’ He went on pulling out clothes +from his wooden box. She broke down altogether.</p> +<p>‘Abner . . . Abner, don’t go and leave me. I +can’t . . . I can’t . . .’ He put on his +scarf. ‘Abner, only stay along with us for a bit. . +.’</p> +<p>‘I’ve stayed too long as it is.’</p> +<p>She tried to put her arms round his neck, but he pushed her +away. ‘It’s lucky I’ve got a bit of money +put by for a start,’ he said, fumbling in the mattress for +his stocking. ‘I’ll give you what I can +spare.’</p> +<p><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>Then +suddenly he swore violently. He had found the stocking, but +it was empty. He turned furiously on Alice: ‘You +devil, you took it!’</p> +<p>She fell at his feet, imploring him to believe that she knew +nothing about it. ‘I’ve never told you a lie, +Abner,’ she said.</p> +<p>His rage made him unreasonable. ‘You’re like +the rest on ’em! Twenty pounds! What have you +done with it?’</p> +<p>‘I swear I never seen a penny of it, Abner. It +must be there. Look again.’</p> +<p>He had ripped the bed to pieces, but there was no money. +Suddenly light dawned on them both. They had found the +explanation of John Fellows’ continued affluence. +Thinking of this, they could not doubt where the money had +gone.</p> +<p>‘That’s the worst turn he ever done me,’ he +said, pulling on his cap.</p> +<p>Even now she could not believe that he was going. +‘Not till the morning,’ she said. +‘Don’t leave me with him like that in the +dark.’</p> +<p>In the kitchen Abner again examined his father, who now +appeared to be sleeping peacefully. ‘He won’t +remember a word of it when he wakes,’ he said.</p> +<p>Again she implored him not to leave her, but now she could see +that entreaties were useless and that his mind was made up. +It was the most awful parting in her life: as final and +annihilating as death. For more than three years she had +lived for him and very little else. He opened the +door. It was a bland summer night, the sky full of soft +stars and the country of a breathing sweetness.</p> +<p>‘So long, then, Alice,’ he said.</p> +<p>She could not speak. She put up her arms and kissed him +for the first time in her life. He did not then push her +away; but she felt that he was only compelling himself to +tolerate her embrace. ‘I never touched that +money,’ she said hastily.</p> +<p>‘I know you never did,’ he replied. +‘So long . . .’</p> +<p>His shadow disappeared into the darkness. She shut the +door of the kitchen. John Fellows lay on the floor snoring, +and upstairs the baby still cried.</p> +<h2><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>The +Eighth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> was no moon, but the sky, +even at this early hour of the morning, was full of a curious +shimmer of light reflected mirage-like from the upper air +clothing Europe to eastward of the English lands. At that +season of the year sunlight was never distant. Now, every +moment the stars shone fainter, and the slate roofs of the houses +seemed to gather light. Abner stood looking up and down the +Stourton Road. He did not know which way to turn; he was +dazed by the suddenness with which the freedom so long and so +patiently awaited had come to him. In the bewilderment of +the moment he could scarcely even realise that it was +sweet. He had planned it differently and anticipated the +day so often that its violent arrival took him off his +feet. He had expected to leave Mawne deliberately in his +own time and carrying his savings in his pocket. Events had +cast him out violently and penniless . . . not quite penniless, +for he still had a little change left from the money he had taken +to the Wakes. He remembered with regret that he had been +fool enough to give Alice the two sovereigns he had won in the +boxing-booth. They would have come in handy; but reflection +told him that Alice would need them a great deal more than +he.</p> +<p>A man began to cough in the front bedroom of the house before +which he was standing. People upstairs were beginning to +wake. A cock crowed dismally. He had better make up +his mind, for day was beginning. Eastward the Stourton Road +led to Coventry, westward to Wales. Whichever way he went +his lack of money would compel him to walk. He wasn’t +afraid of walking or, for that matter, of sleeping rough; and yet +he felt that he was at sea and incapable in his present condition +of making up his mind. His head and body ached with +Garside’s blows, for the bruised muscles were beginning to +stiffen. He was sleepy, as well as tired, and +couldn’t remember one thing that <a name="page89"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 89</span>seemed to be calling for recognition +in the back of his mind. He went on walking aimlessly +towards Halesby; the motion set his mind working once more and he +remembered the thing that had baffled and escaped him. +Tiger. . . . He couldn’t very well leave the dog on +Mrs Moseley’s hands. At the same time he didn’t +want to frighten the old woman by disturbing her before +daylight. To do so would entail explanations, possibly +arguments on the subject of his filial duties. It would +mean another good-bye, and he wanted to get away quietly without +anything of that kind. Still, he meant to have Tiger as +much for his own comfort as for Mrs Moseley’s. He +determined to see what could be done.</p> +<p>The old woman’s house was the last on the right of a +steep, cobble-paved street climbing at right angles to the +Stourton Road. He turned up it, his hob-nails raising +stinging echoes on the stones. He felt as if he must surely +wake every one that slept there. Mrs Moseley’s house +was as quiet as the rest. He surveyed it +strategically. At the back of it lay a little yard that in +happier days had been used as a fowl-run. To advertise the +presence of these treasures within, her husband had prevailed +upon the landlord to top the wall with fragments of broken +bottles. This barrier now confronted Abner. Luckily +he was tall enough to reach the top of the wall with his hands, +and he soon discovered that time and weather had taken the nature +out of Mr Moseley’s mortar so that it crumbled easily and +allowed him to remove the glass from a foot of the coping. +In two minutes he had done this, straddled the wall, and dropped +down softly on the other side. Tiger, bad watchdog that he +was, still slept. Abner came softly to the door of the +washhouse and tried it. There was no fear that Mrs Moseley +would leave a door unlocked at night even behind a glass-topped +wall. The only other aperture in the scullery was a window +that was too small for him to get through and set very high in +the wall. With his pocket-knife thrust through a broken +pane he lifted the hasp and opened it. Tiger gave a sharp +bark.</p> +<p><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>‘Ss . . .’ Abner whispered. +‘Tiger. . . . Good dog. . . Come on +then.’</p> +<p>Tiger, with a snuffle of recognition, came out of his hole and +yawned. The next moment he was jumping up towards the +window, anxious to get at his master and whining like a baby +because the window was too high for him. Time after time he +leapt and failed to reach the sill. The wall was too +smooth, and the space of the washhouse too cramped to give him a +run for his jump. He grew excited and inclined to be noisy, +and at last Abner, seeing no other way out of the difficulty, put +his arm as far as he could through the window, and when the dog +jumped caught blindly at the loose skin of his back and hauled +him through. Tiger trembled with gratitude and the +anticipation of new joys. He licked Abner’s face as +he lifted him up and put him on the top of the coping. He +jumped over into the road and Abner followed him. A +policeman, attracted by the strange phenomenon of Tiger’s +egress, watched him as he dropped over. He was a young man, +a football player, who knew Abner, and when he saw Tiger’s +master emerge he grinned.</p> +<p>‘Got him out without waking the old woman,’ said +Abner.</p> +<p>‘Rabbits?’ said the other, with a wink. +Abner laughed. Both of them knew that the game-laws do not +run in colliery districts. ‘Looks as if ’e +knows all about it,’ said the constable at parting. +Tiger was already nearly out of sight, sniffing the grass as he +went. Since Abner went back to work at the pit he had been +deprived of hunting at this ideal hour.</p> +<p>It was extraordinary how Tiger’s company restored +Abner’s confidence. He felt no longer alone and +worried by indecision. Tiger had gone so far that it was +useless to call him back. He had chosen his own direction, +and Abner was content to follow him. What he wanted most of +all, he decided, was a sleep.</p> +<p>Beyond the level of Mrs Moseley’s cottage the houses +thinned away and the ground fell steeply to the fields above the +Stour, the scene of Abner’s walks with Susan more than a +year before. Dawn came, heralded by no fierce splendours, +white light stealing from the east <a name="page91"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 91</span>over a cloudless sky. The birds +were already awake, but the hush of August held them, so that the +warblers were silent. Larks there were, lost in the sunlit +levels above the whiteness; thrushes made subdued domestic noises +in the hedgerows; linnets already flocking for the early harvest +of seed, rustled the hawthorn thickets, chaffinches sang boldly +in a more vulgar strain. A soft air bloomed the drowsy +hedges. Elder blossoms and slender umbels of parsley flower +gleamed like dull ivory. Light, and more light came welling +over the world. When Abner had reached the plank bridge +over the Stour where Susan first had kissed him, the edge of the +woodland rose up black beyond the stream, the water gleamed +beneath the alders, and the hills, that had lain folded in night, +lifted their heads. Now the birds were silent. Only +the larks still sang. Walking behind the ecstatic Tiger +through a green lane in Uffdown Wood, Abner saw the peak of Pen +Beacon before him smitten with fire. The sun was up. +Gigantic shadows dappled and barred the grass. Tiger, +dancing from side to side, pursued a phantom hound. They +left the woods and dropped over a stile into a winding +road. As yet the sun had no real heat: colour it warmed, +but the air was cool, cool and clean as the surface of this rocky +road so often scoured by torrents. The heavy odours of the +woods belonged to night, but the smell of the road was one of +morning. Gradually the banks released the peculiar perfume +of a hill-country in sunshine, a lovely, healthy savour of thyme +and bracken and dry heather. A breeze swept the +harebells. Still they climbed the path towards the top of +Uffdown where the sun came first. Even at this hour pods +were snapping amid the almond scent of late gorse blossom. +In the shadow of a hedge where prickles were few Abner threw +himself down propping his head on a tussock of thin grass. +He closed his eyes, and was soon asleep, and Tiger, having smelt +and scared innumerable rabbits, came at last to lie beside him, +propping his slender lower jaw upon the smooth of Abner’s +thigh.</p> +<p>He did not sleep for long. His watch had stopped, and he +could not tell the time, but from the height of <a +name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>the sun he +judged it to be between eight and nine o’clock. The +grass of that southern hedge-side was already warm and fragrant, +and the mistiness of the Severn plain beneath him promised +another day of broiling heat. He was horribly stiff and lay +on with a sense of lazy luxury, letting the sun warm his +bones. Sprawling there with his eyes closed he now began to +consider where he should go.</p> +<p>The obvious goal of an out-of-work in the midlands at that +time was Coventry, an ancient city then rising on the third of +its great industrial booms, the manufacture of motor-cars. +There was always work, and well-paid work, to be had in +Coventry. The journey was short, and Abner had no money to +waste on railway fares. Even so, the idea of merely moving +from one side of the black-country to another did not seem to +represent the kind of radical change that he had intended. +He wanted to make a clean start in a new country. It +suddenly struck him that, after all, there was no real reason why +a man should spend the whole of his life in the dust of coal and +metal or the smell of fire. This joy of sunlight and fresh +air seemed too good to lose.</p> +<p>He knew nothing of the conditions of labour in the country +beyond the fact that many black-country families migrated every +autumn into the fields of Worcestershire for the gathering of +hops. He remembered how he had seen these sun-browned +companies returning, men, women, and children together, carrying +their household goods in old perambulators, looking happier and +more healthy than the majority of Halesby people. He had no +very definite idea when the ‘hopping’ season began; +but whether he were too late for it or too early he knew, at any +rate, that he had a store of strength and health to sell. +He wasn’t afraid of work. Why shouldn’t he work +in the open air? For the summer at least . . . after that +he might go down with the money he had earned into the Welsh +valleys and take to the pit again. He knew that between him +and Wales lay a vast green country in which a man might live as +well as anywhere else. Even now the sun was drinking up the +mists that concealed it, revealing sombre woodlands heavy in <a +name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>leaf, yellow +cornfields, the smoke of hidden towns or villages, and, here and +there, a shining bend of river. From that high post, +indeed, he gazed upon the pastoral heart of England, the most +placid and homely of all her shires; but the national schools had +taught him nothing of these things, and, as the mists ascended, +showing the cliffs of Cotswold long and level, Bredon an island +dome, May Hill and Malvern, Abberley, Clee, and all the nearer +hills of Wales, he only knew that it was green and big and that +it promised freedom.</p> +<p>He decided on Wales, and began to take stock of his +possessions, counting the change that remained in his trouser +pocket—seven and ninepence ha’penny in all—and +untying the bundle into which he had put a change of socks and +underwear. He wished, now that he came to think of it, that +he had changed into his working clothes, for it did not seem +right to him to look for work in his Sunday best. He turned +out the pockets of the coat, wondering what tokens of his past +life it would disclose. In the breast pocket, to his great +surprise, he found a small packet of paper that he couldn’t +account for. He opened it, and found that it contained two +sovereigns. He stared at them incredulously and laughed +aloud. Alice must have slipped them in when she said +good-bye to him. He felt suddenly tender toward her, and +immensely pleased at this striking turn in his fortunes. He +scraped out of his side pocket some dry remnants of tobacco, +filled his pipe, tied up his bundle, whistled to Tiger and set +off down hill leaving the brow of the Uffdown between him and the +blackness of Mawne.</p> +<p>It was all new ground to him. The hills that he was +leaving behind formed a lip of the saucer in which the midland +coal measures lay, and their line had always marked the limit of +Abner’s curiosity as boldly as they defined his physical +horizon. Now he was passing quickly to the unknown +plain. The path grew rough and precipitous. For a +hundred yards it cut into a plantation of larches fully +grown. His feet and Tiger’s made no sound on the +drift of needles. The wood was dry, warm, fragrant, and as +quiet as a church. One would have thought that no living +creature was there, till Tiger <a name="page94"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 94</span>scented a squirrel, and Abner heard +above him the thin alarm note of the wood-wren. From the +wood they crossed a stone stile into a sunless lane, steeper even +than the path across the hill, grass-grown for want of traffic +and now possessed by a company of solemn foxgloves. This +lane, though unfrequented, was the favourite picnic-place of Mr +Willis of Mawne Hall, who always called it ‘our little +Switzerland.’ The only thing that struck Abner about +it was its steepness. A stone that he dislodged in his +walking bounded on as though it were falling over the roof of a +house, and Tiger scuttled after it full-pelt. Abner also +found that it was easier to run than to walk.</p> +<p>At the bottom of the hill they came to a deserted watermill, +fed by a stream that here issued from the hills. Near it +stood a large farm-house that had fallen from its state of ease +and comfort, and was now partly inhabited by a labouring +family. A small boy was sitting playing with stones and +eating a crust on the green in front of the house. Tiger +ran up and sniffed at him, and he dropped his crust and ran +screaming up the garden path. A pale woman with red hair +rushed out to see what was the matter and comforted him with her +apron. Abner said good-day to her, but she pulled the child +inside the door as if she were frightened. He heard her +bolting herself in, and laughed, for he didn’t realise what +a ruffian he looked with his bruised, unshaven face and his +swollen lip. Tiger, however, had the crust of bread and was +thankful. He was no less hungry than his master.</p> +<p>Down the valley they passed. A hundred yards below the +mill the trees receded and the stream widened into a neglected +fishpond half-covered with water-lily leaves. The air was +full of glittering blue dragon-flies, and the roadside littered +and scorched by the signs of an abandoned gipsy encampment. +The fishpond ended in a patch where the stream gushed through +narrow sluices into a pool of brown, clear water. Sunlight, +beating through the leaves above, lit the bottom with floating +patches of golden brown, showing the shadows of trout that lay +there gently swaying with their heads toward the sweet +water. The coolness of <a name="page95"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 95</span>this bathing-place was so alluring +that Abner stripped and washed the slippery sweat from his +body. Tiger, who was used to this kind of performance but +hated water, watched him from the bank. When Abner had +dried himself with his spare shirt they set off again down the +sunny road.</p> +<p>He hoped that they would soon come to a village, for the bathe +had only served to sharpen his appetite. As yet there were +no signs of human habitation, but from the fields that chequered +the hills on either side of the road came many country sounds: +the creaking of invisible cart-wheels, the crack of a whip, the +lowing of cattle and voices of men that echoed in the closed +valley. A little lower down they met a man riding bareback +on a pony, driving a flock of sheep before him. His legs +hung straight down so that they nearly touched the ground. +Tiger and the sheep-dog exchanged inquiries, but the horseman +took no notice of Abner, who stood against the hedge while the +flock stampeded past him with frightened brown eyes, raising a +dust that was laden with a hot smell of wool and sheep-dip. +The farmer’s man appeared to be riding in a dream, +mechanically switching the pony’s flanks with a branch of +hazel. Abner woke him by saying good-morning. He +stopped the pony with a kick and turned to look.</p> +<p>‘Any pub handy hereabout?’ Abner asked him.</p> +<p>‘Pub? . . . Ay, you’m close on +it. Ten minute’ll bring you to the Barley +Mow.’ Abner had some difficulty in understanding him, +for the language that he spoke was not that of Mawne. He +thanked him. Then, after a long scrutiny, the horseman +informed him that the nearest workhouses were at Bromsgrove and +Kiddy, five miles to the right or left of the inn, said good-bye +and kicked his pony into an amble again.</p> +<p>By that time the sheep had long since pattered out of sight; +but this was an easy country in which hurry had no place. +It amused Abner, and did not in the least offend him, to be taken +for a tramp. In a few days, but for Alice’s final +bounty, he might easily have become one. The labourer had +made an estimate of the distance of the pub in accordance with +his own leisurely way of progress. In less than half the +time <a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>that +he had predicted Abner found himself in front of an old red-brick +inn shadowed by an immense horse-chestnut whose leaves already +drooped with heat. As Abner reached the door, a man whom he +took to be the landlord was starting to drive off in a yellow +dog-cart, probably to some market, for a small pig was netted in +the back of the trap. A big, blowsy woman whom he called +‘mother,’ but who appeared to be of his own age and +was no doubt his wife, saw him off. ‘Don’t +forget Emily’s stays, dad,’ she called. He +waved his whip in answer and went bowling down the road into the +sun. The woman returned with a sigh that sounded as if it +betokened relief, to the wide, semi-circular steps where Abner +was standing waiting for her. She had not seen him arrive, +and appeared not to be pleased at the prospect. When he +began to speak she cut him short with: ‘No, the master +never gives anything. We have to make it a rule on this +road.’</p> +<p>He had to explain that he wasn’t begging. +‘Can you give us a bit of breakfast, missis,’ he +said, ‘I can pay for it.’ He showed her one of +his sovereigns.</p> +<p>She looked him up and down incredulously, and then said: +‘Come on in and set yourself in the tap. Better leave +the dog outside, or my Betsy’ll have his eyes +out.’ Her Betsy, a big, black tom-cat, too rashly +christened in his first days of innocence, was already arching a +back more like that of a geometer caterpillar than a cat. +‘She can’t abear them if she don’t know +them,’ said the landlady. ‘Once she knows them +she’ll lie in their arms like a child.’</p> +<p>Abner left Tiger whining outside the door, and the landlady, +now satisfied that he wasn’t as rough as he looked, was +heard shouting orders to Emily in the kitchen. A smell of +frizzling bacon came down the passage.</p> +<p>Abner settled himself on an oak bench. This taproom was +very different from that of the Royal Oak. The floor was of +big, uneven stone flags and all the furniture was black and shiny +with centuries of use. The place did not smell, as did the +Halesby pubs, of stale spirits and tobacco. It was as sweet +as they were sour. Agricultural almanacs and signed +photographs of memorable meets hung on the walls, and <a +name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>over the +mantelpiece a number of cards recorded the fees and procreative +achievements of shire stallions. Abner was nearly asleep +when the landlady herself appeared with a plate of bacon and eggs +and a pot of tea.</p> +<p>‘There now, how will that do you?’ she said.</p> +<p>Abner started to eat and she sat and watched him, apologising +once more for her first reception. ‘We have to be +careful, you see. What with all this unemployment there +seems to be more tramps on the road summer-time than ever there +was. In winter they dies off like the flies. Dad says +they come and go with the swallers. That’s a lovely +bit of bacon.’</p> +<p>It became evident from her conversation that she was curious +to know what Abner was doing. She could see that his +clothes were decent and that he wore a silver watch-chain, but +hinted that she couldn’t understand the battered state of +his face. He told her that he had had an accident.</p> +<p>‘There now!’ she said. ‘They always go +in threes, and bless me if yours ain’t the third I’ve +come across this week. Have a drop more +tea?’—she poured it—‘Which way are you +going, then? If you’d been a bit earlier dad could +have give you a lift.’</p> +<p>Abner told her that he was looking for work, asked her if she +could help him to find it.</p> +<p>‘You’re not a farming man,’ she said, +‘and it’s all farmering hereabouts.’</p> +<p>He told her that he was ready to turn his hand to anything, +and she confessed, a little dubiously, that he might possibly get +some casual employment with one of the farmers. ‘If I +was you,’ she said, ‘I should go on through +Chaddesbourne and ask at Mr Cookson’s—he’s the +biggest employer round here—but you’re a bit too +early for the harvest. Everything’s backward in these +parts after the bad spring.’</p> +<p>He thanked her, and while she went out to change his +sovereign, put aside a hunk of bread and a slice of bacon that he +had not eaten for Tiger. They parted cheerfully and Abner +set his face towards Chaddesbourne.</p> +<p>The heat of midday now lay heavy on the land, but in this +wooded country-side one might always be certain <a +name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>of +shade. In half an hour he came to Chaddesbourne, a village +of black and white half timber that was already engaged in the +midday coma with which it supplements its normal sleep of +centuries. In all the length of the street Abner saw no +human person stirring, nor any sign of life more violent than +that of lazy butterflies sunning their wings upon the yellow +flowers in cottage gardens. All the half-timbered houses +had long strips in front of them behind which it seemed to be +intended that they should sleep for ever in security. In a +sandstone church some one was playing the organ. Abner had +no ear for music and so he did not stop to listen.</p> +<p>At the end of the village he heard a more welcome sound: the +clinking of a blacksmith’s hammer on his anvil and the +hoarse wheezing of bellows. It was very different from +Mawne with its vast hydraulic presses, but it showed the same +process on a small scale, and the smith in his leather apron, +working through the heat of the day, with the sweat tracking +through his coal-dust, was more like a man of Abner’s own +race than the labourer in the lane. He seemed glad of an +excuse to stop work and talk to Abner. He offered him a +drink of beer from a bottle, drank himself, and wiped the froth +from his red lips with the back of his hand.</p> +<p>‘Looking for work!’ he said. ‘Well, I +can tell you straight Chaddesbourne’s the wrong place for +that. Not even at harvest time. You see, this is a +dairy country, properly speaking. All the milk’s +drove to the station and sent into Brum by train. Mr +Cookson? Yes, Mr Cookson’s a very nice gentleman as +every one knows; but I reckon he won’t be harvesting for +another fortnight, being late-like. Still, there’s no +harm in trying.’ He pulled on his coat and put a +padlock on the door of the forge, for his home was a couple of +hundred yards away in one of the long-gardened cottages. He +said good-bye to Abner cheerily, and gave him directions for +finding Mr Cookson. ‘If I was you,’ he said, +‘I should cut across the fields behind the house. +It’ll save you some sweating on a day like this. +Third gate on the right and follow along the hedge on your left +hand.’</p> +<p><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>Abner +took his advice, and calling Tiger to follow him entered the +field. A quarter of a mile away on the hill-side he could +see the red roof of the building that the smith had pointed out +to him as Cookson’s farm. Tiger was in his +element. He had never been in a field more rich in rabbit +smell. Abner, following the smith’s directions, kept +to the hedge on the left. It ran along the margin of a +little wood that sheltered him from the sun and intrigued Tiger +with prospects of infinite sport. It was impossible to keep +the brute to heel, and though Abner cursed him till he came out +of the wood he could not resist the temptation of running ahead +of his master, sniffing the enchanted air. Suddenly, at the +corner where the spinney ended, he stood stock still. Abner +also stopped and watched him, for he too scented sport. +There was a slight rustle in the hedgerow and a white creature, a +little bigger than a stoat, put out its head. In a second +Tiger had it by the neck and silenced its squealing with a +shake. The next moment the owner of the ferret appeared +round the corner of the hedge, a florid man of forty dressed in a +prosperous greenish cord, carrying a gun. He fired at +Tiger, who stood looking curiously at the ferret as though he +still expected it to get up and run away. Tiger rolled over +without a yelp, and Abner ran straight at the man who had shot +him.</p> +<p>‘What you done to my dog?’ he cried.</p> +<p>‘And what the hell are you doing here, you poaching +blackguard?’ He saw how ugly Abner looked. +‘Keep clear, or I’ll put the other barrel in +you!’ A stupid-looking labourer slouched round the +hedgeside and picked up the ferret, pinching it as if he were +appraising its value as an article of food. Then, mumbling +something, he thrust it into a sack that he carried and gave the +dead body of Tiger a vicious kick. Abner would have flown +at him for he needed something on which to vent his rage, but Mr +Cookson again threatened to shoot. He had to content +himself with cursing the farmer for his brutality. +‘The dog didn’t mean no harm,’ he said. +‘You’m a coward to shoot a dog like that.’</p> +<p>‘Not so fast, my friend,’ said the farmer. +‘I’ve not <a name="page100"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 100</span>finished with you yet. I want +to know what the devil you were doing skulking along my +hedge. Thought you’d pick up a rabbit, eh? I +know that game . . . taking the dog a walk. What were you +doing on my land, eh?’</p> +<p>‘I’m lookin’ for work,’ said +Abner.</p> +<p>‘And you look like getting it. I don’t +suppose it’s the first time you’ll have picked +oakum.’</p> +<p>Abner did not hear these words. He thought only of the +shattered heap of flesh that had once been Tiger. He would +have gone blindly for the dog’s murderer if he had not +suddenly realised that his own case was hopeless. The owner +of the gun looked like business, and the labourer was now ready +to tackle him from behind. He could do nothing. Mr +Cookson, however, having caught a poacher red-handed, +didn’t mean to let him go.</p> +<p>‘I’ve had enough of this game,’ he +said. ‘You black-country chaps think you can slip +over the hills and do what you like . . . you and your +dogs. It’s no use turning ugly now. +You’ll come along with me to the police station, and +that’s all about it. That’s the best ferret +I’ve got, worth a dozen of your damned dogs.’</p> +<p>Abner, who saw that it was not worth while arguing and whose +anger had now become more subject to his reason, tried to explain +once more that he was coming to the house to ask for work.</p> +<p>‘That’s an old tale,’ said Cookson. +‘We’ve had enough talk. Come along! That +don’t explain what you were doing in this field.’</p> +<p>The farmer also was now becoming more reasonable. Abner +explained that he had taken the field-path on the smith’s +advice. ‘If you can’t credit it, you ask +him,’ he said. ‘It was the lady at the Barley +Mow sent me here and give me your name. That is if your +name’s Cookson.’</p> +<p>‘That’s my name right enough,’ said the +farmer, ‘and you won’t forget it!’ He +began to grumble at the landlady as the prime cause of his losing +the ferret. None the less, he now appeared to believe +Abner. At the root he was a good-natured man, celebrated +for the sudden violence and quick subsidence of his temper.</p> +<p><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>‘Want work, do you?’ he said. +‘Well, I’ve got no work for you nor no one else, and +if you see Mrs Potter again you can tell her so. What that +woman wants to do using my name I don’t know. I +reckon I’m feeding half Chaddesbourne as it is. +Still, I’m ready to believe you. If you take my +advice you’ll clear quick before I change my mind. Go +on, hook it!’ He put his hand in his pocket and +jingled some money as if he were debating whether he should give +Abner half a crown.</p> +<p>‘What about my dog?’ said Abner.</p> +<p>Mr Cookson took his hand out of his pocket and his neck +flushed. ‘I’ve told you you’d best +clear,’ he said. ‘George’ll bury the +dog.’ He turned to the labourer. ‘George, +you go up to the yard and get a spade.’ He ejected +the unused cartridge from his gun and turned his back on Abner, +and Abner, still sore with resentment, took his advice and +returned to the road.</p> +<h2><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>The +Ninth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the first moment of his loss he +did not feel like retracing his steps. When he reached the +main road he turned his face westward once more and set off +walking as hard as the heat would allow him. He passed +through a land of almost monotonous green, stopping once or twice +to drink a pint of beer at a pub in one of the many half-timbered +villages that straggled along the road. In the afternoon he +reached a crest crowned with a plantation of smooth trunked +beeches from which he could see the chimneys of an industrial +town. This, he decided, must be Kidderminster, or, as the +farmer’s man had called it, Kiddy. Once or twice in +his life he had played football there for Mawne United, but in +these excursions he had never noticed anything but the squalid +streets between the station and the football ground. There +was a workhouse in Kidderminster, as he had been told, but he was +not yet in need of workhouses. The landlord of the last inn +had found out that he was going into Wales, and had pointed out +to him the rampart of the Malverns, dim-blue in the heat, as +marking the course of his road. The idea of finding +employment in the country now pleased him little. The +sooner he reached the coal valleys, with the remains of his +money, the better. From his new point of vantage the hills +were still visible, floating like cragged islands in the +haze. He left the smoke of Kidderminster on his right hand +and forsook the road for a narrower lane that seemed to run in +the direction that he wanted to follow. When evening came +he was still walking south-west. Now the Malverns, whenever +he saw them were etched black against a background of +flame. The air was cool and sweeter. It was such an +evening as Tiger would have loved, and his loneliness, which had +been numbed by the heat, returned to him.</p> +<p>He must by this time have walked more than twenty miles since +daybreak, and he was tired and <a name="page103"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 103</span>hungry. Soon after sunset he +turned in to an inviting public-house that stood alone on a +straight length of road running between meagre oak-trees. +The landlord was an aged man crippled with rheumatism who sat +grasping two sticks in a chair beside the hearth of the +taproom. He looked suspiciously at Abner and told his +daughter, an angular woman of forty who did all the housework, to +attend to him. This woman gave him clearly to understand +that they didn’t like strangers and said that they could +give him nothing to eat but bread and cheese. He accepted +this gratefully and settled down to his supper under the grudging +eyes of the old man.</p> +<p>The inn seemed a lonely and neglected place, for the road on +which it was situate had fallen into disuse. Abner, +however, was glad of a rest, and sat on smoking and drinking beer +for the good of the house when he had finished his supper. +The ale was good and put him in a happier frame of mind, so that +he no longer found the silence of the old man +uncomfortable. A little later a number of farm-labourers +drifted in and ordered their quarts: a solemn and gloomy company +who spoke little and in a language that Abner did not +understand. He tried to put some life into them by standing +treat, but even this order did not arouse the least enthusiasm in +the landlord’s daughter, who might reasonably have felt +that things were looking up, or in the company. These +people were silent drinkers who sat in pairs, taking alternate +swigs from the quart pot that stood between them. They +looked upon Abner, this stranger from beyond the hills, as +peaceful border farmers might have regarded a northern +marauder. They drank his beer; but that was all that they +could do for him. The light failed, but no lamp was lit in +the taproom, and one by one the customers bade the landlord +good-night and stole away like shadows. The woman put her +head into the room from time to time as if she hoped to find that +he was gone, and the old man sat by the fireplace saying +nothing. Abner was sleepy and when she next appeared asked +her if she could find him a bed. ‘Anything’ll +do for me,’ he said. ‘I can shake down anywhere +you like.’</p> +<p><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>For +the first time since Abner had seen her she was really +positive. ‘We never do such a thing, do we, +father?’ she cried. The old man did not appear to +have heard her.</p> +<p>‘I bain’t one to make trouble,’ Abner +said.</p> +<p>She wagged her head violently. ‘We never do such a +thing,’ she repeated. She shook the old man’s +shoulder. ‘Father, ’e says ’e wants to +sleep ’ere!’</p> +<p>‘We don’t sleep no strangers,’ said +he. ‘We don’t sleep no one. Not in a +solitary place like this. You’d best be goin’, +young man. Time to lock up . . . time to lock +up.’</p> +<p>Abner asked him where he could go, but neither of them seemed +inclined to help him. They knew of no house that would take +strangers, and the nearest village, Harverton Priors, was more +than three miles away. Even if he went there, they said, it +was unlikely that he would be taken in. ‘We’m +not accustomed to strangers, these parts,’ the woman kept +on saying. She followed him like an anxious but impotent +dog, edging him away from the counter as if she thought he had +designs on the till. He bought an ounce of tobacco and +departed. When she had got him out of the door he heard a +key turn in the lock and this taciturn person beginning to talk +fast in an excited whisper to the old man in the corner. +Abner laughed. Thanks to the excellence of their beer he +was at peace with the world.</p> +<p>By this time he was getting used to finding himself an object +of suspicion. He determined to give Harverton Priors a +miss, for at this time of night it was probable that the whole +village would be asleep, and to turn in for the night in the +first isolated barn that he found. Failing that there was +no reason why he shouldn’t sleep in a dry ditch. His +father had often done so unintentionally and so far seemed none +the worse for it.</p> +<p>A mile or more from that inhospitable inn he saw the kind of +building for which he was looking standing in a field on the left +of the road. It was a red-brick barn, half-timbered like +the houses of the neighbourhood. A group of cows lay +ruminating in their sleep <a name="page105"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 105</span>on the far side of it and Abner +picked his way between their shadowy shapes to a doorway with an +oak beam for lintel. A rough door closed the +aperture. At first he thought that it was locked or bolted +but it yielded to his pressure. He half expected to find +some animal inside, for when he first came to the door he had +heard a noise like a calf turning in straw. He struck a +match carefully. The place was clean and dry, half filled +with hay of the last season’s harvest that had evidently +been placed there for winter fodder. He decided that the +rustling that he had heard must have been made by rats. +Well, rats wouldn’t worry him in his present degree of +tiredness. He closed the door and sank down easily into a +soft, sweet-smelling bed.</p> +<p>He lay still on his back with his eyes wide open staring into +the darkness above him, thinking of the extraordinary variety of +adventures that had filled the last twenty-four hours. This +time last night, he reflected, he must have been dozing in the +corner of the tram-car between Dulston and Mawne. Now he +had nothing left to remind him of his old life except the clothes +he was wearing . . . not even Tiger. He wondered what his +father was feeling like now; wondered what had happened to +Alice. He had never before thought so tenderly of +her. She had shown what she was made of when she slipped +the two sovereigns into his pocket. When he got work in +Wales, he decided, he would send her money . . . not that she +would really need it, for now sheer necessity would compel John +Fellows to go back to the pit, unless indeed he had any of the +money left that he had stolen from Abner. The thought of +his savings suddenly reminded him what a fool he had been not to +search his father’s pockets before he left the house. +On the whole he wasn’t sorry that he had left him +undisturbed. He didn’t feel unkindly toward him, for +he recognised that no man is responsible for what he says or does +when he is drunk. In the black-country people who know the +rougher side of life are always ready to condone crimes of +passion or liquor. ‘The old chap’s welcome to +the money,’ Abner thought, ‘leastwise if any of it +comes our Alice’s way.’</p> +<p><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>His +mind was still too crowded for sleep. He thought he would +have a smoke and began to fill his pipe with the tobacco he had +bought earlier in the evening. Again he heard a rustling +noise in the hay. When he lit his pipe he would try to see +what caused it. He waited, listening, and when next he +heard it struck a match and peered in the direction from which it +came.</p> +<p>‘Douse that light, mate,’ said a voice, almost at +his elbow, ‘and take your bloody feet off my chest. +You’ll be afther settin’ the place alight and sending +the both of us to hell before our time!’</p> +<p>Abner dropped his match with astonishment. The other, +suddenly materialising, put his foot on the glowing fragment.</p> +<p>‘I reckon you give me a bit of a start,’ said +Abner, laughing.</p> +<p>‘Start, is it? It’s finished we’ll be +if you go throwing match-sticks that way into a heap of +tinder.’ The turn of speech amused Abner.</p> +<p>‘It’s easy to see that you don’t know the +way to travel, or you wouldn’t be doing the like of +that,’ said his unseen companion. ‘I may well +be stranded to the world, but it’s not burning I want this +night of our lord, I’m tellin’ you.’</p> +<p>He settled down into the hay again, this time at some distance +from Abner. Abner had never yet caught a glimpse of +him. He could not tell whether he was old or young, +pleasant-looking or villainous, but he knew that the stranger was +the first person who had accepted him without question since his +wanderings began. He no longer felt sleepy and was indeed +glad of a chance to talk with another human being. In this +at any rate his shadowy companion was ready to oblige him, taking +the conversation into his own hands without the least +hesitation. He asked Abner where he had come from and how +long he had been on the road.</p> +<p>‘God help me!’ he said, ‘you’re not +born yet!’ Then he asked Abner if he could spare him +a gorm. Abner had not the least idea what a gorm was, but +the voice explained that it meant a little weeny dooney bit of +tobacco—‘for to chew,’ he explained, ‘we +don’t <a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>want anny more fireworks. “Anny more for +Annimore,” as the guard says.’</p> +<p>Abner gave him his gorm, deciding that the owner of the voice, +whatever he looked like, was a cough-drop. They drifted +into a discussion of Abner’s adventures during the day.</p> +<p>The owner of the voice, who in the course of conversation +proclaimed himself to be a certain Mick Connor, usually known as +Kerry Mick, had apparently followed much the same track as +Abner. He had been refused refreshment at the Barley Mow +and taken a dismal pint from the hands of the landlord’s +daughter at the second inn, whose nose, he said, would poke a +ragman over a double ditch. He listened more seriously to +Abner’s account of Tiger’s death. +‘You’re after losin’ a good friend,’ he +said, and after a moment of silence in which his jaws could be +heard masticating his gorm, embarked on a long story of his own +youth. ‘I’ll tell you something quare,’ +he said.</p> +<p>It had happened more than twenty years ago in the county of +Kerry—Abner was none the wiser—in the very first +situation that Mick Connor had ever taken. ‘There was +money in Ireland them days,’ he said. ‘The +country’s gone to the dogs ever sence the Boer +War.’ He was engaged as pantry-boy, at six pounds a +year and a suit of clothes, and he earned it by cleaning thirty +lamps and a dozen pair of shoes every morning before breakfast +and waiting at meal-times in the servants’ hall. The +rest of the day he spent in dodging the butler, an ould devil +with a lip would trip a duck, who liked his pint more than most +and used to threaten to take the skin off of him with a twig +whenever he saw him.</p> +<p>The story seemed to lead nowhere, but Mick Connor’s +voice was low and persuasive and he evidently liked +talking. Abner lay and listened.</p> +<p>Even in those early days Mick Connor had been used to the open +air. He hated house-work, he said, and would often go off +and hide himself under the dining-room table, a place of +concealment which the butler at last discovered, to cry. He +would stand at the pantry windows looking out over the fields to +the <a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>river where the third footman was already enjoying +himself catching eels and perch in the holes. The house was +a prison to him. The only friend that ever came to him from +outside it was a wolfhound who slept in the stables, but with +whom he had made great friends ever since he had been in the +house by feeding it with scraps from the pantry. The butler +hated dogs, and this dog above all others because it had once +stolen a ham. Mick loved it and fed it regularly. It +used to jump up to the pantry window and lick his face through +the bars.</p> +<p>When he had been in this place for a year or more the family +moved for the summer to another house on the coast some thirty +miles away. For Mick it was a happy change. He and +his friend the third footman were chosen to go there and the +savage butler was left behind. There were no railways in +that part of Ireland, and so they went to Coulagh by road. +The children were to follow with their nurse the next day, so the +footman and the cook preceded them in a wagonette loaded with +luggage. They went slowly, and behind them walked Mick, +leading two pannier asses named Haidee and Mokie, on which the +children would go for rides by the shore. They started late +and the last part of their journey was made in the dark. +The cook, who had a drop taken, was telling ghost stories fitting +to that wild hour and place. There was one tale in +particular of how she had met the devil in the flesh sitting by a +milestone near Coulagh three years before that made Mick afraid +to look on either side of him. He walked with Haidee on his +right and Mokie on his left and the tail of the wagonette in +front of him, and even then he didn’t feel safe.</p> +<p>When they came to Coulagh in the darkness they had a grand +supper, but even in the cheerful firelight Mick couldn’t +forget the details of the cook’s encounter with the +devil. The house was small, and it had been settled that +he, as the least important member of the party, should sleep in a +little room above the stable in which the asses were +housed. He was thankful that the animals were there, for +otherwise he would have gone mad with the loneliness. When +he reached the stable <a name="page109"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 109</span>he went into the stall and talked to +them and got on the two of their backs, sitting first on one and +then on the other the way they wouldn’t be jealous. +Then he patted their necks, rubbed their noses, and went up the +wooden stairs to bed. He undressed, got into bed and put +out his candle. But he couldn’t sleep, partly because +the room was so strange after the cook’s stories and partly +because a wind was blowing fit to bring the house down. All +of a sudden the wind fell, and in the quiet he could hear another +sound like a door banging and the rattle of chains. He +supposed he had not fastened the stable latch, but even if the +asses got their ends of cold, he didn’t dare to put his +nose out of bed. But the noise of bumping and chains +continued. Even when he put his head under the clothes he +could still hear it. ‘I can hear it the way I am +now,’ he told Abner, ‘a great, rattlin’, +t’udding noise. I commenced to get terrible +afraid. “Something’s surely coming now,” +I thought. “God help me!” And it came on +bumping and rattling up the stairs. “This is the +devil,” says I, “let loose on me!” an’ +when I put my head under the clothes what should I see but all +the things I’d ever done in this life; all the birds +I’d took the heads of off with a catapult, flittin’ +about with no heads and the wings broke on them, and all the +bottles of whisky I’d ever stolen on the butler. +An’ the noise come bumping upstairs. “God, +I’m gone!” I says, getting down middleways in the +bed, and with the same there was a great t’ud and the door +flew open on me and it come into the room. Bump, bump, bump +it went, an’ the chairs went over and the basin of water +I’d never washed in come down with a crash—and I +lying there with the pespiration running down me on to the sheets +like a spout. “God, I’m gone!” I says +again, and that was the last word I spoke that night, for the +sheets was stuck to me back. Then it comes over to the bed, +and I tries to get under the mattress, but before I knew where I +was I felt two great hands on the both of my thighs. +“Now I’m destroyed altogether,” says I, but +before I’d finished thinking it come on the top of me in a +lump with the chain draggin’ along the floor, and me +lyin’ there not as thick as a match. Then I <a +name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>commenced +to feel the sheet being drew down over my face and two hairy arms +round my neck, and with that a great, big, hot tongue licking +me. “Ah, my beautiful,” says I, “I have +you at last.” That dog was so fond on me he’d +smelt me out over thirty miles and pulled the log he was tied to +in the stable after him and broke down the door and come upstairs +into bed with me. I loved that dog. And that’s +why I say you’re after losin’ a good friend in +yours. Give me the lend of another gorm to go to sleep +on.’</p> +<p>Abner gave him the tobacco, and after that the story-teller +was silent. Falling asleep, Abner heard only the regular +noise of his companion’s jaws as they chewed. In half +an hour they were both asleep.</p> +<p>Early next morning Mick Connor woke him, telling him that +unless they cleared out the farmer’s men would find +them. Abner was far too comfortable for the moment to want +to move, but as soon as he regained full consciousness he +realised that his skin was itching all over.</p> +<p>‘This place is alive with fleas,’ he said.</p> +<p>His companion only laughed. ‘That’s all you +know about it,’ he said, ‘and the both of us eat with +hayseeds. I’m after telling you +somethin’. Never choose hay to sleep in if you can +fin’ straw. It’s worse than a houseful of +bugs.’</p> +<p>Abner was curious to see the owner of last night’s voice +and the teller of stories. He found it difficult to fit in +the man with his narration. It was impossible to guess his +age, but his hair was slightly touched with gray and stood up in +a frizzy mass that made him look wilder than he was. He was +of middle height, thin and very wiry, with a small head, bright +eyes like a bird and a bony face in which the skin over the +cheekbones was netted with red veins. His eyes were blue, +and humorous or savage as the occasion took him. At this +hour of the morning he did not appear anxious to talk and his +voice that had been soft and persuasive in the darkness, was +rough and short. They left the barn together. The +cows were still sleeping outside and a dew was on the grass, but +the moisture had not fallen on the road, which seemed as baked +and dusty as ever.</p> +<p><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +111</span>‘Which ways are you going?’ the Irishman +asked.</p> +<p>‘Going to Wales,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘Then the two of us had better travel together,’ +he said, and Abner consented.</p> +<p>They walked for some miles in silence. Mick, at this +hour of the morning was not disposed to talk. He went on +ahead with a long, loping gait, very different from the +tramp’s habitual shuffle. They came to a brick bridge +that proclaimed itself unsuitable for traction engines, and here +he suddenly climbed the hedge and started to wash himself in a +bed of cresses. He took out the broken end of a comb and +smoothed his wet hair close to his head like a picture of the +Madonna. The water took the gray out of it so that he +looked almost young. Abner also washed, and when he had +picked the irritating hayseeds out of his shirt, he offered his +companion half of a piece of bread that remained in his +pocket. Mick took it without a word and dipped it in the +water. Without this soaking he could not have tackled it, +for though his bristling moustache concealed the fact, he had +scarcely any teeth.</p> +<p>Eating this breakfast together they sprawled on the bank of +the stream among rushes, with which Abner amused himself by +stripping the pith with his nails. His silent and +melancholy companion broke the silence by asking him if he had +any money. Immediately Abner was suspicious. His +second sovereign and all his silver were secreted in his +waistcoat pocket. He had placed them there in the night as +soon as he realised that he was not sleeping alone. In +answer to his friend’s question he produced a handful of +coppers. ‘Tenpence ha’penny,’ he +said. ‘That won’t go far.’</p> +<p>‘Houly sufferings!’ said the other, ‘is it +carry ten-pence halfpenny three miles?’</p> +<p>He spoke no more, and they set off again. During the +rest of the day Mick Connor maintained his attitude of +detachment, striding on ahead of Abner as though he had nothing +to do with him. They bought a stale loaf in a small market +town and the Irishman produced from the treacle tin that he +carried three eggs and some rashers of bacon. They lit a +fire on the edge of <a name="page112"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 112</span>a wood and made a good meal. +Toward evening they crossed a wide river flowing silently between +high banks. Mick, who appeared to know the country, told +Abner that this was the last bridge for twenty miles. +Beyond the stream a little town lay smoking under the +hill-side. They drank a pint of beer together and pushed +on. The evening light seemed to awaken Mick. He +became talkative and profane at once, disclosing to Abner the +fact that he knew where good work was to be had. He scoffed +at the idea of Abner’s working underground while there was +a chance of earning his living in the open air. ‘I +can put you in the way of a job will make your teeth +water,’ he said. At first he kept up an atmosphere of +mystery of the kind that particularly pleased him, but when Abner +pressed him he disclosed the fact that he had learned from a +tramp near Bromsgrove how the corporation of North Bromwich were +engaged in relaying a defective piece of piping ten miles long in +their Welsh water scheme, and that casual labour was hard to get +in those parts. With the combination of his own wit and +Abner’s strength they should find a comfortable job to last +them for six months. He reckoned that three days’ +walking would bring them easily to the site of the work, and gave +Abner to understand that he was lucky to have met him. +Abner was ready to acknowledge this. ‘That’s +all right then,’ said Mick, ‘and now about that +tenpence halfpenny. Do you think I’d be after +sleeping wud you and not know of the gold sovereign that’s +in your waistcoat pocket this moment? It’s on the +table the cards should be if we’re travelling +together.’</p> +<p>At this Abner was really angry. He didn’t like the +idea of any one, friend or no, rummaging in his pockets at +night. They stopped in the road quarrelling, and Abner took +off his coat, preparing to settle the matter with blows before +parting company. The Irishman seemed surprised that he took +it so roughly; pointed out that when he had the chance of +stealing Abner’s money he hadn’t taken it, said that +he didn’t want a penny of it. Little by little, with +soft and humorous words he cooled Abner’s anger. At +the next inn they <a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>split the sovereign over two quarts of beer, and by the +time he had finished drinking Abner was ready to go shares with +the change, an offer that Mick was too generous to accept. +‘What for would I want money?’ he said, ‘as +long as I’d have the price of a naggin in my +pockut?’ A man must be a fool, he added, if he +couldn’t travel in a fat country the likes of England +without money. In Ireland, it was true, one had to use +one’s wits, for every one else was doing the same +thing. He searched in his pockets and laid out a yellow +piece of paper among the beer-spills on the inn table. An +Irishman’s passport, he called it. Actually it was an +eviction order, which seemed to Abner an unusual type of letter +of credit. Not a bit of it, said Mick. In Ireland all +you had to do was to carry this along with you and tell a tale +about the little children was starving on you, and you could kick +a shillun out of every priest you come across. In the old +days there was many a toff that’d give you half a crown to +be rid of you. They had another drink, and Mick became +rhapsodical on the subject of money. What good had money +ever done him? Money . . . in his day he’d had the +money would buy the two sides of Grafton Street. He +recalled his great double on Winkfield’s Pride and +Manifesto for the Lincoln and National. Three hundred +pounds in his pocket . . . but it went away like wather. +Porther would have supplied a better simile. When once he +began to talk about horses there was no stopping him. The +lust of the born gambler shone in his small blue eyes. +‘Take away racing and I’m gone,’ he said. +‘It’s the only thing that keeps the life in +me!’ He went on talking until he saw that Abner was +nearly asleep over the table, then he plucked at his arm. +‘Come along,’ he said, ‘let’s be getting +a move on before we’re threw out.’</p> +<p>That night, in a condition of sublime charity toward the world +and each other, they could find no barn to sleep in and rolled +themselves up on a bank of dry bracken under the misty +moon. Counting his money next morning Abner found that most +of it had gone. He knew better than to grumble about it, +but suggested to Mick that they had better go easy.</p> +<p><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span>‘Go aisy, is it? Not at all!’ said +the Irishman.</p> +<p>At midday, leaving Abner in a small spinney of firs, he went +off to the nearest village with the price of a quart, and +returned a couple of hours later laden not only with the beer but +with a good-sized fowl and pockets full of potatoes. +Displaying these spoils he winked, and Abner asked no +questions. They boiled water in Mick’s treacle tin, +and having poured this over the bird to make the plucking easy, +roasted it with the potatoes in the embers of their fire. +It was a splendid meal. Beneath its charred covering the +flesh was sweet and juicy. Abner had never felt fitter in +his life or freer from every vestige of care. When the meal +was over Mick slept like a gorged boa-constrictor and woke in an +ill-temper, but by this time Abner was getting used to his +alternations of enthusiasm and melancholy and left him +alone. It was a good life: there was no denying that, and +in another day or so they would arrive at the scene of their new +work.</p> +<p>That misty moon was no negligible portent, for at sunset great +clouds began to gather from the south, and, before night, fell a +thunder shower that drenched them. The dusty road drank up +the rain and all the earth smelt sweet, but the August weather +had broken and the country of wooded hills into which they had +now come seemed to breed rain. They decided that it would +be impossible to dry their clothes, and pushed on through the +night, Mick loping ahead like some drowned bird and Abner +stolidly following. They passed through the wet streets of +a country town at midnight. Not a light could be seen in +the solemn Georgian houses, but from a belfry, almost lost in +cloud, the sound of a plaintive carillon floated down.</p> +<p>‘Ludlow,’ said Mick. ‘There do be +races here.’</p> +<p>They crossed another noisy river. The road climbed +endlessly, winding over a steep hill-side. They entered a +forest where the rain troubled them no more, so tired that they +decided to rest for a while. Here they had the luck to find +a hut thatched with heather that had been used by +woodcutters. At the risk of burning it over their heads +they lit a fire with some dry branches that they found inside +it. Here they lay half-blinded <a name="page115"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 115</span>with wood-smoke stolidly chewing +tobacco, for Abner, unused to the road, had allowed his store to +become soaked. Mick soon fell asleep, but Abner could not +do so. He lay there till dawn in his steaming clothes, +listening to the incessant dripping of the rain from millions of +leaves, a sound that was soothing in spite of its +desolation. Sometimes a wind that could not be felt would +stir the tops of the trees to a commotion and then the drops +would fall like hail on the soaked leaves of the forest. +The fire died down; there was no more wood in the hut, and drops +of water began to fall from the roof into the hissing +embers. It was hellishly cold, but Mick still slept like a +dog, though his left leg twitched in his sleep. At dawn +Abner woke him. He grumbled because Abner in his vigil had +finished the tobacco. It looked once more as if they were +going to fall out, but the sense of common misery was too great +to allow them to do so.</p> +<p>They tramped on through the woods in the rain. They +could see nothing ahead of them but misty trees and no sound came +to them but that of dripping moisture and sometimes the harsh +call of a jay. The sun was so completely veiled that dawn +passed into day almost without their knowing it. Only a +whiter, colder light gleamed from the wet leaves. +‘We’ll never get shut on these bleedin’ +trees,’ said Abner; but his companion did not answer. +Suddenly Mick began to sing in a hoarse, unnatural +voice:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Macarthy took the floor in Enniscorthy;<br /> +Macarthy took the floor in Enniscorthy;<br /> +For his eyes and ears and nose<br /> +Were like marbles on the floor<br /> +Of the fragments of the man they called Macarthy.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>He sang the same verse over and over again, and at the end of +the third repetition, he stood stock still, for they had come to +the edge of the wood. ‘By the houly, we’re +through wud it!’ he said.</p> +<p>The huge confusion of the Radnor march lay before them, vast +and sombre and wild with cloud. To north and south of the +spot where they were standing the woods rolled backward into +England, upward to the <a name="page116"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 116</span>sky. It was difficult to +believe that they had emerged a little below the crest of the +hills, for the precipitous wall behind them rose magnificently +black into the mist with fleeces of cloud entangled in its +surface like wisps of wool in a winter hedge. Beneath their +feet a lake of white vapour hid the trough of the Teme valley +lapping the bases of other wooded hills. Nothing could they +see but dark masses of trees thrown into fantastic folds and +pinnacles by the shapes of the hills that carried them: an +amphitheatre of savage stone fleeced with unending woods. +‘That’s Wales,’ said Mick. +‘God! I could do with a drop!’</p> +<p>In spite of the melancholy grandeur of the scene Abner felt +that an end was in sight. They scrambled down a steep bank, +and Mick, still singing, stampeded a flock of horned black-faced +sheep that crowded with glistening wool under the lee of a +hedge. They crossed a zone of huge, wind-writhen hawthorns +and came to a road, or rather a rutted track of wheels that cut +the hill-side diagonally. In the middle of this track stood +a wooden sled with iron chains for carting timber and a pile of +tree-trunks that had been dumped at this stage of their descent +from the woods.</p> +<p>‘Plenty of work here,’ said Mick, ‘time +they’ve finished clearing these.’</p> +<p>They followed the track to a gate that gave on to a metalled +road. Even this was heavily scarred with the cartage of +timber. On every side the vast debris of forestry was +seen. Birds began to sing in the wet hedgerows. The +road was alive with yellow-hammers and linnets. The rain +ceased.</p> +<p>The scramble down the hill-side had warmed them and they now +walked at a good pace. Villages were few, the greatest of +them no more than hamlets clustered about red-brick farms, and as +yet no labourers were seen in the fields. For miles and +miles they passed no public-house.</p> +<p>‘Ne’er a drop stirrin’,’ said +Mick. ‘This is a grand country, right +enough!’</p> +<p>By eight o’clock the sun was through and the folding +mist, sucked upwards, revealed great stretches of arable land +that would have been melancholy in dull <a +name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>weather but +now began to gleam in patches of warm colour. Moisture +clarified all the air; oat-fields ripening for harvest were full +of tawny lights, and the breasts of the linnets rosy. A +signpost told them that they were less than a mile from Aston by +Lesswardine, and in a few moments they saw a little church hedged +in with pagan yews and a dilapidated parsonage still dead +asleep. Mick thanked God for the sight of an inn, even +though it were closed. A swinging sign with a heraldic +device battered by long conflict with rain and wind proclaimed it +the Delahay Arms. Tall hollyhocks stood sentinel on either +side of the door.</p> +<p>At the end of the village they took a cross-road to +Lesswardine, moving through water-meadows of brilliant emerald +with placid dykes on either side. Somewhere near them ran a +river, its course marked by a black line of brushwood. +Sunlight becoming more generous warmed them through and +through. The road drew near to the river and to a spur of +hills nursing the valley of a tributary. In a sheltered +coomb they saw an encampment of white tents bleaching in the +sun. A wood fire was lighted among them. The smoke +went straight upward. Round the fire they saw men lounging +in their shirt-sleeves among great stacks of alder-wood. +There was a tempting smell of bacon in the air which made their +mouths water.</p> +<p>‘What are these chaps about, Mick?’ Abner +asked.</p> +<p>‘Cloggers,’ Mick shouted back to him.</p> +<h2><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>The +Tenth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Abner</span> and Mick advanced to the edge +of the bivouac. Its inhabitants did not seem to be +disturbed by their presence. Mick, who was never at a loss +for words, gave them good-morning. A tall man, with a +large, unshaven face and a check handkerchief knotted round his +neck, who was sitting on a log by the fire, turned and stared at +him. He had wide, humorous eyes and when he spoke he gave +the impression, by winking, that his words concealed some subtle +joke. Meanwhile with each of his hands he sat fondling an +immense and hairy forearm.</p> +<p>‘Well, lad, what is it?’ he asked, in a strong +Lancashire accent.</p> +<p>Mick explained that Abner and he were looking for work on the +Welsh water and asked if it were anywhere near by.</p> +<p>‘Eh, you’ve a good step yet,’ said the +other. ‘They’re working up beyond Chapel Green, +two miles from Lesswardine. Been long on the +road?’</p> +<p>‘Four days,’ said Mick. ‘I hear there +do be a good job goin’ there.’</p> +<p>‘Ay,’ said the north-countryman +sardonically. ‘Work for them that likes +it.’ His wink seemed to imply that Mick obviously +didn’t.</p> +<p>Three other men lounged up to them. Another, who was +holding a shovel over the fire, sang out: ‘Come on, Joe, +the rasher’s done.’</p> +<p>The big man raised himself from his log. Before this it +had been impossible to realise his hugeness. ‘Better +have summat t’eat wi’ uz,’ he said.</p> +<p>His sudden hospitality, so little in keeping with his +appearance, surprised Abner. In a few minutes they had +settled down with the rest to the enjoyment of the frizzled bacon +and large cans of tea. Mick was soon at home, contriving at +the same time to eat enormously and to keep the conversation +going.</p> +<p>The encampment, as he had first explained to Abner, <a +name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>was one of +many such that may be found scattered up and down the length of +the Radnor march in summertime. The men who inhabit them +are known as cloggers. They come from the black industrial +towns of Lancashire, and their business is the making of wooden +clogs. All are skilled labourers, and in each of their +communities there is a foreman on whom the commercial +responsibilities of the venture falls. Early in spring he +makes a visit to the border country and bargains with farmers and +landowners for the right to cut the thickets of black alder that +choke the bottom of every valley in this western brookland. +In May the rest of the gang follow and there begins a nomadic +life in which they wander from valley to valley, felling the +thickets, stripping the black bark from wood of a milky whiteness +and cutting billets of a size suitable for clog-making. On +rainy days when their harvest is well in hand, they carry the +process further, and set to making the clogs themselves. +Sometimes they live under canvas on the site of their labours; +sometimes they find lodgings in the nearest village; always, as +strangers—or rather as migrants—they carry with them +a reputation for boldness and extravagance in speech and +behaviour; but, for all that, the border people make much of +them, knowing that they earn plenty of money and spend it +freely.</p> +<p>The valley on which Abner and his friend had lighted was by +this time nearly stripped of its alders. Piles of clean +white billets stood bleaching in the morning sun ready to be +carted to the nearest point on the railway.</p> +<p>‘You’re not afther wanting a hand with the +wood?’ Mick asked.</p> +<p>‘No, lad,’ said the big man, ‘this is a +tradesman’s job. You’ll get work right enough +up by Chapel Green. You tell the foreman that Wigan Joe +sent you along. But happen you’ll find it hard to get +a lodge there. Come Tuesday we’re makin’ a +shift to Mainstone Bottom, and me and my mates are going to take +a lodging in the Buffalo. Old Mr Malpas or his son +George’ll see you right. Happen we’ll have a +quart together then. Come on, lads. . .’</p> +<p>Abner and Mick took their dismissal and moved <a +name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>off +together. The sun was now high and not a shred of mist +remained in all the river basin. Before this it had seemed +confined on every side by high hills thickly wooded. Now, +to westward, far greater hills arose, huge, bare, and dappled +with shadows of the last retreating clouds. While they +breakfasted Abner had laid out his tobacco to dry in the +sun. They lighted their pipes and walked on cheerily, Mick +singing fragments of a song about the Sultan of the Turks and the +Irish Board of Works. They crossed the river Teme by a +stone bridge above a glassy pool. ‘I’m telling +you there’s a fine lot of salmon in there,’ said +Mick.</p> +<p>‘Salmon?’ asked Abner, who had only been +acquainted with the tinned variety of this fish.</p> +<p>‘Salmon right enough!’ said Mick, leaning on the +parapet. ‘The times I’ve watched them coming up +the river Barrow, before you was the height of a +match!’</p> +<p>They left the roofs of Lesswardine on their right, turning in +towards the bare hills. The river swept away from them to +cut the village in two. From a perpendicular tower of +reddish stone they heard a lazy peal of bells.</p> +<p>‘Sunday morning,’ said Mick. ‘God help +us!’</p> +<p>From all that sun-drenched, silent countryside, from the +towers of many hidden villages other bells were heard, +melancholy, mellow voices, floating luxuriously in an air +lightened by rain.</p> +<p>‘By the houly!’ Mick continued, ‘and the +pubs shut on me! If it isn’t enough to make a man +make dead childer!’</p> +<p>They passed three villages in which closed doors confirmed +this gloomy reflection. The villages themselves were not +gloomy. Leisure, prosperity and content radiated from their +flowery gardens, from the clean pinafores and collars of the +children loitering to church, from the faces of the men who +gossiped at the gates of sunny gardens in their +shirt-sleeves. In no part of England could villages more +trimly English have been found than in this ultimate border of +the Marches. It was as though the nearness of another and +an alien civilisation compelled them to insist on their national +character.</p> +<p><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>‘In Wales,’ said Mick, sourly, +‘there’s divil a one open Sunda’.’</p> +<p>They crossed another river, the noisy Barbel, a torrent of +mountain water wherein no weeds could grow, swirling clear into +black pools. A stone set in the middle of the bridge told +them that they were now in Wales, and as though to emphasise the +change of country the barren hill-sides rose abruptly to receive +them; on their right a tremendous crag of gray stone crowned with +a pointed earthwork, and in front of them fold on fold of softer +contours pale in the sunlight from the intricate convolutions of +which the brawling river issued.</p> +<p>A village of stone awaited them, blank house-walls fronting on +the roadway with small windows and roofs of clumsy slate. +In the midst an ugly chapel, with the word ‘Ebenezer’ +carved above its doorway, from which the sound of a drawling hymn +emerged, and at the end of the village a public-house with the +painted head of a bison for sign and, as Mick had anticipated, +closed doors. Even the windows were shuttered.</p> +<p>‘We’ll see if there’s annything +stirrin’, said Mick, beating at the door.</p> +<p>For a time they could get no answer, but at last the door was +cautiously opened and the head of an old man appeared. How +old he was it would have been difficult to say, for though his +eyes were rheumy and the irises ringed with the white circles of +age, his hair was plentiful and scarcely streaked with +gray. He leaned on a stick and did not seem pleased to see +them, speaking in a tongue that Abner could scarcely +understand. When they told him that Wigan Joe had sent them +he became a little more hospitable, but the consciousness of a +Wesleyan policeman in the village still prevented him from +opening the door to them. The foreman of the water-works +job, he said, whose name was Eve, could certainly be found at the +Pound House at Mainstone, three miles away over the river. +‘That’s in England,’ he mumbled, as though he +were speaking of a barbarous foreign country. As to +lodgings he could not help them. On Tuesday the cloggers +were coming over from Lesswardine and had arranged to take his +two rooms. Mick pressed him, and he admitted <a +name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>that, at a +pinch, his wife might be able to put them up until then, provided +that they were in a position to pay for a room and food. +Abner assured him that that was all right, but he still refused +to commit himself till Mrs Malpas returned from chapel. As +a favour he allowed them at last to leave their bundles with him +while they set off again to find the foreman. They promised +to return to Chapel Green in the evening, and before they turned +their backs he had closed the door again with evident relief.</p> +<p>They reached Mainstone just before the opening of the Pound +House. The foreman Eve, whom his associates called Gunner, +a little man who wore a shield over the socket from which one of +his eyes was missing, told them that they need not want for a job +if they meant business and told them to apply to the clerk of the +works early on Monday morning. ‘You say Mr Eve sent +you and it’ll be all right.’ At the end of this +sentence he was snatched away by a power beyond his control, for +the doors of the ale-house opened and the twenty or thirty men +who had been lounging outside flowed into the bar like metal into +a mould.</p> +<p>It was a clean and pleasant place surrounded by settles of +black Welsh oak. The presence of the navvies from the +waterworks had made it into a kind of recognised canteen, and +behind the bar were ranged three great barrels of Astill’s +ales. Even at a distance of eighty miles from North +Bromwich the power of Astill’s influence was felt. +Mick, without any difficulty, had already enrolled himself as a +member of the company. He had paired off with a big +lumbering fellow in corduroys with a red, stupid face and curly +hair.</p> +<p>‘Who’s going to give the ball a kick?’ Abner +heard him saying, and a moment later he was taking a quart pot of +beer from a dark, strapping girl who served behind the +counter. A medley of voices arose: the high-pitched accents +of the Welsh, the soft Hereford burr, a smattering of audacious +cockney, and then the harsher northern speech of a number of +cloggers who had wandered in. The room was crowded to +suffocation, and Abner found himself lucky to get a seat +alongside the one-eyed foreman, Eve, on a bench <a +name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>near to the +window. Abner began to talk to him, but the Gunner was not +inclined to keep it up. He was a little man with firm-set +jaws from which speech seemed to escape with difficulty. +His whole body was spare and dessicated and his skin so tanned +with exposure to weather that the blue-black patterns tattooed on +his forearms were scarcely distinguishable from his skin. +He drank rum and water stolidly with a little cough between each +gulp and scrutinised all the company with his one eye that was +dark and keen like that of a bird of prey. He drank three +or four rums, one after the other, but the process had no +loosening effect on his taciturnity, nor did it dim the +brightness of his eye. Abner asked him how long he had been +on the waterworks job.</p> +<p>‘Fourteen year,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Is it like to last long?’</p> +<p>‘It’s like to last as long as I do. +I’m what you might call on the establishment, as they say +in the service. Been with it since they made the +resservoyer in the Dulas valley. They say it’s an +unlucky job this here water. I was there when the dam was +broke nine year ago. Always something up with it. . +.’</p> +<p>Then, warming a little, he began to ask Abner if he were used +to navvying work, snorted when he told him he was a miner, and +told him that he’d have a job to get a bed to sleep +in. ‘The cloggers is coming into the Buffalo +Tuesday,’ he said, ‘and the folk round here is scared +of us. They’re like children with strangers. +They’re a lot of damned Welshmen, only don’t you tell +’em so or they’ll let you know about it.’ +He waved to the dark girl behind the counter, who brought him +another tot of spirit as though she understood his signal.</p> +<p>‘You’re looking up fine to-day, Susie,’ he +said.</p> +<p>‘Get away with you, Mr Eve,’ she replied. +She may have blushed, but the blood ran so richly under her brown +cheeks that no blush could have been seen. Eve took hold of +her arm and pulled her gently towards him. Evidently she +was used to being handled, for she did not seem to resent +it. With her dark hair almost brushing the foreman’s +cheek she winked at Abner.</p> +<p>‘Mr Badger been down to-day,’ said Eve in a +whisper.</p> +<p><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>‘Oh, you <i>are</i> a tease,’ she said, +with a movement of petulance. ‘Now, do let me +go! You’re not the only gentleman that wants +serving.’</p> +<p>Eve gently pinched her arm. ‘Well, then,’ he +said, ‘just you ask George Malpas to come and have a word +with me, there’s a good girl!’</p> +<p>She left them, pushing her way familiarly through the crowd of +men with a refined ‘Excuse me!’ and crossed the room +towards a tall, dark young man, better dressed than most of the +company, who stood holding a pot of ale in the opposite corner, +and talking to Wigan Joe, who had just arrived. When the +girl spoke to him he nodded, and a moment later came over to the +bench on which Abner and the foreman were sitting. From the +very first Abner liked his face, and indeed he was a handsome +specimen of the border type, with an olive skin and dark eyes set +rather wide apart under level brows. At the moment his +cheeks were a little flushed with the liquor that he had been +drinking.</p> +<p>He and the Gunner were evidently old friends.</p> +<p>‘Well, George,’ said Eve, ‘how goes +it?’</p> +<p>‘Middling, Gunner, middling.’</p> +<p>‘Now, my son, hark to me. This young chap here is +coming on to our job to-morrow . . . a mining chap from North +Bromwich way . . . and he wants to find a lodge. Think you +can do something for him?’</p> +<p>‘Well, now you’m asking!’ said George +Malpas. ‘The cloggers are coming into the Buffalo +Tuesday; but I reckon mother might find him a bed time they +come. ‘T’is all accarding. . . . Not that +her won’t be glad to oblige you, Gunner.’</p> +<p>‘I’ve a mate along of me,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘Your mate looks more like sleeping in a ditch,’ +said the Gunner with a dour glance at Mick. ‘Irishmen +are all alike. God, don’t I know ’em! +I’ve been shipmates with one or two of them chaps in my +time. Well, George?’</p> +<p>‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said George +Malpas.</p> +<p>‘Your mother ought to be glad of a decent +chap.’</p> +<p>‘All right, I’ll take him along with me when they +close, don’t you fear.’</p> +<p>He moved off again towards the bar. At the same <a +name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>moment +there appeared in the doorway a man of middle height and sturdy +build. He was dressed in a cord shooting coat and +breeches. His face was swarthy and sanguine and he surveyed +the company as though he had a grudge against every one of +them. Indeed he had reason to be suspicious, for if black +glances could have killed he would have been a dead man within a +minute of entering the room. He stood there as if he were +waiting for the hostility of the bar to take some more tangible +form, and at last a young man emerging from a pint pot with an +accession of Dutch courage, said mildly: ‘Well, Mr Badger, +how be the young pheasants going?’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you ask him,’ said another. +‘This be a terrible place for foxes.’</p> +<p>The keeper took no notice of these remarks nor yet of the +laughter that followed; he went straight up to the counter where +Susie stood polishing glasses and shook hands with her +formally.</p> +<p>‘Who’s he?’ asked Mick Connor, already +considerably nourished, ‘A keeper? You leave go of +him, darlin’. You’d as well be shaking hands +with the divil!’</p> +<p>‘You’d best hold your tongue,’ said +another. ‘He’m our Susie’s +fancy.’</p> +<p>‘Gard be good to her then!’ said Mick with a +sigh.</p> +<p>Neither Badger nor the girl seemed to be conscious of these +reflections on their intimacy. Badger was leaning over the +bar with his face close to hers and whispering. She still +went on polishing her glasses mechanically, nodding with pursed +lips, in response to whatever he was saying and glancing from +time to time in a mirror, advertising Astill’s Bottled +Ales, that hung on the wall at her right hand. Evidently +all was not well, for she hurriedly rearranged a curl of dark +hair that hung in front of her right ear and had become entangled +in a garnet ear-ring. This process of preening attracted +Abner’s attention to her sex. Suddenly he found +himself comparing her rather maturer charms with those of Susan +Wade. Perhaps her name had something to do with it. +Both were of the dark beauty which had always attracted him, +though Susan the first had been a pale city-dweller and little <a +name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>more than a +girl, while the barmaid was a woman of his own age, generously +yet perfectly formed, full of strength and health and physical +splendour. She bent over to listen more carefully to the +keeper’s whisper that was almost lost in the hubbub of the +taproom, and Abner saw the smooth whiteness of her neck, faintly +browned like an egg. The liquor that he had taken inflamed +his imagination. For the moment she seemed definitely +desirable.</p> +<p>Mick Connor, having kicked as many drinks out of his +neighbours as they would give him, staggered over to +Abner’s side. In this state he looked more than ever +like a bird. His small eyes glistened and the arteries of +his temples stood out like whipcord. He asked Abner for +money, and when Abner said, quite truthfully, that he had none to +spare, he began to round on him fiercely in a language that +nobody could understand. It seemed as if a row were in the +making, and this was the last thing that Abner wished for. +He didn’t want to be involved with Mick in a dispute before +the foreman, Eve, who stared critically at his friend, and +particularly before the girl who stood behind the counter. +He tried to lead Mick away before it was too late, but the +Irishman wrenched himself free from his hands and began to take +off his coat for a fight. The whole room was now listening +and laughing at the scene. The girl behind the bar, seeing +that things were getting serious, excused herself to the keeper +and came down to ask Abner to take his friend away.</p> +<p>‘We can’t have this sort of thing in here, you +know,’ she said.</p> +<p>She came so near to Abner that he was aware of the smell of +her hair. Her nearness disturbed him so that he could +scarcely answer her. Mick, however, found no difficulty in +stating his case at the top of his voice.</p> +<p>‘I know,’ she said, with the air of one who was +used to the settling of such complications. ‘You two +boys had better go out and get a bit of fresh air. Go on +now, be good chaps,’ she continued good-humouredly, +‘or I shall have to call father.’</p> +<p>Mick turned on her savagely. ‘Call your father, is +it? Who said I was drunk?’</p> +<p><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span>‘I never said you was drunk. Just you sit +down and be quiet.’</p> +<p>By this time Badger had reached her side. ‘Best +leave him alone, Susie,’ he said. ‘Half-past +six, then?’</p> +<p>She nodded, and the keeper went out. At the same moment +the landlord of the house, a short, wheezy man, with yellow +pockets under his eyes that made him look like an owl, appeared +behind the bar, and shouted to Susie in a high-pitched voice, +asking what was the matter.</p> +<p>‘It’s all right, dad,’ she said, smiling +back at Abner, who had by this time succeeded in pushing Mick +Connor down into the seat next to the foreman and thrusting his +own unfinished pot of beer into his hand.</p> +<p>‘Then what’s all the bloody noise about?’ Mr +Hind inquired, with a violent wheeze at the end of the +sentence. ‘Don’t forget we’ve got a new +policeman here that’s a stranger to the ways of the place, +and the justices lying in wait for me. I can’t have +no rows here, or they’ll be saying the place isn’t +properly conducted. You mind that, boys!’</p> +<p>But there was no further disturbance. Mick, having +finished the rest of Abner’s beer, retired mechanically to +the society of his first friend, the big navvy in corduroys, who +was now too drunk to realise what money he was spending. +The landlord walked to and fro behind the narrow bar, glancing +anxiously at the minute hand of the clock that was gradually +approaching the hour of two, and talked wheezily about his +distrust of the new policeman. Through the little door of +the kitchen behind the bar came the frizzle of a basted joint +followed by the metallic clang of an oven door. Something +savoury was doing for dinner. The clock gave a whirring +noise which suggested that it was as asthmatic as its owner and +struck two with a harsh, ringing note. The landlord stopped +dead in his prowling. ‘Time . . .’ he +shouted.</p> +<p>‘See you Monday,’ said the Gunner, winking at +Abner, who was already preparing to rescue Mick Connor from his +new friend. The bar emptied. In the space of two +hours its atmosphere had become so thick with tobacco smoke and +the fumes of liquor that it smelt <a name="page128"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 128</span>stale and fetid. Mick was +walking arm in arm with the navvy in a state of unstable +equilibrium. Abner took his arm. ‘Come +on,’ he said. ‘Let’s see about the +lodge.’</p> +<p>‘And who the hell are you?’ said the Irishman +truculently. ‘You keep a civil distance!’</p> +<p>The big man rallied to his supporter, and Abner saw that for +the present Mick was best left alone. The other two went +off together, Mick singing a song in which the navvy joined +though he did not know the tune. A tall policeman with +mutton-chop whiskers watched them from the other side of the +road. Abner turned and saw that the young man whom the +Gunner had addressed as George Malpas was waiting for him.</p> +<p>‘Best come along of me to the Buffalo and have a +bite,’ he said, and they set off together.</p> +<p>Abner found that from the first he liked George Malpas. +His dark face and eyes were bright with the drink that he had +taken, his speech rapid and vivacious. They walked quickly +towards Chapel Green and the hills, talking all the way, and +Abner felt that this was the first person whom he had met on his +travels who really accepted him with naturalness and without +suspicion. Malpas told him that he need not worry about his +lodging. ‘Dad’s getting up in years,’ he +said, ‘and a shadow’d frighten him, but +mother’s all there and she don’t know how to say +“no” to me.’</p> +<p>He spoke all the time quickly and with a certain restlessness +that, on the surface, made him seem free and daring. He +questioned Abner eagerly about life in the black-country. +Once he had been in North Bromwich and this experience had made +him discontented with a country life. ‘It’s +proper dead here, that’s what it is!’ he said. +‘Time a man gets to my age he ought to see a bit of the +world; but a chap gets nabbed with a wife and a couple of kids +and then it’s kiss me good-bye to all that! You +single chaps don’t know your luck!’ Evidently +George Malpas had tried his hand at everything. He had been +a wheelwright; a farm bailiff; for a year or two he had helped +his mother in the management of the Buffalo, and lately, since +the job on the pipe-line had begun, he had been doing +labourer’s work: a thing that seemed unnatural to a <a +name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>man so +handsomely and delicately made. ‘Anything for a +change: that’s what I say,’ he maintained. +‘What a chap like me ought to do is go to sea, but these +old hills are like a prison. Damn me if I wouldn’t as +soon be in Shrewsbury jail as here!’</p> +<p>They crossed the bridge into Wales. By this time George +Malpas’s mother had returned from chapel and the door of +the Buffalo was unlocked. George opened it for Abner. +In the bar, on the left, he saw the two bundles exposed +prominently on the table. Beyond in the kitchen they found +the old man sitting in the chimney-corner and Mrs Malpas dredging +flour into the roasting-tin from which a joint of beef had been +taken.</p> +<p>‘Just in time, mother!’ said George. +‘How’s the old legs, dad?’</p> +<p>‘Badly . . . badly, George,’ mumbled his +father.</p> +<p>‘Can you give us a bite of dinner, mother?’</p> +<p>At first Mrs Malpas did not reply. She was a little +woman, primly dressed in a constricted black dress. She had +a mass of gray hair with a tinge of yellow in it; her features +were finely shaped, like those of her son, but her mouth was hard +as stone. When she had finished making her gravy she turned +a pair of piercing black eyes on Abner and spoke in a low +voice. It was level and expressionless, but one felt, all +the time, that she meant exactly what she said and that nothing +could turn her from a determination once expressed. Facing +her, he found that her face was beautiful, but hardened by +suffering, by the responsibility of an old and ailing husband and +the anxiety of a wayward son.</p> +<p>‘Is this the young man who left his bundle here with +dad?’ she asked.</p> +<p>‘Yes, this is the chap. All he wants is a +bed.’</p> +<p>‘Well, I can’t do it, George, and you know I +can’t,’ she cried; ‘what with the cloggers +coming, and all! Your father told them so.’ The +old man nodded.</p> +<p>‘Give us some dinner first, mother,’ said George +persuasively. ‘Then we’ll talk about +it.’</p> +<p>‘It’s no good talking,’ Mrs Malpas +persisted. ‘I mean what I said, and so does your +father.’</p> +<p><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>Although it was obvious that nothing that the old man +might say would alter the course of events that she had ordained, +his wife had acquired the habit of pretending that he shared the +responsibility of her decisions. George, with a side glance +of encouragement at Abner, tried to joke her out of her +seriousness.</p> +<p>‘You can’t get over me that way, George,’ +she said; but when he took her arm her eyes and mouth softened +and she made no attempt to prevent Abner sharing the meal which +her son helped her to put on the table. At the end of the +process he kissed her, and she suddenly stiffened.</p> +<p>‘You’ve been to the Pound House, George! I +can smell your breath.’</p> +<p>‘Well, can’t a chap go to the Pound House without +a fuss being made?’ he laughed. ‘You’m +jealous, mother, of that seven days’ licence!’</p> +<p>‘If it was to make my fortune this minute,’ she +said intensely, ‘I wouldn’t sell one spot of drink on +a Sunday. Nor would father,’ she added in a milder +tone.</p> +<p>The flash subsided and she went on to ask about Mr +Hind’s asthma; but she took no notice of George’s +reply, for her inquiry had only been a preliminary to asking how +Susie was. She watched him closely when he replied that +Susie was all right. ‘Her new friend Badger was +there,’ he added with a laugh.</p> +<p>‘I mind the time,’ said the old man dreamily, +‘when there was three badgers dug out one month up the +Castel Ditches. Turrible teeth a badger has. Turrible +. . .’</p> +<p>‘He means Mr Badger, the keeper, father,’ said Mrs +Malpas.</p> +<p>‘All keepers is the same,’ said the old man. +‘Water or game-keepers, there’s not a pin between +’em.’</p> +<p>He relapsed into one of those fits of vacuity which often +droused his normal, if senile, intelligence. Mrs Malpas +dragged him back with the announcement that the dinner was +ready.</p> +<p>‘I’ll go and draw some beer,’ said +George.</p> +<p>‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, George,’ +replied Mrs Malpas. ‘You’ve had all +that’s good for you at the <a name="page131"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 131</span>Pound House. If your father +can do without beer before evening, so can you!’</p> +<p>George passed the reproof off with a smile, but stayed where +he was.</p> +<p>Meanwhile Mrs Malpas rescued four hot plates from the oven and +thrust them into Abner’s hands with ‘Catch on, +please!’ and the party settled down at the table, the old +man occupying a shiny chair with a patchwork cushion; the mother, +rigid as her own chair-back, facing him, Abner and George +disposed on either side of them. The food was excellent and +Abner was more than ready for it. It was the first square +meal that he had got his teeth into for a week. Mrs +Malpas’s appetite was in keeping with the ascetic character +of her face, but the old man ate ravenously of beef, vegetables, +and dumplings, and the two others were not far behind him. +All through the meal Mrs Malpas cast anxious glances at her +son’s plate. Abner could see that beneath her mask of +severity she was really full of a fierce maternal concern for his +comfort. The only tokens of tenderness that ever appeared +in her were shown towards him. When she spoke of +George’s wife and of the children there was an almost +imperceptible hardening in her tone, and George answered her +shortly, as if he knew that the subject had only been raised for +politeness’ sake.</p> +<p>For all this they enjoyed their meal. The room was dim, +for the hot sun from outside was caught in the folds of a lace +curtain and a mass of lush geranium plants with which the +window-sill was crowded. The scent of their leaves filled +the room with an atmosphere of summer, languid and happy. +One could almost have guessed that it was Sunday.</p> +<p>When the meal was over Abner began to fill his pipe.</p> +<p>‘No smoking in here, young man,’ said Mrs Malpas +sternly. ‘If you want to smoke you’d best go +into the tap.’</p> +<p>‘It’s mother’s fancy on a Sunday,’ +George apologised.</p> +<p>‘You know your father can’t abear it,’ said +Mrs Malpas, but the old man, who usually woke up when his name +was mentioned, did not hear her, being busy with a paper packet +of snuff.</p> +<p><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 132</span>When +she began to clear the table, George returned gallantly to the +subject of their visit. ‘What about this chap’s +lodging?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘It’s no good asking me, George. I’ve +told you once.’</p> +<p>‘You can give him a bed till Tuesday while he’s +looking round, mother.’</p> +<p>She shook her head positively. ‘I’ve got to +clean things up between now and Tuesday. Besides, +there’s two of them.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you trouble yourself about the +other,’ said George. ‘He’s gone off with +one of our gang. This is a nice, steady chap. . +.’</p> +<p>But Mrs Malpas did not budge. ‘Your father +wouldn’t hear of it,’ she said finally. By this +time she had cleared away the dinner things, taken off her apron +and placed a family Bible with a blue silk marker on the +table. Mr Malpas had settled back in his chair by the +hearth with a snuffy handkerchief over his head.</p> +<p>‘Just for two days,’ said George.</p> +<p>‘George, ’tis no good.’</p> +<p>He knew better than to press her under the circumstances, and +so they prepared to go. Abner took out his money to pay for +the meal. Cupidity struggled with principle in Mrs +Malpas’s eyes.</p> +<p>‘Not on a Sunday, young man,’ she said.</p> +<p>Abner thanked her clumsily. George kissed her, and for a +moment she dropped her stiffness and clung to him.</p> +<p>‘Come on, then,’ he said to Abner. +‘Good-bye, dad.’</p> +<p>But Mr Malpas was already asleep, his mouth sagging beneath +the edge of his handkerchief. Abner picked up his bundle in +the taproom and he and George went out into the grilling +sunshine.</p> +<h2><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>The +Eleventh Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">George Malpas</span>, having taken a fancy +to Abner at first sight, had determined to ask his own wife to +give him a lodging. The relation between the two young men +had begun with a quick, spontaneous liking on either side. +Abner was only too glad to see a friendly face, not being built, +as was Mick Connor, for picaresque adventure, and feeling that it +would be well to settle down again. George Malpas, on the +other hand, liked him because he represented something new, +because he had exhausted the possibilities of the cloggers’ +company, which led no farther than the Pound House—a place +which he could only visit with irritation since Badger, the +keeper, had cut him out with Susie Hind—and because the +idea of a presentable stranger living in his own house appealed +to him on the score of variety as well as from the financial +point of view.</p> +<p>As they left the Buffalo, George expounded his project to +Abner. It did him good, he said, to talk, and particularly +to talk to a man of his own age who could understand him. +If Abner had been married he would have realised that it was +useless talking to women who pretended to listen, but never gave +a thought to what a man was saying. The thought of his +marriage always roused him to bitterness. It had been +imposed on him, indeed, by the anxiousness of his mother, who +adored him, her only son, beyond words and, under the influence +of chapel, had conceived it her particular duty to save his soul +from hell. Hell, in the eyes of Mrs Malpas, meant neither +more nor less than sexual promiscuity, and seeing in the +handsomeness of George a spiritual danger, she had followed the +advice of St Paul and married him safely, as she thought, before +worse happened.</p> +<p>She herself had chosen a wife for him. Indirectly, for +she knew that he was wilful and easily scared, she had contrived +to make him fall in love with the daughter of a local +farm-bailiff, Morgan Condover, a steady, and, as <a +name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span>it seemed, +a solid man, who managed the outlying members of the Powys +estate. Mary Condover, the daughter, was a little older +than George; a shy beauty, with whom the lad soon fell in +love. George, as the only son of the innkeeper at Chapel +Green, was considered a good match, and Mrs Malpas played her +cards so well that within six months of falling in love George +found himself married and installed in a house of his own. +He was happy: Mrs Malpas could see that for herself, and she +thanked Heaven that she had been permitted to save her son +alive.</p> +<p>Before a year was over George’s first child was +born. There was a great christening party at Wolfpits at +which old Mr Condover, having drunk a good deal more than Mrs +Malpas approved, confided to her that his newly-born +grand-daughter, whom they had christened Gladys, would take the +first place in his will. This was exactly what Mrs Malpas +had intended from the first, and her satisfaction was so deep +that she could almost have forgiven the bailiff his lapse from +sobriety in spite of the unfortunate example that he had given to +his son-in-law. The intense thankfulness that flooded her +heart when she saw George so happily and satisfactorily bound in +the chains of domesticity atoned for the troubles that were +crowding on her own life. Her husband, who had been ailing +for some years, was smitten with a stroke of paralysis from which +he never fully recovered. She knew that hard times were +coming but faced them cheerfully. For many years Mr Malpas +had meant less to her as a husband than as the father of her +son. She would do her duty by him—nobody could +suggest that she had ever done less—on the surface she +would acknowledge him still as the head of her household, but his +illness would give her the opportunity of managing the business +to her own liking and scraping together, in the years that +remained to them, a little money that, added to the small fortune +of which Mr Condover had boasted to her at the christening, +should make her son secure for life. She even hoped that he +might succeed Mr Condover in the care of the Powys estate.</p> +<p><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>Her +<i>Nunc dimittis</i> was premature. Just before the birth +of George’s second child, a healthy boy whom they had +decided to name Morgan after his grandfather, Mr Condover, at the +very height of his prosperity, hanged himself in an +outhouse. His death revealed the fact that the money of +which he had boasted at the first christening did not +exist. It soon appeared that he had defrauded the Powys +estate of more than eight hundred pounds, and rumour said that he +had been involved with some woman in Ludlow. This was a +terrible blow to Mrs Malpas, for in remote country places the +shames of the fathers are visited on the children to the third +generation, and never forgotten. When the baby was born she +begged her daughter-in-law not to give the child his +grandfather’s name; but Mary, who had loved her father, +obstinately persisted, and Mrs Malpas could never hear it without +feeling that it carried with it a reproach. She tried to +persuade George to change it, but George did not care. He +was no longer in love with his wife, who now stood to him for a +symbol of the chains that his mother had imposed on him. He +felt that she had cheated him out of an enjoyment of life that +was his due. At any cost he meant to regain his freedom, +and Mary and his mother were the sufferers. The wife, +indeed, had the care of her children to console her for +George’s neglect; but the mother, against whom he nursed a +deep, indefinite grudge as the author of all his misfortunes, +found that she must bear the responsibility of her own +schemes.</p> +<p>The household at Wolfpits now missed the subsidies which Mr +Condover had generously distributed from his masters’ +money. George had drifted into an extravagant way of life +that he had no intention of changing. Partly because of his +expansive nature, and partly because, in truth, he had never had +his fling, George found it difficult to settle to any steady +work. He became a drain upon the resources of the Buffalo, +and Mrs Malpas, who found it hard to refuse him anything, was +forced to draw upon her savings to support him. In her +irritation and despair she blamed Mary for all this, thinking of +her as a feckless housewife who had been brought up in the lavish +ways of her father.</p> +<p><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>‘The bad blood’s in her and is bound to +come out,’ she said, airing her grievances on Mr Malpas who +now cared for nothing but his food. George did not mind who +was to blame as long as he got the money that he wanted. He +was beginning to be interested in other women, particularly, for +a little while, in Susie Hind, the daughter of the proprietor of +the Pound House, an inn which Mrs Malpas had always regarded as +the Buffalo’s bitterest rival. It pained her beyond +words to think that her hard-earned savings should find their way +into Mr Hind’s till.</p> +<p>‘George,’ she said, ‘if only you’ll +keep away from that there place I’ll see what I can do for +you. Or if only you’d settle to regular work. . +.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you kindly!’ said George. ‘Why +don’t you let me take on the licence of the Buffalo now +that dad can’t do it justice? Then you and dad could +go and live somewhere quiet as you’ve a right to do at your +age.’</p> +<p>‘Never, George!’ she said intensely. +‘Never. . .’</p> +<p>He laughed at her. ‘Why not?’</p> +<p>‘I couldn’t trust you,’ she said. +‘The man that keeps a public ought to be teetotal. I +know what would happen to you.’</p> +<p>‘You’ve never give me a chance,’ he +protested.</p> +<p>‘What’s more, I’m not going to,’ she +maintained.</p> +<p>‘It’s a job I’m cut out for. I like +company. I could double your business in a +month.’</p> +<p>‘And drink yourself dead in six,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘You’ve never seen me drunk, mother.’</p> +<p>‘But I know you, my son!’</p> +<p>‘I’m dead sick of this country,’ he +said. ‘Town’s the place for me. If I +could get away out of this and make a fresh start. Damn me +if I won’t do it.’</p> +<p>‘Hush, George!’ she said. ‘I’ve +never heard your father use a word like that in his +life.’</p> +<p>But the thing that she was really frightened of was that he +should go. He was the only thing left to her, and if he +went all light would have gone from her life. She +controlled her tears and took him into the little bedroom where, +in an oak chest, she kept her savings. She gave him money, +and he left her, contented, kissing her with an affection that +was mingled faintly with <a name="page137"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 137</span>pity. When she held him in her +arms all her tense anxiety for a moment disappeared. She +could only think of him as the son of her body in whose happiness +and physical welfare she delighted. It seemed to her that +she could now only purchase these precious moments with money, +but for a little while she could forget this in the joy that he +gave her.</p> +<p>Time after time he begged her to let him take on the business, +but she always refused him, sheltering herself, as her habit now +was, behind the negligible personality of her husband. It +would have shocked her beyond words if George had pointed out to +her that his father didn’t count, and that her +consideration for him was a pretence; but George knew better than +to vex her in this way, for the key of the chest upstairs was +kept in her pocket. What is more, even though their two +wills were always in conflict, he loved his mother. She +meant a great deal more to him than Mary had ever done except in +the first blindness of his passion, and for this reason, no less +than for the other, he was tolerant.</p> +<p>‘Don’t you take no notice of mother,’ he +told Abner as they walked along together. +‘She’s got a funny way with her, but she’s all +right at the bottom. There’s not many women could +have done what she has. The only bad turn she ever done me +was when she got me threw over the pulpit.’</p> +<p>It was the third time in their walk that George had spoken +grudgingly of his wife, but this did not strike Abner as strange, +for it was exactly the attitude not only of his father but of +most of the men with whom he had worked at Mawne. He +grunted sympathetically in answer to George’s complaints, +and all the time, as Malpas eagerly expounded his own aspirations +towards freedom and adventure, they were climbing gradually, +passing by many gyrations of a narrow road into the curve of the +hills in which Wolfpits lay.</p> +<p>Within a mile of Chapel Green the character of the country +changed. Before that only a hint of mountainous severity +had been visible in the stone buildings of the village with their +narrow windows and their cruel roofs of slate. At Chapel +Green the pastures that lay beside the river were not greatly +different <a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>from the water-meadows of Teme, which is an English +river, but the fields through which the road to Wolfpits passed +were poor and of a paler green. Their hedges were scanty, +writhen and knotted with hard life. The generous elms grew +fewer, standing stunted, forsaken and sparing of leaf. They +seemed to shiver with poverty in this alien soil. In their +place the hardier mountain trees appeared: birches that quivered +even in this tranquil air: oak and holly and yew crouching in the +hedgerow sombrely but crowned with waxen honeysuckle. These +poor fields seemed to feel the pressure of the hills on either +side from the slopes of which blown spores of bracken and seeds +of gorse had settled and thriven like hill-men in a rich +plain. In the midst of the fields smooth water-worn +boulders were scattered, and through the pit of the valley a +noisy tributary of the Barbel, that Abner came to know as the +Folly Brook, set up an unceasing murmur like that of a +thunder-shower on summer leaves behind a dense curtain of +green.</p> +<p>Still the road climbed. It rose in bold curves, like a +kestrel soaring, into colder air. Sometimes the brook +flowed near it, and Abner could see through gaps in the arras of +alders roaring stickles of bright water. Sometimes it swept +away from them, hugging the foot of the hills, sounding no more +than the evening breeze in a poplar tree. Gullies that fed +it scored the road with tracks of winter torrents. At that +season of the year no moving water could be seen, but once or +twice in shadier places slow moisture oozed and dripped from beds +of mosses on the banks.</p> +<p>‘The cloggers is coming up the Folly when they’ve +finished down Lesswardine way,’ said George. ‘I +reckon they’ll liven things up a bit.’</p> +<p>The road grew rougher; it seemed to falter in its purpose.</p> +<p>‘Where do you get to this way?’ Abner asked.</p> +<p>‘Right up into the Forest and on to Clun, but not many +uses it,’ said George. ‘The Clun men +don’t come much over our way. ’Tis a stiffish +bit of collar-work. This here’s Wolfpits.’</p> +<p>The road swept up obliquely to a crest and then <a +name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>sank to the +level of the stream. Abner had a vision of the whole valley +expanding into a kind of amphitheatre through the middle of which +the little river pursued a more leisurely course, winding gently +through the fields as though it rejoiced to linger under the open +sky. On either side the mountains rose to their full +height, no longer concealed by foothills: from lip to lip the cup +was roofed with dazzling blue. In the open space beneath, +an avenue of chestnuts led upwards from the river to a great red +house fronted with three pointed gables and crowned by clusters +of fantastic chimney-stacks.</p> +<p>‘You don’t mean that one?’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘Ay, that’s Wolfpits,’ George replied. +‘Looks all right, don’t it?’</p> +<p>As they descended the house was lost from sight and George +began to explain that Wolfpits had once been a great house, the +most westerly possession of the family whom Condover, his +father-in-law, had served, but that the pastures which surrounded +it, for all their greenness were poor and the mansion itself too +remote and gloomy for gentlefolks to inhabit in this age of +comfort.</p> +<p>‘They say it’s ha’nted, too,’ he +declared, with a laugh, ‘though I don’t pay no heed +to such stories. I reckon it stood here empty for close on +a hundred years till Mary’s father got Mr McKellar, the +agent, to let it off in pieces to them that wanted houses. +There’s more than five farms up this valley lying empty for +the want of a bit of work putting into them, but the old lord was +so took up with his new model village down by Lesswardine, he +hadn’t the money to put into the old ones. Not that I +grumble at him. . . . ’Tis a good solid house to live +in. There’s three families in it now, and room for +four more in my opinion. And I reckon I’ve a kind of +right to it,’ he went on; ‘the Malpases was big +people in these parts at one time. You’ll find their +names on the vault in Lesswardine church. <i>John +Malpas</i>, <i>Gentleman</i>, that’s how it’s +written. There’s a Reverent Cyril Malpas rector of +Aston to this day. Mary’s father went into the family +history at the time we was married. The Condovers is an old +family too.’</p> +<p><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>These +claims to a faded aristocracy did not interest Abner, but he +could not help being impressed by the size of the house as they +approached it through the shade of the chestnut avenue. It +was built of small red bricks, strange to the country but now +beautifully weathered by time. The eastern end was covered +with a gigantic growth of ivy, but from the western side, which +they were approaching, the parasite had been stripped on Mr +Condover’s advice and the red wall glowed as though it were +exuding the imprisoned sunshine of three centuries. In this +generous light one did not notice an air of desolation which the +uncurtained upper windows gave to it.</p> +<p>‘All that’s wrong with this old place,’ said +George, ‘is the rats. But I reckon you’ve been +sleeping rough and won’t notice them. This is our +garden. Mary’s a great one for flowers.’</p> +<p>They had entered a drive that swept up in a spacious curve to +the steps of the front-door, an entrance which had been closed +for many years. In place of the lawns that had once been +the pride of its inhabitants lay three long strips of garden, +each carefully tilled and separated from its neighbour by a fence +of wire netting, the remains of some dismantled fowl-run. A +path of bricks, salved from one of the dilapidated stables of the +mansion, ran down the middle of the nearest garden-patch, and in +the centre of it two children sat playing in the sun, a +fair-haired girl, some six years of age, and a boy, a little +younger, in whose dark features Abner could trace a resemblance +to the handsome face of George Malpas.</p> +<p>‘Them’s my youngsters,’ he said +carelessly. He opened the gate and tweaked the girl’s +ear as he passed. ‘Well, Gladys?’ he said; but +neither of the children seemed much moved by his arrival, being +more interested in the strange figure of Abner, whose progress up +the path they watched with the vague suspicion of mountain sheep +that stare before they plunge away through heather.</p> +<p>‘I’ll see if the missis is in,’ said +George. ‘Mary . . .’ he called. +‘Where’s the girl got to? Sit yourself +down.’</p> +<p>The room had once been the kitchen of the great <a +name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>house. An enormous iron range was built into the +wall on one side, and on the other were racks and shelves which +must once have held many dozens of plates. The sun slanted +through a western window and showed Abner that the comfort of +this stone-paved room lay in its cleanliness. The iron +range was almost handsome in its massive, shining bulk above the +whitened hearth, and in the fender a bundle of green bracken was +set in an attempt at decoration. The fronds of this plant +filled the room with a warm and drowsy odour. In a corner a +grandfather clock, with a solemn face on which the name of +<i>Carver</i>, <i>Hay</i>, was engraved, marked the passage of +time with a slowly swinging pendulum.</p> +<p>George Malpas called his wife again, and from a cool-smelling +chamber on a lower level that might well have been a dairy, a +woman appeared and stood in the doorway.</p> +<p>‘I’ve put the dinner away, George,’ she +said. ‘It’s past three +o’clock.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you worry your head about the +dinner,’ he replied. ‘I’ve brought this +chap back with me. He’s coming to work with us on the +water job. Mother has a fancy she can’t take any one +in at the Buffalo, so I’ve arranged to give him a lodge +here. You’d better put him in the top room. I +reckon you won’t find him particular.’</p> +<p>At first she made no reply, but stood looking intently at +Abner. It was difficult for him to believe that she was +George Malpas’s wife and the mother of the two children +whom he had seen playing in the garden: she seemed too young, too +slight, little more, indeed, than a young girl. She wore a +clean apron of white linen, still creased from the ironing, and +her straight chestnut hair was bound back plainly on either side +of her temples and braided in heavy plaits behind.</p> +<p>She was tall, and her slimness, together with the narrow +apron, made her appear taller. Her brow was wide and +unwrinkled, her eyes were hazel, her nose straight and slightly +marked with golden freckles. One would have said that her +face represented the most untroubled calm if it had not been that +her mouth was a little sad. <a name="page142"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 142</span>Only her lips betrayed the fact that +she had suffered. She stood in the shadow and looked at +Abner narrowly but did not speak, for she had known enough +already of George’s boon companions to be a little careful +of them.</p> +<p>‘Don’t stare at the chap like that!’ said +George irritably, ‘or he’ll think you’re +cracked.’</p> +<p>Then she spoke in a voice that showed more refinement than +could have been expected. Her speech was almost free from +the pleasant burr of the Marches.</p> +<p>‘I dare say we can manage,’ she said. +‘I’ll see about it.’ Then she addressed +Abner directly. ‘What’s your name?’</p> +<p>‘Damn me if I ever thought to ask him!’ muttered +George.</p> +<p>Abner told her, and she repeated it after him: ‘Abner +Fellows.’</p> +<p>‘Well, that’s a queer name,’ said +Malpas. ‘I don’t mind ever having heard it +before.’</p> +<p>‘It’s out of the Bible, George,’ said his +wife.</p> +<p>‘Out of the Bible, is it?’ he laughed. +‘Well, that’s more in your line than mine.’</p> +<p>She left them quietly to attend to the details of +Abner’s room. Malpas, still a little restless, took +him out again, talking incessantly and showing him what remained +of the ancient features of Wolfpits: the line of damp stables +with boxes for thirty horses, the yew-trees that had once been +clipped to the shape of peacocks but had now straggled into those +of monstrous antediluvian birds; the red-walled garden, now a +wilderness of nettles, whose fruit trees spilled their pulpy +produce on the mossed paths. From the farthest corner of +the garden they could see the house which, from this angle +appeared tall and narrow like a tower, with chimney-pots for +battlements. In an upper window there appeared the figure +of a woman standing still and gazing out over the mountain.</p> +<p>‘That’s Mary putting your room to rights,’ +said George, but he did not call to her.</p> +<p>He spoke to Abner of the other inhabitants of Wolfpits. +One was an old woman, Mrs Mamble by name, the widow of a labourer +who had worked on a <a name="page143"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 143</span>neighbouring farm. ‘She +don’t properly belong to these parts,’ he said; +‘they came from down Tenbury way, but she’s took up +with Morgan and Gladys, and Mary likes her company. He must +have been a good chap in his time, for they give her the house +rent-free.’</p> +<p>The other tenant, whom they saw working in his garden beneath +the ivied end of the house, was another solitary creature, an old +man named Drew who had worked as a farm-labourer in the district +for more than thirty years. He, too, was a foreigner, +having first come to Wolfpits in charge of a pedigree Devon +bull. In the middle period of his life he had been employed +in a flour mill a few miles down the valley of the Folly +Brook. The new steam mills at Lesswardine had robbed him of +this employment, but not before the constant carrying of heavy +sacks had twisted his back to a curve in which rheumatism had +fixed it. Now he could only walk with his shoulders bent so +that when he spoke he had to raise his eyes, staring up at those +who questioned him, as though his back still bore the burden of a +phantom load. All his joints were swollen and knotted with +rheumatism; his huge hands resembled the branches of an ancient +tree and his whole aspect, staring with pale blue eyes beneath a +tangle of reddish hair as yet untouched with gray, was that of a +gnome, and proper to these inaccessible mountains. His life +was lonely, and for this reason he had never lost the uncouth +speech of the South Hams from which he had originally come. +When they passed his garden on their way back George gave him +good-afternoon and he raised himself, as with infinite labour, +from his work, gazing at them with the patient eyes of a yoked +beast of burden.</p> +<p>‘He’s a rum old chap,’ said George. +‘You wait till he’s on one of his boozing fits, and +then you’ll see.’</p> +<p>By this time Mary had finished Abner’s room and set the +table. The children, tired with play, had come in and were +clamouring for their tea. At the same time the fourth +member of the Malpas family arrived, a yellow lurcher bitch, +named Spider, who had been absent on some dark business of her +own and now returned to gambol with little Morgan on the +floor. <a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>The children were never tired of teasing this animal, +but George, who only tolerated her when he himself went rabbiting +in the evening, generally treated her cruelly. The dog +fawned on him, but there was more fear than affection in her +devotion. Abner told them the story of Tiger. The +children listened with wide eyes and the mother looked at him +without speaking. A fire of sticks crackled merrily down in +the room that Abner had taken for a dairy. At last Mary +Malpas brought in tea and the children ate stolidly and shyly, +talking to each other in whispers as though they were disturbed +by the presence of the stranger.</p> +<p>Perhaps it was also the presence of Abner that made George +Malpas take unusual notice of his wife. He treated her very +much as he would have treated the children or the dog when the +fancy took him, but his faintly patronising tone only appeared to +embarrass her. When she gave him his tea he would have +kissed her, but she stiffened slightly and even blushed, so that +Abner could see the colour rising in her white neck. Later +she softened a little from her seriousness and the children too, +realising that Abner was no more than an ordinary mortal, began +to raise their voices. They sat on with the door open in +the mellow evening light, and an atmosphere of homeliness and +quiet descended on the room so happily that Morgan cried when his +mother told him that it was time for bed. During all the +afternoon she had scarcely spoken to Abner, and she seemed +relieved to find a chance of escape. She puzzled him. +In his life he had only known one woman intimately, and that was +Alice. He could not help comparing the two of them. +The cleanliness and refinement of Mary Malpas became exaggerated +by this comparison. Instinctively, at first, he had allowed +himself to be influenced by George’s treatment of her, but +her aloofness and reserve now made him feel that she was in some +subtle way superior. He could not say that he liked her; +but he wondered, none the less, what she was made of.</p> +<p>She disappeared upstairs and he and George sat on smoking in +the twilight. The sun had fallen like a plummet behind the +western hills; the valley now lay <a name="page145"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 145</span>in deep shadow and only the upper +air was overspread with films of light. Night fell. +Down in the valley a night-jar began his mechanical +trilling. Over by Mawne, in Dovehouse Fields, a hundred +miles away, another night-jar was beginning. A sense of new +and settled happiness descended on Abner. He had come, it +seemed, to another stage in his pilgrimage. Wolfpits was +not like one of the bivouacs in which he had sheltered with Mick +Connor during this crowded week, but a resting place. He +felt that the future need not trouble him, that his feet were +firmly planted on this new soil. The only tie that held him +to the past was the memory of Alice, so strangely awakened by the +presence of this other, and so different, woman. He feared +that there could be no such happiness for her. Lying in bed +in that strange room he decided that as soon as he had earned +some money he would send it to her. At least it was his +duty to return her the two sovereigns that she had slipped into +his pocket when he left her. Yet, when he remembered the +life at Mawne against which he had fretted for so long, his heart +was thankful for this release. He fell asleep.</p> +<h2><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>The +Twelfth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Next</span> morning Abner went with George +Malpas to interview the clerk of the works, who engaged him as a +labourer at twenty-two shillings a week off-hand. This man +had been as long on the waterworks job as Gunner Eve +himself. Year after year he had led a nomadic life moving +from one point to another of the great pipe line that stretches +from the valley of the Dulas Fechen to the reservoirs above +Halesby.</p> +<p>The piece of work on which Abner and his friends were now +engaged was no more than the result of one of the last feeble +struggles of the gods of stone against their iron masters. +In this part of its course the pipeline, crossing the swollen +head waters of the Teme, had been lodged upon a deposit of old +red sandstone, a rock that was easily worked and lent itself to +Barradale’s plans. A hidden leak, caused possibly by +some obscure subsidence, had distorted its bedding. Two +unsuccessful attempts had been made to deal with it, and now the +engineers had decreed that the whole track must be deflected +northwards for half a mile on to a shelf of harder Silurian +stone. The scene of these new workings was placed at the +mouth of the valley, some three miles below Wolfpits and +immediately under the shadow of two hill bastions: the high peak +which culminated in the earthwork known as Castel Ditches and a +wide hog’s back known as Callow hill.</p> +<p>Hither, in the early morning, Abner and George Malpas would +set out together carrying the packets of fried bacon sandwiches +with which Mary supplied them overnight. Spider, eager to +follow them, would watch them go, quivering with anxiety; but +George Malpas had lately taken a dislike to the dog and would +curse her if she moved a step in their direction, throwing a +stone that made her scamper back into the garden. These +morning walks were very pleasant to Abner, and pleasant too was +the sudden change from a green solitude to the sight of working +men who swarmed in <a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +147</span>the cutting beneath their feet. A trolley way, +crowded with iron trucks that were reddened by rust and by the +sandstone of the Dulas valley from which they had come, cut +through the workings, and beside it ran a deep trough cut ready +to receive the black iron pipes that were dumped along its +edge. Most of the workers were old hands at the game, but +there remained a certain amount of rough digging labour for which +Abner’s strength and his experience in the colliery made +him suitable. This was allotted to him by the foreman on +the first day of his employment.</p> +<p>He looked eagerly for Mick Connor, who soon showed himself and +appeared none the worse for the debauch in which he and Curly +Atwell, the huge west-countryman, had engaged. He declared +he was seven pounds better for it, expressing himself as usual in +terms of the race-course, but Abner saw from the first that their +travelling acquaintance was really at an end.</p> +<p>During the day’s work he did not even see George Malpas, +being paired, in his new labours, with a youth named Joseph Munn, +whose face was disfigured by a hare-lip. These two were set +to work at some distance from the rest, clearing the sub-soil +from a shelf of rock where a culvert of stone would soon be built +to carry storm water from the slopes of Callow. Chance had +been kind to Abner in the selection of his companion, for it soon +appeared that Joe Munn was a black-country boy who had been born +in Dulston, and in his early days had even seen Abner himself +playing football for Halesby Swifts. He spoke Abner’s +own speech, he knew the streets that were familiar to him, and a +common knowledge of distant places is a greater bond between men +than a common knowledge of their fellows. As far as actual +work was concerned Abner might well have had a more satisfactory +partner, for, physically, Munn was a typical product of the +black-country at its worst, pale of face and lank of limb. +He seemed indeed altogether too puny for the work on which they +were engaged, and only a congenital consciousness of being born +to labour induced him to accept a state that made demands above +his strength. Abner would sometimes watch him as he stood +panting <a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>with the sweat breaking out in beads along the +unhealthy skin of his bossed forehead and matting the wisps of +his neutral-coloured hair. In the end their partnership +resolved itself into one in which Abner did most of the work when +the foreman was not there. And he did not grudge this, for +he had strength enough for two and so much vigour that he enjoyed +the using of it. Munn would lie down in the sun with his +chin in his hands, watching Abner at work, talking of famous +cup-ties that he had seen, or of the excitements of Dulston +Wakes.</p> +<p>‘I don’t know how you ever come to find yourself +on a job like this,’ Abner said one day.</p> +<p>‘It was company I wanted,’ Munn explained. +‘Before I come here I was driving a traction injin down in +Gloucestershire . . . what they call the Forest of Dean. +That was a place, if you like! The other chaps used to go +off into Cinderford and leave me alone with the engine up in +those woods. Lonely . . .! I went half balmy, +straight I did! Yo’d never guess what it was +like. I used to start talking to myself for company +like. Ever done that, Abner?’</p> +<p>Abner laughed. Of course he had never done that.</p> +<p>‘So I went up to the foreman and says: “Mister, I +can’t stick it.” I couldn’t say no more, +I couldn’t . . . trembling like a bloody leaf. +“What’s up with you now?” he says. +“I wants company,” says I. “What you want +is a nursemaid,” says he, and gives me my money on the +Saturday. Then I comes along here. Strike, if I +wasn’t glad to get away from all those trees! And +Gunner Eve, he look after me a bit. He’s a good chap, +the Gunner, ain’t he, kid?’</p> +<p>Working with Abner, or, more exactly, watching Abner work, Joe +Munn recovered a little of his broken spirit; but the story of +its destruction was older than his experience in the silences of +the Forest of Dean. His earliest days had been spent in a +double-back house in a Dulston slum, where, half-fed by an aged +grandmother, he had made the pallid growth of a potato sprouting +in a cellar. Thence he had passed to the children’s +ward of Dulston workhouse, being shot out at the age of fourteen +to make his <a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>best of the world. Even now he laboured, without +knowing it, under the shadows and suppressions of those early +days. These summer mornings, working with Abner, were the +happiest that he had ever known. They became sound friends +in a partnership wherein Abner was canonised as a hero and +protector, a position which he sustained with an amused +tolerance.</p> +<p>His relation with George Malpas remained equally happy. +They always walked down to work together in the morning, but +after that Abner rarely saw his friend, for Wolfpits held no +attraction for him, and he preferred to take himself, when the +day’s work was over, to the Pound House, or sometimes to +the old people at the Buffalo. In a few weeks Abner’s +temporary lodging had become a permanency. Mary Malpas, in +consultation with her husband, had settled the sum that he should +pay for bed and keep, and Wolfpits itself, that sinister and +desolate mansion, had become a pleasant and homely place.</p> +<p>At first he never accompanied George on his evening visits to +the Pound House. It pleased him better to walk home up the +valley in the cool of the evening and sluice his head and back +beneath a pump of cold spring water that stood in the deserted +stable-yard. Then Mary would give him his tea, always with +the same air of watchful and remote reserve, and he would smoke +his pipe in the garden, talking to the children who, in the +confidence of their own secret alliance, were gradually becoming +a little more friendly. Or he would play with Spider, who +had now learnt to take a place near his chair at meal times in +the hope of being fed with scraps from Abner’s plate.</p> +<p>Sometimes, too, he would lean on the fence watching old Drew +at work in his garden. The old labourer was as hardy as the +knotted oak that he resembled. His day’s work began +before dawn: he had more than three miles to walk to the farm on +which he was employed, but when he returned in the evening after +trudging the fields all day, he could never rest, but must be +putting his strip of garden in order so intently that he scarcely +had time to answer Abner’s questions, staring up at him +with those patient, <a name="page150"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 150</span>over-burdened eyes. His wages, +which were regulated by his age rather than his capacity for +labour, were only twelve shillings a week, so that his garden +produce was really essential to his life. When he had +finished his gardening, or when the light failed, he would retire +to his kitchen and drink a crude, sweet spirit that he distilled +from turnips. Sometimes at night they would hear him +singing to himself the innumerable obscene verses of Devonshire +folk-songs. Then, when he could sing no longer, he would +drag his twisted limbs upstairs and sleep like a log in the +certainty of waking before dawn to set out on his labours +again. His life indeed had been so solitary that he +distrusted any intrusion, and Abner had known him and spoken with +him for many weeks before he felt that his presence was +welcome.</p> +<p>The other tenant of Wolfpits he rarely saw, though her five +years in the old house had made her a confidante of Mary, and +indeed her principal refuge in domestic emergencies. +Sometimes when he came home at night he would find her talking to +Mary in the kitchen, but at the sight of him she scuttled away so +that he saw no more of her than one sees of a rabbit’s +vanishing tail.</p> +<p>Mary Malpas did not evade him in this primitive fashion and +yet, even when he had been living at Wolfpits for more than a +month, he felt that he really knew her no better than the +fugitive Mrs Mamble. He could find no parallel to her in +the history of his dealings with Alice at Mawne. The thing +for which Alice had been mostly concerned was her dignity as +mistress of John Fellows’s house, and this she had been +active to assert. Mary Malpas, on the other hand, had no +need to stand upon her dignity. It was instinct in the +refinement of her speech and even more in her silence. The +fact that her father had been a swindler and a suicide could +never rob her of it. Abner fancied for a time that the +awkwardness between them was caused by the way in which he had +been suddenly thrust upon her household. He felt that he +might stand to her as a symbol of a new slight inflicted on her +by her husband. Otherwise why should she deny him the least +suspicion of human contact? He even made an awkward attempt +<a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>to +settle the matter by asking her if she would not be better +pleased if he tried to find another lodging.</p> +<p>‘If I’m in the way like,’ he told her, +‘just you say so, and I’ll be off.’</p> +<p>‘Why should you think that?’ she said, without the +least sign of emotion. ‘There’s no reason why +you should go away . . . if you are comfortable.’</p> +<p>She didn’t say that they were glad to have him, though +the fact remained that his money was useful to them. She +didn’t say that they would be sorry to lose him. He +simply felt that she had made him look foolish, and as this was +the usual result of his dealings with her in spite of her +politeness and her care for his comfort he gave up trying to find +out what she was made of, and settled down to his life at +Wolfpits as though she had nothing to do with it.</p> +<p>He had always been fond of dogs and children, and Gladys, +Morgan, and Spider soon became devoted to him. Morgan was +evidently his mother’s favourite, and the little girl soon +took a shy but definite fancy to Abner, wandering alone down the +lane in the hope of meeting him on his way home from work and +riding back to Wolfpits perched on his shoulder. She would +watch him gravely while he stripped and swilled himself in the +stableyard, standing by with a towel ready to catch the beads of +water that sparkled on his eyebrows and his hair. Then hand +in hand they would wander round the farmstead, visiting the +pigsties and the barn in which the fowls were housed and +searching for the nests of broody hens in the hedgerows. +She loved above all things to sit upon his shoulder when she +carried home the eggs in the small cup of her hands. She +liked his hugeness and his strength, and rather despised Morgan +for the fact that he was his mother’s boy.</p> +<p>In those hills autumn came early, and soon sunset brought with +it a hint of evening cold. The air of the mountains drooped +upon the plain as soon as the western summits hid the sun, and in +a little while their evenings were of lamplight. When Abner +trudged home at night he could see the linnets gathering together +for their autumn flights, hear the whir of their wings <a +name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>and their +tender, reedy notes. Starlings, southward bound, swept the +air in wheeling cohorts, and swifts darted wildly round the +chimneys of Wolfpits. Wood fires were lighted in the +kitchen grate at night, and when Abner had finished his tea he +would settle down on the right hand of the fireplace with a pile +of cut logs at his feet.</p> +<p>At first he looked forward to these evenings with some +anxiety, feeling that the presence of this silent and, as he +thought, unsympathetic woman, would make him uncomfortable; but +strangely enough this did not happen. The devotion of +Gladys put him at his ease and occupied him so much that he did +not have to speak to her mother. When first the fire was +lighted Mary Malpas would move about the house on her own +business. Abner would hear her talking softly to Morgan in +the scullery while Gladys chattered to him in the flickering +light that filled the room with moving shadows. Later, like +a shadow herself, Mary would return with the boy and settle +herself softly in the chair on the other side of the fire. +Morgan would struggle up on to her knee and cuddle into his +mother’s breast, and Gladys, not to be outdone, would climb +on Abner’s knee and beg him to tell her stories. He +knew no stories for children, for he had never had a mother to +tell them to him, but he would talk to her about Mawne and the +blind pit-ponies, about the rabbits that lived in Dovehouse +fields, about Tiger and the excitements of the wakes with their +galloping horses and soaring swing-boats. Gladys had never +seen a fair and these descriptions fired her imagination +most.</p> +<p>‘Why ain’t there no swing-boats here, +mother?’ she would ask.</p> +<p>‘Because there aren’t enough children to go up in +them. You’ll see them some day.’</p> +<p>‘Abner’ll take me to see his; won’t you, +Abner?’</p> +<p>By this time of the evening, Morgan, curled up on his +mother’s lap, was usually as sleepy as Spider who lay like +a hedgehog on the hearth between them. Mary sat there +hugging the child in her arms and never speaking for fear that +she might disturb him, and <a name="page153"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 153</span>Gladys, impressed by the silence of +the firelit room, would snuggle closer to Abner and talk to him +in whispers that her mother could not hear. They sat on +either side of the fire in these strangely divided camps, and +Abner would become aware of the beauty and placidity of this +silent woman sitting still in the gloom with firelight playing in +her hair, listening all the time though she did not move, unless +it were to touch with her lips the forehead of her sleeping +child. He used to watch her and wonder what she was +thinking. He could not help watching her as she sat like a +statue staring at the fire. When she turned her eyes +towards him he would look away. He became so used to her +silent company that he could not have been happy without it.</p> +<p>The days shortened, the pollard elms turned gold and the rusty +chestnut leaves in the avenue fell of their own heaviness. +The drowsiness of summer had passed and a new restlessness seized +him. He could not be contented with this peaceful static +existence into which he found himself sinking. The silence +of Mary Malpas lay on him like a heavy spell. He had rested +enough and could no longer be contented to drowse before the fire +with a child in his arms. The peace of Wolfpits could tempt +him no longer when the chill autumn air stimulated him to action +and the natural violence of youth. He felt that what he +wanted was the society of men and the pursuits of manliness.</p> +<p>Once or twice he walked down to Chapel Green in the evening +and drank a pint with the labourers who gathered in the Buffalo +under the eye of old Mrs Malpas, but he found that he +couldn’t get on with her. She was always restrained +and severe, giving him the impression that she had taken a +dislike to him from the first, and when she talked to him he felt +that she was trying in her own superior way to find out exactly +what her daughter-in-law was doing at Wolfpits. Even her +questions about the children seemed to him to be dictated by +malevolent curiosity rather than by affection. He felt that +he was like a child in her hands and that she could get what she +liked out of him. When he went to the Buffalo he had +expected to find the cloggers <a name="page154"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 154</span>there, but they did little more than +sleep in that dismal house, going for their pleasures to the +relative gaiety and light of the Pound House, where they could do +as they liked. With the labourers at the Buffalo Abner had +nothing in common. He understood nothing of their talk of +crops and beasts and weather even when he could penetrate the +meaning of their speech. He gave the Buffalo up as a bad +job and went to the Pound House himself.</p> +<p>He used to go along there with George Malpas as soon as the +whistle signalled that the day’s work was at an end, and +there, in a brighter light and in the stir of a roaring business +he found an atmosphere more suited to his restless spirit. +Sometimes he sat with George Malpas; but George was a gloomy +drinker and better company when he was sober, so more often he +took his seat next to Gunner Eve, who drank nothing but spirits, +and sometimes, under their influence, would talk to him of his +old days of service in the navy, of blue Pacific havens, +palm-huts with brown women, or sometimes of that savage African +river on which he had lost his eye. That was the kind of +life that Abner wanted. In the Gunner’s stories a +vista of adventure opened before him. The liquor made him +think that such was the only life for a man. The +foreman’s tales of amorous adventure enthralled him. +Therein lay the proper use of women.</p> +<p>There was only one woman in the Pound House: Susie Hind, the +fine, strapping girl whose presence had disturbed him on his +first visit to the inn with George. Mrs Malpas’s +hints had led him to believe that she was an old flame of +George’s. He found himself comparing her with +George’s wife and thinking of the silence and remoteness of +Mary he felt it was easy to understand why George had been led +away. The freedom of Susie’s manners had suggested +that she was attainable. Abner, listening to the +gunner’s adventures, brooded on this, and the more he did +so the more desirable Susie became. There seemed to him no +reason why he should not possess her. Every night he sat in +the Pound House looking at her. He drank more than he need +have done simply <a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +155</span>in order that he might remain in her presence. +This inflamed his imagination and magnified in his eyes the +physical elegance which she regarded as necessary to her calling, +but he hardly dared to speak to her openly in this concourse of +men, and when she came near him with her bold but beautiful eyes, +his heart beat wildly and he could say nothing. He usually +stayed in the alehouse till closing time and walked back to +Wolfpits through the haunted night arm-in-arm with George Malpas +who was by this time a little sentimental. In one of these +walks he asked George about his relations with Susie.</p> +<p>‘Oh, she’s all right, you can take my word for +that,’ said George with a laugh.</p> +<p>‘Yo’ve seen a good bit of her,’ said +Abner.</p> +<p>‘All I want to,’ George replied, with a wink that +was invisible in the darkness.</p> +<p>Abner was silent and he continued: ‘You’d best go +easy for a bit, though. For the time being she’s took +up with that devil Badger. But that won’t last. +I know our Susie, bless her heart! Susie has her +fancies.’</p> +<p>Abner knew already that there was something between Susie Hind +and Badger. He had watched their whispers jealously often +enough. Now he began to examine their intimacies more +closely. The general unpopularity of Badger’s +occupation only helped to increase his jealousy. When he +saw their hands meet over the counter he felt that the natural +thing to do would be to rise from his seat, take Badger by the +neck and throw him out of the bar. He measured the thickset +keeper with a fighter’s eye, and felt confident that he was +a match for him. Meanwhile he must bide his time.</p> +<p>Every night he went regularly to the Pound House and sat there +waiting for his opportunity, never doubting but that he would get +her when the time came. By the mere habit of his presence a +sort of relationship was established between them, for +Abner’s strength and his fairness pleased her, and she +would sometimes pause for a moment in her business, standing +close to him with a tray under her arm and one hand <a +name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>on her +hip. The Gunner used to chaff her as she stood there. +He had done enough lovemaking in his young days and now his only +attitude towards women was one of jovial cynicism. No doubt +the foreman thought that Susie stayed because she enjoyed his +teasing; but Abner knew better. He knew it was himself, not +Eve, that Susie was watching. Between them, unseen by the +other, the air was charged with potential passion like the sky of +a hot night, placid and slumberous yet ready to burst into +lightning. He could laugh at Gunner Eve, this dry old man +who vainly imagined that he was pleasing her fancy. She +smiled at Eve, but all the time her smouldering eyes were fixed +on Abner, and he knew that she heard nothing. Then Badger +would come in and handle her as if he were her master. +Abner did not even mind this, for he saw that she was beginning +to treat the keeper as a habit and her eyes did not caress him +secretly. He began to feel that he could afford to despise +Badger, but he hated him none the less.</p> +<p>In those days he saw little of George Malpas at the Pound +House. Soon after Abner began to visit Mainstone regularly +George had transferred his custom to an inn in Lesswardine. +Abner did not ask him why he had done this, for to have done so +might easily have compromised their friendship. If George +preferred to spend his evenings away from his lodger’s +eyes, well and good. On the other hand he did renew his +travelling acquaintance with Mick Connor, who remained one of the +best customers of the Pound House. Mick had always been a +generous drinker. When he was in low water he was not +ashamed of sponging on his pals, but in these days he seemed +never to be short of money, and this, together with the glibness +of his tongue, made him a popular figure in the alehouse. +Abner wondered where the money came from, for Mick’s wages +were the same as his own, and though he knew that the Irishman +was a born gambler he could scarcely believe in the permanence of +his friend’s luck.</p> +<p>Quite by chance he discovered the source of Mick’s +income. One Sunday morning he had walked down to the Pound +House followed by the dog Spider when <a name="page157"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 157</span>Mick fell in with him by the +way. He surveyed Spider with a professional eye.</p> +<p>‘That’s a likely lookin’ dog,’ said +Mick.</p> +<p>‘Ay, she’s all right,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘Give me a bitch every time for hunt’n . . . +Ah, ye divil, get away wud you!’</p> +<p>Spider had suddenly become wildly interested in the +Irishman’s person and was jumping up and smelling at the +tails of his coat.</p> +<p>‘That’s a wise dog,’ said Mick. +‘I’d be glad of a dog the like of that on a moonlight +night.’</p> +<p>Abner had guessed what he meant, but Mick, who could never +resist the chance of producing a sensation, opened his coat and +showed him the contents of a game pocket that he had constructed +by making a slit in the lining. It was a fine +cock-pheasant, splendid in its chestnut autumn plumage. +Mick displayed it sentimentally. ‘Doesn’t that +make your teeth water?’ he said. ‘God, you +could ate it in your hand the way it is! And that bird do +be worth a good half-crown in Craven Arms.’</p> +<p>‘Where d’you get him?’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘You ask Mr bloody Badger,’ Mick replied with a +wink.</p> +<p>Abner pressed him, and he went on to explain that he and Curly +Atwell and one or two others had developed a plan of poaching on +a commercial scale. A man named Harford, a rabbit merchant +in Craven Arms, the railway junction and cattle-market over the +hills, had arranged to deal with their produce. Naturally, +in such a dangerous business, he bought cheap and sold dear; but +the proceeds of their sport were enough to keep the whole gang in +unlimited liquor, the thing that they needed most.</p> +<p>‘It’s the only way to keep clear of the buttermilk +cure,’ said Mick, ‘the way they pay us in this cursed +hole.’</p> +<p>He ended by pressing Abner to join them, pointing out that +Spider would be a useful ally, and Abner, without any hesitation, +accepted. He was glad of anything with a spice of adventure +in it to give vent to his energies. He didn’t care +much about the money <a name="page158"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 158</span>even though he remembered that he +had not yet been able to send Alice her two pounds, but it +pleased him to think that this was another way of getting even +with Badger, a feeling in which Mick, with no more definite +reason than an instinctive hatred of gamekeepers, concurred.</p> +<p>In this way there began a series of midnight adventures that +were a great joy to Abner and an even greater to George’s +dog, who asked nothing better in her sport than the help of human +allies. On these nights of misty moonlight the secret +beauty of the country-side smote on Abner’s heart though he +knew nothing of it but that he was happy. In the daytime +the land was dead and nothing lived in it but he and his fellow +men, but when evening came the hills, the woodlands, the rivers +and the upland wastes of heather tingled with life. +Something secret and timid that sunlight numbed into a protective +sleep, now stirred and wakened. The voices of the rivers +changed; they were no longer only torrents of swift water but +living things. Trees that in day were silent awoke and +whispered in the night. Amid miracles of nocturnal beauty +Abner walked unseeing. He only knew that he lived more +fully, more intensely in the night.</p> +<p>His senses quickened. His eyes were like the sharp eyes +of a hunting owl so that he felt that in daylight he had been +blind. His ears were tuned to an exquisite degree of +sensitiveness. The cracking of a twig, a distant step on +leaves, the least tremor of a growing tree, sent a shock of alert +pleasure into his brain. And the impalpable cool mist of +autumn sharpened his scent to a keenness that delighted +him. This state of acute sensitiveness was the basis on +which the more than physical thrill of imminent danger was +imposed. The labourers who worked on the farms of Squire +Delahay’s estate were naturally in league with Badger +against the depredations of these foreigners. Each of them +was himself a poacher in a quiet way; but they poached for the +pot rather than for the market and felt that the presence of Mick +and his gang was a menace to their privileges. These men, +if less intelligent, were as skilled in woodcraft as the Irishman +himself, <a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>and Mick’s friends followed their craft in a +constant peril of discovery.</p> +<p>It was a profitable adventure. Abner soon found that his +wages were trebled. Grouse from the mountains, pheasants +from the spinneys, partridges from the stubbles, all found their +way into Mick Connor’s bag and were driven in a +ragman’s cart to Craven Arms. Mick was content to +leave the rabbits to the labourers who spied upon him. He +spent his money wildly. It even pleased him to treat Badger +to drinks in the Pound House bar, knowing very well that the +keeper guessed where the money came from.</p> +<p>In November salmon began to run up the Barbel to meet the +winter floods, and Mick Connor was more than ever in his element, +remembering desperate days upon the Barrow when he was a +boy. Salmon spearing was to Abner the most exciting pastime +of all: the stealthy approach to the riverside up to his knees in +the ditches of the water-meadows: the milky whiteness of November +fogs; the nearing clamour of the river roaring whitely over +stickles into the salmon pool where it lay dumb and black: Mick +Connor’s hoarse whispers, the lumbering shadow of Curly +Atwell, and, in the darkness, the swirl of an eddy black as +ink.</p> +<p>‘Ready . . .’ Mick would whisper, and suddenly a +flare of light, reddening faces, casting grotesque shadows, +lighting the yellow tree-tops, making a beacon for miles of +dreamy country, as though the forest were aflame. The night +sounds vanished from Abner’s ears. The woods held +their breath and listened. He could hear nothing of the +river’s tumult—only the harsh breathing of Atwell and +the hiss of the colza flare.</p> +<p>‘By the houly! Look at him! Fourteen pounds +if he’s an ounce!’</p> +<p>The shadow of a lifted arm against the light. A violent +descent, and then a swirl in the black water and the great fish +struggling on the bank. For Mick Connor never missed his +mark.</p> +<p>‘Out with the light!’ And then a sudden +darkness in which the roar of the stickle and the vague noises of +the trees returned.</p> +<p>This curious insulation, the way in which light blinded <a +name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>their +pickets of alarm, was the great danger of salmon-spearing. +The glare in the tree-tops would always give them away if Badger +and his men were on the watch; and one frosty, owl-haunted night +in the middle of November they had a narrow shave. Mick +Connor was leaning over the bank with lifted spear when Abner +heard the breaking of a stick. A man cursed as he +floundered in a ditch not twenty yards away. Abner, who +doubted the quickness of Atwell, smothered the flare with his +hands. It scorched the horny skin of his palms, but it gave +the signal of alarm. On that side of the pool the current +had undercut the marly bank so that the poachers could not be +seen, but Abner’s ears recognised the sound of +Badger’s voice. The keeper’s party ran towards +the bank. A single man, the foremost, leapt down beside +them, shouting that he had got them. Abner let out from the +shoulder in the dark. His fist met the flesh of a +man’s face. The man gave a cry. For all he knew +it might have been the face of Curly Atwell, but it gave him a +good feeling in the dark, for he felt instinctively that it was +Badger’s. They left their spear on the bank, plunging +into the swift stickle above the pool, and found refuge in a +wood. Some one fired after them. He fired low, and +the twigs snapped about them. Abner plunged on through the +wood. He knew that he was running for his life. It +was good to be running for his life. He went on crashing +through the undergrowth of the wood battling with back-springing +saplings, torn with briers, laughing, curiously, wildly +exultant. He did not stop to think that he had lost touch +with the others. In an affair of this kind each must look +to himself. He only knew that he had escaped out of the +mouth of danger. His head spun with the elation of his +heart pumping blood into his brain. In that moment he felt +that he had courage for anything, and it pleased him particularly +to think that Badger had suffered this defeat.</p> +<p>He emerged from the woods into open fields, so calm under the +peace of night that it was hard to believe that any human +violence had lately invaded them. Westward the quiet hills +stood folded for the night. A gibbous <a +name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>moon rose +languidly above the mists. He stood in the middle of the +field, tingling to his finger-tips. He forgot that his legs +were sodden with muddy water, so splendidly his body +glowed. It was ridiculous to think of crossing the hills to +Wolfpits, for it was no more than nine o’clock. This +was not a time for sleep but for living. He turned his +steps in the direction of the Pound House.</p> +<p>Just before closing time he reached it. One end of the +bar was full of cloggers, to whom Wigan Joe was reeling off +Lancashire stories. The other was unusually empty, for the +Gunner and most of his company had left the house for want, +perhaps, of Mick Connor, who was their principal +entertainer. Susie stood behind the counter at the deserted +end of the bar swilling dirty glasses, wiping them one after +another, and listening all the time to the clogger’s +stories, many of which she had heard before the same evening, +since Wigan Joe had a way of running through his repertoire and +beginning again like an automatic musical-box when the liquor was +in him. As Abner entered the bar Mr Hind appeared in the +door of the kitchen.</p> +<p>‘I’m goin’ up, Susie,’ he said with a +jerk of his head in the direction of the staircase. +‘Two minutes to go, and then lock up.’</p> +<p>She said, ‘All right, dad,’ carelessly, never +looking at him, for her eyes were on Abner. ‘Night, +all!’ Mr Hind muttered as he disappeared.</p> +<p>Abner went straight up to her. The mood of physical +triumph and elation was still on him, and she must have known +that there was something strange about him since, for the first +time, she lowered her eyes.</p> +<p>‘I want a word with you, Susie,’ he said, +addressing her thus for the first time.</p> +<p>‘Best hurry up, then,’ she said, smiling. +‘It’s only two minutes afore we close. What are +you taking?’</p> +<p>‘Give us a double gin,’ he said, and while she +poured the limpid spirit into a clean glass he asked her what she +was doing on Sunday afternoon.</p> +<p>She wouldn’t answer him. ‘Look what good +measure I’ve given you,’ she said, handing him his +glass.</p> +<p>He put the drink down on the counter. +‘You’re not <a name="page162"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 162</span>goin’ to put me off like +that,’ he said. She murmured something about Mr +Badger.</p> +<p>‘Damn you and your Badgers,’ he said. +‘What about to-night, then?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, don’t be soft! Look at the time. +It’s just on ten.’</p> +<p>‘Get on with you! The time don’t +matter.’</p> +<p>‘No, I couldn’t,’ she said. ‘Of +course I couldn’t. Father’s gone +upstairs.’ The clock struck ten. Susie called, +‘Time, please!’ and the cloggers rose to go in the +middle of one of Wigan Joe’s most complicated +stories. They moved toward the door in a bunch, bidding +good-night to Susie, who stood waiting with the key in her +hand. Abner stayed by the bar finishing his gin. The +last good-nights echoed down the street. Susie stood at the +open door waiting for him.</p> +<p>‘Come on, do!’ she said. ‘It’s +after time.’</p> +<p>‘Why shouldn’t I stay here?’ he said, with a +laugh.</p> +<p>‘You know as well as I do why,’ she said, with a +managing air. ‘That new policeman, Bastard’s +got eyes like a weasel.’</p> +<p>‘Is that all?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Yes, of course that’s all.’</p> +<p>He came to the door and quickly closed it, then took her in +his arms and kissed her. She returned his kisses.</p> +<p>‘Leave go of me now,’ she whispered. +‘Go out in the lane while I lock up and then come round to +the back door, but don’t make too much row about +it.’</p> +<p>‘Yo’m not codding me?’</p> +<p>‘Of course I’m not.’</p> +<p>She closed the door after him, saying ‘good-night’ +in a clear voice for the benefit of the problematical +constable. He heard her lock the door and slip an iron bar +across into its sockets. The lighted windows went +black. He slipped round to the back of the house and stood +waiting in the angle that it made with an outhouse where dry +bracken was stored. For a long time, as it seemed, he stood +there staring at the faint and frosty stars. Then the door +opened softly. She did not speak, but he stole on tiptoe to +the door and entered the kitchen. Inside it was quite dark, +for the shutters were closed and the fire banked down. He +could not <a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span>see her, being only conscious of her warm and fragrant +presence. He groped in the dark, suddenly finding her face +on his own.</p> +<p>‘My . . . how cold you are!’ she whispered.</p> +<p>Half an hour later she let him out into the yard, with more +tender whispers of farewell and warnings that her father slept +lightly. For a few minutes he stood away from the moonlight +in the shadow of the house, bewildered, stunned. He saw the +white road stretching in the direction of Chapel Green and +Wolfpits, but it meant no more to him than if it had led to the +world’s end. He was no longer a part of the +world. He towered above it supreme and isolated in the +flame of his own throbbing exaltation. He had no need of +friends or houses or rest, no memory of the past, no thought for +the future. He stood there self-sufficient and +unassailable.</p> +<p>A little later he became aware of the fact that his feet were +carrying him automatically over the moon-lit road toward the +hills, but he was almost unconscious of his progress, and it +filled him with a sort of mild surprise when he saw familiar +landmarks of the road loom up before him, grow clear, and fall +away behind. His footsteps rang upon the iron road as +though he were shod with steel. From the brow of the hill +above Wolfpits he saw the basin of the Folly Brook brimmed with +mist. The gables of the house rose up into the moonlight, +the hills stood black behind. Under the heavy chestnuts of +the avenue it was almost dark; the water in the ruts had frozen +to a thin crust so that the surface was curiously splashed with +moonlight and with ice. Fifty yards in front of him he saw +a figure moving with lurches from side to side of the lane. +At first he thought it was a stray bullock, but there was +something human in its movements and so he leapt to the +conclusion that it was old man Drew rolling home drunk with sweet +turnip from the cottage of some friend. The figure leaned +for a moment against a stone wall, and Abner, coming abreast of +it, saw that the drunken man was George Malpas.</p> +<p>‘Hallo, George, what’s up?’ he called.</p> +<p>‘God, Abner, is that you?’ George murmured +thickly. <a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>‘I haven’t half got a drop, I +haven’t!’ The situation amused George so much +that he shook with weak laughter.</p> +<p>‘Come on, then, old son!’ said Abner, taking him +by the arm. Strong as he was he found it difficult to steer +a straight course. George, having once submitted to the +direction of another will, now became somnolent. Abner +almost had to carry him up the garden path.</p> +<p>A light burned in the kitchen, and on the doorstep Mary stood +waiting for them. She looked very frail and beautiful in +the light of candles. From the first her eyes had taken in +the situation, and she offered no spoken comment on it though her +mouth showed that she was suffering the shame of the +situation.</p> +<p>‘Give me a hand upstairs with him, please,’ she +said.</p> +<p>The excuses that Abner was ready to offer for his friend died +on his lips. Between them they directed the steps of George +upstairs. When he reached the bedroom he stared about him +as though he had never been there before, and then, giving the +problem up, lurched over on to the bed covering his head with his +hands.</p> +<p>‘We’d best get his boots off,’ said +Abner.</p> +<p>He took the right and Mary the left. It was a strange +thing how they had to wrestle with the leather laces and how +tightly the boots stuck to his inanimate feet.</p> +<p>‘Now he’s all right,’ said Abner, when the +job was finished. ‘He’ll come up like a daisy +in the morning, never fear!’</p> +<p>She did not reply to him but stood with the candlestick in her +hand staring at her husband’s body.</p> +<p>‘Will you come downstairs with me, please?’ she +said.</p> +<p>Abner had not bargained for this. He could not think +what she wanted of him, but he could not very well refuse her, +and so he followed her down the creaking stairs into the +kitchen. She put the candle on the table and faced him +silently from the other side. Then she said:—</p> +<p>‘Tell me all about it, please . . . +everything.’</p> +<p>There was nothing to tell her. He said that he had found +George leaning up against a wall in the avenue and helped him +over the last lap.</p> +<p><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>‘Were you at the Pound House to-night?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I looked in just on closing time.’</p> +<p>‘Then I’m sure that you know. Please tell +me!’</p> +<p>‘I’ve told you. I don’t know +nothing.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t believe you . . . not if you was at the +Pound House. That’s where he gets it.’</p> +<p>‘Well, you know more about it nor me then,’ said +Abner.</p> +<p>‘Don’t talk to me like that! I know . . . +I’m not a child.’</p> +<p>‘It’s no good talkin’ like that. A +chap must take a drop in and out. It’s human +nature.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, it isn’t the drink!’ she said. +‘He doesn’t go to that place only for the +drink. I should have thought you being with him would keep +him straight.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know what you’re talking +about.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, you do,’ she said, striking the table with +her clenched fist. ‘You know . . . you know. . . +. It’s that woman!’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know naught of George’s +women,’ said Abner obstinately.</p> +<p>‘Then you’ve no eyes,’ she said, with a +gesture of scorn. ‘The woman at the Pound +House!’ She blazed with a white anger: ‘That +dark-eyed devil that’s been after him these months, that +Susie Hind . . .’</p> +<p>‘Oh, her . . .’ said Abner, with a laugh.</p> +<p>‘Don’t you put me off!’ she cried. +‘Don’t put me off! It’s not for me, +it’s for his children. You see, I know, so +you’d best tell me.’</p> +<p>‘I can tell you one thing,’ he said. +‘George ain’t been with Susie Hind +to-night.’</p> +<p>She clenched her hands furiously. ‘You’re +only telling me lies . . . lies. How do you know? How +do you know?’</p> +<p>‘How do I know? I like that! I know because +I’ve been with her myself.’</p> +<p>He thought it was a fine and brutal thing to say. With +the same words he had rescued his friend from an awkward +suspicion and proclaimed the thing that he had been wanting to +shout to the stars on his way home. He had been burning to +share his triumph with some one. George would have heard it +if he hadn’t been so <a name="page166"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 166</span>drunk. Now it was out; he had +got it off his chest; he stood there smiling and triumphant, +wondering what she could say next.</p> +<p>‘So you needn’t vex yourself about poor old +George,’ he said.</p> +<p>For a second she stared at him. The white anger died out +of her face. She became suddenly red. Her clenched +fingers opened and she clutched at the table. Then she gave +a sudden, choking gasp, and spoke:—</p> +<p>‘You . . .’ she said, ‘you . . . ! Oh, +I shouldn’t have thought it of you!’</p> +<p>‘What’s up with you now?’ he said, +good-humouredly. Her body was shaken with a fit of sobbing +and she left him staring in the candlelight.</p> +<h2><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>The +Thirteenth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Next</span> morning when Abner came +downstairs in the dark he found George making himself a cup of +tea in the kitchen.</p> +<p>‘That you, Abner?’ he said, turning his neck +gingerly as though it hurt his head to speak. +‘God! It’s lifting the top of my skull +off! This dose’ll last me for a bit. Mind you, +I wasn’t so boozed I can’t remember what +happened. I should have slept up against that old wall if +you hadn’t come along. You’m a good pal, +Abner.’ At this point his voice gave out. +‘Have a spot of tea?’ he said in a hoarse +whisper.</p> +<p>As usual they walked down the valley together at dawn. +The fields lay hoary with rime, so that the light of dawn was +like cloudy moonlight. Their heels crunched into the +brittle ice of the wheel-ruts. Before them, on the white +road, ran the wayward pattern of Spider’s dancing +feet. Not a bird sang. The cold air gripped their +temples. It was as though winter were closing on the world +and those who dwelt in it like an iron vice. Dawn whitened +beyond Castel Ditches: light without heat—light reflected +from ice. But the steady walking thawed their limbs and +George was soon asking in a husky voice for details of what had +happened the night before. Something in Mary’s +attitude when they woke that morning had struck him as +unusual. He guessed that she had found a new grievance, and +was anxious to know what she had said. He laughed when +Abner told him that she had questioned him on the subject of +Susie: laughed till the cold air choked him.</p> +<p>‘They’m all the same, the women,’ he +said. ‘Jealous . . . that’s the top and bottom +of them. What did you tell her?’</p> +<p>‘Said I hadn’t seen you at the Pound +House.’</p> +<p>‘God! You didn’t say I’d been to +Lesswardine?’</p> +<p>‘I dain’t know naught about it.’</p> +<p>‘And the less you know the better, or you’ll be +having <a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>these women buzz round you like flies. You can +tell our Mary what you like, but you’ll need to keep your +eyes skinned with mother. I’ve got to bide on the +right side of the old woman or it’s all up. +She’ll have it out of you before you know you’re +there.’</p> +<p>By this time they had reached the lower end of the valley to +which the cloggers had lately transferred their work. The +whole gang were now housed in the Buffalo and the other scattered +cottages of Chapel Green, but a couple of tents were left +standing on the banks of the Folly Brook and the smoke of a +wood-fire went up blue into the air.</p> +<p>‘I can’t make mother out,’ George +grumbled. ‘Here she is with Wigan Joe and the rest of +them in the house: a mint of money for the asking, and she goes +scaring them over to Mainstone with her long face. If I had +the Buffalo I’d soon see they spent their money in the +house. It’s as good as robbing me the way she sends +them away. She don’t want the money, but I want it +bad enough, God knows!’</p> +<p>They parted when they reached the workings. George +whistled to Spider, but the dog only wagged her tail and then +dived into a trench, preferring to stay with Abner. Munn +appeared, rubbing his hands with cold. Abner laughed at +him.</p> +<p>‘Put your back into it, Joe, and you’ll soon feel +right,’ he said.</p> +<p>The day’s work began. A red sun rose sluggishly, +half frozen. The light glinted on the long line of swinging +picks and the sounds of the work rose cheerily in the thin +air. Very different was this from the subdued activity of +summer. The labourers did not work only for money but +because the exertion sent the blood tingling warm into their +hands and feet. Work was an ecstasy and to Abner a greater +ecstasy than to the rest of them. He thought of Susie and +of the night before. He whistled as he worked for sheer +physical joy, rejoicing in his strength, for now once more, after +months of soft disuse, his body was finding its right expression +and coming splendidly to its own. He stretched his limbs in +the sunlight, recapturing the moments of physical exaltation that +used to come to him when the Mawne <a name="page169"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 169</span>United team stepped out on to the +smooth turf of the Albion ground, a company of clean and splendid +athletes. And all the time, beneath the pleasant anodyne of +work, his body glowed with a rich contentment, knowing that in a +few hours night would come and Susie be clinging in his arms +again.</p> +<p>He had no fear that she would forsake him. He felt, in +every fibre of his body that he was a match, and more than a +match for Badger. Having once attained her he knew that he +could keep her; and in this he was not deceived, for Susie, +having looked on him and found that he was good, had taken a +fancy to him and now kept pace with his passion, asking as much +as he could give. Every evening, as was already his custom, +he would go to the Pound House and take his seat beside Gunner +Eve; but now he no longer needed to follow Susie with his eyes, +was no longer tortured with vague jealousies, for when she passed +him he could feel her soften and respond to his presence. +Sometimes, when no one was looking, she would turn her head in +his direction and for a moment their eyes would meet. He +did not care when men spoke to her lightly or placed their hands +upon her arm, for now he knew that she belonged to him and could +be his for the asking. The events of the first night were +repeated many times. Now a single whisper was enough to +ensure that when the alehouse was empty and Mr Hind safely in +bed, the kitchen door would be opened softly and Susie waiting +for him in the warm darkness. It amused Abner to see the +coldness that she now showed toward Badger. The keeper was +puzzled, for all their love-making was secret and nocturnal, and +Susie and Abner never appeared in public together. Badger +knew that for some unknown reason he had lost her, and this made +him more persistent than ever in his attentions, being far too +important in his own estimation to be discarded without good +reason. Abner laughed to see his irritation. He and +Susie laughed together in the night. ‘I can’t +imagine whatever I saw in him,’ she said.</p> +<p>At the end of November Susie went away for a week to stay with +her grandparents in Hereford. Without her the Pound House +meant nothing to Abner, and <a name="page170"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 170</span>without considering that his absence +might be noticed, he drifted back into his old habit of returning +to Wolfpits in the evening. It was now more than a month +since he had done this, and in the interval he had scarcely +spoken to Mary Malpas. Returning, and expecting to pick up +the threads of the old life exactly as he had left them, he was +surprised to find the atmosphere of Wolfpits curiously +changed. The attitude of Mary herself was cold and +unfriendly. He found it difficult to make headway against +it, for she scarcely spoke to him, and even the children seemed +to have become infected with their mother’s distrust. +It was true that they had seen so little of him as almost to have +forgotten him, but it seemed strange that his old favourite, +Gladys, no longer came instinctively to his arms. He could +not accept the change without a protest. One evening, +finding Mary alone, he tackled her.</p> +<p>‘What’s come over you?’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Nothing’s come over me. What do you +mean?’ she replied coldly.</p> +<p>‘Yo’m different . . . like you was scared of +me. What have I done?’</p> +<p>‘You know best. You know what you told me . . . +that night,’ she said, with tight lips.</p> +<p>‘That’s nothing to do with you,’ he +said.</p> +<p>‘No . . . Nothing.’</p> +<p>‘Then what’s up with you?’</p> +<p>She laughed uneasily and went into the scullery. Abner +was seized with sudden rage. It didn’t surprise him +that George couldn’t get on with her. Mrs Malpas was +right. She was trying to play the lady with him. With +a woman like that it was useless trying to be frank. He +could read suspicion into everything that she did. When +Gladys, who was now regaining her confidence, climbed on to his +knee, she followed the child with anxious eyes as though she +feared that he would corrupt her. He determined to have the +matter out with her, but she never gave him a chance, arranging +carefully that they should never be alone. For this or for +some other obscure reason she always invited her neighbour, Mrs +Mamble, to come in and sit with her in the evening. This +old woman, innocent of the <a name="page171"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 171</span>strange relation between them, would +sit in front of the fire talking incessantly of her dead husband +and her distant relatives down Tenbury way. She had a +brother who kept a small shop in a hamlet called Far Forest, and +was never tired of talking of his importance as an elder of the +local Wesleyan synod and the achievements of her nephew James, +whom his father had destined for the ministry. The old +woman tried to entertain them both with these recitals, but Abner +had little patience with her, and tried to forget that she was +there. He sat reading the football news in the last +Sunday’s <i>People</i>; but even this could not shut out +the sound of her slow, insistent voice. One night he asked +for pen and paper and wrote a short but laborious note to Alice, +enclosing a postal order for two pounds, which he had bought in +Chapel Green. Mary watched him all the time that he was +writing.</p> +<p>‘Ah, yo’m curious, bain’t yo’?’ +he thought. ‘Pretending to take no heed of me, but +yo’d give your eyes to see what I’ve +written.’</p> +<p>Indeed she offered to post the letter for him; but he +declined, putting it in his pocket with a laugh.</p> +<p>In the end he found these evenings at Wolfpits so +uncomfortable that he was glad when Mick Connor inveigled him +into a new expedition against Badger’s preserves. By +this time the keeper had looked about him and made plans for +defending his master’s property, so that the game was +getting more dangerous every day. Badger had made friends +with Constable Bastard, the new policeman, who had been drafted +to Mainstone from Shrewsbury and looked upon poaching with the +uncharitable eye of a townsman. To the great embarrassment +of Mr Hind, who, not unreasonably, lived in terror of the +licensing justices, and had not yet determined in what degree the +new policeman was corruptible, Bastard began to take an interest +in the customers of the Pound House, poking his whiskered face +inside the taproom every evening and taking count of the company +like a shepherd numbering his sheep. Mr Hind’s heart +sank when he found that the constable was a teetotaller. +The appearance of Bastard’s face in the doorway made him +tremble for his licence, though these visits only <a +name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 172</span>meant that +the keeper and the policeman were working together, hoping to +identify the authors of each poaching outrage by establishing +their absence from the Pound House.</p> +<p>The first expedition in which Abner took part during +Susie’s visit to Hereford gave them a big haul. +Abner’s own share of it was fifteen shillings, and, thus +encouraged, they raided the keeper’s preserves on three +nights in succession. The constable, checking the tale of +drinkers at the Pound House, pointed out that Abner, Mick, Curly +Atwell, and another had been absent on each of the nights in +question, and that Mick had celebrated his return by recklessly +standing treat to the whole taproom.</p> +<p>‘That young Fellows,’ said Bastard, +‘he’s not been nigh the place for more nor a +week. For myself I’d say that he looks a quiet chap, +but you never know . . . upon my word you don’t.’</p> +<p>‘The simpler they looks,’ said Badger +emphatically, ‘the more they wants an eye kept on +them. I’m pretty near certain I saw him that night +they was arter the salmon.’</p> +<p>‘Never you fear!’ said the constable, +‘I’ll keep an eye on the lot.’</p> +<p>It never occurred to Badger, whose energies were centred for +the present on one problem, to connect Abner’s absence from +the Pound House with Susie’s visit to Hereford. He +was an obstinate and not very intelligent man, thick-set in mind +as in body, who had learnt his own craft thoroughly and knew +little else. He had become aware of Susie’s coldness +toward him before her departure, but he had not thought to +explain it by her fancying another man. In any case the +matter might wait. He could only do one thing at a time, +and for the present he was too busy with Mick and his friends to +waste good time in dangling round the Pound House. Perhaps +it was only that Susie wanted more fuss made of her. All in +good time . . .</p> +<p>After ten days she returned, and Abner began to visit the +Pound House again. He found her imperious and exacting, she +could not see too much of him. Bastard reported him to +Badger as a regular attendant at the inn.</p> +<p><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +173</span>‘You needn’t trouble about that young +Fellows,’ he said. ‘He’s after other +game.’</p> +<p>‘There’s no game here to speak on but ours,’ +said Badger stupidly.</p> +<p>‘Ah, it’s a different kind I mean,’ said the +constable. ‘That girl of Hind’s is looking +after him. Any night of the week if you want to see a +picture you can watch her take him in by the back door when the +old man’s asleep upstairs.’</p> +<p>Badger went livid and swore so violently as to shock the +constable’s principles.</p> +<p>‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, ‘not a +word of it.’</p> +<p>‘Seeing’s believing,’ said Bastard. +‘At any rate seeing’s good enough for me.’</p> +<p>All thought of the poachers vanished from Badger’s +single mind. He left the constable in the middle of their +conversation and went straight to the Pound House, where he found +Susie alone, making a petticoat from a pattern that she had +bought in Hereford. She could see by his stormy entrance +that something had upset him and switched on her most +ingratiating manner.</p> +<p>‘Well, it is a time since I’ve seen you, Mr +Badger,’ she said, laying aside her work. ‘Will +you have something?’</p> +<p>He wouldn’t drink; he refused to waste time in +preliminary skirmishing.</p> +<p>‘You’re not going to get round me that way,’ +he said. ‘What’s this about you and that chap +Fellows?’</p> +<p>‘Fellows?’ said Susie. ‘What Fellows +is that?’</p> +<p>‘Now don’t start that game on me,’ said +Badger angrily. ‘I’ve seen there was something +up with you for the last month. Now I know what it +is. You can’t go on like that with me. +I’m not that kind of man.’</p> +<p>‘And I’m not that kind of girl, Mr Badger,’ +said Susie. ‘I thought better of you, indeed I +did.’</p> +<p>‘You can drop all that,’ said Badger, with a +laugh. ‘You can let on you’re as innocent as a +lamb, but I know better. Understand that!’</p> +<p>‘If that’s what you mean, I can tell you straight +I’m not going to listen to your dirty tongue. +I’m not accustomed to be spoke to by my friends like +that.’ She rose indignantly and would have gone into +the kitchen but he caught hold of her arm.</p> +<p><a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +174</span>‘You don’t deny it,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘I wouldn’t demean myself.’ She tried +to wrench away from him, but he would not let her go. The +warmth of her arm on his fingers made him mad. He wanted to +use her roughly. She cried out with pain.</p> +<p>‘Don’t!’ she cried. +‘You’re hurting me!’</p> +<p>He wanted to hurt her. He only held her tighter. +‘Where’s your father?’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Father’s gone out,’ she said. +‘Oh, let me go!’</p> +<p>‘Gone out, is he? Well, I’ll have a talk to +him about this when he comes back. Then we’ll see . . +.’</p> +<p>‘You can tell him all the dirty lies you like,’ +she said defiantly.</p> +<p>But, in reality, his words had thrown her into a state of +terror. That squat owl-faced father of hers was the one +person on earth whom she dreaded. It came over her suddenly +that somehow or other she must prevent his knowing, for though he +had no objection to his daughter being free with men for the good +of the house, she knew that he was anxious to keep on good terms +with Badger and would be furious to think that she had taken up +with a labouring man. Somehow she must flatter the keeper +out of his intention; but she knew that a sudden change of front +would be a manœuvre too transparent. It pleased her, +therefore, to give vent to the emotions which she had so far +controlled and to break down in the most natural tears. She +put her handkerchief to her eyes and sobbed violently.</p> +<p>Badger was bewildered by this but still determined.</p> +<p>‘You don’t get over me that way,’ he +said. ‘Not if I know it!’</p> +<p>She went on sobbing, and the spectacle began to get on his +nerves.</p> +<p>‘You can cry your eyes out, my girl, but I’m going +to tell your father.’</p> +<p>She raised her eyes. ‘It’s not that!’ +she said violently. ‘You can tell him any lie you +like and it won’t make no difference to me. What I +can’t stand is that you should think it of me . . . that +you should think I’d go with a common chap like that. +It’s cruel, Mr Badger . . . cruel! After the friends +we’ve been. . .’</p> +<p>She put her hands on his shoulders and looked at <a +name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>him, +pleading. His lust got the better of him and he took her +violently in his arms. She submitted, and he began to +forget his suspicions. She clung to him so that he could +think of nothing but that she was desirable. Then, +cunningly, gradually she became playful and childish, teasing +him, indignant that he should have thought so ill of her. +By the time that he left her she had convinced him that nothing +could spoil their intimacy; but whatever she pretended she could +not shake herself free from the fright he had given her. +She felt that the time would never pass till she could see Abner +and warn him.</p> +<p>It was no easy matter, for when the evening came and she began +her work in the bar, moving among the drinkers with her usual +smiling freedom, Badger was also there following her with hungry +eyes as she went about her work. He sat in a corner, +isolated, for none of the strangers would have anything to do +with him. While serving a tot of gin to Gunner Eve she +contrived to whisper to Abner, begging him to keep away from the +house that night.</p> +<p>‘Why? What’s up?’ he said.</p> +<p>‘I can’t tell you,’ she whispered. +‘Come to-morrow early, before it’s light on your way +to work. Just to please me!’</p> +<p>She spoke so urgently and with such evident distress that he +obeyed her, and Badger, who had seen her bending over to speak to +Abner, spent a cold night watching the back of the Pound House in +vain. He might well have been better employed, for while he +stood there shivering Mick Connor made free with half a dozen of +his pheasants.</p> +<p>Next morning, in the half light of dawn, which made the cold +kitchen look unspeakably sordid, she received Abner. The +meeting had none of the warm glamour of their nightly +love-making, and her anxiety made him impatient.</p> +<p>‘What the hell do I care for Badger?’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Oh, quiet . . . quiet! Don’t speak so +loud!’ she implored him. She submitted to his +embraces, but her mind was not with him.</p> +<p>‘I can’t think what’s up with you,’ he +said.</p> +<p>His unconcern irritated her. ‘Can’t you +understand?’ she said. ‘It’s better to do +without me for a little than to lose me for good. +That’s what would happen if father <a +name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>knew. +He’d send me away to Hereford, to grandma’s. +That’s what he’d do. Only for a week, +Abner. After that, when he’s forgotten about it, +things ’ll be better.’</p> +<p>Her distress was so real and she seemed so little to belong to +him in her present state that he consented not to see her for a +week.</p> +<p>‘Then I shan’t come a’nigh the place,’ +he said. ‘I’m not goin’ to sit there +looking at you and nothing after.’</p> +<p>‘Yes . . . that would be best,’ she said +gladly. It inflamed him to think that she could take this +complete divorce so calmly.</p> +<p>‘Better finish it off,’ he said.</p> +<p>Then she clung to him. ‘No, no, Abner. . . . +I couldn’t bear that! Only a week, my love, only a +week. . .’</p> +<p>He kept to his side of the bargain, and Badger was relieved to +see him no more at the Pound House, although the suddenness of +Abner’s abstention coloured his suspicions. What with +his pheasants and the woman the keeper’s life was becoming +too complicated for his intelligence, for Mick profited by +Badger’s new devotion to Susie by ravaging his +coverts. In this Abner, who had no other way of killing +time, joined his friend, and on the last night of the week came a +sharp but bloodless encounter in which the keeper was more than +ever certain that he had seen Abner’s face. After +this it became fixed in Badger’s mind that Abner was his +principal enemy, the man who was obstinately working against him +wherever he went. Somehow or other, he determined, he must +get the better of him.</p> +<p>On the night when Abner returned to the Pound House, Badger +was already there. Mick, as usual after a successful foray, +was spending money freely, and by nine o’clock the room was +full of excited men. Abner was ready to drink with the best +of them, for his pockets were full of money and he had not been +inside a pub for a week. To add to this uproarious assembly +in came George Malpas, returning early from his own dark business +in Lesswardine.</p> +<p>‘Go easy, boys,’ he said, as he entered, +‘that damned copper’s outside.’</p> +<p>But Mick Connor had by now gone too far to go easy. The +liquor which in the early stages of intoxication <a +name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 177</span>merely +rendered him funny now made him boastful, and the sight of +Badger, glowering in his corner over a hot whisky, provided him +with a subject for his wit. Atwell tried to keep him within +bounds, but Mick, once fairly nourished, could talk the cross off +an ass’s back. The laughter with which his sallies at +the keeper’s expense were greeted stimulated him. He +plunged into wild excesses of simile, while Badger sat sipping +his whisky, going redder and redder as he listened. He knew +that the whole room was against him; felt that before long he +must do something to assert himself. If he went out into +the road he would only be laughed at, but no man could sit there +listening to Mick Connor without shame.</p> +<p>‘Wait while I’m tellin’ you,’ said +Mick. ‘Over in Connemara there used to be an old gent +named Hewish, a proper old sportsman. It was he that +invented that game I’ve told you of . . . spider racing, +spiders burning the legs off of them on a hot plate. +Cock-fightin’ too. And badger-baitin’. +I’m after tellin’ you that’s the sport for a +man!’</p> +<p>A roar of laughter greeted him. ‘And so say all of +us!’ said Mick insolently, staring into Badger’s +corner. Badger pushed aside the table and rose to his +feet. His glass went down with a crash.</p> +<p>‘Oh, Mr Badger!’ Susie cried.</p> +<p>‘Gard! The baste’s afther turning on +me!’ cried Mick. ‘All together, +boys!’</p> +<p>Badger pushed his way through the crowd to Mick. The +Irishman lowered his head and butted him in the stomach like a +ram. Badger, falling, saw Abner’s smiling face and +lashed out at it. The two men went down together, fighting +on the floor. Susie rushed into the kitchen, calling for +her father, and at the same moment the constable ran into the +room. He began to try and pinion Abner, who had Badger on +the floor.</p> +<p>‘Leave them alone,’ cried George Malpas +excitedly. ‘Badger hit him first!’ He +took hold of the policeman’s shoulder, and tried to pull +him back.</p> +<p>‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ Bastard +shouted. ‘Obstructing my duty?’</p> +<p>But George would not let him go. The policeman left <a +name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>Abner and +closed with Malpas. He was the taller, but the older +man. They swayed in each other’s arms and then, +tripping on the leg of an overturned chair, went down +together. The policeman was undermost and his head hit the +stone floor with a dull thud. George, who had fallen above +him, freed himself from his arms.</p> +<p>‘The b—’s stunned,’ said Atwell. +‘Serve him right!’</p> +<p>Mr Hind had appeared on the scene and was bending over the +prostrate policeman. George leaned panting against the +bar.</p> +<p>‘There’s blood coming from his ears and +nose,’ Mr Hind said hoarsely.</p> +<p>‘The b—’s stunned,’ Atwell repeated +stolidly.</p> +<p>‘He’s not stunned,’ said the landlord, +looking up. ‘He’s dead!’</p> +<p>By this time Abner had got the better of the keeper, whom he +held beneath him on the floor. He heard the crash as George +Malpas and Constable Bastard went over amid a hubbub of +voices. Then, with the landlord’s words, which Abner +did not hear, fell a sudden silence. He wondered what was +up, released Badger, and pushed forward to the cluster of men +that surrounded the policeman’s body. He heard the +word ‘dead’ passing from one to another. +‘Lock at the blood coming out of his ear,’ they +said. And there was George Malpas leaning up against the +bar with his hands behind him gripping it, ghastly pale and +panting with his mouth open, and twitching at the corners. +He didn’t see Abner or any one else. A curious +inertia had fallen on the group of men about Bastard’s +body. They simply stared at it as though it had fallen into +the midst of them from another planet. Mr Hind, by way of +an experiment, lifted the constable’s hand and let it fall +again. It fell on the floor with a wooden sound.</p> +<p>‘Somebody run to Lesswardine for the doctor,’ said +Mr Hind.</p> +<p>‘I’ll go myself,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘That’s right. Tell ’im about the +blood, and be’s quick as you can.’</p> +<p>‘It’s snowing,’ some one called.</p> +<p>Abner went hatless to the door. Looking back into the +kitchen he saw the face of Susie. It was white, <a +name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>like a +mask. For the moment it meant nothing to him. They +looked at each other for that fraction of a second +unrecognising. Abner started running toward +Lesswardine. The hard road echoed. The night was +deadly black and snow was falling.</p> +<p>He scarcely noticed the snow. He went on plodding over +the road to Lesswardine without realising, for the time, the +importance of his journey. He felt the snowflakes spatter +his face, his neck, his chest, for in the struggle with Badger +his shirt had been torn open. He was glad he had come to +grips with Badger. He felt he could do what he liked with +the keeper now. The white-faced vision of Susie, till then +unrealised, came back to him out of the darkness. Scared, +she must have been!</p> +<p>In Lesswardine yellow lamps beamed through halos of cold +air. Crossing the bridge he saw that his clothes were as +white as a miller’s. The great flakes danced like +moths in the lamplight, they flew into his mouth and melted on +the heat of his tongue. His feet did not echo in these new +streets, for the macadam was felted with an inch of snow. +He had nearly reached his goal. It was senseless to go on +running, panting, and swallowing mouthfuls of snow; but his legs +would not obey these half-formed thoughts and carried him +onwards.</p> +<p>The doctor was smoking his after-supper pipe when Abner +arrived. The Hinds were good patients, and he did not +hesitate to turn out. ‘Give me a hand with the +mare,’ he said, and they went out into the stable to put +to. The doctor’s wife had warmed his overcoat and +wrapped a muffler round his neck. He gave Abner a peg of +whisky to keep him warm. When they were clear of the +Lesswardine lights he asked for details of the affair. +‘By Gad, that’s serious,’ he said. +‘That means an inquest and a P.M.’ He thought +to himself: ‘Two guineas,’ and touched up the mare +with satisfaction.</p> +<p>‘You say Bastard and George Malpas went down +together? He was struggling with George?’</p> +<p>‘Yes—it was me and Badger he was after.’</p> +<p>‘That’s beside the point,’ said the +doctor. ‘It’s a bad lookout for +Malpas—and for his mother, poor old lady! A bad +lookout. . . . It’s +homicide—manslaughter.’</p> +<h2><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>The +Fourteenth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">By</span> the time that Abner and the +doctor reached Mainstone, Bastard’s body was growing cold, +and the last hope that his unconsciousness was any less than that +of death had vanished. The Pound House was still full of +those who waited for the verdict, a silent, sober company. +Mr Hind, who had not seen the beginning of the struggle, tried +vainly to find out what had happened. All accounts of it +were confused and contradictory, and in any case it mattered +little to the landlord, for he knew that his house was already in +the black books of the police, and felt sure that this +catastrophe would mean the loss of his licence. The doctor +scarcely needed to look at Bastard’s body.</p> +<p>‘Yes, fractured base,’ he said. ‘He +must have died at once. An elderly man with brittle +bones. There’s nothing to be done, Hind. +I’ll knock up the sergeant when I get back to Lesswardine +and telephone the coroner.’</p> +<p>‘I wouldn’t have had this happen for nothing, +doctor!’ moaned Mr Hind.</p> +<p>‘Of course you wouldn’t. It’s not your +fault.’</p> +<p>‘He must have tripped over that chair.’ And +everybody, including the doctor, stared at the offending piece of +furniture with interest.</p> +<p>‘Come on, Abner,’ said George Malpas. +‘Good-night, Mr Hind.’</p> +<p>Mr Hind did not reply.</p> +<p>All through that night the snow fell slowly, +incessantly. The soft, frozen sky drifted downward idly on +the land, and George and Abner had to pick their way back to +Wolfpits blindly in the small hours, guided through the plain by +the presence of ghostly trees and in the Wolfpits valley by the +snow-muffled tumult of the Folly Brook. The hills were +desolate and savage. They lay dead, and the sky covered +them. Wolfpits itself rose before the travellers’ +eyes sudden and black through the falling snow. There was +no light in any of the windows, for Mary had given them up long +ago <a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>and +gone to bed. Wood embers smouldered in the kitchen +grate. George poked them into a blaze. They took off +their snow-plastered coats and sat in front of the fire.</p> +<p>‘Well, this is a bloody fine thing!’ said +George. ‘Old Bastard gone and me a murderer. +I’ve looked for some queer things but never for +this.’</p> +<p>‘I reckon it’s my fault,’ said Abner. +‘That’s bound to come out.’</p> +<p>‘That’s not going to help me,’ said George, +with a laugh. ‘Not it! . . . It’s +mother I’m thinking of. There’s no luck in our +family. It’s no good talking about it. +It’s my last fling, and I’d do it again for a +pal. If it hadn’t happened to-night, it +wouldn’t never have happened at all.’</p> +<p>Abner could say nothing. Even now he didn’t +realise the seriousness of his friend’s position.</p> +<p>‘Just my blasted luck!’ said George. +‘Better turn in unless you want to get frozen.’</p> +<p>He went upstairs with his candle, and Abner followed.</p> +<p>When daylight returned the snow had ceased, but the +night’s fall had obliterated the track of their returning +feet. Wolfpits had become a black island in the surrounding +whiteness. From the drift upon the doorstep the snow lay +smooth to the tops of the hills which dawn illumined with a rosy +light. Never had the mountains seemed so near to the house, +so beautiful, and so little threatening.</p> +<p>Abner woke early and looked out on this transfigured +world. In all the house no one was astir. Even old +Drew, who worked in all weathers, had not yet emerged from his +snowbound door. George and Mary still slept. It was +very cold, and Abner threw his coat over his bedclothes. It +was no good getting up, for he knew that with so deep a fall +there could be no work on the pipe-track that day. He lay +in bed, smoking, watching the clustered chimneys of Wolfpits +against the sky. The rosy hue faded from the +mountains. The sky cleared to a thin, dazzling blue. +A thread of smoke issued from old Drew’s chimney, rising, +straight as a larch, into the clear air. In the room +beneath him, where George and Mary slept, he heard voices. +No doubt George Malpas <a name="page182"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 182</span>was telling his wife what had +happened. Sometimes the talk was rapid; sometimes there +were long silences. Abner was thankful that the sad +business of telling Mary had not been left to him. He heard +the children’s voices on the stair. The time had come +when he would have to face them all.</p> +<p>They were all in the kitchen when he came downstairs. He +could see from Mary’s eyes that she had been crying; she +scarcely dared to look at him lest she should cry again. +George was pretending to be cheerful. He was playing with +the children, telling them how they must make a snow man in the +drive. He said good-morning to Abner as though nothing had +happened overnight, and Abner’s heart went out to him for +his courage. Mary did not speak to him, but it seemed to +him that her red eyes were reproachful. He felt that she +probably considered him responsible for the tragedy, was +conscious of his indirect share of guilt, and wished there were +some way in which he could atone for it. He admired the +manly way in which George took his trouble. Indeed he never +felt so wholly friendly to George in his life.</p> +<p>The elders breakfasted in silence, but the children talked +incessantly, being excited by the snow. An overwhelming +impulse to put himself right with Mary made Abner stop her when +she was carrying the breakfast things into the scullery.</p> +<p>‘George has told you?’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Yes, he’s told me. I suppose there’s +nothing to be done?’</p> +<p>‘Naught that I know on,’ he replied. And she +left him quickly, for she did not want him to see her crying +again.</p> +<p>George lit his pipe at the fire. ‘Funny to hear +them kids,’ he said, with a half smile. ‘I mind +it just the same once before. It was at Mary’s +father’s funeral when his sister, her Aunt Rachel, brought +her youngsters over from Bromyard.’</p> +<p>They were spared more of these harrowing contrasts, for the +air was warm, and the children, carefully wrapped up by Mary, ran +out to play in the glistening stuff. Mary did not reappear, +and the two men sat on over the fire. Only George spoke +from time to time.</p> +<p><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +183</span>‘It’s all of a piece with my luck,’ +he said. ‘I reckon I was born unlucky. One +thing and another. . . I don’t mind as long as it +don’t come out what I was after in Lesswardine. +She’s a decent woman and I wouldn’t have her damaged +by it. I wish to God I’d stayed like she wanted +me.’</p> +<p>He seemed to be waiting for Abner to speak, so that he felt +bound to ask who the woman in Lesswardine was.</p> +<p>‘A young woman, a widow . . .’ said George. +‘I wouldn’t have her name mentioned if I could help +it. She’s got enough to put up with. Probably I +shan’t see her, so I’ll give you a note for +her.’</p> +<p>He relapsed into silence. ‘The odds is,’ he +went on, after a long pause, ‘this is the last time I shall +see Wolfpits at night. Well, I’m not sorry for that, +though there’s no denying that Mary’s been a good +wife to me.’</p> +<p>He spoke more excitedly. ‘There’s one thing: +try as they will, they can’t make it murder. +Accidental manslaughter, that’s the most they can make of +it. That means a couple of years hard labour. You +can’t tell. . . . It depends on the damned +jury. Only mention the word “poaching” and the +judges are again’ you. Yes . . . you can’t deny +she’s been a good wife, if I hadn’t married her too +young. I’ve got mother to thank for that. But I +don’t know what’ll happen to her. She’s +too proud for charity, and she’d starve herself and the +children rather than take a penny piece from mother.’</p> +<p>‘She won’t want while I’m here,’ said +Abner.</p> +<p>George looked at him steadily without replying.</p> +<p>‘You mean you’ll stay here and keep the home +together?’</p> +<p>‘If you want me to,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘You’re a good pal, Abner,’ he +replied. ‘I’ve said that before. And I +wouldn’t have her suffer. There’s something in +what her dad used to say . . . about good blood and that. +If I hadn’t took a fancy against her this wouldn’t +never have happened. I wouldn’t have the home broke +up.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll look to that,’ said Abner. +‘That is, if she don’t turn against me.’</p> +<p>George’s handsome face was working, against his <a +name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>will. +He grasped Abner’s hand in his. It seemed a natural +gesture. ‘You’re a proper pal,’ he said, +and then, in a debauch of self-pity, ‘By God, you’re +the only pal I’ve got that I can trust!’</p> +<p>Morgan came running into the room ahead of Gladys, anxious to +be the bearer of exciting news. He ran straight to his +father.</p> +<p>‘Well, son?’ said George.</p> +<p>‘Dad . . . dad. . . . There’s a pleeceman +comin’ up the drive with a bicycle,’ he cried.</p> +<p>‘A strange one we don’t know,’ Gladys +added.</p> +<p>‘Go into the back to your mother,’ said +George.</p> +<p>The constable from Lesswardine knocked at the door and handed +two summonses to George and Abner. ‘Inquest at the +Pound House at two o’clock. You understand it’s +important.’</p> +<p>‘Have a drink of beer before you go?’ said +George.</p> +<p>‘I don’t mind,’ said the constable, becoming +less official.</p> +<p>George went down into the cellar with a jug.</p> +<p>‘This is a bad job,’ said the constable. +‘A bad job, sure enough.’</p> +<p>Abner asked him which way he thought it would go. +‘There’s no saying,’ he replied. +‘As long as they don’t bring it in +“murder.”’</p> +<p>He was a fair young man, newly recruited to the force from +some Herefordshire village. The ride in the snow had +freshened his complexion and made him look healthy and jolly.</p> +<p>‘There’s a nasty drift at the bottom of the hill +by the bridge,’ he said. ‘A good six foot of +it! Well, here’s luck!’ he said, as he drank +off George’s beer.</p> +<p>‘Luck’s the word!’ said George, ‘and +God knows I need some!’</p> +<p>Mary came into the room with a set face. ‘Warrants +for the inquest,’ said George.</p> +<p>‘Oh, is that all?’ she answered, with relief.</p> +<p>They set off early for the Pound House, fearing that the +driven snow might delay them. George was almost gay, and +Abner wondered at his friend’s courage. They avoided +Chapel Green, being anxious not to pass the Buffalo. In +Mainstone a few women came to their <a name="page185"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 185</span>doors and stared at them. The +Pound House door was open. A number of jurors had already +arrived. They were mostly farmers or shopkeepers from +Lesswardine and had agreed that the day was a fine one in spite +of the snow and that it was lucky that the tragedy had happened +at a time when they were not busy on their farms. Susie was +nowhere to be seen, but Mr Hind, worried and paler than usual, +was doing an excellent trade in hot whisky and water. He +was sorry, he told them, that there was no lemon in the +house. Indeed he was feverishly anxious to put himself on +good terms with the jurors.</p> +<p>When George and Abner entered an awkward silence fell upon the +company. Several of those who knew Malpas said good-day to +him. The fact that he was greeted by these men who were +shortly to sit in judgment on him encouraged him. He took a +seat on one of the benches in the corner of the room. Abner +went to the bar and asked for a drink. Mr Hind, with hatred +shining in his pale eyes, served him.</p> +<p>‘Hope you’re all right to-day, Mr Hind,’ +said Abner friendlily.</p> +<p>The landlord trembled with rage. He pushed Abner’s +glass at him, spilling a quarter of the whisky. ‘I +hope I’ve seen the last of you,’ he said.</p> +<p>The jurymen now congregated in the other corner of the room as +though they realised that it was not fitting that they should mix +with such important figures in the affair as George and his +friend. They talked together in low voices. Abner and +George sat quietly listening, but only instinctive glances in +their direction told them when George’s name was +mentioned. At the end of the bar was another door, leading +into the club-room, generally used for the meetings of friendly +societies, in which the inquest would be held. Abner +wondered if the body of Bastard lay inside it; for heavy steps +were heard from time to time through the closed door. At +last the door was opened and the sergeant of police from +Lesswardine appeared in it.</p> +<p>He stood there very erect and official, bending stiffly to +recognise the more important of the group of jurymen. Then +his eyes fell on George and Abner. He <a +name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>beckoned to +them and called them into the second room. Abner had +expected that Bastard’s bony carcass would be revealed +lying in state, but instead of this he saw a long deal table with +an arm-chair at the head of it and six other ordinary chairs on +either side. In front of the coroner’s seat were +spread a pile of official papers, ink, blotting-paper, and a +selection of equally impossible pens. On the wall above it +hung a trophy, the horns of a North American bison with a boss of +black hair between them, which, in a more savage age might well +have symbolised the official’s power of life and death, +but, in fact, represented those that were vested in the master of +the local branch of the Ancient Order of Buffaloes. The +sergeant looked at his watch. It was already past two +o’clock. He went out to look down the road to see if +the coroner was in sight. The young constable who had +delivered the warrants earlier in the day was busy placing a copy +of the New Testament in front of each of the jurymen’s +seats. When the sergeant’s back was turned he winked +at George and Abner. Then he closed the door and left them +alone.</p> +<p>‘They’ve summonsed fourteen for the jury,’ +said George. ‘I’ve counted ’em. +There’s three good friends to me: Mr Prosser of The Dyke, +Jones of Pensilva, and Watkins the tailor. The one +I’m frightened of is the big chap with the red face. +Williams, his name is. He fell out with mother over a +hogshead of cider five years ago and haven’t spoken to me +nor her since. He’d be glad enough to see me +swing! Well . . . what’s coming’s bound to +come. ’Tis no good thinking on it.’</p> +<p>He said no more, but began to beat out the rhythm of a +music-hall song on the floor with the end of his stick, staring +straight in front of him at the bison’s head. Abner +wished that something would happen. He hated this +mechanical tapping.</p> +<p>A loud voice was heard in the bar and with it the scraping of +feet. The coroner had arrived. The sergeant threw +open the doors with a flourish and Mr Mortimer entered. He +was a big man, with a handsome, rather heavy face, bushy white +eyebrows over pale blue eyes, and a pointed beard in which a +yellow, like that of tobacco stains, was mingled with +white. He walked <a name="page187"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 187</span>quickly to the head of the table, +his coat-tails flapping behind. Under his arm he carried a +sheaf of papers that he spread out flat in front of him. +Then he patted the table on either side of them with his hands +and took up a pen. The sergeant stood stiffly at his elbow, +and the jury shuffled into their places. Mr Williams, as by +common consent, planted himself at the coroner’s right +hand.</p> +<p>‘I declare this court open in the King’s +name,’ said Mr Mortimer in a deep, impressive voice. +The sergeant stood as though hypnotised by the formula. The +coroner turned on him suddenly. ‘Now, +sergeant,’ he boomed, ‘look alive! We +don’t want to stay here all day. Get the jury +sworn!’</p> +<p>He dived once more into his papers, yawned, rubbed his hands, +glanced behind him at the symbolical buffalo, and then suddenly +decided to clean his nails with a pen-knife. Meanwhile, +with Testaments lifted in their right hands, the jurymen, one by +one in different inflections of the border tongue, repeated the +oath which the sergeant administered to them. ‘<i>I +swear by Almighty God</i>.’ . . . I swear by +Almighty God.’ ‘<i>That I will well and duly +inquire</i>.’ . . . ‘That I will well and +duly inquire.’ It was like the chorus that one may +hear any morning of the week outside the windows of a country +board-school. From time to time the coroner looked up +impatiently from his manicure, and the sergeant increased his +pace.</p> +<p>‘Finished?’ said Mr Mortimer at last.</p> +<p>‘Yes, sir. All correct,’ said the +sergeant.</p> +<p>‘Now, gentlemen, you must choose a foreman. Only +be quick about it. We’re late.’</p> +<p>In point of fact the jury had been waiting for him for more +than an hour, but the question of choosing a foreman did not +detain them for long, since Mrs Malpas’s enemy, Williams of +the Pentre, had already virtually chosen himself.</p> +<p>‘Very good . . . very good!’ said the +coroner. ‘Take them to view the body, +sergeant.’</p> +<p>They filed out behind the policeman, opening their ranks at +the door to admit the doctor from Lesswardine, who apologised for +his lateness and shook hands with the coroner.</p> +<p><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +188</span>‘You’ve done the post-mortem?’ said +the latter.</p> +<p>‘Yes, that’s what kept me.’</p> +<p>‘And found what you expected?’</p> +<p>‘Yes . . . fractured base. I had no doubt about +it.’</p> +<p>‘Cheap two-guineas’ worth. You’d +better take your money now to save time. Sign for it +here.’</p> +<p>The doctor pocketed the sovereigns and placed the florin +aside, according to the unwritten law that obtains in such cases, +for the sergeant.</p> +<p>‘Sad affair,’ said the coroner, with a yawn. +‘Good man, Bastard. One of the old sort. +Conscientious. No brains. Ideal policeman. What +the devil are those fellers doing? I’ve promised to +call for tea at the Delahays.’</p> +<p>‘I was hoping,’ said the doctor, ‘that +you’d come back with me. My wife . . .’</p> +<p>‘No, thanks. . . Very kind of you all the +same.’</p> +<p>‘We don’t often see you this way.’</p> +<p>‘No. Not since Condover’s suicide. I believe +his son-in-law’s mixed up in this affair?’</p> +<p>‘Yes. . . . He’s over there in the +corner. It’s the usual thing, I think. A brawl +in an alehouse. Alcohol.’</p> +<p>The coroner nodded his head dolefully. His cellar was +the best in Ludlow.</p> +<p>The jurors returned, and with a final glance at the +buffalo’s head, as though he expected it to tell him the +time, Mr Mortimer began business. First the sergeant +identified the body of his subordinate. Standing rigidly at +attention he rattled off the oath at a terrific speed, running +his evidence on to the end of it without a stop. He could +soon show the coroner how to do it. Mr Mortimer never +raised his eyes from his papers.</p> +<p>‘I may say, sir . . .’ began the sergeant +impressively.</p> +<p>‘You may say what you like, sergeant, when you’re +asked for it,’ snapped the coroner. +‘That’s enough.’</p> +<p>The sergeant stepped back, full of offended dignity. The +jury were impressed. Mr Mortimer was behaving in accordance +with his reputation.</p> +<p>Other evidence followed rapidly. George and Abner leaned +forward, listening. George with his head in his hands and +his eyes staring out under the arch of his fingers. The +second finger of his right hand still beat <a +name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>out the +rhythm of the music-hall song that was running in the back of his +mind.</p> +<p>‘Dr Hendrie!’</p> +<p><i>‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall +give to this court shall be the truth</i>, <i>the whole +truth</i>, <i>and nothing but the truth</i>. Arthur +Cuthbert Hendrie. Thirty-eight. M.R.C.S. and +L.R.C.P. I am a physician and surgeon practising in +Lesswardine. I had seen deceased but did not know +him. Yesterday evening before ten o’clock I was +called to the Pound House. I arrived there between ten and +eleven . . . nearer eleven, and found deceased lying on the floor +of the bar with blood and serum flowing from ears and nose. +Both ears. He was quite dead.’</p> +<p>‘Quite dead. . . . Can you say how long he had +been dead?’</p> +<p>‘No.’</p> +<p>‘Very well. Go on.’</p> +<p>‘I immediately formed the opinion . . . they told me +that he had had a violent fall . . . that death was due to a +fractured base of the skull. There was a bruise over the +left temporal region.’</p> +<p>‘You performed a post-mortem examination.’</p> +<p>‘Yes. This morning. I found the fracture +that I had suspected in the middle fossa.’</p> +<p>‘Will your honour ask’n what that there +means?’</p> +<p>‘The witness means the middle part of the base of the +skull. FOSSA,’ the coroner explained loftily.</p> +<p>‘Death, no doubt, was instantaneous. The condition +was consistent with the story of a violent fall on a stone +floor. The same condition might have been caused by a blunt +instrument. Deceased was old for his years, as shown by the +atheromatous condition of the cerebral arteries.’</p> +<p>‘Very good. Have you any questions to ask the +witness?’</p> +<p>The jury all shook their heads.</p> +<p>‘If you are in a hurry, Dr Hendrie, I think we can spare +you.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you, sir. Good day.’</p> +<p>‘Daniel Prosser Hind!’</p> +<p>Daniel Prosser Hind, forty-nine, was a licensed <a +name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 190</span>victualler +and the lessee of the Pound House. The owners were Messrs +Astill of North Bromwich. He knew the deceased: +couldn’t say that they were friends, as deceased had only +lately come to Mainstone. He remembered last night. +The bar was middling full. He himself was in the parlour +working over accounts, his daughter being in charge of the +bar. About nine-thirty he heard a row and ran into the +bar. The first thing he saw was Mr Badger on the floor and +young Fellows on the top of him. Behind them he saw Bastard +lying on his back, with blood coming from his ears and +nose. Some one said Bastard was stunned. He felt +Bastard’s heart and said: ‘No, he’s +dead.’ He did not see deceased fall. He was +told. . . . He quite understood and begged his +worship’s pardon. If he might say so, nothing of this +kind had ever occurred in a house under his management +before. What with the cloggers and the navvies it was no +easy matter to keep an orderly house. He wished to express +regret for what had happened. He could not say if Badger +and Fellows had been drinking. Mr Badger was usually a +temperate man. A man named Connor had the appearance of +being the worse for liquor.</p> +<p>‘Were you not aware of this before?’</p> +<p>No. As he had explained, he was busy with the October +accounts.</p> +<p>‘You consider your daughter a fit person to be in charge +of a crowded bar?’</p> +<p>Yes. His daughter was quite competent and used to +keeping order.</p> +<p>‘How old is she?’</p> +<p>She was twenty years of age. Messrs Astill, he +persisted, always expected the accounts to be ready by the end of +the month, and he had happened to be a little behind with +them. Messrs Astill would speak for him.</p> +<p>‘You consider that you performed your duty as licensee +of this inn?’</p> +<p>Yes. Certainly he considered he had done his duty. +He had sent for the doctor at once.</p> +<p>‘You really expect me and the jury to believe that a +girl of twenty is a fit person to be left in charge of a <a +name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>bar full of +those rough men? Very well. . . . You can stand +down.’</p> +<p>Susan Hind, twenty, said she was daughter of the previous +witness. She did not know deceased, though he was in the +habit of looking in of nights. She had never served him in +the bar. On the night in question there was nothing +unusual. There were near about twenty men in the bar. +Mr Badger was sitting alone over in the corner. He was not +drunk. Fellows was not drunk. She didn’t think +that Connor was drunk. She ought to know when a fellow was +drunk! There was no special rule as to when they should be +served or not. Yes, that was it, she used her +discretion. Certainly Connor was excitable. He had +had two or three quarts. No, that was nothing for +Connor. He was always quick with his tongue, and the others +were laughing at him. She agreed with her father that she +could manage men if any one could. She had been used to it +for years . . . ever since she was sixteen. She +hadn’t noticed anything until Badger dropped his glass on +the floor and came over to Connor. She supposed Connor had +riled him, but she hadn’t been listening. Connor +always went on at people. She saw Badger give Fellows a hit +in the face and then the two of them went down. She called +her father, and while her back was turned Bastard must have come +in. She saw him try to pull Fellows off Badger. She +saw Malpas take Bastard by the arm. He didn’t use no +violence that she saw. Bastard tried to fix Malpas’s +arms. She saw the two of them swaying about together. +They must have tripped over something, they went down so +sudden. Bastard did not cry out. She remembered +nothing more, she was that scared. Malpas had not been +drinking. He had had one drink: a small whisky. Of +course she couldn’t say if he had got drink anywhere +else. In her opinion he was sober. The only man in +the room that was drunk was Atwell. She had gone on serving +him because she knew by experience that he could behave decent +with it. He was like that most nights.</p> +<p>Atwell, who had smiled at this tribute to his powers, was +called next. He didn’t remember nothing. He <a +name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +192</span>couldn’t say if he was drunk because he +didn’t remember. Asked if he wasn’t ashamed of +himself, he had nothing to say.</p> +<p>Michael Connor corroborated the evidence of the witness Susan +Hind. Anything he had said to Badger was not out of the +way. He was only letting on. He admitted having a +drop taken. He was nourished, not drunk. Atwell was +drunk, more luck to him! That was making the court no +impertinent answer. He said it by the way of no harm.</p> +<p>‘Abner Fellows!’</p> +<p>He had been sitting half hypnotised by the progress of the +evidence. Each of the witnesses had seemed to him strange +and unfamiliar. This subdued, tight-lipped Susan was not +the girl who came passionately to his arms. Mr Hind was +pale, shabby, shrunken. Even Mick was not the radiant +companion that he knew. He heard his own name in a +dream. George Malpas pushed him forward as the sergeant +took an officious step in his direction. He stood at the +foot of the long table, staring at the top of the coroner’s +head and the buffalo horns above it. The foreman of the +jury was examining him closely, much as on market days he would +have examined a likely bullock. The man with the white +beard went on writing in a large, fluent hand, while the sergeant +thrust the Testament into Abner’s fingers and dictated the +oath to him. He had to clear his throat, for his voice had +left him. The coroner blotted his notes methodically and +looked up.</p> +<p>‘Yes. . . . Abner Fellows. Age?’</p> +<p>‘Twenty.’</p> +<p>‘Occupation?’</p> +<p>‘Labourer.’</p> +<p>‘Tell me all you know of what happened last night . . . +not too fast, I have to write it down.’</p> +<p>Slowly Abner told his own story.</p> +<p>‘Very good! You say that Badger hit you in the +face. Are you on bad terms with Badger?’</p> +<p>‘I never spoke to him before.’</p> +<p>‘When he struck you you lost your temper?’</p> +<p>‘Any one would.’</p> +<p>‘You say Malpas is a friend of yours?’</p> +<p><a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +193</span>‘I lodge with him.’</p> +<p>‘And Malpas was not drunk?’</p> +<p>‘Not that I could see.’</p> +<p>‘Do you know where Malpas had been that +evening?’</p> +<p>Abner hesitated. He felt that George’s eyes were +on him from behind. ‘No.’</p> +<p>‘Very well.’</p> +<p>Abner went back to his seat. He saw Mr Hind rubbing his +hands together nervously, saw the white face of Susie. He +flopped down heavily into the seat beside George. Malpas +never stirred. He still sat with his hands to his head, +drumming with his finger on his temple.</p> +<p>‘William Badger!’</p> +<p>William Badger, gamekeeper in the employment of Sir George +Delahay, said he had been to the Pound House on business. +His business was to try and pick up information about poaching on +his master’s land. Nothing was safe in Lesswardine +since the navvies had been working there. He was watching +three men.</p> +<p>‘Name them.’</p> +<p>Connor, Fellows, and Atwell. He believed Connor was the +ringleader. He had not come there to watch Malpas. +Constable Bastard knew that he was there on that business. +He had told Bastard that he thought he had recognised Connor in +an affray three nights before. He had sat in the corner +quietly listening. Connor had been talking ‘at +him’ all evening, and at last he had lost his temper. +He was a quick-tempered man and couldn’t abide +poachers. He had meant to shut Connor’s mouth. +He couldn’t say if he had meant to hit him. When he +came up to Connor he saw Fellows looking ugly. They were +all the same gang. He didn’t remember hitting Fellows +in the face, but if he hadn’t done so Fellows would have +hit him. The next moment Fellows was on the top of +him. He didn’t see Bastard come in. Bastard was +a friend of his. He did not see Malpas and Bastard +fighting. He could not have seen Bastard fall, as Fellows +was on the top of him. In his opinion Bastard had died in +the performance of his duty. Bastard had been a great help +to him.</p> +<p>‘George Malpas!’</p> +<p><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +194</span>George walked straight to the foot of the table, +haggard, tall, handsome as ever. While he gave his evidence +he still drummed with his fingers on the board. The tone of +Mr Mortimer’s voice sharpened as he questioned him, but +George’s account of the affair agreed in every detail with +that of the other witnesses.</p> +<p>‘You do not suggest that you attacked Bastard when under +the influence of drink?’</p> +<p>‘No. I had not been drinking.’</p> +<p>‘Where had you spent the earlier part of the +evening?’</p> +<p>‘At Lesswardine.’</p> +<p>‘In a public-house?’</p> +<p>‘No. With a friend.’</p> +<p>‘Were you and Bastard on good terms?’</p> +<p>‘I had never spoken to him before in my life.’</p> +<p>‘Then why did you suddenly attack him?’</p> +<p>‘I never attacked him. Badger had hit out at +Fellows and Fellows had a right to get his own back. I +wanted to see fair play. I put my hand on Bastard’s +arm.’</p> +<p>‘That’s all very well, you know. It is a +serious offence to interfere with a constable in the discharge of +his duty.’</p> +<p>‘Fellows was my pal. I never did nothing to +Bastard. When I touched his arm he turned on me. He +was trying to take me in charge. We must have tripped on +something. We fell down together. I had nothing +against Bastard.’</p> +<p>‘Very well, you may sit down.’</p> +<p>The sergeant cleared his throat: ‘If I may say a few +words, sir . . .’</p> +<p>The coroner finished his notes, then sat back to listen.</p> +<p>‘I may say, sir, that we have been dissatisfied for some +time with the conduct of this house. Neither Mr Hind nor +his daughter bear a good character with us, and Bastard has had +occasion to speak to me about the goings-on here from time to +time. He has also said that Mr Badger was a great help to +him. Connor, Atwell, and Fellows all have the name of rough +characters. We have only been waiting for the necessary +evidence . . .’</p> +<p>‘That will do, sergeant.’</p> +<p>‘Very good, sir. On inquiries in Lesswardine, I +find that Malpas spent the evening in the house of a young widow +woman named . . .’</p> +<p><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>George rose to his feet and took a step forward.</p> +<p>‘Sit down!’ shouted the coroner.</p> +<p>‘Named . . .’</p> +<p>‘That will do, sergeant.’</p> +<p>‘As you wish, sir.’</p> +<p>Mr Mortimer adjusted his glasses and sat for a moment in +silence, turning over his paper:.</p> +<p>‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said at last, ‘you have +heard this . . . er . . . very distressing evidence. In +this type of case—and I am glad to say they are rare in the +district—it is usual to find a great conflict of +evidence. Here the . . . ah . . testimony is unusually +clear. In the first place you have a public-house. A +public-house which, I am bound to say, appears to me to have been +managed with a considerable degree of laxness. In this part +of the country we . . . ah . . . suffer from the presence of a +floating population, gipsies, cloggers, and at the present moment +the men engaged on the North Bromwich Waterworks. These men +have to spend their evenings somewhere, and it appears that the +Pound House . . . ah . . . found favour with them. They +were in the habit of drinking here every night, sometimes under +the supervision of a girl of twenty. The sergeant has said +that he considers this young woman . . . ah . . . advanced for +her years. That may well be; but none the less I think Hind +has been lacking in responsibility. Very good. . . . +Among the men who frequent this house are three notorious +poachers: Connor, Atwell, and Fellows. Poaching is another +of the pests that this floating population brings in its +train. Badger, the keeper, who gave his evidence very +clearly and straightforwardly, was in the habit of visiting the +Pound House to keep an eye on this . . . ah . . . disorderly +trio. As he had a right to do, he enlisted the help of the +deceased. The affair began in the usual way of a +public-house brawl. What Connor said to Badger; whether +Badger assaulted Fellows: these are matters that do not concern +you. Only, in passing, I say that the whole business could +not have occurred in a properly managed house. There was a +struggle. The deceased constable, in the plain performance +of his duty, entered the bar <a name="page196"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 196</span>and . . . ah . . . commenced to +separate Badger and Fellows. If his desire was to protect +Badger, well and good . . . but even that is immaterial. +Now comes the important part. Malpas says that he . . ah . +. . says that he put his hand on the arm of the deceased and that +thereupon Bastard turned on him and tried to take him in +charge. He then, by his own admission, resisted +arrest. He and Bastard struggled together and fell in each +other’s arms. The medical evidence tells us that +Bastard died from a fractured base of the skull, the result of +this fall. You may ask yourselves the question: “Was +Bastard within his rights in arresting, or trying to arrest +Malpas?” You need not find an answer to it. +Legally the answer is “Yes;” but all that is expected +of you is to determine how the deceased met his death. He +met his death in a struggle with Malpas. Malpas, by his own +admission, first laid hands on him, thus obstructing an officer +in the performance of his duty. Next, again by his own +admission, he resisted arrest. As a result of this +resistance Bastard fell. As a result of the fall he +fractured his skull and died . . . ah . . . +instantaneously. You may trace, if you like, the +responsibility for his death backward through Connor, Badger, and +Fellows to Hind; but the immediate cause of it was +Malpas.’</p> +<p>The coroner took off his glasses and pushed his notes +aside. He spoke slowly, waving the pince-nez to mark his +points.</p> +<p>‘Very well. . . . Now it is your duty to determine +the degree of Malpas’s responsibility. Did Malpas +intend to kill the deceased? The sergeant of the police has +tried, very improperly, to make a statement as to Malpas’s +general character.’</p> +<p>The sergeant shuffled his feet and swallowed, but succumbed to +a sense of discipline and was silent.</p> +<p>‘I am bound to say that there is no evidence pointing to +Malpas having killed Bastard of malice aforethought. There +is no reason to suppose that he lied when he told you that he had +never spoken to Bastard before. Did he, then, desire to +attack Bastard on the spur of the moment with intent to +kill. He has told you that he wanted to see fair play +between Fellows, whom he describes as his “pal,” and +Badger, and I am inclined <a name="page197"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 197</span>to believe him. Another +question presents itself: “Did he become murderous under +the influence of drink?” This is negatived by all the +evidence. Now you must be careful. If Malpas laid +hands on Bastard with intent to kill, either under the influence +of an old grudge or in a sudden fit of passion, whether drunk or +sober, he is guilty of murder, and it is your duty to say +so. If, on the other hand, he laid hands on Bastard without +intending to offer him any violence, and if, in the course of a +struggle in which he was resisting arrest, he caused Bastard to +fall and thus brought about Bastard’s end, his crime lies +on the borderland between murder and homicide . . . ah . . . +manslaughter. If Malpas had no part in the death of the +deceased, you may say that the constable died by +misadventure. I think this is a case in which you may be +left to decide for yourselves. Nothing that you know of +Malpas’s private life, and I presume that you all know +something of it, must influence your verdict. The death of +a policeman, a man whom the law provides for your protection and +the protection of your property, is a very serious matter. +If policemen are to be obstructed in their duty with impunity the +whole fabric of life in these remote districts becomes . . . ah . +. insecure. You may now consider your verdict. You +had better retire.’</p> +<p>Mr Mortimer put on his glasses. The jury, led by +Williams, shuffled out like a group of sidesmen collecting in +church. The sergeant bent over the coroner, whispered and +handed him a paper which he put aside. ‘You’re +in too great a hurry, sergeant,’ he said. The +witnesses sat motionless in the back of the court: Susie, as +before, staring straight in front of her as pale and tragic as a +young widow; Mr Hind with his hands clasped in front of him, +bunched up like a sack, and his pouched, owl-like eyes paler than +ever, waiting for a rider to the verdict; Badger, obstinate, with +his head thrust forward; Mick and Atwell stolidly masticating +tobacco. Abner saw them all petrified by the gloom of +suspense. George’s finger had ceased from its +mechanical tattoo. All through the coroner’s summing +up he had listened intensely; once or twice his lips had moved +and his <a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +198</span>muscles stiffened as though he wanted to say +something. Now he sat quite still with his hands on his +knees, staring, as it seemed, at the buffalo’s head.</p> +<p>One after another the witnesses were called up to sign their +evidence. The coroner looked at his watch and sighed. +It seemed as if he would not have time to take tea with the +Delahays, and this annoyed him, for Lady Delahay was a very +attractive woman and a visit to Lesswardine Court always left him +with a pleasant afterglow and made him feel that but for his wife +he might have become an ornament of county society. The +sergeant stood like a waxen policeman in Madame +Tussaud’s. By a combination of frowns, winks, and +rollings of the eyes, he indicated to his bewildered subordinate +that the Testaments on the table might now be collected. +The young constable stumped round the table on noisy +tiptoes. No other sound was heard but the settling of +thawed snow on the roof, the tinkle of a distant anvil, and the +noise of a blob of nicotined saliva which Atwell privily dropped +upon the floor and then obliterated with a sideways motion of his +foot.</p> +<p>The jury re-entered and took their seats at the table. +The sergeant insensibly stiffened. Mr Williams held a paper +in his hand.</p> +<p>‘Well,’ said the coroner. ‘You have +arrived at your verdict?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, your honour. Unanimous. We find . . +.’</p> +<p>‘Wait a moment. . . . Yes, very good . . . go +on.’</p> +<p>‘We find, unanimous, that the deceased died in +accordance with the doctor’s evidence, and that his death +was caused unintentionally by George Malpas.’</p> +<p>‘That is manslaughter.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, your honour. Unintentional +manslaughter.’</p> +<p>‘You can’t qualify it. Manslaughter. +You have added no rider?’</p> +<p>‘No, your honour.’</p> +<p>‘Well, I am bound to say I endorse your verdict. I +think that you might profitably have expressed your opinion on +the management of this house.’ He called +‘Daniel Hind!’</p> +<p>Mr Hind rose with a gasp.</p> +<p>‘You have heard what I think of the management of <a +name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>your house, +and I hope that the licensing justices will . . . ah . . . +endorse it. Another time when an inquest is held in this +room in winter the least you can do is to put a fire in it. +George Malpas!’</p> +<p>George staggered to the end of the table.</p> +<p>‘You have heard the jury’s verdict. You will +be committed on my warrant to take your trial on a charge of +manslaughter. You are lucky that the charge is not . . . ah +. . . graver.’</p> +<p>The sergeant, who had been waiting for this, again presented +his paper to the coroner, and Mr Mortimer, having wiped the nib +of his pen, signed it in his bold, deliberate handwriting. +He signed it carefully and looked at his signature +afterward. It was not often that he tasted so singular a +sensation of power. The sergeant blotted the document and +advanced toward George Malpas. He came like a dignified +spider toward a fly safely entangled in its web.</p> +<p>‘Better go and tell them,’ George said to +Abner. ‘Tell mother first. . . . Tell +’em I’m all right.’</p> +<h2><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>The +Fifteenth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Abner</span> did not wait for George to be +arrested. To the evident scandal of the sergeant he made +straight for the door and slipped into the bar. He closed +the door quietly, and stopped for a moment. There was +something in the feeling of the room that told him he had broken +in on a secret. No doubt the continued strain with which he +had heard the evidence unfolded had tuned his nerves to a +supersensitive pitch: he wasn’t usually nervous under any +conditions, but the sudden change from the courtroom to this +cold, empty chamber, unfamiliar in the snow-light, took him +aback, unsteadied him. At the moment of his entrance the +room had been expectant, listening. Now, when he paused for +a second to look at it, he saw nothing unusual, only the long +shelves with their black bottles of dubious port and sherry, the +keg-shaped receptacles of glass in which spirits were kept on +tap, the polished handles of the beer-engine. The only +unusual thing was the closed door of the room behind the counter +in which Bastard’s body now lay. He didn’t try +to find an explanation for the peculiar chill that this room gave +him, midway between the dead man’s flesh and the anguished +soul of the man who had killed him; but he felt it, and when he +turned the key in the locked door and stepped out into the street +he felt again, behind him, the sense of something strange +stealing back into the bar. He shivered and set off for +Chapel Green to tell Mrs Malpas.</p> +<p>All sparkle of light had vanished from the snow; the sky had +now grown colder than the land, and in the north a wind was +rising. He walked fast to keep the heat in his limbs. +He passed the last cottages of Mainstone and came into the length +of Roman road which he and George had so often travelled at +night. The wind set up a faint and mournful singing in the +telegraph wires. The winter night descended. No human +shape was to be seen on the long white road <a +name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>but that of +Abner and another smaller figure that approached him rapidly from +the west. He took it for granted that this was a little +girl hurrying home to Mainstone from the dissenting school at +Chapel Green, but when they met in the dusk and stared at one +another he suddenly became aware that the wayfarer was +George’s mother. All the time since he left the inn +he had been turning over in his mind the ways in which he might +best reveal his tragic news. Now that he found himself face +to face with Mrs Malpas, small, intense, and awful in her Sunday +bonnet, he could say nothing. They stared at each other for +a moment in which Abner was conscious of the hatred in her black +eyes.</p> +<p>‘Evenin’, ma’am,’ he said. +‘It’s lucky I met you. George sent me along +with a message.’</p> +<p>‘Tell me . . . tell me quick, young man,’ she +cried. ‘Don’t keep it back whatever it +be!’</p> +<p>‘Bad news, ma’am.’</p> +<p>‘I know it is. Tell me!’</p> +<p>‘They’ve took him in charge. It’s +manslaughter.’</p> +<p>She made a shrill, wailing noise, something between a laugh +and a cry. She gripped his arm tight. He knew that +she would almost rather have touched any one on earth, but if she +had not steadied herself she would have fallen.</p> +<p>‘Manslaughter. . . . Oh, God, my God! O +Lord, have mercy on him, poor soul, and on us too. To think +it should come to that! Oh, God . . . God!’</p> +<p>She clutched him again as though a wave were sweeping her legs +from under her. Her bony fingers went into the muscle of +Abner’s arm.</p> +<p>‘Now don’t take on, ma’am,’ he +said. ‘Manslaughter’s a different thing from +murder. Thank your luck for that!’</p> +<p>‘Don’t talk to me of luck!’ she cried. +‘Luck’s a heathen word. As a man sows so shall +he reap. The hand of the Lord is heavy on me and my +son. He hath forsaken the way of righteousness. Drink +and strange women and all the abominations of the ungodly. +All my prayers on him were wasted, young man, for I +couldn’t keep his feet in the way. Whom the Lord <a +name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 202</span>loveth he +chasteneth. The Lord gave and the Lord hath took away, and +now he stands before an earthly judge. I must go and see +him.’</p> +<p>She detached herself from Abner’s arm, but a fit of +trembling took her and made her cling to it again.</p> +<p>‘You’d best come home along of me, +ma’am,’ he said. ‘They’ll have took +him to Lesswardine by this time.’</p> +<p>She broke down into harsh sobs, crying childishly, and in +between her sobbing he could hear her babble the same curious +mixture of scriptural and unscriptural lamentation. She +talked so wildly that he thought the old woman was going off her +head. When she sobbed the jet ornaments on her bonnet +danced.</p> +<p>‘Come home along of me, ma’am,’ he repeated +helplessly.</p> +<p>She seemed not to hear him. ‘George, my little +George . . .’ she sobbed, abasing, accusing herself before +the harsh personal deity that she imagined, wrestling with him in +prayer and entreaty, ‘Oh, Lord, forgive him . . . forgive +him . . . forgive him!’ Then, quite suddenly, she +stopped. No sound was heard but that of her faint +trembling. Abner thanked goodness that she had tired +herself out, but he was mistaken. Without the least warning +her weak hands pushed him away. She stood before him in the +middle of the road and faced him with her ridiculous bonnet awry +and her fingers clenched like the claws of some small, fierce +wild animal, waiting to spring at a man’s throat. Her +wrists worked with passion. She forgot all her scripture +and cursed him in her own words.</p> +<p>‘It’s you who’ve led him astray,’ she +cried. ‘You . . you! Didn’t I know it the +very day when you and your mate came to our house? You, the +scum of the roads! That’s fine company for a decent +man! You can’t touch pitch and not be defiled! +I begged him and begged him not to have the likes of you in his +house, but he laughed at me. And you’ve dragged him +down, down . . . as low as a man can be dragged. You with +your drink and your poaching and your women! Don’t +think I haven’t heard what happened . . . the two of you +coming home drunk of nights, singing bawdy songs in the +dark. That wasn’t enough for you! <a +name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 203</span>You must +drag him into your drunken fighting, drag him down and down into +your mucky life. And then you come and talk to me of +luck. Luck! He’s been led astray, that’s +what George has, by your company. If George’s soul is +damned, it’s you who will suffer for it, bringin’ +your town ways into a country place. You and his precious +wife! The two of you between you! What’s in the +blood comes out in the life. Her father were a thief and a +swindler and a suicide, and God visits the sins of the +fathers. Like father, like daughter! That’s the +sort of bedfellow my George has had, and this is what she’s +brought him to, poor lamb! But don’t you think, young +man, that God don’t remember! If you done it to the +least of these you done it unto Me! Don’t you think +you can push a young man into hell and not fall into the fire +after him. You and her together. . . . You can trust +God for that!’ She exhausted her breath and stood +panting.</p> +<p>‘Come on, missus,’ said Abner heavily. +‘You’ll be perished out here.’ But when +he clumsily approached her she ran away down the road toward +Mainstone like a mad woman, this pathetic bundle of burning +hatred in her Sunday clothes, and left him foolishly +standing.</p> +<p>He went back in the dark to Wolfpits, heavily burdened with +the second part of his task. The children were playing +quietly on the hearthrug and Mrs Mumble, who considered it only +neighbourly to give Mary the benefit of her company in a domestic +emergency, was talking of homely, unimportant things with the +idea of distracting her mind from the more tragic affair that +held it. When Abner appeared she excused herself, kissed +the children good-night, enveloped Mary in a more significant +embrace, and left them.</p> +<p>Mary stood waiting for what he had to say. He could not +help recognising the contrast between her impressive aloofness, +her self-control, and the hysterics of old Mrs Malpas. She +could not pretend that she felt nothing; since George’s +disaster, however little she might care for him, must bring with +it all sorts of complications. She was a woman who had been +used, in the lavish days of her father, to a certain degree of +comfort and <a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +204</span>elegance, and even if she had known hard times at +Wolfpits during George’s freakish periods of idleness, she +had never been faced with anything so threatening to herself and +her children as a complete stoppage of wages and, in the last +resort, the humiliation of parish relief. She waited with +her head erect, straight as a larch, in the perfect control of +her finely-tempered mind.</p> +<p>‘It’s what we thought it would be, missus,’ +he said. ‘Manslaughter they brought it in.’</p> +<p>‘Where is he?’ she asked, almost in a whisper.</p> +<p>‘They’ve took him in charge. That’ll +mean the lock-up at Lesswardine, time they’ve got the case +ready for the police-court.’</p> +<p>She was silent for a moment, and then:—</p> +<p>‘Does he want me to see him?’</p> +<p>‘He didn’t say nought of that.’</p> +<p>‘No,’ she said reflectively.</p> +<p>‘He said: “Tell ’em that I’m all +right,”’ Abner explained. ‘Nowt +else.’</p> +<p>‘<i>Them</i>?’</p> +<p>‘That’s his mother . . .’</p> +<p>‘Ah!’ She stiffened a little, and Abner, +scenting a new hostility, continued:</p> +<p>‘This business bain’t all George’s +fault. It’s a bit of bad luck that might have +happened to any one. It might just as well a’ been me +. . . as well and better. If that Bastard hadn’t gone +at me from behind George’d never have touched +him.’</p> +<p>‘If he’d been home here,’ she interrupted, +with a sudden energy, ‘it wouldn’t have happened at +all. It’s drink that’s done for George,’ +she added.</p> +<p>‘He hadn’t a drap in him,’ said Abner +loyally. ‘He was as sober as I am this minute. +He hadn’t set foot in the place not half an +hour.’</p> +<p>She was silent for a moment, and then, with a curious +directness, asked:</p> +<p>‘Where had he been then?’</p> +<p>‘How should I know where he’d been? I +don’t meddle or mak in George’s affairs.’</p> +<p>She pressed him: ‘Didn’t it come out at the +inquest where he’d been?’</p> +<p><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>He +saw how things were going, and lied brazenly in George’s +defence.</p> +<p>‘No,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Well, that’s one comfort,’ she said, with a +sigh. ‘I’ve borne enough shame from George +without that!’ Then, as her suspicions flashed up +again: ‘But I don’t believe you. They +don’t let things like that pass.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know what you’m after.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, you’re all the same, you men! You think +women are simple enough to be put off with anything. +It’s you who are simple. Do you think we don’t +know it? I know where George was that night as well as you +do. I’ve known of his new fancy for three months +now. That woman and me have met one another on the road, +and looked at each other and smiled and passed the time of day +and not another word, because we knew, both of us, the thing was +best hidden and it would humble the two of us if it came to +light. But I don’t believe they’d let a thing +like that go at a coroner’s inquest.’ She +waited for his reply.</p> +<p>‘They said he’d been at Lesswardine. A widow +woman, they said, but they didn’t tell her name. +That’s the truth.’</p> +<p>‘Nothing more?’</p> +<p>‘I tell you that’s the lot. I was neyther +piller nor bo’ster. I’d have told you at the +first, but I thought to save your feelings.’</p> +<p>‘Feelings!’ she repeated. +‘There’s better ways of saving a woman’s +feelings than keeping the truth from her. That was +George’s way. If you guessed anything of what women +are like you’d know that it’s the truth they +want. You can forgive a man a lot if he doesn’t lie +to you.’ Her tone changed suddenly. She became +dispassionate, practical, once more. ‘When will it +come on at the police court?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know. I reckon they won’t +keep him long at Lesswardine.’</p> +<p>‘I shall have to go there,’ she said. +‘Even if he doesn’t want me it’s my place to be +there. If I don’t go there George will think that +I’ve thrown him over. I would have come to-day if +he’d let me, but he begged me not to. He’s +funny, like a child, is George.’</p> +<p><a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 206</span>Her +voice softened when she spoke the last words, as though her +imagination had suddenly carried her back to the days of +George’s courtship when her father was a hearty, prosperous +man and no troubles whatever had entered her life. For the +moment she seemed to Abner no more than a child herself. At +the first moment he had thought her insensitive, in the next she +had put him to shame by her frankness, now she was yielding, +pitiful. These alternations of stoicism, passion, and +tenderness bewildered him. He had not thought that women +were so various. In addition to this she was +beautiful. He wondered what perverse strain in George could +ever have compelled him to desert her.</p> +<p>After another long silence she thanked him for what he had +told her, then turned and left him. He heard her talking +brightly to the children as though nothing had happened.</p> +<p>Although darkness had fallen it was still early. +Abner’s natural impulse would have bidden him walk back to +Mainstone and find Susie. It had been a torment to see her +cold and remote, seeming no more to him than a stranger. In +the hushed court-room when he had stolen out at the moment of +George’s arrest she had not looked at him. He had +left her staring straight in front of her like a pious +churchgoer. He decided, in the end, to stay at Wolfpits, +for the night was cold and unhomely and he still carried in his +mind the sinister vision of the empty bar with Bastard’s +body lying in the room behind it. More than this, he began +to be conscious of a definite duty toward Mary, whose attitude +had ended by filling him with admiration and loyalty. He +felt it in his bones that she despised him, being undeniably a +creature of finer clay than himself, but the moment in which she +had demanded his confidence remained with him. It was as +though the veil which had always hung between them had been +suddenly rent, admitting them to an intimacy as clear as +light. In all his life he had known no such +experience. Even in the most passionate moments of his +relation with Susie she had been no more to him than a strange +woman for whose beauty he hungered without reason. He knew +her body and thrilled to it, but of herself he knew +nothing. <a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +207</span>With Mary it was different. At first he had felt +vaguely that he must be loyal to her for the sake of his friend, +not so much because he loved George as because their friendship +had been the immediate cause of their disaster. It was for +herself that he must now be loyal, and this seemed strange to +him, for it was an obligation which he had never considered as +possible between a man and a woman, and nothing but that sudden +moment of vision could have revealed it to him.</p> +<p>He devoted his evening to the children. Their frolic in +the snow had excited them. They were full of play and +laughter. Mary moved about her business silently, watching +the fireside group with benevolent eyes. At seven +o’clock, just before their bedtime, another constable came +to the door with the police-court summons. The case had +been fixed for the following day—eleven o’clock at +Lesswardine. The man was in a hurry to serve his other +summonses, and would not enter. Abner told Mary the +news.</p> +<p>‘Eleven o’clock,’ she repeated +intently. ‘Come thy ways, Morgan, love, time for +bye-byes.’</p> +<p>The children left Abner unwillingly, Gladys insisting that he +should carry her upstairs. He did so, and Mary followed +with her son in her arms, rubbing his cold-flushed eyelids with +his fists.</p> +<p>Abner returned to the fire. Eleven o’clock! +Less than twenty-four hours ago none of this had happened. +He was impressed, in spite of himself, with the inevitable +regularity of the machine that had drawn George Malpas into its +ponderous clutches. He saw, for the first time, the +tremendous power of the law, and his own helplessness.</p> +<p>Mrs Mamble joined them for supper. When they had nearly +finished another knock came to the door, and Abner went to open +it. The new visitor was old Drew, who came in, blinking at +the light.</p> +<p>‘Please come in, Mr Drew,’ said Mary, ‘and +take a seat.’</p> +<p>He stood for a moment, a bowed and awkward figure. Then +he placed on the tablecloth three brown eggs that he had carried +in his huge misshapen hand.</p> +<p><a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +208</span>‘I bringed you two three eggs, missus,’ he +said. ‘They’m getting tarrable scarce these +days, and I reckon the chilring might like them.’</p> +<p>‘That is good of you, Mr Drew,’ Mary cried.</p> +<p>‘Don’t ’ee mention it!’ said the old +man. ‘I rackon it won’t be so aisy for +’ee with the maister in trouble. Us all knows what +that be, and you’m welcome to them. Iss, us all knows +what trouble be, praise God! I had a brother of my own to +Lapton Huish as was took for the killing of his wife, though the +poor twoad never knew what he done, for a’ suffered from +fits, a’ did. Tried and hanged into Exeter he were . +. . dear soul too! Iss, I know what trouble +manes.’</p> +<p>‘We all know what trouble means,’ said Mrs Mamble, +with a sigh, ‘from the highest to the lowest; but the law +be kinder these days than it used to be. My poor dear +Robert’s grandfather was a labourin’ man, a quiet, +Christian man too, as never raised a hand against any +livin’ creature, as Robert told me times, but that +weren’t enough to save him from hanging. It was a +hard winter, I can’t mind how many years agone, though +Robert he told me, and they got him for stealing a +sheep—stealing, they says!—as he found dead-stiff in +the snow on Clee Hills. As he’d a right to, with the +fields like stone and no work and the children crying for +bread. But they hanged men for that in Worcester jail in +them days. Ay, and when my Robert was a lad, the other boys +‘d put it up against him as his dad had kept sheep by +moonlight: that’s what they call hanging in chains, like +the gibbet, so they call it, as used to stand in olden times near +Clows Top. A quieter man never breathed, nor a better +worker. Put a bit more wood on the fire, Mr Fellows, +do!’</p> +<p>Abner threw a faggot on the fire and the flames leapt. +This friendly flicker, aided, perhaps, by the hypnotic drone of +Mrs Mamble’s voice, as soothing as the sound of running +water or the midnight rustle of poplars, so encouraged the old +labourer that he let himself sink into a chair by the corner of +the table.</p> +<p>The firelight glinted in his beard, and Abner saw that his +full lips were red as those of a young man. He <a +name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 209</span>saw also +Mary’s face, withdrawn into the gloom. It seemed as +if she were dreaming, her mind altogether removed from the voices +of her comforters.</p> +<p>‘Ay,’ said Drew, ‘I’ve heard of men +that was strung up for stealing sheep down Exmoor way. +There’s a many sheep on the moors, and ponies too. +You should see them when the foals come along, springtime, and +when they’m drove down to Bampton fair. ’Tis a +fine sight, sure ‘nuff! But that there’s +nothing to the old times. My granf’er, ’er was +barn up Somerset, not too far from Ta’nton, used to tell as +how men was stringed up by the dozen, the same as jays or +magpies, by a tarrable old chap of the name of Jeffereys. +Bloody Jeffereys, that’s what they called ’en. +A judge he were. . . . Iss, bloody Jeffereys.’</p> +<p>‘There now!’ said Mrs Mamble, throwing up her +hands.</p> +<p>‘And them they durs’nt hang they sent off to +Canada, so I’m told. Ay, many likely chaps was sent +there and never came home no more, though what they sent +’en for I can’t rightly call to mind, unless +‘twere rick-burning. Had the redcoats to ’em, +they did! But that’s all past and gone, +thanks-be! Iss, past and gone. . . . The law +bain’t what it used to be. There’s juries these +days. An’ what be manslarter but a thing that might +come to any man unbeknownst? Don’t ’ee be +afeared, missus! Don’t ’ee be afeared! +There be no shame in “going up the line,” as they do +call it down our way.’</p> +<p>‘No shame, as you say, Mr Drew,’ said Mrs Mamble +solemnly. ‘But the shame’s not +everything. It’s a hard thing on a woman that has +little children with her crying for an empty belly when a +man’s away in jail and not a penny in the house but what +the parish gives her. And the questions they ask! +That’s where the shame comes in, and I’ve known many +a proud woman starve for a crust of bread rather than answer +them, they’re that disgusting.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, get away, do! woman,’ said old Drew, with a +laugh. ‘What’s questions? And Mrs Malpas +here ban’t going to do no such thing. A woman never +knows what friends she’s got till she’s found +trouble, and <a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +210</span>they that has a roof to their heads and a bit of garden +to till can spare something for their neighbours. No, +don’t ’ee believe ’en, my dear! If +it’s only potatoes and swede out of the fields, no chilring +’ll starve to Wolfpits, not they! Don’t you +believe it! An’ a woman like your George’s +mother with a tidy little business at the Buffalo. . . . +Trouble ’ll tell you your friends.’</p> +<p>The clock struck nine.</p> +<p>‘Now that’s a fine thing to be sure,’ he +went on, with a glance of admiration, ‘a fine thing to have +a clock to tell ’ee when to be going up over, and keep +’ee company night-time. ’Tis hard to judge the +hour in winter when the old sun be hid!’</p> +<p>He pulled his stiff limbs together painfully, and left them +with more encouragements.</p> +<p>‘He’s a quiet man,’ said Mrs Mamble, when +they heard him treading softly over the snow, ‘but I always +reckoned he’d be a good neighbour.’</p> +<p>She seemed loath to leave Mary to herself, and even proposed +that she should sleep with her, nominally for the sake of warmth, +until the strain of George’s trial should be over, an offer +that Mary found it difficult to refuse with grace. When she +left them she took the younger woman to her breast and kissed her +tenderly. Abner opened the door for her, and when he +returned he saw that Mary’s eyes were bright with +tears. He felt that he himself must struggle to add some +words of reassurance, but before he could do so she had said +good-night and vanished.</p> +<p>Next morning he rose early. He had lit the fire and made +the kettle boil before she was astir. When she heard his +feet in the kitchen she hurried to come down and thank him.</p> +<p>‘You needn’t have done that,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘That’s nowt,’ he replied bluntly. +‘We’ve got to get on the road early.’</p> +<p>After breakfast she deposited the children, as had been +arranged, with Mrs Mamble. Morgan, who scarcely ever left +his mother’s side, resented this.</p> +<p>‘Where are you going, mam?’ he cried.</p> +<p>‘Only to Lesswardine with Abner here.’</p> +<p><a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +211</span>‘You’re not going for good, mam? +You’re coming back again?’</p> +<p>‘Don’t be a silly boy, Morgan. Of course +I’m coming back.’</p> +<p>‘When, mam?’</p> +<p>‘This afternoon.’</p> +<p>A new anxiety seized him. ‘What’s for +dinner, mam?’ he said.</p> +<p>‘A nice brown egg, my love, what Mr Drew brought +you,’ said Mrs Mamble, coming to the rescue. +‘You come along now, and you shall have dear Robert’s +watch to play with.’</p> +<p>To the last temptation Morgan succumbed. This watch was +the principal curiosity of Mrs Mamble’s bedroom. It +hung there in the smell of rotting wood, a silver monster, like a +toy warming-pan, suspended in a celluloid case above the old +woman’s bed. Mrs Mamble whipped them away, and Abner +set out with Mary.</p> +<p>Snow still covered the ground, but by this time, in lane and +road, the trampled ways were clear and the bordering drifts +marked with the treading of birds, squirrels, and other woodland +creatures. Abner was so unused to walking with a woman that +he set a pace that Mary could not equal. Breathless, she +begged him to walk more slowly. The exertion and the cold +air flushed her cheeks and reddened her lips to the hue of holly +and spindle-berries in the hedge. Her body glowed, and her +hair was bright as the fronds of bracken in the sun. In +spite of their tragic mission her lips smiled. No spiritual +anxiety could check the exhilaration of the blood that this crisp +winter morning gave her walking under the open sky. But +when they drew near to Lesswardine the houses closed in on them +like the walls of a prison; the fine snow was swept and sullied, +the light faded from the sky.</p> +<p>A special court had been summoned to deal with George’s +case. The squire, Sir George Delahay, was driving down to +take the chair, and before Abner and Mary arrived the court-room +was nearly full of Lesswardine villagers who could always spare a +morning if anything sensational was passing. Abner, as one +of the principal witnesses, was soon separated from his <a +name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +212</span>companion. He was herded together with the others +into a small block of chairs on the right-hand side of the bench +and opposite to the dock. From this point he could see the +court, a mass of white faces from which arose a rumour like the +buzzing of flies. In the midst of them he saw Mary, pale +and innocent. It was in her agony that these buzzing +tormentors would find delight. Almost on a level with her +at the other end of the bench he saw old Mrs Malpas. She +had come to the court as she would have come to chapel, in the +same dour, determined spirit, in the same tight black +dress. They sat abreast of one another, these two women to +whom George Malpas belonged, and not a glance passed between +them.</p> +<p>A new witness arrived, a fair young woman, clothed in black +and veiled, who walked in hurriedly with lowered eyes and tried +to conceal herself, as it seemed, behind the chairs of the +men. The flies buzzed as loudly as when they are driven +from a heap of filth. Abner guessed that this was +George’s Lesswardine woman. Mrs Malpas darted one +eager glance in the new-comer’s direction, but Mary did not +raise her eyes. At the last moment Mr Hind entered with +Susie. She smiled, and the sight of her made Abner’s +blood leap, for she was no longer the white-faced impersonal +being that she had seemed at the inquest. She met his eyes +full, and smiled again. Mary also was looking at him +now. Abner went hot under their two glances. Why did +Mary look at him? The other was the woman that he +wanted!</p> +<p>In a sudden silence George was brought forward. He +seemed none the worse for his night in the cells. He walked +straight to the dock with a policeman on either side of him, +looking neither at his mother, whose hands went to her heart, nor +at Mary, who did not move. His eyes found Abner on the +opposite side of the court, and he smiled, but the smile suddenly +vanished and he went pale, for beyond Abner he had seen the face +of the woman from Lesswardine. He went pale with anger that +they should have dragged her into this; but there was no one on +whom his anger could fall. His hands, that had quickly +clutched at the edge of the dock, fell <a +name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 213</span>to his +sides. He stood there with his fine, pale face and black +hair, and on him were centred the emotions of those three women +who would not look at each other. The court buzzed again, +going suddenly silent as Badger’s master entered and took +his seat on the bench above the head of the clerk.</p> +<p>The proceedings were formal, being no more than another step +in George’s journey to Salop. The only new witness +was the young woman whom the police had unearthed to establish +the sequence of George’s movements on the night of +Bastard’s death. She gave her evidence in a subdued +voice and never raised her eyes. She said that George had +never taken liquor in her house; that he had often come to see +her; that he was her friend. No more.</p> +<p>When she had left the box George gave a sigh of relief. +Abner wondered why he should have preferred this shrinking +creature to Mary or to Susie Hind. The sitting ended in the +obvious way, George being committed to take his trial at the +county assizes. Nothing else could have been expected.</p> +<p>At the door of the court Abner rejoined Mary. Mrs +Malpas, who had been whispering to the local solicitor, marched +past them without speaking, and Mary flushed at this deliberate +slight.</p> +<p>‘She won’t speak to me,’ she said. +‘I think that’s too bad! That was Lawyer Harley +she was talking to.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t take no notice of her,’ said +Abner. ‘That old woman’s +half-cracked.’</p> +<p>He went on to tell her that Mick Connor, who had gone to the +Buffalo out of curiosity the night before, had heard Mrs Malpas +tell one of her customers that if George were sent to Shrewsbury +she would employ the best criminal advocate on the circuit, even +if it cost her the last penny she possessed. He did not +tell her that Mrs Malpas had declared that it was nothing but the +proud ways of Mary, ‘that thief’s daughter,’ +she called her—that had driven George to his ruin.</p> +<p>‘He didn’t look at me once,’ said Mary on +the way home.</p> +<p>‘He’d no call to look at nobody,’ Abner +replied.</p> +<p><a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +214</span>‘He looked at <i>her</i>,’ said Mary +bitterly. ‘He’s strange. I don’t +know what to make of him.’</p> +<p>‘That’s natural enough. He didn’t want +to see her dragged out in public.’</p> +<p>‘Dragged out in public?’ she cried, with an +unusual flush of spirit. ‘What about +<i>me</i>?’</p> +<p>They settled down to another placid evening at Wolfpits. +The children had enjoyed their day with Mrs Mamble, though Morgan +was persuaded with difficulty to go to bed without the coveted +warming-pan under his pillow. Mrs Mamble was just preparing +to leave them for the night when a knock came to the door, and +without waiting for it to be opened to her Mrs Malpas +entered. Her walk to Wolfpits over the roadway, now +slippery with ice, had exhausted her, so that she looked more +like a wraith than a woman. Even so she did not stop to +recover her breath. She clenched her hands in the queer +gesture that Abner had noticed the evening before, and with +trembling wrists began to storm in Mary’s face.</p> +<p>‘What have you done with the money?’ she +cried. ‘What have you done with it?’ +Abner laid his hand on her shoulder, for she looked +dangerous.</p> +<p>‘Take your hands off me!’ she screamed. +‘The money. . . . I want my money!’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Mary said.</p> +<p>‘My money, you brazen madam!’ she cried. +‘The money out of the box in father’s bedroom. +More than fifty pound . . .’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know what you mean,’ repeated Mary, +bewildered.</p> +<p>‘It’s gone . . . gone! Don’t tell me +you don’t know where it’s gone, when I know +you’ve a’ had it! He can’t have spent it +all. Give me what’s left . . . to pay the +lawyers. George would never have gone and took it without +you to put him up to it . . . you with your lady’s ways and +your fine speech! Ah, that’s where the bad blood +comes out. Your father was a thief, and you’re no +better! Bad blood . . . bad blood!’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you dare . . .’ Mary cried. +‘Don’t you dare speak of my father!’</p> +<p><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 215</span>She +stood tall and flushed above her mother-in-law.</p> +<p>‘Give me the money . . . what’s left of it,’ +Mrs Malpas pleaded. ‘Give it me, and I won’t +say no more.’</p> +<p>Her violence had spent itself. Now she was only small, +pathetic, withered. Mary controlled herself. She +would not answer.</p> +<p>‘I’d forgive him taking it. . . . I’d +forgive him. Mr Harley says they’ll want twenty pound +before they touch the case. Only twenty pound. . . . +I can find more later. Give me twenty pound.’</p> +<p>‘She says she don’t know nothing about it,’ +said Abner.</p> +<p>‘<i>Says</i>! It must have been George. No +one else knew where I kept it. He’s hidden it. +Up in his room. You must look . . . you must +look!’</p> +<p>‘I know nothing about it,’ said Mary, mastering +herself. ‘I’ve not seen a penny. I . . . +I can’t talk to you. I wish you would go +away.’</p> +<p>‘Leave the woman alone, missus,’ said Abner. +‘She’s enough to put up with without you. +You’d best go out quiet. You’m not +answerable. Come on, now!’</p> +<p>The old woman seemed to pull her strength together, looking +from one to the other. They waited for a new outburst, but +instead of speaking she suddenly threw up her hands and burst +into a fit of choking sobs. Mary made a compassionate +movement toward her, but Mrs Malpas stopped her with a violent +gesture. Then she straightened her bonnet and moved to the +door. She became her old, wiry, deliberate self. Her +voice was clear and her face like stone.</p> +<p>‘If George took it,’ she said emphatically, +‘it was the devil that drove him, and I can’t do no +more. But not one penny shall you ever get out of me, Mary +Condover. You can starve, you and your children together, +but don’t come crying to dad and me. You and your +pride. . . .! Now you can see what you’ve to be proud +of. The daughter of a thief and the wife of a thief. +That’s what you are! I never want to set eyes on you +again . . . you and your fancy lodger!’</p> +<p>She went out, leaving the door open behind her. Mary +stood looking after her, shaken like a tree in the wind. +Then she gave a curious laugh and sat down at <a +name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 216</span>the +table. Abner could do nothing for her; but she managed to +contain herself until she had risen and passed from his sight +upstairs.</p> +<p>It was fortunate for them all in the suspense that now held +them that the Shrewsbury assizes had been fixed for the middle of +December, immediately before the Christmas vacation. On his +committal by the Lesswardine bench, George had been taken at once +to the county jail where he lay awaiting his trial. In the +meantime the leisurely routine of work in those wintry valleys, +disturbed so abruptly by these violent events, reasserted +itself. The snow melted. To the sodden days of thaw +succeeded a period of mild and mistily golden weather that would +have seemed like spring had it not been so silent. The work +on the pipeline began again like the progress of some great +engine that had kept its power hissing beneath the snow, and +daily gathered speed. Even the Pound House, still suspect +by the police but happily safe until the Brewster sessions, +regained its old popularity, though Mr Hind, having been duly +warned, gave more attention to his business than ever +before. It had been clear from the first that he had taken +a violent dislike to Abner, whom he regarded as the cause of all +his trouble. On the day of the inquest he had shown this by +his silence; but when Abner appeared again at the inn, he told +him in as many words that his custom wasn’t wanted. +Susie, a little shaken by her father’s severity, implored +him not to persist in coming to the Pound House, and though she +appeared no less passionately devoted to Abner, the lovers’ +meetings were fewer and their secrecy more precarious.</p> +<p>It was strange how little difference George’s absence +made to life at Wolfpits. Within a week it almost seemed as +if the place and its inhabitants had forgotten him. Neither +Mary nor the children ever mentioned his name, and since the day +of the police-court proceedings Abner had heard nothing from him +but a single scribbled letter which George contrived to send from +the lock-up by the hand of the young policeman who had drunk his +beer. In this letter a new flicker of care for his family +had shown itself: he had reminded <a name="page217"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 217</span>Abner of his promise to stay at +Wolfpits and look after them. ‘I would have sent you +some money,’ he wrote, ‘but they’ve taken it +off me. Mary can ask mother if she’s in a +fix.’ The reminder was quite unnecessary. Abner +had given his word to a pal and meant to stick to it, though he +foresaw a difficult moment when the plan should be disclosed to +Mary. He could not see, for the life of him, how to open +the subject, and so he let things take their course, waiting for +the occasion to arrive without his interference.</p> +<p>It came, as he had half expected, at the end of the week, when +the next payment for his lodging was due. Instead of his +usual fourteen shillings he gave Mary the whole of his wages +wrapped up in the piece of paper in which he received them at the +works. The situation embarrassed her, as she told him, for +she had no change.</p> +<p>‘I don’t want none,’ he said bluntly.</p> +<p>‘But I can’t take it from you,’ she +protested. ‘It isn’t right.’</p> +<p>‘Right or wrong,’ said he, ‘you and the +children can’t live on less, and you’ll find it a +tight pinch as it is.’</p> +<p>‘I can’t take it,’ she said again.</p> +<p>They stood on either side of the table with the packet of +money between them.</p> +<p>‘It isn’t only that,’ she added. +‘Don’t suppose I think the less of your kindness. . . +. I wish I could tell you what I do think . . . but +I’m afraid it isn’t right for you to stay on here now +George is away.’</p> +<p>‘That’s why I ought to stay,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘You don’t understand,’ she replied. +‘Men don’t think of such things. It would be +the talk of the village. They’d say there was +something wrong.’</p> +<p>‘As long as there bain’t nothing wrong +there’s no harm in talk. Talk never hurt +nobody.’</p> +<p>‘There’s George’s mother . . . you +don’t know her! Remember what she said that +night.’</p> +<p>‘Do you think I’d ever take the upper hand of +you?’</p> +<p>‘No, no . . . it’s not me,’ she said +quickly, turning away from him.</p> +<p>‘Then there’s no call to be soft over +it.’</p> +<p>‘There’s George, too . . .’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you fret yourself about George,’ he +said, and <a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +218</span>showed her her husband’s letter. +‘That’s what George thinks about it. I reckon +that’s good enough.’</p> +<p>For a long time she would not take his money. The hard +facts of her case, the words of Mrs Malpas, and the ugly +necessity of applying for parish relief, seemed to weigh less +with her than this tyrannous modesty.</p> +<p>‘You can take it or leave it,’ he said, ‘but +I’ve promised George and the money will come to you just +the same. . . . Supposing I get another lodge, the money +will be less, that’s all. If you bain’t afeard +of me . . . .’</p> +<p>She protested: ‘No . . . no . . . .’</p> +<p>‘Then I may as well stay on. You can’t do +without a man in a place like this. There’s the wood +to chop and the water to draw and that. I should have to +come here just the same. We’ve got to live on a poor +wage, and it’s all the better if I’m here.’</p> +<p>‘I must think it over,’ she said.</p> +<p>In the end she consented to his staying—happily for +herself since otherwise life would have been almost +impossible. During the three weeks that passed before +George’s trial, they settled down into a new and orderly +condition, living poorly, it is true, but contentedly, and aided +by the attentions of their neighbours. Mrs Mamble, perhaps +at Mary’s request, often softened the awkwardness of the +situation by dropping in about supper-time and staying to talk +over the fire, and old Drew was continually giving the children +presents of eggs from his own fowl-yard, farm-produce from the +land on which he worked, and even some of the milk which, +according to the custom in those parts, he received in part +payment of his wage. Mary could not refuse these gifts so +beautifully given; she could not even return him adequate thanks; +but she tried to add a little to the comfort of the rooms in +which the old man lived, and offered to attend to his clothes, an +attempt in which she failed, since Drew always locked his door +when he left it in the dawn, resenting, in the manner of many +bachelors, the least interference with his own homely dirt, and +wore in winter every shred of clothing that he possessed.</p> +<p>The sense of an obligation unfulfilled would have <a +name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 219</span>made them +awkward if the old man had not accepted the help of Abner in his +garden, a proceeding that he watched with suspicion, being as +fidgety as any old maid, and that of Mary in the feeding of his +fowls. Within a few weeks, indeed, the inhabitants of +Wolfpits had settled down into a kind of communal life that was +happy if only for the fact that its existence implied so much +goodwill.</p> +<p>The subpoenas for the assizes arrived, and with them a new +wave of rumour and excitement troubled the villages. It was +agreed that George had no chance of being acquitted, but those +who had experience of the law vied with those who had none in +predicting the term of his sentence. Through the medium of +Susie, Pound House gossip filtered back to Abner, and in this way +he learned that Mrs Malpas had managed in spite of her loss to +brief a barrister named Rees, who had a great reputation for +skill in criminal defences on that circuit. A week before +the trial Abner received a note from the lesser of the two local +solicitors, who, being a liberal and a nonconformist, had nothing +to lose by an implied opposition to the squire. Together +with Mick Connor and Atwell, Abner repeated his version of the +affair to this man.</p> +<p>‘I shall let Mrs Malpas, senior, know by wire when the +case is likely to come on,’ he said, ‘and you, of +course, will hold yourselves in readiness.’</p> +<p>A fortnight later Mrs Malpas sent up a message by a small boy +from Chapel Green to Wolfpits, telling Abner that it would be +necessary to set out for Shrewsbury on the following +morning. The message made no mention of Mary.</p> +<p>‘But I shall go all the same,’ she said.</p> +<p>They left Wolfpits in darkness, whispering their farewells to +Mrs Mamble for fear of waking the children, whom Mary, dressing +quietly, had left asleep. The nearest station to Chapel +Green was that of Llandwlas, a minute hamlet hidden amid the +springs of the Barbel, a little to the north of the single line +that winds painfully out of Wales between the dominant masses of +the forests of Radnor and Clun. From Wolfpits, +cross-country, this made a five-mile walk. A dripping mist +<a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 220</span>hid the +land, and they saw no soul until they reached the station. +There, on the raw, deserted platform, where the porter had lit a +single oil lamp to show that the day had begun, they waited, +walking up and down to keep themselves warm. They were +early, and the only other sign of life was the yellow square of +the stationmaster’s bedroom in the adjoining cottage. +Even if daylight had come, the density of the mist would have +given them the same sense of isolation. Little by little +the place became alive: first a float drove up with a couple of +milk-cans; next came a gnomish figure who carried a stick, with +dead rabbits slung from it over his shoulder: then a noisy party +of two, whom Abner recognised as his fellow-witnesses.</p> +<p>‘That’s Connor and Atwell come up,’ he +said.</p> +<p>‘Let’s keep at the other end,’ Mary +whispered, moving away.</p> +<p>Two more traps arrived, the first containing the Hinds, the +second Badger, alone, and last, the small, energetic figure of +George’s mother. All these people, whom a chance blow +had precipitated into the same grim business, stood waiting for +the train singly or in isolated groups of two. A straining +of wires was heard, and the fogged, red eye of the signal changed +to green. The stationmaster threw up the shutter of the +booking office with a rattle. Abner found himself wedged in +front of the window between Badger and Mr Hind. Mrs Malpas, +fidgeting with her purse, stood waiting in the background. +As Abner rejoined Mary, a sound of distant panting was heard, and +a minute later the front of the engine loomed enormous through +the fog. They entered a third-class smoker at the end of +the train. The milk-cans were rolled over the echoing +platform into the van, and the train moved off with a clank of +couplings and a hiss of white steam. Down through the +valleys, mile on mile they wound. The train rocked on the +gradients until it seemed that the carriages must touch the black +edge of the woods. The mist turned white and +dazzling. The sun had risen.</p> +<h2><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 221</span>The +Sixteenth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">After</span> nightfall on the same evening +that train of old-fashioned coaches came blundering back along +the curves of the Llandwlas line. The snorting of its +engine was the only sound, as its yellow windows and +fire-belching funnel were the only light, in all those miles of +woodland and valley. The train ran late as usual, +stuttering up the gradients as though the weight it carried were +too much for the power of its groaning pistons.</p> +<p>Scattered through the various compartments of its three short +coaches sat all the witnesses of George’s +condemnation. The jury, having no alternative, had found +him guilty of manslaughter, and the judge, who saw in front of +him a programme of cases more important than this flicker of +violence in a remote agricultural district, wasted no time on his +sentence. If Bastard had not been a policeman, and +therefore a humble symbol of the code which his lordship +administered, if the witness Badger had not been a gamekeeper, +which was much the same thing, George might easily have escaped +with a few months’ imprisonment, or half a year’s at +most. The barrister whom Mrs Malpas had employed for the +defence realised this. The fact that he was most eager to +establish seemed to be that George was not, and had never been, a +poacher, and that he was not on bad terms with the man he had +killed. Mrs Malpas, sitting in the public gallery on the +bench in front of Mary, listened eagerly. Her heart sank as +she listened to the evidence, the words that she had heard before +in the police-court at Lesswardine, for she had expected that the +little man in the gray wig who had shaken hands with her an hour +before in consideration of the thirty pounds that she had scraped +together to pay him, would throw some new and startling light +upon the case, reducing Badger to tears and confounding the +Lesswardine police. She had expected thunders and +passionate appeals to the <a name="page222"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 222</span>mercy of the jury. Instead of +this he spoke in a low voice, with a Jewish lisp, and even +cracked a joke, at which the jury smiled, with one of the +witnesses for the prosecution. The old woman felt that she +had been betrayed. Seeking ideal justice she had found +something trivial and cynical. The whole business was +nearly over before she realised that it had begun. The +judge summed up lazily, only pitching his voice when he dwelt +upon the necessity of such men as Bastard to the public safety +and the very existence of property. The jury retired for +less than two minutes. The judge gave sentence of eighteen +months’ hard labour, and the white face of George, who had +stood like a statue throughout the trial, disappeared from the +dock. When she looked again she saw that another man, who +looked like a tramp, had entered it. People around her +began to talk, for this was a case of real murder, and this +mean-looking creature was to fight for his life. Only then +did the old woman realise that George’s case was +over. She passed Mary in the door of the gallery and +hurried downstairs, where the counsel whom she had briefed +congratulated her on the issue of the case. While she was +engaged with him and with Harley, the solicitor, Mary passed her +and joined Abner on the steps of the court. Mrs Malpas, in +the middle of her conversation, gave them a queer sidelong glance +that filled Mary with uneasiness.</p> +<p>‘I don’t think we had better go home +together,’ she whispered.</p> +<p>‘Come on and get a spot of tea,’ he said. +‘I reckon you must be clammed, and there’s near an +hour before the train goes.’</p> +<p>It made her flurried and impatient to think that Abner had not +understood her.</p> +<p>‘I don’t want you to be with me,’ she +said. ‘She’s watching us. Don’t you +see?’</p> +<p>‘Let her watch!’ said Abner, looking round in a +way that made Mrs Malpas sure that they had been speaking of +her. ‘Come on . . .’</p> +<p>But she slipped away from him in the crowd outside the steps +so quickly that he could not very well follow her with +dignity. At the same moment Connor and <a +name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 223</span>Atwell +appeared and solved his perplexity by dragging him off into a +public-house. Mick gave the ball a kick, as he called it, +with a round of Irish whisky. None of them had tasted any +food since they left their homes before dawn, and the spirit soon +went into Abner’s head. They sat in a corner of the +bar, laughing uproariously at Mick’s ridiculous stories, +and making outrageous plans for getting their own back on +Badger. Indeed, if the clock in the bar had not struck to +warn them of the time, they would have missed their train. +They had to hurry down the steep hill to Shrewsbury +station. Lights were gleaming in the muddy streets and in +the windows of tall, half-timbered houses. Above them hung +the threatening mass of the castle.</p> +<p>‘That’s where poor old George will get his +lodging,’ said Mick.</p> +<p>‘This time eighteen month . . .’ said Atwell +solemnly.</p> +<p>‘Ah, not at all,’ said Mick. ‘Sure +he’ll be out and about next winter, if he plays his +game.’</p> +<p>At the station they found they had still a few minutes to +spare, and Abner’s hazy intention of looking for Mary was +lost in another rush to the third-class refreshment-room. +Just before the train started he ran along the carriages to see +if he could find her. In one carriage he saw Mrs Malpas, in +another three Lesswardine policemen, in a third Mr Hind was +sitting with Susie, who smiled at him. Mary was nowhere to +be seen. Mick pulled him into a smoker as the train was +starting.</p> +<p>‘God help me!’ said he, ‘is it crazed you +are that you can’t leave the woman five minutes to +herself. You’ll be seeing all you want of her time +her George comes out.’</p> +<p>Atwell laughed stupidly. Abner jumped up in a rage and +was for throwing Connor through the window.</p> +<p>‘Ah, be quiet now!’ Mick persuaded, ‘for I +don’t mane a word of it!’</p> +<p>Abner settled down sulkily. Atwell had already forgotten +the incident and was snoring in his corner. Mick hummed +quietly the song about Macarthy, spitting through a chink in the +window between the verses. The train jolted on into the +darkness, crossing <a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>the deep valley of Severn, skirting the eastern +foothills of the Long Mynd, sliding down with braked engine into +the basin of Teme. At Craven Arms a Welsh cattle dealer +joined them, a small, red-bearded man, who eyed them suspiciously +and would not be drawn into talk with Mick Connor. The +train climbed painfully, the air grew colder. +Atwell’s snores joined with the clanking of the wheels to +set a spell of drowsiness on Abner’s fuddled brain. +He fell asleep.</p> +<p>At Llandwlas Mick woke him. They tumbled out on to the +deserted platform. Mary was nowhere to be seen. She +had slipped him again, and though he was inclined to be angry at +this unreasonable conduct he submitted to Mick’s suggestion +that they should walk back to Chapel Green together and get +another drink. Two traps passed them on the road, flinging +an uncertain light upon the frosty hedges. From the first +of them Susie called good-night; in the second they could see the +helmets of the police, but no trace either of Mrs Malpas or Mary +was to be seen on the road.</p> +<p>The sleep had cleared Abner’s head. They walked +quickly through the raw air and in a little more than an hour +they saw the poplars of Chapel Green.</p> +<p>‘What about a drop at the Buffalo?’ said Mick.</p> +<p>Even from a distance they could see that this forbidding +resort had become unusually cheerful. It was now the time +of evening at which the labouring men who formed the greater part +of Mrs Malpas’s customers finished their quarts and went +home to bed. As the three men approached, many voices were +heard.</p> +<p>‘Sounds as if there’s a drop +stirrin’,’ said Mick. ‘By the houly, +an’ so there will be! There’s the Pound House, +after being closed on them with Mr Hind and Susan +away!’</p> +<p>He opened the door and a mist of tobacco smoke met the colder +air. At the same moment a tall musical box, shaped like a +grandfather clock and worked by a penny-in-the-slot apparatus, +struck up the tune of Champagne Charlie. In front of it, +beating time with a pint pot, dangerously full, stood Wigan +Joe. The man was three-parts drunk, as were most of the +other cloggers who crowded the bar. At his right hand, next +<a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 225</span>the +fire, sat old Mr Malpas, following with anxious eyes the +evolutions of the big man’s tankard. The room was so +full of smoke and occupied by the jingle of the musical box that +Abner and his friends entered without the clogger realising that +they were there. . . .</p> +<p>‘That’s a good rousing tune, lad,’ he cried, +leaning over Mr Malpas and beating out the rhythm with his free +hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘Eh, it’s +a grand night is this. Makes you feel like you’re +young again. Let’s have another bloody +penn’orth!’ Mr Malpas nodded, smiling +feebly.</p> +<p>Fumbling in his pocket for the coin, he became aware of Abner, +Mick, and Atwell.</p> +<p>‘By gum, lads, is that you? Tell us quick +what’s happened . . .’</p> +<p>‘They give him eighteen months,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘The b—s!’ said Joe under his breath. +He took them aside and explained that he and his mates had +thought that old Mr Malpas would be lonely-like with George in +trouble and his missus away. ‘We thought we’d +stay in and brighten things up a bit to take his mind off it +like. We’ve had a nice bit of harmony,’ he +said. ‘Eighteen months! Well, that’s a +b— that is!’</p> +<p>At this moment the musical box, after one or two metallic +protests, inharmoniously stopped in the middle of its +chorus. Joe threw a penny to the man who sat nearest to +it. ‘’Ere, put in another copper,’ he +said, ‘an’ wind the blasted thing oop.’ +The clockwork grated and the tune began again. +‘Don’t say a word to the old ’un,’ he +said. ‘Keep his mind off it: that’s the +ticket.’</p> +<p>With this end in view he left them and poked old Malpas, who +had now relapsed into a state of nodding imbecility, in the +ribs. ‘Do you see that there gun, dad?’ he +shouted.</p> +<p>Malpas stared vaguely.</p> +<p>‘Gun,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t you +go telling me you don’t know what a gun is!’ He +pointed to an old muzzle loader that hung above the hearth.</p> +<p>‘Oh, ay . . . gun!’ said Old Malpas blandly. +Wigan Joe bent over him and began to declaim in <a +name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 226</span>his ear an +endless, and, as it seemed, pointless story, of how he had once +gone out with a friend to shoot crows; how he had seen a crow on +a haystack on the parish boundary, and how his friend, after +taking careful aim, had missed it. At this point he raised +his voice still louder. ‘By gum, lad,’ I says, +‘you’re the first ever I knew that shot at a haystack +and missed a parish!’ With the last words he gave the +old man a hearty slap on the back, and Malpas collapsed into a +feeble fit of laughter.</p> +<p>‘Shot at a haystack and missed a parish,’ the +clogger repeated, roaring at his own joke, and presenting it to +the company, who were now in a condition to laugh at +anything.</p> +<p>At the same moment the door opened and Mrs Malpas +entered. Joe steadied himself, the others were silent at +the sight of her small, tragic figure, only the musical box +continued to jangle out its tune and the old man to be shaken +with equally mechanical chuckles. She did not speak, but +took in the whole assembly with her eyes.</p> +<p>‘Evening, ma’am,’ said the clogger. +‘We’ve been giving the old gentleman a bit of a tune +to liven him up like, and make him forget his +troubles.’</p> +<p>Without answering, she stepped straight over to the musical +box and pulled a lever that stopped it. Then she shook the +shoulder of her husband, who had not yet realised her coming.</p> +<p>‘What’s up with you, dad?’ she cried. +‘Are you stark mad?’</p> +<p>‘It’s all right, mother,’ he replied +feebly.</p> +<p>‘Right?’ she cried. Then she turned on the +others. ‘Out of this!’ she said. +‘Out of this, every one of you. . . . As if there +wasn’t enough shame and sorrow in this house without your +mocking it with your drink and your music. Out of it, I +say!’ And she waved her arms as though she were +driving cattle.</p> +<p>‘Now don’t take on so, ma’am,’ said +Wigan Joe mildly. ‘It was all meant for the +best. Can’t you let the man forget his +troubles? It’s a poor heart that never +rejoices!’</p> +<p>‘Don’t speak to me!’ she cried +angrily. ‘To think <a name="page227"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 227</span>that you have the face to come here, +you that led him astray with your drink and your bawdiness! +To come and make a mock of his own father!’</p> +<p>Her eyes fell on Abner, who had risen to go to the door.</p> +<p>‘And that man!’ she cried, whipping herself up +into a white paroxysm of rage. ‘That man who, if all +had their rights, would be in the dock and in the prison where my +son is lying! That’s the man he’s suffering +for! That’s the serpent he took into his +bosom!’ She stood before Abner spitting like a snake +herself. ‘Never let me see your face again!’ +she cried. ‘Never come nigh this door. It was +the devil that sent you to bring trouble on a good Christian +house!’</p> +<p>Again Wigan Joe protested the innocence of his intentions, +while the old man sat nodding by the fire as if the storm had +broken without him knowing it.</p> +<p>‘Don’t talk to me,’ she said, ‘with +the liquor in your breath. Go away and leave us +alone.’</p> +<p>Abner went out. The other men were standing on the +pavement laughing. Mick implored him to go on with them to +the Pound House where Mr Hind and Susie had by this time +presumably arrived, but he shook his head and took the road to +Wolfpits, pondering, through the darkness of night, on the +curious turn which his fortune had taken.</p> +<p>He had now time to think about Mary, and the unreasonable +obstinacy she had shown in leaving him on the steps of the court +and later avoiding him both at Shrewsbury and Llandwlas. He +felt a little concerned that she should have chosen to walk so +many miles cross-country through the dark rather than submit to +his company. After all it would have been only natural for +them to go home together; he had always treated her with respect, +and there was nothing in the history of their acquaintance that +should have made her shy of him, nothing—unless it were +perhaps that one curious moment on the night when they had +carried George upstairs between them and put him to bed. +Then he had told her, in George’s defence, of his own +intimacy with Susie Hind, and this revelation, instead of putting +her at ease, as it should have done, <a name="page228"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 228</span>had actually seemed to embarrass +her. This knowledge, however, gave her no reason for her +present behaviour. Indeed, if she knew him to be so thick +with Susie, there was surely less cause than ever for her to be +shy with him herself. He gave women up—you never knew +where you were with them. He supposed that nothing but fear +of Mrs Malpas was at the bottom of Mary’s queer +behaviour. ‘I don’t want you to be with me: +she’s watching us,’ she had said when she gave him +the slip at Shrewsbury. Another memory of Mrs Malpas +returned to him: the end of her outburst at Wolfpits when she had +come in search of her money. ‘You and your fancy +lodger!’ she had screamed. Abner laughed to +himself. It was clear that Mary hadn’t much of a +fancy for him at present.</p> +<p>All the same he couldn’t entirely dismiss Mrs Malpas +from his thoughts. She had shown herself definitely hostile +to him, and his last vision of her clearing the bar of the +Buffalo, a puny figure with white cheeks, burning eyes, and +nodding plume of jet, showed him her fanatical strength, stronger +for the fact that she regarded herself in her most violent +moments as a representative of the right and the rest of the +world as inspired by the devil. Yet he couldn’t get +away from the ludicrous side of her, and found himself chuckling +in the dark, ‘Poor old soul’ he thought. +‘She dain’t know what she wants, and that’s the +truth!’ But Mrs Malpas did know what she wanted.</p> +<p>Mary had gone to bed when he reached Wolfpits, but she had +left his supper ready on the kitchen table. He ate his +bread and cheese and drank his beer. That night, exhausted +with the strain of the day, he slept heavily.</p> +<p>So the new life began. If George Malpas, lying in +Shrewsbury Jail, returned, in one of the debauches of sentiment +to which his nature was subject, to the idea of his desolate wife +and family, and dwelt on it with pity or remorse, he might well +have spared himself the luxury of these emotions. There +were few changes at Wolfpits. The children knew that they +need no longer expect the violent attentions which George gave +them when he felt like it; Spider, the bitch, settled <a +name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>down to a +life untroubled by George’s kicks and stones; while Mary, +that strange and secret creature, was spared at least the +alternations of reproaches and endearments which made up the +greater part of her marriage. George had vanished from her +life. For three months at least no word, no sign from him +might reach her. It was true that the family had to live +more simply. Abner’s wages, which she now took +without question every Saturday night, could buy them nothing +more than the absolute necessities of life, and, even so, must be +spent with care; but it pleased her to think that she was +managing on them and that not one penny went on frivolous +things.</p> +<p>Abner himself kept back no more than a couple of shillings for +tobacco every week. To drink was out of the question, and +it now seemed to him fortunate that Mr Hind, in a fit of temper, +should have warned him off the Pound House. He now spent +most of his evenings at home sitting before the fire, with Gladys +on his knee, and making catapults or other wooden weapons for +Morgan with his knife. Even in so small a household as +theirs there was plenty of rough work that a man could do, not +only in the way of digging and dressing the garden and hewing +wood for the fires, but actually in patching up the crumbled +fabric of Wolfpits which, left to the mercies of rain and frost, +would have fallen about their heads. The sudden intimacy +with their neighbours into which George’s arrest had thrown +them, continued, and the more Abner detached himself from the +life of the cloggers and of his own mates, the more sufficient +did this isolated communal life of Wolfpits become. It was +the most peaceful and natural that he had ever lived, and he grew +to love it for its regularity and calm.</p> +<p>The only force that tended to drag him out of this centripetal +existence was Susie. Whatever her father might think of +Abner, and however little he might come to the Pound House, she +had no intention of giving up a man to whom she had taken such a +passionate fancy. Of all those with whom she came in +contact in Mainstone, Abner had pleased her best, being more +completely her opposite than any of the others. His <a +name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 230</span>fairness, +his strength, and a certain innocence in his composition, had +made her choose him for her own, and even though he found the +relation exacting and occasionally inconvenient, Abner was still +under the spell of her physical attraction. Indeed there +seemed to be no fear of this being exhausted, for their meetings +were necessarily rarer and therefore more enthralling.</p> +<p>In the regularity of his new life at Wolfpits lurked the +obvious disadvantage that Abner’s visits to Susie became +conspicuous. Mary knew better than to question him on his +movements—pride, as well as the tact which she had learned +in her experience of George forbade her to do so—but when +Abner returned late at night from these assignations she would +look at him queerly, and a silence and restraint out of which she +could not school herself, made it evident that she resented the +mystery. He wished, indeed, that she would ask him where he +had been, for then he would have been able to put her off with +some deliberate lie which she could believe or reject as she +pleased. Anything, he felt, was better than this +uncomfortable chill, this shy curiosity of gaze, this +silence. It was a condition of affairs that he could not +stand and made him anxious, beyond all considerations of +prudence, to blurt out his secret—if secret it +were—and dissolve the grudging air of mystery with which +she received him.</p> +<p>One night when he had come home late and could stand her +silence no longer, he said suddenly:—</p> +<p>‘Where d’you reckon I’ve been +to-night?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I +don’t want to know.’</p> +<p>He laughed, and she made a slight gesture of annoyance.</p> +<p>‘I never met a woman yet who didn’t want to know +where a man had been,’ he said.</p> +<p>She turned her back on him. ‘Will you lock the +door and put out the lamp?’ she said coldly.</p> +<p>‘I’ve been to the Pound House,’ he +volunteered, watching her all the time.</p> +<p>‘I should have thought you’d had enough of the +Pound House,’ she was tempted to reply bitterly.</p> +<p>‘To see Susie Hind . . .’ he continued.</p> +<p>‘Yes?’</p> +<p>‘So now you know, missus.’</p> +<p><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 231</span>He +wished, perversely, that she would turn on him and tell him what +she thought of him. It would have cleared the air. +Instead of this she spoke calmly and almost scornfully.</p> +<p>‘Why did you want to tell me this?’</p> +<p>‘Because a woman’s always itching to +know.’</p> +<p>‘Do you think I didn’t know it +already?’ Then she repeated her first words: +‘Please lock the door and put the lamp out,’ and left +him.</p> +<p>This made things no better. He had wanted to justify +himself, or, at any rate, to brazen the matter out. He +wanted to pierce her armour of reserve, to see her as she +was. Whether she were jealous or merely actively scornful +didn’t matter as long as she showed herself to be alive and +tangible. He wanted to feel the shock of their two wills, +their two persons clashing without this irritating veil in which +she hid herself intervening. Whether it were love or hate +he wanted to feel some definite contact with her: something +comparable with the moment when she had spoken to him of +George’s woman at Lesswardine. This she denied +him. It was unreasonable that she should behave in this way +to the man on whose charity, if he put it at the bluntest, she +was now living. It seemed as if she had made the +maintenance of this spiritual remoteness the condition of her +dependence on him. He felt, vaguely, that she wasn’t +playing the game, and explained her attitude to himself as the +result of her unnatural fear of old Mrs Malpas’s +tongue. He was tempted, at times, to throw in his hand, to +launch out again, to leave Chapel Green and let her go her own +way. He pretended to himself that his promise to George, an +obligation that went a good deal deeper than friendship, +restrained him; but he knew in his heart that even if he had not +undertaken the care of George’s wife he would never have +left Wolfpits. He only wished that her pride, or whatever +it was, would let her be reasonable.</p> +<p>Susie wasn’t like that. With Susie he knew exactly +where he was. She had even, once or twice, shown herself +jealous of his devotion to Mary, and tried to read into it an +intimacy which was very far removed <a name="page232"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 232</span>from their real state. She had +seen Mary in the police-court and in the gallery at the assizes, +had recognised her beauty and the dignity which contrasted so +deeply with her own abandon. She would ask Abner questions +about her, implying that Mary must be jealous of his visits to +Mainstone, in this way half convincing Abner that it was +unnatural for her not to be jealous, and aggravating his +grievance.</p> +<p>‘I suppose she takes your money and then treats you like +dirt,’ she said scornfully. And Abner could not be +sure that she hadn’t described the situation exactly.</p> +<p>Christmas came and passed: a meagre Christmas such as their +means imposed upon them. The morning was bright, and Mary +took the children to church. In the evening Mrs Mamble and +old Drew joined them, and in their company the bearing of Mary +curiously lightened. She became young and gay, almost +childish. There was laughter in her eyes and her cheeks +were flushed with firelight. The old labourer had brought +with him a bottle of cowslip wine that he had made in the spring, +and they sat together late into the night telling stories of +forgotten people and distant counties. About midnight the +others left them, and though her attitude sensibly changed, a +little of the glow was left in Mary’s face.</p> +<p>‘Last Christmas,’ she said musingly, ‘we all +went down to the Buffalo in the evening—George and me and +the children.’</p> +<p>Abner also remembered. He told her of his own Christmas +at Hackett’s Cottages, how John Fellows had been in +hospital with his broken thigh and he had been left alone with +Alice and little John. Mary leaned forward and listened to +him in the firelight with her soft eyes fixed upon his face.</p> +<p>‘Was it her you wrote that letter to?’ she +asked.</p> +<p>‘The one you wanted to post?’</p> +<p>‘I thought I could save you the trouble.’</p> +<p>He laughed. ‘Yes . . . that was her.’</p> +<p>‘How old was she?’</p> +<p>‘Somewhere about the same as you, I reckon.’</p> +<p>‘And two children?’</p> +<p>‘No, only one kid.’</p> +<p><a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +233</span>‘How long was he . . . I mean your father . . . +in hospital?’</p> +<p>‘Pretty nigh six month.’</p> +<p>‘And you had to keep the house going?’</p> +<p>‘Of course I had. There wasn’t nought coming +in except his club, and that bain’t nothing to speak +on.’</p> +<p>‘Six months . . .’ She stared into the fire, +and there was a long silence. ‘It’s funny, +isn’t it?’ she said at last, without raising her +eyes. ‘Funny how things turn out?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, it’s a rum go.’</p> +<p>Then she began slowly to question him about Alice: what was +she like, fair or dark, how tall, the kind of dress she +wore—curious details that he had to search his memory to +answer. She seemed to be working out for herself the +obvious parallel, but never looked at him.</p> +<p>‘Why did you leave them?’ she said at last.</p> +<p>By this time is was no longer difficult to talk to her. +He told her continuously the story of his last days at +Halesby. She listened eagerly, putting in from time to time +a short question for which he could see no reason. He told +her of John Fellows’s bouts of drink, of the way in which +he had set himself to work through his compensation money, of the +day of Dulston Wakes, the boxing booth, the brooch, the moment +when he had come blundering down into the kitchen at +Alice’s cry for help, the struggle—and the blow with +which he had knocked his father out. He even told her of +the sovereigns that Alice had slipped into his pocket when he +left her.</p> +<p>‘That’s what I sent back to her in that +letter,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Was that all? It was good of you.’</p> +<p>He was silent, and she pressed him again.</p> +<p>‘Why didn’t you go before?’ she said. +‘Why did you stay on there till that happened?’</p> +<p>‘I dunno’,’ he said. ‘I reckon +I’d got to see it through. That football business +turned me up.’</p> +<p>‘You wanted to go before?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I was pretty well sick of it. Any one would +have been.’</p> +<p><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 234</span>She +looked at him, and her eyes were now humble. She spoke +almost with diffidence.</p> +<p>‘Abner,’ she said, ‘if ever you want to go +from here for any reason, no matter what it is, promise me that +you’ll tell me straight. Don’t you keep it +hidden like that, feeling that the children and me are a drag on +you! If you want to go to-morrow, you go. Don’t +you think of what you said to George. You don’t owe +him anything. You don’t owe me anything at all. +If ever you feel for one minute you want to go, please tell me +straight. I can look after myself, and I shall +understand. That’s what I felt with George. +Promise me. . .’ She leaned toward him with clasped, +beseeching hands.</p> +<p>‘I’ll tell you right enough,’ he said +awkwardly. ‘Don’t you fret yourself about +that.’</p> +<p>She sighed, and pushed her hair back from her forehead.</p> +<p>‘Now I feel easier,’ she said. ‘How +late it is!’</p> +<p>She wished him good-night, and left him; but he did not move +till the logs collapsed in the grate. He was thinking +drowsily of the other Christmas in Halesby, of the different way +in which Alice had approached him, how she had tried to draw him +nearer to her and how he had resisted her. He thought of +the clinging dependence of Alice contrasted with the strength and +independence of this other woman. Poor Alice! She had +never answered his letter or acknowledged his postal order; but +then, she was never one for letter-writing. The suggestion +of freedom, the open way of escape which Mary, in her pride, had +shown him, made him feel for a moment curious about that other +life that had seemed so far away. If he wanted to do so, he +reflected, he could throw up his job at a week’s notice and +take a train that would transport him in half a day back to North +Bromwich, back to the familiar smoke-pale sky, to the chimney +stacks, the furnaces and the smell of pit mounds. The odour +of coal-dust and slag-heaps was in his nostrils. He saw the +packed amphitheatre of the Albion ground and the white-lined turf +within it. He heard the rumour of a football crowd, the +thud of the ball, the referee’s whistle. <a +name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span>So utterly +remote. . . . He went to the door and opened it before he +turned the key in its wards. He saw nothing but the high +blackness of the winter night, not even a single star. The +dank air chilled him; it crept into the lighted room.</p> +<p>‘It’s a rum go . . . a bloody rum go!’ he +said, yawning.</p> +<p>With the New Year, Abner’s work on the pipe-track became +more strenuous, for much time had been lost in the ten days of +snow that fell about the time of Bastard’s death and in the +violent floods that followed on the thaw. A mild January +did little to dry the sodden workings, and the task of shovelling +earth was heavier to Abner than his old labours in Mawne +Pit. His mate, Munn, who lodged miserably in a leaky +labourer’s cottage on the river-bank at Mainstone, was +taken ill with bronchitis, and Abner worked alone. Up to +his ankles in reddish clay he toiled, his hands were rufous and +his trousers caked with it. The burden of the wet earth +weighed on him. It was like a sullen enemy that made his +feet leaden and strained against the muscles of his arms. +All the labourers felt it. Their speech, which had been gay +and good-humoured, became dogged and irritable. Nor were +they the only folk who suffered. In every farm of the +sodden Wolfpits valley men were making the same struggle under +the raw and steely sky. Brimming dykes that drained the +meadows shone cold beside the black hedgerows. The Folly +Brook, a brown torrent, dammed with broken branches that gathered +leaves and creamy foam, filled the whole valley with melancholy +roaring. Waterfowl, snipe, and mallard and even slow-winged +herons, moved upward to the sodden springs. It was a sad +season in which the solitary workers on the farms, seen at +evening in the fields, looked as if they were stuck fast in mires +from which they could not escape: so slowly they moved, so +huddled and pitiful they seemed. Even on the drive at +Wolfpits, where the gravel was reasonably dry, it was painful to +see the bowed figure of old Drew returning at night, his boots so +caked with mud that he could scarcely drag himself along. +It was no wonder that the man found consolation <a +name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>in the +sweet, fiery spirits that he distilled. He sang so loudly +at night that Mrs Mamble would come in and sit with Mary and +Abner rather than listen to his high, cracked voice.</p> +<p>Toward the end of January the vicar of the parish awoke to the +fact that George Malpas was in prison and his wife presumably +destitute. Between his vicarage and Wolfpits lay the vast +bulk of Castel Ditches, so that he rarely visited the valley in +winter. George Malpas, too, was a member of a dissenting +family, his mother being known as a fanatic Methodist; but the +Condovers, in so far as they had ever professed religion, were +church people. Morgan and Gladys had both been baptized in +the parish church, and since scandal informed him that old Mrs +Malpas, like the dissenter that she was, had abandoned her +son’s family, the vicar sent the parish relieving officer +on a special visit to Wolfpits to see if Mary were starving.</p> +<p>It pained and astonished the vicar to learn that she was doing +nothing of the sort. She was not even humble, as a woman in +her degrading position should be. The relieving officer, +who had made his long journey to Wolfpits for nothing, reported +that she was not in need of relief, and for the most shameful of +reasons. There was a lodger, a young man employed on the +water-works and known to the police as a desperate character, who +appeared to be filling the absent husband’s place. +Malpas’s wife had not even made any decent attempt to +conceal this state of affairs. She had confessed brazenly +that she was living on this young man’s earnings. To +help her in any way would merely be putting a premium on +immorality. The vicar nodded his head gravely. Such +cases were all too frequent in rural districts, and yet it was a +relief to feel that his principles freed him from any further +responsibility. He mentioned the matter with satisfaction +to his wife at supper on Sunday. At this meal, his weekly +labours being ended, he always felt that he could speak more +lightly of parish matters.</p> +<p>The vicar’s wife was shocked. ‘I always +thought her such a superior young woman, dear. Do have some +more beef!’ she said. The idea of the superior and <a +name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>desirable +young woman, whom she remembered as the mother of those two sweet +children, living in open sin, obsessed her. It was a +terrible and fascinating picture, and since the usual supply of +gossip failed at the next Lesswardine working party, she dilated, +in hushed tones, on the latest enormity.</p> +<p>‘One feels a thing like that in one’s own +parish,’ she said, speaking, as usual, as if she, and not +the vicar, were the incumbent. ‘But I am afraid +nothing can be done.’</p> +<p>Somebody made a suggestion. The sister of the vicar of +Aston-by-Lesswardine, Mr Cyril Malpas—the name was a +curious coincidence—was shortly to be married to a young +engineer, and the vicar would consequently be in need of a +housekeeper. What a providential escape it would be if this +young woman could find a home in Mr Malpas’s +vicarage! ‘If only Mr Malpas would overlook this +terrible state of affairs and take her,’ they added.</p> +<p>‘The only difficulty that I see,’ said the +vicar’s wife, ‘is that of the children.’</p> +<p>‘But the matron at the workhouse is so motherly, and +such a religious woman. Poor little things! It would +be a blessing in disguise.’</p> +<p>Mr Malpas readily consented. His sister Celia, to tell +the truth, had not been very successful as a housekeeper. +Her individuality had been too marked—not to say +aggressive—for that position, and a woman who had her +reputation to regain would surely be anxious to please.</p> +<p>The new arrangement was proposed to Mary. The +vicar’s wife put the matter delicately, for she prided +herself on her tact. More than ever she was impressed with +the young woman’s superiority and the sweetness of the +children.</p> +<p>‘Then I shall tell Mr Malpas that you will be glad to +come, Mrs . . . er . . . Malpas?’</p> +<p>‘I must talk it over with Mr Fellows,’ said +Mary.</p> +<p>‘Mr Fellows?’</p> +<p>‘My lodger.’</p> +<p>‘Oh . . . yes, I see . . .’ said the vicar’s +wife. That evening Abner came in tired from a day’s +work in the rain. His clothes were soaked; they steamed as +<a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 238</span>he stood +before the fire and filled the room with a harsh odour of wool +and sweat. She told him calmly of her visitor and of the +proposal that she had made. She did not say a word of her +own inclinations.</p> +<p>‘What about the kids?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘I couldn’t take them with me. They would go +to the workhouse.’</p> +<p>‘To hell with the work’us!’ said +Abner. ‘Not likely! What do they take you +for?’</p> +<p>Mary smiled. She told him what they took her for.</p> +<p>Abner was seized with rage. ‘They’re a dirty +lot of swine, that’s what they are!’ he said. +‘By God, I’d like to tell ’em of it!’</p> +<p>‘It’s natural,’ she said. ‘It +looks like that.’</p> +<p>‘And what the hell does it matter what it looks like, so +long as there bain’t nothing wrong? Old George knows +it’s all right, and he’m the only one as +matters.’</p> +<p>She did not answer.</p> +<p>‘An’ what’s the difference you being here +with me or living alone with that there parson?’</p> +<p>‘He’s a clergyman,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘A clergyman, is he?’ Abner cried. ‘A +clergyman! I like that!’</p> +<p>It pleased her, in her heart, to see him so moved.</p> +<p>‘Well, what do you think of it?’ she said +quietly. ‘If you want to go, like you did before when +you were at home, this is your chance.’</p> +<p>He stood scowling in front of the fire. He +couldn’t make her out. When he left the court at +Shrewsbury he had set himself to a deliberate line of conduct and +determined to go through with it. When they had spoken of +it before it had seemed to him that he and Mary were agreed on it +and that nothing could change it until George’s +return. Even now he couldn’t bring himself to believe +that she wanted to make a change. He knew her quiet passion +for the children too well to think that anything could tempt her +to abandon them to the care of strangers. Also he knew her +pride. He believed that her pride and nothing else was +keeping her from telling him exactly what she felt. It was +useless for her to pretend to him that she had no feelings. +It struck him that she was not playing the game. When <a +name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 239</span>a man and +woman were placed in their position anything but the most +complete confidence in each other was unfair. He would +force her to say what she thought. Even if it humbled her +he would force her to speak.</p> +<p>‘It’s naught to do with me,’ he said. +‘If you want to go, you go, and that’s all that +matters.’</p> +<p>She was silent for a long time.</p> +<p>‘If you want to go, you go,’ he repeated.</p> +<p>At last she spoke, very quietly.</p> +<p>‘I don’t want to go,’ she said.</p> +<p>A feeling of joy swept over him, a curious, almost physical +exultation. He had brutally broken through the veil in +which she hid herself. He had seen herself at last. +Now, with the blood tingling in his fingers, he would assert +himself triumphantly as the man by whose labour she lived. +She could despise him no longer. He wanted to tell her so, +to make himself strong before her, but when he looked at her and +saw her humility, he could do nothing. His words withered +on his lips. He scarcely knew what he was saying.</p> +<p>‘Give us a spot of tea, then,’ he said roughly, +and she turned from him without another word.</p> +<h2><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 240</span>The +Seventeenth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">She</span> stayed at Wolfpits. The +iron of winter lay heavy on the land. The hills were +leagued with winter to hem them in and isolate them. It was +as though Wolfpits were besieged. For many years there had +been no such winter in the Powys march, and old men who divined +portents of weather from the berries of holly and the conduct of +birds, foretold that there was worse to come. By the end of +January the cloggers, as sensitive to sky-change as any feathered +migrants, had struck their tents in the Wolfpits valley, leaving +half their harvest of alder ungathered, and set off north for +Lancashire where, in a country parched with fire and warmed with +millions of huddled houses, they might finish the shaping of +their wood for market. In any case they had stayed in the +country later than usual, and when old Mrs Malpas, shocked by +Wigan Joe’s attempts to put life into her husband, bundled +them out of their lodging at the Buffalo, they had no choice but +to go, for the tenting that flapped miserably by the banks of the +Folly Brook was no shelter for men in that bitter weather.</p> +<p>‘We’ll be back to hear the cuckoo, lad,’ +said Wigan Joe. ‘You’ll none get rid of bad +pennies like uz.’ And Abner, walking down the valley +to work, heard no longer the echoing of their axes nor the crack +of rending wood. Where the trim piles of billets had stood +covered in tarpaulin he now saw nothing but squares of withered +grass, and charred circles where they had made their fires among +the birches by the river. Their departure made Wolfpits +seem more distant and desolate than ever. Little by little +the constriction of winter was crushing all life out of the +valley. Only Wolfpits was alive, and it seemed a miracle +that even Wolfpits should live.</p> +<p>For a few days at the latter end of February there came a +mockery of sunshine, sad, like the suns of autumn. Abner +sang as he walked down the valley; <a name="page241"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 241</span>the labourers sang at their +work. In a moment, such is the indomitable hope of living +things, the birds broke their silence, the purple hedges were +flushed, the bare twigs of hazel trembled as though they would +shake their pale catkins out; one could feel the sap of life +secretly stirring. But on the third day March came in +howling like a lion with a dry wind from the northwest, sweeping +brown leaves along, and the branches of the trees that bowed +before it rattled dryly like dead bones. Once more the +floods arose and drowned the land, and there was no more thought +of spring.</p> +<p>Through all this season the excavations under Callow Hill went +on, and this was fortunate for Mary and her children, since +Abner’s wages came in steadily through many weeks when snow +and flood made it impossible for men to work on the farms. +Sometimes old Drew would be weatherbound at Wolfpits for two days +at a time, and this was a misery to him, for he had no life but +his work, and his employer knew better than to pay him for +anything less than he performed. On these days he would +shut himself up in his rooms leading the life of a hibernating +animal, lighting no fire and cooking no food, simply lying +wrapped up in the blankets on his bed with door and windows +closed against the cold. At night he would drink himself +warm with his turnip-wine, and keep Mrs Mamble awake by +singing.</p> +<p>Fair or foul, the work of the pipe-track never slackened, and +Mary was kept busy scraping the caked mud from Abner’s +clothes. The rain ceased and the floods fell. There +followed a hushed season in which the note of the chiff-chaff was +heard sounding faintly, timorously. The trees whispered +together in the night. The valley was silent, and yet, +beneath the silence, one felt a secret battle of blind +forces. Moment by moment, cell by cell, the creatures of +earth were breaking free from the heavy lethargy that had sealed +them. Even in the dull members of men the slow flame +quickened, the numb fibres stirred. As yet on the surface +of the earth few changes might be seen. Over the fields +flights of peewits wheeled and screamed, with flapping, tumbling +wings. Only the bloom of purple on the hedgerows flushed to +a warmer brown, only <a name="page242"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 242</span>tassels of elm-blossom in bud +softened the stark outline of their branches: only, on the fringe +of the woodland, the green of dog-mercury appeared.</p> +<p>Then, with a sudden fervour unknown in more temperate climes, +spring came. The sloes were sprayed with light; the hue of +hawthorn twigs paled; in the space of a single week the whole +earth broke in a green flame. Nor was it only green things +that were born. White lambs appeared as by magic in the +fields, seeming as little dependent on the agency of men as the +white daisies. At evening, when Abner came home from work, +they leapt into the air and twisted their heads sideways in the +leap. The valley was full of tender bleatings. He +laughed at them, striding homewards. His mates laughed and +whistled at their work. Even the sad, disfigured face of +Munn grew blandly, childishly happy.</p> +<p>Gladys and Morgan knew that spring had come—indeed they +had known of its coming long before Abner suspected it. +They made great plans to go out into the fields with Spider and +see the lambs at play; they cried when bedtime came, for very +excess of life. ‘But it ban’t dark, mam,’ +they said, coaxing Mary to let them play a little longer. +She could not refuse them, for she herself loved to sit sewing in +the doorway, hearing their voices echoed from the warming walls +of the house while the swallows darted to and fro under the eaves +above her. She would sit there talking lazily to old Drew, +who now began to be busy with his garden. When she inquired +how his rheumatism was, he would straighten his back with a +smile, and tell her that he felt like a man of thirty. When +rain came he would stand on his step gazing at the garden fondly, +as though he expected to see his seeds pushing above the +finely-tilled soil.</p> +<p>During all these days they heard nothing of George. The +three months of silence that the law imposes on a prisoner in +jail were now over. Mick Connor, that specialist in all the +details of a criminal’s life, informed Abner that when this +time was over, the convict was usually allowed the privilege of +writing one letter a month, and, if his conduct were good enough, +he might <a name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +243</span>even receive one visitor of his choice. But no +letter came to Wolfpits. One day at his work Abner +overheard a conversation between two of his mates from which he +gathered that Mrs Malpas had made a journey to Shrewsbury and +seen her son. ‘He’s looking up fine, by all +accounts,’ said one of them, ‘and the old +woman’s pleased as anything he hasn’t sent for his +missus.’</p> +<p>Abner experienced a sudden feeling of anger for Mary’s +sake. He felt the slight almost as much as if it had been +pointed against himself; but on the way home he decided that it +would be better not to tell her. Probably she imagined that +a prisoner was shut off from all communication with the outer +world for the term of his sentence; and, if this were so, it was +better that she should remain in ignorance. Who would be +George’s next visitor? The woman from +Lesswardine?</p> +<p>A drowsiness fell on the valley, a deep drowsiness of growth +and heavy green. Cuckoos began to call at dawn: even in the +heat of the day they called, flying from hedge to hedge. +The monotony of their song lulled the valley to sleep. +Twilights lengthened. Abner was now so settled in his life +at Wolfpits that his friends would come up and see him there, +sitting in the garden through the evening, talking to him and +playing with the children. Munn, who had never yet shaken +himself free from the toils of his unhappy childhood, came shyly, +and was self-conscious in their company, particularly when Mary +joined them; but Mick Connor, who had never been shy in his life +and loved children, as most Irishmen do, made his visit to +Wolfpits almost a daily custom. In this happy, languid +season, he had no more serious business in hand. He even +viewed Badger indulgently. Badger might shoot as many +foxes, might hatch, rear, and put down as many young pheasants in +the woods as he liked—the more the better! For the +present Mick was content to take his ease.</p> +<p>Mary liked him . . . she couldn’t help liking him, for +he made her laugh, and was so kind to the children. Morgan, +in particular, looked forward to Mick’s coming, for his +young animal instinct had discovered that the poacher’s +pocket in the skirts of the Irishman’s coat sometimes +contained bananas, a fruit to which <a name="page244"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 244</span>Morgan would devote himself to the +degree of suffering. Mick could never make Gladys forsake +her Abner’s knee for his; but Morgan’s stomach always +got the better of filial love when his new friend appeared.</p> +<p>‘Is there aught in your pocket, Mis’r Connor, +to-night?’ he would say coaxingly.</p> +<p>‘Morgan, you mustn’t be rude!’ Mary would +protest.</p> +<p>‘Mayn’t I ask him, mam?’</p> +<p>Mick would wink at him: ‘And how would I know +what’s in there? Come and be looking, for +yourself.’ He would take Morgan up on his knee and +then, half awed by warnings that something might bite him, the +child would slip his hand into the deep pocket and pull out the +fruit with a chuckle of delight.</p> +<p>‘Mr Connor spoils you, and that’s the +truth!’ Mary would reply.</p> +<p>Sometimes the pocket was empty, and at such times Mick was put +to an elaborate explanation of what had happened, embracing the +origin of this mysterious fruit.</p> +<p>‘Wait an’ I’ll tell you,’ he +said. ‘Last night, when I looked in my box where the +leprechaun puts it, there was a beautiful lot of fruit +there. Oranges and grapes and apples and the rest, +more’n I could lift in the both of my hands.’</p> +<p>‘Not any bananas?’ Morgan asked anxiously.</p> +<p>‘Bananners? Ah, don’t be talkun! Three +beautiful bunches of them fresh from the tree, with the juice +runnun’ out of the stalks of them, they was that +ripe. “So,” says I, “I’ll put them +all in my pocket, I will, and go out and ate one or two of +them.” His voice sank to an awed, confidential +level. ‘So, when I was after leaving Mainstone, and +got out on the turnpike, I walked quick along the cemetery wall, +for you never know what you mightn’t see in a place the +likes of that. An’ then I heard a sound of wheels +behind me and the hoofs of horses trottun’ up to the +corner. An’ I thought, “Who would be driving +after me at that time of night, an’ not a star +showun’. Houly saints, I thought, what can it +be?”’</p> +<p>‘I know what it was,’ said Morgan grimly, for he +had heard of this adventure before.</p> +<p><a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +245</span>‘Is that a fact?’ said Mick, with +impressive surprise.</p> +<p>‘It was the dead-coach, mam,’ said Morgan in a +whisper.</p> +<p>‘And so it was,’ replied Mick, slapping his +thigh. ‘The dead-coach—and on the box of ut two +men in long black coats with the faces blacked on them and hair +like our ass. When they see me they pulls up sudden, and +these black pair jumps off of the box and takes hould on me and +puts their hands in my pocket, the way my shirt stuck to my back +for fright, and stole all the fruit on me and drove off without a +word.’</p> +<p>The sensation of this adventure was almost enough to +compensate Morgan for the loss of his fruit. It was +Morgan’s favourite story. But Gladys was +Abner’s girl, and would rather sit on his knee listening +with wide eyes. On Abner’s knee she felt quite +safe.</p> +<p>Sometimes Abner, Mick, and the two children would leave Mary +busy with her sewing and walk down together to the bridge over +the Folly Brook, or to the meadows where thickets of hazel and +shy companies of birches stood along the stream. Mick +always carried a catapult with him. Ever since his boyhood +he had been a deadly shot with this weapon, and could +‘knock the head off of a wran,’ as he put it, at a +range of thirty yards. He made Morgan a catapult with which +the child blackened his thumb-nails, and carried in his pocket +small round pebbles that he picked from the bed of the stream, +now shrunken to a thread of gin-clear water.</p> +<p>Although he could never resist killing birds when he had the +chance, Mick loved every feather on them, and indeed he knew them +well: their nestings, their flight, their song, and their quick +cries of alarm. He showed Morgan all the birds of that +mountain valley: the tree pipits that sprang upward like a stone +tossed into the air and then planed downwards with spread tails +twittering like mechanical toys: the sandpipers that called +plaintively from spits of sand: the black dippers that fled +upstream under the arching alders; the water-ouzel that made in +echoing, stony combes a noise that he imitated by tapping two +pebbles together: the redstarts that fluttered their bright tails +near the <a name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +246</span>walls in whose crevices they nested. And they +would stand still, this little group of four, listening to the +warble of the blackcap safely hidden in impenetrable thickets, or +lift their heads, under the high shade of larches to hear the +hissing note of the wood-wren, coming home tired in the twilight, +the children’s hands hot with the green smell of moth-like +cuckoo-flowers that they had gathered in the meadows.</p> +<p>While the light faded the two men would smoke their pipes on +the bridge, where the big black trout that inhabited the pool +hung gorged with mayfly and held the stream with faintly +quivering fins. Mick loved to watch them quietly, telling, +in his slow, hypnotic tones, of the great cannibal trout of the +Barrow, so strong that they could pull a child into the water +after them. When they turned to go home Morgan would beg to +shoot at the trout with his catapult. He never hit one, but +when the stone reached the water they could see the dark streaks +of the fishes vanishing under the shadows of the bridge.</p> +<p>Often Mick would talk of great days in Ireland, the days of +country race-meetings and fairs, and round these events also a +legend arose. When Morgan was shooting with his catapult +the Irishman would encourage him with the patter of the man who +kept a shooting gallery, reeling off long strings of words that +meant nothing to the child, and standing up with bright eyes and +flushed cheeks as though the hum of the fair were still in his +ears.</p> +<p>‘Now then, walk up, walk up. . . . Fire, my +rattler, fire! Six more shots a penny! Right through +the hardware shop—and very near winning the silver +cane! Fire, my bold American, fire. Pass along to the +next caravan: your halfpenny is no more!’</p> +<p>He told them of the maggie-man, a live Aunt Sally, who stood +up in his tub with tangled hair and fierce beard warding off the +flights of sticks that were hurled at his head, and of that great +mystery, the Live Lion Stuffed with Straw. Morgan drank it +all in eagerly.</p> +<p>‘Why bain’t there no fairs in these parts?’ +he said.</p> +<p>In a weak moment his mother told him that there were fairs in +Shropshire, and above all, the great fair <a +name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 247</span>of Brampton +Bryan, held every year in June. She told him how her father +had taken her there many years ago, when she was a little girl, +and how she had eaten the cakes which are made on purpose for +this festival. ‘Bron cakes, they call them,’ +she said.</p> +<p>The fact that eating was added to these other delights +inflamed Morgan’s imagination.</p> +<p>‘Will they have Bron cakes this time?’ he +asked.</p> +<p>‘Of course they will. They always have Bron +cakes.’</p> +<p>‘Can’t we go, mam?’</p> +<p>‘It’s a long way away,’ she told him.</p> +<p>‘But granfer took <i>you</i> . . .’</p> +<p>‘Granfer had a horse and trap.’</p> +<p>‘Grandma Malpas has a pony,’ Morgan persisted.</p> +<p>‘Some day, when you’re a big boy, you shall +go,’ said Mary.</p> +<p>The subject dropped from their conversation, but not from +Morgan’s mind. The child knew better than to pester +his mother about it, but as the time of the fair grew nearer, he +talked to every one else that he met, to Mick, to Abner, to Mrs +Mamble, and even to old Drew. The thought of Bron Fair +obsessed him and even found its way into his dreams. The +week before the event he became so persistent and showed so keen +a disappointment at the thought of missing it, that Abner began +to take him seriously.</p> +<p>‘Why shouldn’t we take ’em along?’ he +said to Mary, when the children were in bed.</p> +<p>‘It’s too far away,’ she said. +‘Much too far.’</p> +<p>‘It’s not that far over the hills. Some of +our chaps is going to walk there.’</p> +<p>‘You can’t drag children up hill and down +dale.’</p> +<p>‘Well, there’s the train from +Llandwlas.’</p> +<p>She shook her head. ‘You can’t get back the +same day,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘You could put in the night at Redlake. +There’s a station there.’</p> +<p>She said nothing. ‘It’s a shame to +disappoint them,’ he added.</p> +<p>Her interest in the children’s happiness was her weak +point, and in the end Abner had his way. He settled with +the Gunner that he should leave work early on <a +name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 248</span>the +Thursday afternoon and return on Saturday morning. He met +Mary and the children on the platform at Llandwlas in the +afternoon. Morgan had never travelled in a train before, +and stood excitedly at the window, next to his mother. +Gladys sat quietly by the side of Abner, who carried the brown +paper parcel in which their clothes and provisions were +packed. He was not quite comfortable, for it seemed to him +even now that Mary had undertaken the expedition under +protest. This was unreasonable, for he had enough money to +carry them through, and it was no use going on an expedition like +this unless she were determined to enjoy it. But Mary was +thinking of her last journey from Llandwlas in the morning train +to Shrewsbury. Perhaps she was thinking also of George.</p> +<p>A fit of train-sickness put a stop to Morgan’s +enthusiasms for a time. In the cool of the evening they +reached the station of Redlake, a small village which stands on a +little river that is a torrent in winter but in summer no more +than a trickle of water. From there a road, hung with heavy +trees, runs straight to Brampton Bryan, three or four miles +away. The train was crowded, and as they approached Redlake +Mary grew uneasy, for she guessed that most of the travellers +were bound for the same place and with the same purpose and began +to wonder if they could find a lodging in so small a +village. She whispered her fears to Abner, and they hurried +from the station into the sloping street. The first inn +that they came to was already full.</p> +<p>‘You might get a room at the Harley Arms, if +you’re quick,’ a flustered landlord told them. +They went straight on. Abner walked too quickly for them, +and Mary almost had to run, dragging the children behind +her. At the Harley Arms a fat woman eyed them +suspiciously.</p> +<p>‘It’s the worst day of the whole year,’ she +said. ‘I don’t see how I can do it. If +you’d come in by the next train you wouldn’t have +found a bed in the whole of Redlake.’</p> +<p>‘You can’t turn the children out,’ said +Abner. ‘The little boy’s been sick in the +train.’</p> +<p>Morgan’s face was still patched yellow and white <a +name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 249</span>at the +corners of the mouth. The landlady, against all her +intentions, softened. ‘Poor little soul!’ she +said. She tied another knot in the string of the blue +striped apron that she wore, as though her hands must be doing +something to contribute to the general atmosphere of haste and +flurry. ‘Poor little soul! Well, now, what can +I do? What with the pies and one thing and another! +The only thing I can do is to put the man in the front room along +with Mr Prowse at the back; but I must say I don’t like +disturbing Mr Prowse, the number of fairs he’s been with +me. Comes regular, he does . . . you can look for him like +the swallows. Still, he’s a nice man: a very nice +man, and if I told him all about it I don’t think +he’d stand in your way. Come along, my +dear!’</p> +<p>The last words were addressed to Mary, whose hand Morgan was +clutching convulsively as though he still felt the train swinging +under his feet. They all entered a room on the left of the +doorway. In it were two long tables spread with coarse +linen cloths of a gleaming whiteness and laden with a series of +boiled hams crisped with golden bread-crumbs, and gigantic pies +whose crusts were of the same rich hue. Loaves of white +bread stood between them, and at the head of each table a leaning +tower of plates. At the other end of the room a barrel of +cider had been propped upon two bottle-boxes.</p> +<p>Even Morgan’s revolted stomach could not resist the +inspiration of seeing so much food. In a hushed voice he +asked Mary what was inside the pies.</p> +<p>‘Inside of them, my love?’ cooed the +landlady. ‘There’s bunny rabbits inside of +them, and lovely pieces of bacon in a jelly that would stand by +itself. You’ll see what’s inside of them +soon!’ She laughed happily and then, tying another +knot in her apron-string, explained to Mary that the rabbit pies +of the Harley Arms were an institution on the eve of Bron +Fair. ‘We used to make as many as thirty of +them,’ she said, ‘but the fair’s not what it +was in those days. Still, they must have their pies. +They’d drop down dead if they came into the room and never +see them! There they are, waiting ready for them: pies and +ham and bread and cider, and they helps themselves. +We’re <a name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +250</span>too busy to look after them. They takes what they +want, and pays the same whether its much or little. +That’s the custom, you see.’</p> +<p>By this time the concentration of rich smells had overcome +Morgan’s interest. ‘I want to lie down, +mam,’ he said, and Mary stopped the landlady in a flood of +reminiscence to inquire again about their room before disaster +came.</p> +<p>‘Well, now,’ she said in a more kindly, mysterious +voice. ‘I’ll tell you what do. I’ll +put you in Mr Prowse’s room without asking him. +That’s the best way. If you’re there, +you’re there, and that’s the end of it. You can +put the little girl on the sofa and the little boy can sleep in +between the two of you. ’Tis a fine, old-fashioned +bed. A family bed, as the saying is.’</p> +<p>Abner saw Mary go red. He came quickly to the +rescue.</p> +<p>‘We’re not man and wife, missus,’ he +said.</p> +<p>‘What! You’re not a married couple? +That’s different altogether,’ said the landlady, her +tone hardening.</p> +<p>‘This young man only came along with me to help me with +the children,’ Mary explained.</p> +<p>‘I’ve kept this place respectable all my life, and +I don’t intend to start anything different,’ said the +landlady severely. ‘I think you’d better look +somewhere else.’</p> +<p>Mary, half shocked, half frightened, would have taken the +children away at once. ‘Come along, Abner,’ she +said. But Abner would not be beaten.</p> +<p>‘Look here, missus,’ he said to the +landlady. ‘If we wasn’t respectable, we could +have took you in, and you been none the wiser. I’m +here looking after this young woman. There’s nothing +else between us. If there was I should have codded you we +was married.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t, Abner!’ said Mary.</p> +<p>The landlady looked from one to the other of this strange +couple. Morgan began to whimper, and the sight of the +child’s tiredness melted her heart.</p> +<p>‘You’d better come on upstairs,’ she said to +Mary, and then, with a defiant glance at Abner: ‘But the <a +name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 251</span>young man +will have to look out for himself. There’s no bed +here I can give him. My husband and the boys’ll have +to sleep in the loft as it is. I oughtn’t to take you +in, by rights, and that’s the truth.’</p> +<p>‘Never you mind me,’ said Abner. ‘It +won’t hurt me to sleep rough.’</p> +<p>She took Mary and the children upstairs. Abner stayed on +in the long room alone, listening to the busy clatter of the +house. The landlord, his sons, and a couple of village +girls, who had been brought in to deal with the rush of business, +went running up and down stairs and stone passages and in and out +of the bar as quickly and apparently as aimlessly as the +inhabitants of a disturbed ants’ nest. The sun dipped +behind the mountains. A train arrived from the north, then +another from the south, and each time the street was flooded with +a crowd of excitable men knocking at door after door in search of +lodging for the night. Abner heard the landlord in the bar +refusing them one after another. With the second train +arrived the important Mr Prowse, a tall, lumbering man in cord +breeches and black leggings covered with the red dust of the +Black Mountain, from the slopes of which he came. He wore a +close red beard, and spoke in a high sing-song, for part of his +mountain pasturage was in Wales. He had already drunk too +freely at the Craven Arms station buffet to be much worried by +the idea of a sleeping companion.</p> +<p>‘What is it you’re after this fair, Mr +Prowse?’ asked the landlord.</p> +<p>‘Draught horses,’ said the farmer. +‘They’re very scarce down our way, and a price that +would frighten you.’</p> +<p>‘Then you and me are going to have a field day, Mr +Prowse,’ said a fat, asthmatical Cardiff Jew, who had just +arrived in the doorway.</p> +<p>‘Ah, Mr Myers, how is it then?’ said the +farmer. ‘Mr May says he’s put you and me to +sleep in the same room. There’s a young woman in the +front.’</p> +<p>‘A young woman?’ growled Myers. +‘What’s a young woman doing here at this +time?’</p> +<p>‘The more of them the better!’ said the farmer, +with a laugh.</p> +<p><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +252</span>‘No. . . . I’ve got over all +that,’ said the Jew, shaking his head.</p> +<p>‘Now, what are you two gentlemen taking with me?’ +asked the landlord.</p> +<p>They all settled down to talk about horses. Abner was +getting more and more hungry and wondering when Mary would come +downstairs. The sight of that magnificent array of food +whetted his appetite, but he did not want to be the first to +begin. He drew himself a mug of cider from the cask: a dry, +half bitter product of the Hereford orchards. He drank a +pint of it, and the alcohol, taken on an empty stomach, made him +happy and confident. He no longer felt uneasy that Mary was +so long away.</p> +<p>Now he had not long to wait for his supper, for Prowse and +Myers came in from the bar, and in a few moments other men +arrived. They all carved for themselves huge segments of +pie and rich slices of ham with knives that were whetted thin +with use. Abner took his place among them. Nobody +spoke to him, for he seemed to be the only stranger in the +company. Many of them had not seen their friends for a +whole year, since their last meeting in the same place. +Twilight came, and the lamps were lit. The buyers sat on +talking and drinking at the tables, running with one accord to +door or window when the hoofs of some horse that had been brought +to the fair for sale were heard trotting down the road.</p> +<p>‘Jenkins wants to sell that there cob to-night rather +than take him to Bron,’ said Myers.</p> +<p>‘Never buy a horse you don’t see by +daylight,’ Prowse replied, shaking his clay pipe to mark +the words.</p> +<p>‘I don’t,’ said Myers, with a wink. +‘I heard a fellow from Brum offer him forty, and he’s +a fool if he don’t take it.’</p> +<p>‘There’s high prices going this fair,’ said +Prowse. ‘There’s a great scarcity down our +way. Jenkins is a chap as knows his business.’</p> +<p>‘And so do I,’ said the Jew. ‘So do +I.’</p> +<p>Abner, mildly exalted, walked out into the moonlit +street. At the cottage doors and down by the bridge little +groups of men in breeches and leggings stood <a +name="page253"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 253</span>talking +together with low voices. From time to time the clatter of +approaching hoofs was heard and the men stopped to listen. +The village was full of a strange sense of expectancy. +Abner wandered over the bridge and a little way upstream. +In the hush of the night he heard a girl laughing. The +sound disturbed him. He thought suddenly of Susie. +The excitement of drink and a full stomach turned his thoughts in +the direction of physical desire. He stopped and listened +for the girl’s voice again, and wondered what man was with +her.</p> +<p>He walked back irritably into the village. An old man +was putting out the oil lamps that gave a feeble light to the +street. What was he, Abner, doing without a woman, when the +village was full of them? He looked up at the front room of +the inn where Mary and the children were sleeping. It +filled him with an unreasoning annoyance to think of her sleeping +calmly there. She was treating him ridiculously, without +confidence. Why hadn’t she come down into the room +for supper as soon as she had put the children to sleep? +Just because the landlady had shocked her by suggesting that they +should sleep together, he supposed, and, by God, it might have +put some sense into her if they had done so. He +laughed. He hadn’t thought of Mary in that light +before; but in this curious state to which the liquor, the +moonlight, and that light voice heard in the darkness had excited +him, he felt that he had been a fool not to make love to +Mary. If once he had treated her that way and she had +accepted him, there would be an end of her airs and graces. +George . . .? Well, George’s own life didn’t +exact a high degree of fidelity from his wife.</p> +<p>So, like a hungry animal, Abner prowled beneath the inn +windows. The panes of that which belonged to Mary’s +bedroom shone blankly in the moon through twigs of white +jessamine. In the bar, Mr Prowse, now very drunk, was +declaiming staccato judgments on the value of basic slag. +Abner would have joined them and got drunk if he had any money to +spend, but the small sum that he had saved for the occasion would +<a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 254</span>do no +more than pay for their lodging and their return fares to +Llandwlas. The moonlight seemed to cool the air. Even +the smell of jessamine grew fainter in the cold. It was no +good standing there any longer, and so he found a sleeping place +on some straw in the loft above the stable, and settled down as +well as he could, listening to the steady grinding of the +horses’ jaws and the snatching noise that they made as they +pulled out hay from the racks above their mangers.</p> +<p>Mary slept badly. Earlier in the evening, when Morgan +and Gladys had fallen asleep, she had caught the landlady on the +stairs and begged that her supper might be brought to her in her +bedroom. There she had devoured a solitary plate of the +famous rabbit-pie, but hearing below her the sound of many +men’s voices and still dreading to be mistaken for +Abner’s wife, she had not dared to go downstairs and find +him. Instead of thinking any more about it she decided to +go to bed, creeping gently under the sheets for fear of +disturbing the children. But she could not sleep. The +bedroom was immediately over the room in which supper was served, +and she could not hear so many voices buzzing beneath her without +wanting to catch what they were saying. As the evening wore +on the house grew noisier. It seemed as if they would never +go to bed; and when, at last, the noise ceased and she had nearly +fallen asleep, the moonlight, beating in through the +muslin-curtained window, awoke Morgan. He said that he was +thirsty, and after much groping, she gave him water from the ewer +on the washhand-stand. Thus awakened from the sleep that +followed his train-sickness, the excitement of his strange +surroundings kept him going for a couple of hours of questions +about the fair.</p> +<p>‘Why bain’t Abner up here?’ he said at +last.</p> +<p>This was more than she could explain. ‘If you +don’t keep quiet, my son,’ she said, ‘I shall +take you right out and give you to Abner for the night. +Then you’ll cry to come back to your mother. +You’re a little nuisance, that’s what you +are!’</p> +<p>She tucked him away and huddled him against her breast away +from the moonlight, and so, at length, he fell asleep.</p> +<p><a name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 255</span>Next +morning, Abner, who had slept well, was early astir, but no +earlier, it seemed, than the rest of the world. In the yard +below him the owner of the stabled horses was up and grooming +them. He asked Abner to give him a hand and offered him a +shilling for his trouble. ‘I reckon they’m +going to make wonnerful prices to-day,’ he said. An +opaline sky, covered with the faintest veil of mist, promised a +hot morning.</p> +<p>The landlord of the Harley Arms had not yet risen, but the +girls were sweeping the passage and setting the table for +breakfast in the long room, and his wife was watching them with +sleepy eyes, while she sipped a cup of tea. Abner joined +her, paid the bill for the night, five shillings, and took some +tea with bread and butter to the door of Mary’s room. +He knocked and called to her, and she answered in a voice that +seemed alarmed by his nearness.</p> +<p>‘I bain’t going to eat you <i>nor</i> the +children,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a +fine day. How long do you want to keep us +waiting?’</p> +<p>She assured him timidly that they wouldn’t be long, and +by half-past nine they had become part of the stream of traffic +flowing along the road from Redlake to Brampton Bryan, raising +clouds of hot dust under the heavy green of the trees.</p> +<p>‘I don’t think the sun will come through, after +all,’ said Mary regretfully, though the sight of the horses +sweating on the road should have told her that this was +fortunate. They walked slowly along the edge of the white +highway, Mary anxiously pulling in the children to her side when +swift traps or single horses, southward bound, came past +them. It seemed to her that so great a collection of +strong, spirited animals, which snorted and sniffed the air +excited by the presence of strangers of their kind, was +dangerous. What would happen to Morgan and Gladys if some +sudden noise or infectious fear threw them into a stampede? +All the way along the road she was looking anxiously ahead for +the next gateway or gap in the hedge, planning ways of +escape.</p> +<p>The children loitered, and it was nearly noon when they +reached the outskirts of Brampton Bryan. The <a +name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 256</span>sky was +still white. Mist lay cold on the hills, but the plain grew +suffocating. At this point, where the traffic began to feel +the backward pressure of the congested village, matters were +complicated by an actual constriction of the road. Horses +and traps were crowded together in a block, and the men who drove +them looked serious and impatient. There was scarcely room +along the side of the road for them to pass.</p> +<p>‘Come on,’ said Abner. ‘What are you +waiting for?’</p> +<p>‘Can’t we wait here till they move on?’ said +Mary, gathering the children closer to her. If she could +have done so without encountering other advancing dangers she +would have turned back. She hated this narrow, twisting +neck of roadway.</p> +<p>They waited, leaning up against an iron fence, breathing the +hot smell of the horses. Other people on foot passed them +in a steady stream. Among these Abner saw the farmer from +the Black Mountain and his friend the lethargic Jew. They +appeared to be talking together, and thinking of nothing else, +but their eyes were wide open, and when they saw a likely animal +they would stop and ask the driver about prices or stoop and run +their hands along the horse’s slender legs. They did +not notice Abner with Mary and the children in the hedge. +The block of vehicles moved on a little and was checked. +The movement, slight as it was, infected the animals with +restlessness. They snorted, and champed their bits; they +danced with springing fetlocks and necks arched to the tightened +reins. Mary pressed closer to the iron railings. She +felt that she was foolish to be scared, and yet it irritated her +to see the unconcern of Abner. What was his strength +compared with the violence of horses? Again the block moved +on.</p> +<p>‘We can’t wait here all day,’ he said; but +she only shook her head.</p> +<p>A strange cart pulled up opposite to them, drawn by a +spiritless pony and bearing a black tin plate with the words: +Hughes, Brecon, painted on it in a scrawl of white. A gipsy +drove it, and behind, on the tilted cart-tail sat a withered, +dirty woman and a girl of fifteen with a beautiful dark face and +long, black hair, which <a name="page257"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 257</span>the old woman was carefully and +necessarily combing. To the tail of the cart a cowed and +mangy mongrel of the greyhound breed was tied with a strand of +rope. The eyes of the girl were dark and wild as those of +an animal, and she stared insolently at Abner, half-smiling, +attracted, no doubt, by the contrast of his fair strength. +For some strange reason Mary felt that the girl’s glance +hurt her. ‘She’s smiling at you. +Don’t look at her, Abner!’ she whispered. +‘How dirty she is!’ The whisper disturbed the +old woman, who ceased her hairdressing, wiped the comb on her +apron and smiled across at Mary. She had no teeth but a +single yellow tusk in the middle of her lower jaw. She +leaned over the edge of the cart and held out her hand toward +them.</p> +<p>‘Shall the old woman tell your fortune, my pretty +dear?’ she whined. ‘You and your lovely +children and your husband? A fine upstanding man, my dear, +if ever there was one. Cross the old woman’s hand +with a bit of silver and she’ll tell you the future as +it’s written!’</p> +<p>Mary looked away. The gipsy girl continued to stare at +Abner.</p> +<p>‘Ah, don’t you want to know the happiness +that’s coming?’ the old woman went on, with her hand +outstretched. ‘I tell you that’s worth more to +you than a piece of silver. All that lays before you, my +pretty dear. . .’</p> +<p>Mary clutched at Abner’s arm. ‘Don’t +look at her! She’s staring at you! I think +we’d better go on,’ she whispered. But a cart +had pulled in to the side in front of them, and they could not +move. The old woman continued to pester them with her +whinings. When she saw that no silver would cross her palm +she changed her tone. She leaned further out of her cart, +speaking now of ill-fortune rather than good, gratuitously +prophesying evil, and a near evil at that. Abner bandied +words with her and laughed, but Mary felt her heart sinking +within her. From more maledictions they were saved by a +sudden forward movement of the block. The cart started with +a jerk which pulled the mongrel who had been biting at fleas on +its belly, to its feet. The girl <a +name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 258</span>gave Abner +a final, dark smile; the old woman spat in Mary’s +direction.</p> +<p>‘Come on,’ said Abner, ‘now’s your +chance!’</p> +<p>But Mary could not move. In some way the encounter had +destroyed her nerve. ‘Let’s wait till +it’s clearer!’ she pleaded.</p> +<p>A drove of mountain ponies that the gipsies had driven down to +the fair from some heathery upland of Montgomery or Clun, +followed them. They were small, shaggy, and very +wild. They stamped and snorted, then huddled together +anxiously in a bunch, sniffing the air with distended +nostrils. The sense of being herded together between the +hedge and the iron railings made them tremble with fright, and +Mary was no less frightened than they. Her anxiety spread +to the children, and for the first time since they had left +Redlake Morgan forgot his cakes. He began to whimper.</p> +<p>‘They’re all right,’ said Abner. +‘Don’t you take no notice of them.’</p> +<p>A little black stallion, the last of the herd, suddenly took +fright. He made a dash for the hedge on the opposite side, +but the blackthorn was too high for him and he stood quivering +half-way up the bank. A heavy loutish man, of +Atwell’s build, who seemed a giant beside the little +animal, climbed up and took hold of it by the ear. It gave +a sudden convulsive movement, and in a moment the man and the +horse were fighting together. The animal pulled him to the +ground and for a moment they struggled in the dust. Then +another man sat on its head and put a snitch on its muzzle. +They jumped aside and the pony leapt to its feet. It stood +trembling and screamed with pain. The big man, panting and +dusty, held the rope of which the snitch was made. A bitter +fight followed, the pony rushing wildly from side to side with +fierce, terrible screams, the man holding on grimly yet barely +keeping his feet. The other gipsies drove on the rest of +the herd, and those who came behind ran forward to watch the +duel, with cries of encouragement now to the man, now to the +beast. It was a horrible sight, at which Mary did not dare +to look, though <a name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +259</span>Abner enjoyed it. To and fro the panting animal +plunged. It rolled on the ground, leapt in the air, with +fierce snortings and shrill cries. Its eyes were bright +with rage. At last it stood stock still in the middle of +the road and would not move. The man who had sat on its +head approached it with a halter. Still it stood its +ground, trembling violently, shaken with angry snorts, +foaming. It seemed that the fight was over and the wild +spirit conquered, but before he could slip the halter on its head +the animal had taken another violent leap. Abner saw its +body hurling through the air and threw himself in front of Mary +and the children. He went over with the stallion on the top +of him, hearing Mary’s cry. The iron railings were +bent back, and Mary was holding Gladys in her arms. The +shouts of the crowd rang in Abner’s ears: +‘Her’s dead! They’ve no business to drive +’em on a public road! Savage they are! Poor +little thing! These bloody gipsies! That chap did his +best . . .’</p> +<p>Two men were now holding the pony, and the big fellow was +bending over Mary and the ghastly face of the child. Abner +pushed him aside. ‘She’s all right . . . +she’s all right!’ said Mary. Gladys was crying +in shrill, frightened gasps.</p> +<p>‘My leg, mam, oh, my leg!’ she wailed.</p> +<p>‘Try to move your toes, love,’ a woman said. +‘If she can move her toes the bone’s not +broken.’</p> +<p>A dozen others clustered round with various advice, while the +men stood staring stupidly with pained eyes. Mary was +hiding the child’s face in her bosom. Morgan clung +crying to her skirts. Her face was terribly set, but she +soon recovered her presence of mind.</p> +<p>‘Abner . . . you take Morgan,’ she said. +‘We must find a doctor.’</p> +<p>‘He lives just round the corner, ma’am,’ a +bustling woman cried. ‘The red ’ouse with the +trees in front of it. You can see the roof.’</p> +<p>‘Let me take her. She’s too heavy for +you,’ said Abner and Mary surrendered the child, picking up +Morgan in her own arms. A curious crowd followed them to +the doctor’s house.</p> +<h2><a name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 260</span>The +Eighteenth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">They</span> found the doctor just setting +out on his morning round. His wife, a forbidding woman, +plainly dressed and flat-chested, caught him in the stableyard +and brought him back into the surgery.</p> +<p>‘It’s the first accident . . . a little +girl,’ she said. ‘Did you ever know the fair +without one?’</p> +<p>He followed her in fussily, hoping that there was nothing to +keep him, for he had a long list of country visits to get through +before the broken heads should begin to roll up in the +evening. Abner had laid the child down on a high couch +covered with American leather. In the road she had screamed +her breath away and now she lay shivering and whimpering softly, +almost quiet.</p> +<p>‘Well, what is it?’ said the doctor brusquely.</p> +<p>‘It’s her leg,’ Mary whispered. +‘I’m afraid it’s broken.’</p> +<p>‘A kick from a horse,’ said the doctor’s +wife from the background.</p> +<p>‘Let’s see!’</p> +<p>Mary’s fingers fumbled with the tapes of the +child’s drawers.</p> +<p>‘Scissors!’ said the doctor. The sudden +touch of steel made Gladys cry out loud, and the first cry of +alarm was quickly changed to one of pain. She struggled +with the pain and by her movement increased it. The doctor +leaned his left arm above her body and held her still. +Mary, clasping Gladys’s hands in hers, put down her face to +the child’s tear-dabbled cheek. Her own tears were +mingled with those of her child, but she made no sound. +Abner stood helpless, watching, and behind him also stood the +doctor’s wife, gaunt, flat, immobile. In a former +state she had been a sister at the North Bromwich Infirmary.</p> +<p>The doctor was leaning over Gladys and breathing heavily +through his nostrils. His hands, lean, brown, and slightly +stained with iodine, were placed firmly yet tenderly upon the +pink and white of the child’s <a name="page261"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 261</span>thigh. His fingers moved like +tentacles, searching, soothing the spastic muscles under the +skin. Gladys gave a sudden frightened, ‘Oh . . . +<i>mam</i>!’—and the fingers tightened like bands of +steel. All the man’s mind was in his fingers; his +eyes gazed vaguely out of the window to the cascades of fading +laburnum blossom in his shrubbery, the billowy outline of lilac +against the white sky.</p> +<p>‘Yes . . .’ he said at last. +‘Separated epiphysis. Lower end of femur. I +shall want a small Liston splint and plenty of strapping. I +expect she’ll need a whiff of chloroform, too. If +you’ll get it I won’t move.’ Then he +addressed Mary. ‘I think it will be better if the +small boy is out of the room. They can look after him in +the kitchen.’</p> +<p>Bribed by a sup of cocoa, Morgan allowed himself to be taken +away from his mother by the doctor’s wife, who soon +returned with the splint, the dressings, and the +anæsthetic.</p> +<p>‘I’ll just get her under, if you’ll see that +she doesn’t move. If she kicks about there may be a +lot more hæmorrhage.’</p> +<p>His wife took his place and he sprinkled a few drops of heavy +liquid on to a wire mask covered with lint. A sweetish +odour mingled with that of the lilac. It seemed to Abner +that the room had suddenly become oppressively hot.</p> +<p>‘Now breathe deeply. Smell it in! It’s +ever so nice!’ said the doctor. Gladys sniffed, then +choked, and tried to push away the mask with her hands.</p> +<p>‘Hold her fingers, mother!’ said the doctor. +Mary closed her eyes and took the child’s fingers in her +own.</p> +<p>‘That’s better . . . that’s +better.’ He sprinkled more chloroform on the +lint. In another minute he raised the mask. Gladys +was now breathing heavily; her face was suffused, and she puffed +out her lips with each breath. The doctor handed over the +mask to his wife. ‘Give her a drop now and +then,’ he said, ‘and plenty of air as well. +She’s just nicely under.’ He pushed back an +eyelid with his finger to see that the pupillary reflex was +active. ‘Nicely . . . nicely.’</p> +<p>He rose to his feet and changed places with his wife.</p> +<p><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 262</span>Again +he placed his hands on the child’s thigh, but now the hands +were no longer gentle agents of perception, but strong and +ruthless weapons. His brown fingers grasped the limb +firmly. The room swam before Abner’s eyes. He +went down like a stone. Mary gave a cry of alarm.</p> +<p>‘He’s all right,’ said the doctor, with a +glance over his shoulder. ‘These big strong fellows +are always the most liable to faint over a job like this. +Give me a woman, any day!’</p> +<p>When Abner came to his senses the limb was set. A long +splint with a serrated lower end had been strapped to the +child’s body from armpit to heel. Her face was still +flushed, but she breathed as softly as though she were lying in a +natural sleep. The doctor was washing his hands and +preparing to set out again. He offered Abner a medicine +glass full of cold water with a dash of brandy in it.</p> +<p>‘What’s owing, gaffer?’ Abner asked.</p> +<p>The doctor looked him up and down. ‘A +labourer,’ he thought, ‘with a wife and two kids: a +decent-looking young fellow.’ He hated asking those +people for money in the middle of a misfortune; but he had to +live.</p> +<p>‘Oh, we’ll say five shillings,’ he said, +‘but don’t forget to send me the splint back. +Dr Davies, Brampton Bryan. That will find me!’</p> +<p>Abner gave him two half-crowns that were loose in his +pocket.</p> +<p>‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You must be +careful how you carry her. The bone’s in a nice +position if you don’t disturb it.’</p> +<p>‘How long will it take, doctor?’ Mary asked.</p> +<p>‘Five or six weeks with luck. +Good-morning!’</p> +<p>For an hour or more they stayed in the surgery, visited from +time to time by the doctor’s wife. Gladys awoke as +from a gentle sleep. The support of the splint freed her +from the spasm of the torn muscles. She rubbed her eyes and +cried softly in her mother’s arms.</p> +<p>‘We’d best go straight to the station,’ said +Abner.</p> +<p>So, having torn the unwilling Morgan from the material +attentions of the cook, they set off along the <a +name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 263</span>hot road +that they had travelled earlier in the day. They walked +slowly, for they had at least three hours to spare before the +afternoon train left Redlake station. They reached their +goal at three o’clock and laid the child down flat on a +bench in the waiting room, while Abner produced the sandwiches +which he had cut earlier in the morning at the inn. Morgan, +having fed and cried a little because his dinner did not include +specimens of the famous Bron cakes, fell asleep upon his +mother’s knees. Mary and Abner talked together in +undertones for fear of waking the children, until the +station-master entered the waiting-room with a swagger and threw +up the shutter of the booking-office, peering at them with +official eyes through the wire grille.</p> +<p>‘I reckon I’d better get the tickets,’ said +Abner. He went to the window, asking for two third singles +and two halves to Llandwlas. The station-master whipped the +tickets out and stamped them as smartly as though a queue of a +hundred trippers was waiting for him. ‘Five and four +pence ha’penny,’ he said.</p> +<p>Abner felt for his purse: he knew that the doctor’s fee +had only left him a few coppers loose in his pocket. A +panic seized him. He could not find it. He turned to +Mary.</p> +<p>‘You got my purse?’</p> +<p>‘No, I’ve never seen it.’</p> +<p>‘There was a quid in it. I must have put it in my +waistcoat. Wait a moment, gaffer. . . . God! my watch +is gone too!’</p> +<p>‘Don’t get moithered now,’ she urged.</p> +<p>But though he searched everywhere he could not find it. +He appealed again to Mary, but she had no money, not a single +penny. Abner had nothing but a handful of coppers left.</p> +<p>‘They must have took both of them . . . picked my +pocket!’ he said.</p> +<p>She advised him to look again, but it was useless. +‘While we was standing up again’ those +railings,’ he muttered, ‘talking to that gipsy +woman. It’s gone right enough. Not a bloody +cent except this!’ He threw the coppers on the sill +of the booking window.</p> +<p>‘Had your pocket picked?’ said the station-master +<a name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 264</span>with a +laugh. ‘It’s not the first time that’s +happened at Bron Fair!’ A bell clanged in the signal +box, and a porter peered at them through the door with a stupid, +rustic face.</p> +<p>‘Can’t you let us have a ticket on strap?’ +Abner asked.</p> +<p>‘Not likely!’ said the stationmaster. +‘I’ve heard that tale before.’</p> +<p>‘The little girl’s had an accident . . . broken +her leg,’ Mary pleaded.</p> +<p>The station-master shook his head.</p> +<p>‘There’s not another train to-day,’ she +said. ‘Have we time to try and get some money in the +village?’</p> +<p>The porter gave a stupid laugh.</p> +<p>‘Train’s two minutes overdue now,’ said the +station-master blandly, glancing at the clock on the +booking-office wall.</p> +<p>‘But what can we do?’ she cried.</p> +<p>The train clanked in. A number of country people in +their Sunday clothes, coming from the villages under the Long +Mynd, swarmed on to the platform. They came laughing into +the booking-office. ‘All tickets!’ shouted the +porter at the door. Abner was still rummaging in his +pockets when the train went out. They were left quite +alone.</p> +<p>‘What can we do?’ Mary repeated, in a voice full +of trouble.</p> +<p>‘We’ve got to walk, that’s all,’ said +Abner.</p> +<p>‘But you can’t carry her all that way!’</p> +<p>‘It’s only eight or nine miles over the +hills. We can walk that easy before dark if we take our +time.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s +Morgan,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘You’ll have to help Morgan on a bit.’</p> +<p>‘It’s too much. You can’t carry her +all that way.’</p> +<p>He laughed at her and, in the end, persuaded her. By +this time Morgan, awake and refreshed, was again clamouring for +food. In the post-office at Redlake they bought him a +packet of acid-drops and some biscuits.</p> +<p>‘Now that’s got to last you, my son,’ Mary +told him, and for the present he was satisfied.</p> +<p>They set out slowly on their journey home. For a <a +name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 265</span>mile or +more the road ran along the side of the little river, but soon +the valley fell away beneath them, a deep trough clogged with +brushwood, and the road degenerated into a stony track. It +seemed that they had now penetrated a country that was untouched +by the excitements of Bron Fair, for whenever they came near to a +farm, and these grew fewer and fewer, being hidden for the most +part in folds of the hills and lost in sheltering trees, they +found men moving slowly about the fields or calling cattle to the +byre for the evening’s milking.</p> +<p>Soon the distances of the landscape had faded from them +altogether. They came to an upland scarred with stony lanes +where they could see nothing on either side of them but thistle +pastures, poor and unkindly, huge fields where many sheep were +feeding in the mist. Morgan enjoyed himself, running up the +banks to a gap in the broken wall and scaring them as he stood +there like a phantom himself, waving his arms. At last, +when it seemed that they could climb no farther into the clouds, +the road began to fall.</p> +<p>Abner was glad of this, for, strong as he was, the weight of +Gladys, made more awkward by her long splint, was telling on +him. The road gave him no rest: it went on inflexibly +between its walls of stone, and when his breath failed him there +was no clean air with which he might fill his lungs: only this +thin, clammy whiteness. They jolted down into a valley, +where they found a village of stone houses, so cold and +mountainous in character that it seemed to have been scoured with +snow.</p> +<p>Above the door of the post-office Abner spelt out the word, +<i>Newchurch</i>.</p> +<p>‘New church?’ said Mary, with a sinking +heart. ‘But Newchurch is miles and miles away from +us! I drove here once with father. Are you sure +it’s the right road?’</p> +<p>‘It’s right by what I heard at the Pound House, +when Mick talked of walking over to Bron. It’s right +enough . . . only the hills make it seem longer.’</p> +<p>A little later she asked him anxiously what the time was.</p> +<p>‘Don’t you know my watch is gone?’ he +replied <a name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +266</span>irritably. ‘By what it was in Newchurch I +reckon we’ve a good four hour before dark. And then +there’s a moon.’</p> +<p>They crossed another ridge of hills. Half-way up the +slope Morgan said that he was tired, and asked his mother to +carry him. She took him up in her arms without a word and +dragged along behind Abner. He looked back at her, +questioning, for the slowness of her pace impeded him. She +knew what he was thinking.</p> +<p>‘I can’t go faster,’ she said, trying to +smile; but at the next brow she had to stop to fetch her breath, +putting Morgan down on the bank beside her under a bush of green +broom.</p> +<p>‘I want to walk again now, mam,’ he said +cheerfully. ‘Are we nearly there?’</p> +<p>He had pestered her so often with this question that for a +moment her strained temper gave way.</p> +<p>‘Don’t worry, Morgan!’ she said +sharply. ‘I’ll tell you when we’re +there.’</p> +<p>Abner laughed, and she turned on him with annoyance. She +thought he was laughing at her irritability, but found that his +eyes were kindly.</p> +<p>‘Lucky for them they don’t know,’ he said, +shaming her with a smile.</p> +<p>She tried to cover her annoyance by asking if they were +anywhere near the top of the hills.</p> +<p>He knew no more than she did. Certainly by the time that +they had rested and moved on again the fog had thickened. +The stone walls and the clumps of hawthorn and furze with which +the fields were scattered looked misty, wild, gigantic.</p> +<p>‘Time we quickened up a bit,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘How can you be sure it’s the right +road?’</p> +<p>‘Because there bain’t no other, missus,’ he +replied. ‘Up you come, my pretty!’ And he +hoisted Gladys into his arms again.</p> +<p>They could no longer guess at the time of day. Mary +supposed that it was now getting on for six o’clock, but +the sky that drooped upon them was of a uniform, milky whiteness, +and they could not guess the level of the sun. The air, +indeed, grew colder, but that was a relief in itself after the +oppression of the valleys.</p> +<p><a name="page267"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 267</span>They +walked on, maybe for another hour. Mary’s arms ached +with the burden of Morgan, who told her from time to time that +his legs hurt him or that he wanted to go to bye-bye, and vexed +her to the point of anger with his cry of, ‘Are we nearly +there?’ She herself was utterly fagged and +hungry. Her anxiety for Gladys had made it impossible for +her even to think of food in the earlier part of the day. +Now her stomach ached with emptiness, and the cold, moist air +that she drew into her labouring lungs did nothing to quench the +drought in her throat. Morgan suddenly began to whine for a +drink of water. The sweets had made him thirsty.</p> +<p>‘They don’t lay on the water up here, my +son,’ said Abner cheerfully.</p> +<p>‘But I <i>want</i> some,’ Morgan insisted. +‘<i>Or</i> tea,’ he added, as a slight +concession.</p> +<p>Mary quietened him as well as she could with promises. +They had not passed a farm or a shepherd’s cabin for +miles. She could see no hope of any building ahead short of +the Wolfpits valley, not even as much as would shelter them for +the night if they lost their way or if the strength of the +weakest failed. They were wandering on and on, blindly, as +it seemed, into a desert of high, poor pastures. Now they +no longer saw large flocks of sheep. Those that they +startled were solitary creatures that sprang up in alarm from the +wayside tangles of furze and brier, horned mountain sheep, with +shaggy fleeces and black faces.</p> +<p>She felt that the light was failing. Perhaps the sun had +set. Surely it had set, for they had walked +endlessly. At sunset the birds began their song in the +thickets about Wolfpits, but here there was no shelter for +birds. Only the wheat-ears bobbed their white rumps in +front of them and the meadow-pipits flew before them in their +endless game of waiting and of flight, so tame that Morgan ran to +catch one with his hands. Out of the whiteness above them +they heard the lost bubbling voices of curlews, or the harsh +cawing of the carrion crow.</p> +<p>She dragged on behind, and Abner walked ahead, never +tiring. She would have died rather than have <a +name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 268</span>complained, +as long as he made no complaint. A stone cottage rose up +out of the mist.</p> +<p>‘Now you shall have your drink,’ she cried +encouragingly to Morgan. The sight brightened her, for she +was parched dry herself. But the cottage was only a ruin +with a broken gate on either side of it that had made a walled +enclosure for sheep. Not very long ago sheep had been +penned there, for torn fleece had stuck to the splinters of the +gates and the road was strewn with dry dung. Abner went up +to the door to see if by any chance they were mistaken; but the +place was quite deserted.</p> +<p>‘Let’s sit down a bit,’ he said, and lit his +pipe. She sat down wearily beside him. Morgan, +smelling round the garden like a puppy, came back with a bunch of +wallflowers and gave them to her. Their scent was a poor +substitute for food, but she kissed his cold face.</p> +<p>‘I want a drink of water, mam,’ he said again.</p> +<p>She looked desperately at Abner.</p> +<p>‘Wait till we come on a bottle of pop, son,’ he +said. Morgan stared at him with big eyes. ‘Real +pop?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘You wait and see,’ said Abner cheerfully.</p> +<p>Gladys, who had just begun to cry quietly in his arms, said +that she was cold.</p> +<p>‘We’ll keep you warm, my pretty!’ he said, +gathering her to his breast.</p> +<p>‘Are we nearly there, mam?’ came the voice of +Morgan.</p> +<p>‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ She turned to Abner: +‘It can’t be much farther, the time we’ve been +walking.’</p> +<p>He did not answer. ‘Up she comes!’ he said, +kissing Gladys and lifting her gently.</p> +<p>‘Your ‘stache is all over water, Abner,’ the +child whispered.</p> +<p>They passed through the second gate, but here a new perplexity +faced them. They had come to open moorland. The road +that had hitherto been enclosed by stone walls was now no more +than outlined by wheel-ruts bitten deep into the peaty +soil. Mile upon mile of misty heather rolled away before +them. Then the track faded altogether, splitting into three +narrow <a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +269</span>lanes between the masses of ling. Abner stopped, +and this, his first hesitation, filled Mary with dread.</p> +<p>‘Which way is it?’ she called.</p> +<p>He could not answer. ‘We must be somewhere near +the top,’ he said at last. ‘Somewhere on the +far side of the Ditches. If it wasn’t for this stuff +we could see all right.’</p> +<p>‘But you can’t see,’ she said. +‘You don’t know. You don’t know any more +than I do. We’re lost.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you go on so quickly,’ he said. +‘If we keep to the middle we can’t be far +out.’</p> +<p>He pushed on a little. A hen grouse rose with a +frightening flutter from under his feet. She went whirring +away low over the heather with a harsh stuttering cry.</p> +<p>‘Where’s the cattypult, Morgan?’ Abner +cried.</p> +<p>And then they found water.</p> +<p>‘Come along, here’s the pop-shop!’ he +said. The child ran forward and knelt above a tiny cup of +peat fringed with yellow stars of butterwort. He lapped up +the precious stuff eagerly like a dog, so greedily that he +choked, spluttered, and soused his white lace collar. Mary +wiped his face for him. ‘Go on!’ said Abner, +and she too stooped her aching back and drank. Abner drank +last, having laid Gladys down in the yielding heather and scooped +up water for her in his hands.</p> +<p>Now they were refreshed, almost joyful; but Mary could not +help looking anxiously at the hills in front of them, for every +moment it seemed to her that the heather grew blacker and the +distance fainter in the mist.</p> +<p>A crest that had once seemed unattainable fell behind +them. Reaching it they had expected to find themselves +looking down into the Wolfpits valley. Instead of this they +saw more broken walls and the outlines of two huge trees. +It puzzled them. It seemed that they had come to the edge +of a shallow basin scooped in the top of the hills. Perhaps +they might find a farm. The idea encouraged them.</p> +<p>They walked forward more quickly, for here the turf was smooth +and the heather no longer impeded them. The trees came up +out of the mist, not only two of them but a whole avenue of +beeches planted by the <a name="page270"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 270</span>hands of men, stretching away before +them in the line that they had followed.</p> +<p>‘There must be a house,’ said Mary. +‘They wouldn’t plant trees like this for +nothing.’</p> +<p>Abner nodded. In spite of his air of gaiety he had been +anxious and was now relieved. It was a noble avenue of more +than a hundred trees. They walked on midway between the two +lines of them, expecting at every moment to see the shadow of the +house. But the avenue ended suddenly as it had begun, and +instead of a house they saw nothing but two gateposts of stone, +ancient and weathered, surmounted by immense round balls. +The man who had built them two hundred years before had planned a +stately approach to his mansion. It was easy to imagine the +gates of wrought iron that would have swung there. But of +the house that he had dreamed there remained not as much as a +ghost.</p> +<p>‘There must be a house!’ Mary cried.</p> +<p>Abner shook his head. Nothing could now be seen but the +desolate line of the beech avenue stretching away behind +them. A light wind rose on their right, driving the mist in +front of it. They seemed to hear the endless volumes of it +hurrying by, but it was only the long sighing of a waste of +heather. This sound made Mary really aware of the +threatening silence that surrounded them. Even the presence +of Abner standing there as stolid and unmoved as ever could not +steady her.</p> +<p>‘We can’t stay here,’ she said. +‘It’s an awful place. It’s like a +churchyard. Do let us go on.’</p> +<p>She left the desolate gateposts with a shiver. She +hurried, taxing her strength to the last, to put them behind +her. The wind rose; the mist was whirled along the slopes +before them in torn fleeces. She crossed another ridge and +then sank down in the heather, ready to cry herself. The +buffetings of the wind were fit to break her heart.</p> +<p>Then a miracle happened. A gust of wind tore an opening +in the mist and the vision of a heaped mountainous landscape grew +before their eyes. Southward the indented bow of Radnor +Forest rose blue-black, the summit of Black Mixen hugely +threatening. Westward <a name="page271"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 271</span>in molten clouds the sun went down +over Wales and fifty miles of thin air and solid mountain were +mingled in a fiery haze. The sky was a furnace in which the +mountains melted away. But Abner and Mary had no desire to +see these splendours. Their eyes were fixed, peering into +the trough of the valley beneath them. They saw green +woods, blue in the evening light, the squares of barns, the rich +mosaic of fields, the gleam of a river. And their hearts +fell, for each was certain that the valley beneath them was not +that of the Folly Brook. It was far wilder and more +strange. They looked at each other.</p> +<p>‘Do you know where it is?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘I can’t think, unless it’s somewhere near +Clun.’</p> +<p>‘Better get down while the light lasts. +There’s farms there,’ he said. As he spoke the +sun dipped down. White clouds swept across their +window. Only the memory of what they had seen told them +that they were not utterly lost.</p> +<p>They descended the slope carefully, for the grass was slippery +and the only tracks were scattered with stones. Abner could +not help her; she knew that he was far too busy saving Gladys +from unnecessary jars. She fell, and Morgan cried out that +she had hurt his arm. She pulled her strength together and +tried to carry him. Somehow she must struggle on, for the +darkness was falling. Even with their sudden vision in her +mind she could not now feel certain that their direction was +right. For a time they followed a wheel-track skirting the +mountain, but it ended by turning upwards, and they knew that +this could not help them. Downward it was difficult to go, +for the fields were small and irregular, and the hedges often +impassable, yet downward, somehow, they must go.</p> +<p>They beat through a zone of these entanglements in wood and +stone. Night was falling fast. Since the revealing +moment of the last summit they had sunk so deep that they must +now surely be near the bottom of the valley, whatever valley it +might be. But when the barrier of irregular fields lay +behind them they found themselves on open, sloping ground +again. Abner stalked on ahead without pausing. She, +at the <a name="page272"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +272</span>end of her tether, called out after him to stop for a +moment, but he did not hear her. His shape went on into the +dusk, and she knew that if she did not follow she must be left +behind.</p> +<p>Suddenly the white air was full of the screaming of birds . . +. a shrill, high, sound that took her back into her +childhood. Once, with her father, she had been taken to +Swansea on a business trip and had heard gulls calling on the +Gower Cliffs. She felt that she must be dreaming. +Even on a night of storm no gulls could be blown so far inland as +this, and yet she was sure that her childish memory could not +have failed. The cries that she heard now were the cries of +gulls wheeling and screaming in the mist above her head.</p> +<p>Abner turned and called her. ‘Did you ever hear +the like of it?’ he called. ‘I never heard such +a chronic row!’</p> +<p>‘They’re gulls,’ she shouted. Her +voice was thin in the mist. ‘Seagulls.’</p> +<p>‘That’s where they must have come from. Off +of this water,’ he called.</p> +<p>And she saw, peering in front of her, a ghostly wood of pines +and before them a lake of dark water fringed with reeds. +The wind swept across it, bending the reeds, breaking the glassy +surface into ripples, and rolling milky mist before it. The +wind came in gusts, roaring through the trees with a noise that +was like that of the sea, and the gulls screamed above them, +unseen, as they might have screamed over storm-bound +cliffs. She stood with her knees trembling at Abner’s +side, and Morgan clutched her hand. She herself felt like a +child, lonely, frightened. They stood so quietly together +that some of the birds swooped down on to the water as though +driven by the wind.</p> +<p>‘Yes, they’re gulls,’ she said. +‘Seagulls. We’re more than fifty miles away +from the sea. I don’t understand.’</p> +<p>She laughed nervously. It came to her suddenly that she +could go no farther. Her legs could not make a single +step. The gulls came dropping down in twos and threes, and +settled on the lake. They were smaller than those that she +remembered, she thought. They <a name="page273"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 273</span>dropped down just like pigeons when +you scatter grain.</p> +<p>‘Come on,’ said Abner. ‘It’s +near dark.’</p> +<p>But she could not move. The child tugged at her +skirt. She felt the tugging in a dream.</p> +<p>‘We can’t stand staring here all night,’ +Abner was saying. She was aware of him standing beside her +in the dusk, holding Gladys to his breast. She saw the +child’s white hands clasped about his neck, as quietly as +if she were asleep. She heard him, but could not +stir. Then Abner touched her upper arm, and the pressure of +his fingers went through her body like fire along a fuse +exploding some mine of passion that had lain hidden beneath her +long silence. It burned her like flame, burned her and rent +her. . . . She trembled and turned on him violently. +Words of abuse came tumbling out of her mouth. She did not +know or care what she was saying. She lashed him, wildly, +desperately. It was he who was to blame for all this +trouble, he who had persuaded her to take the children to Bron +and allowed her to be insulted in the inn at Redlake; he who had +entangled them in the crowd where Gladys’s leg was broken; +and now he’d lost them, and brought them to a place where +they might all die of cold with his damned foolishness. +Some devil inside her brain drove her on, delighting in the vile +things she said, raking up little grudges of the past and +throwing them in his face, revealing, against her will, such +petty miseries as her jealousy of Susie Hind. +‘It’s with her you ought to be,’ she cried, +‘instead of troubling us! That’s where you +ought to be! You’d better go on and leave us, Gladys +and Morgan and me. You don’t know any more than I do +where we are, with the night coming on. We can’t go a +step farther, neither me nor Morgan, poor little thing! Oh, +go! Go! I wish to God I’d never set eyes on +you!’ She threw herself down, exhausted, on the wet +grass.</p> +<p>He had stood up to it utterly bewildered. He +couldn’t protest, for all her ravings were so childish, so +disconnected, so passionately illogical. He simply let her +go on until she had finished with him. Then <a +name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 274</span>he +disengaged Gladys’s arms from his neck and laid her down +gently.</p> +<p>‘You’re just about done in,’ he said. +‘It’s natural.’</p> +<p>Again he placed his hand on Mary’s arm, hoping to soothe +her and to persuade. She gave a strange shudder, as though +his fingers had been ice, and burst into tears, covering her face +with her hands.</p> +<p>He comforted her clumsily, talking to her as he would have +done to a child, until she no longer shrank from him, being too +weak to care. Then she took hold of his coat and clung to +him, still sobbing her heart away. She was broken . . . +quite broken.</p> +<p>The moment was terrible for Abner. He felt his heart +leap so wildly that he knew she must be conscious of its +thudding. The movement of her body, shaken with sobs, +against his own, filled him not with pity but with +exultation. There was no woman like her in the world. +He knew it. Hadn’t he known it long enough? If +he told himself the truth he must admit that for months he had +never wanted any other woman. The desires that had hungered +him the night before, walking beneath her window and in the +moonlit lane, returned to him in waves of greater force. He +laughed to think that, being so near to her, he should ever have +given a thought to Susie Hind. Now she was in his +arms. His hands caressed her beauty. How should he +touch her body without passion? And why? Surely she +could feel the blood beating in his fingers, even if she told +herself that he was only trying to comfort her. No one +could see them there . . . no one except the two children, crying +softly together because they heard their mother crying. Why +shouldn’t he gather her in his arms, overwhelming her with +kisses? He could see nothing but her lips. . . .</p> +<p>But when he strained her to him she stopped sobbing and pushed +him away. It was now dark but for the light of the moon +hidden above the mist, and he could only see the paleness of her +face. Her ghost spoke to him.</p> +<p>‘I’ve lost my handkerchief,’ she said +simply.</p> +<p>He gave her his own, and she thanked him.</p> +<p>‘I don’t know what I’ve been saying,’ +she whispered. ‘I <a name="page275"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 275</span>think I must have been mad, +Abner. Please forget it.’</p> +<p>He would have helped her to her feet, but her muscles would +not respond to the brain’s message. She gave a weak +laugh. Now she did not mind being weak. She looked at +him helplessly.</p> +<p>‘I can’t go another step,’ she said. +‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. Perhaps, if you +left us here, you might find if there’s a house near. +I’ll look after these poor lambs. We can keep warm +close together.’</p> +<p>No doubt she spoke wisely. He left them without a word, +though Gladys cried out with alarm to see him going. His +shoulders loomed up in the cloud, and as he skirted the lake the +gulls rose screaming from its surface to be lost in the sky.</p> +<p>Abner continued his course downhill. Relieved of the +weight of Gladys he now felt himself master of his limbs. +The hedges and the roughness of the road troubled him no longer, +and when he had been walking no more than ten minutes he saw in +the growing brilliance of the moonlight a gate that gave on to a +metalled road. He strained his ears to listen for any +sound, and heard, at length, the noise of a dog howling at the +hidden moon. That meant a farm, or at least a +shepherd’s cottage. A walk of ten minutes in the +direction of the sound brought him within sight of a mass of +outbuildings that made a courtyard in front of a low-roofed +house. Two long windows on the right of a central doorway +were lighted. He saw the shadows of geraniums in pots +against the blinds. Another dog came at him out of the +darkness, snarling and sniffing him from a distance. He +knocked at the door and heard a chair pushed back over the stone +floor.</p> +<p>‘Come in . . . come in!’ some one cried.</p> +<p>The farm kitchen was bright, with a heavy brass lamp in the +centre of the table and a yellow shade that threw a mild radiance +over the many hams and sides of bacon that were slung from the +smoky ceiling. The table was laid for supper and a +shrewish-looking woman was eating bread and cheese. She +stared at Abner with a piece of cheese stuck on the end of her +knife, looking neither astonished nor frightened.</p> +<p><a name="page276"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +276</span>‘Who is it, please. And what do you want at +this time of night?’ she said, without moving.</p> +<p>‘I’m sorry to put you out, ma’am,’ he +said. ‘Me and three others, a woman and two children, +lost our way coming over the hills from the fair. The +little girl’s had an accident and we had to carry +her. Proper done in, they are, and I left them about a mile +away over there.’ He pointed in the direction of the +hills.</p> +<p>‘Well, I don’t see how I can help you,’ said +the woman, who went on eating. ‘The master never has +no dealings with gipsies. What’s more, he’s +gone to the fair himself in the trap and ban’t back +yet.’</p> +<p>Abner explained to her that he was not a gipsy. +‘You can’t leave a woman an’ two kids out there +at night,’ he said.’</p> +<p>‘Where did you leave them?’ she asked.</p> +<p>‘Up by a pool. There’s a lot of birds on +it. Seagulls, she said.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, ay, them’s the sea-crows. They comes +here every year. But that’s not ten minutes’ +walk from here, that isn’t!’</p> +<p>‘There must be a man about the place as can give me a +hand with them,’ said Abner, irritated by her +unconcern.</p> +<p>‘All gone home an hour ago,’ she said, shaking her +head. ‘There’s only me and the master, and +he’s not back yet.’</p> +<p>At that moment all the dogs began to bark together. She +got up and opened the door, and the lights of a gig turned the +corner and dashed into the yard. Another cob was tied to +the cart tail. The woman ran to meet the new-comer, and a +big man threw the reins over the horse’s flanks and got out +of the trap. The dog yelped round him friendlily, and he +cursed it. ‘Get away!’ he said.</p> +<p>‘You’d best take out,’ he said to the +woman. ‘I’m properly starved, I am. What +do you think of the new cob? Forty-eight pound! I +never knew such prices!’</p> +<p>‘There’s a chap here says he’s a woman and +two children lost up by the sea-crows’ pool,’ she +said, disregarding his question. ‘You’d better +go and have a word with him.’</p> +<p><a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +277</span>‘Gipsies?’ he said angrily; but without +waiting for her reply he stalked stiffly into the room, slapping +his dank hands and blinking at the light. He stared at +Abner.</p> +<p>‘Hallo!’ he said. ‘I know you. +You’m George Malpas’s lodger.’</p> +<p>Abner also recognised his host. It was Mr Williams of +Pentre Higgin, the farmer who had chosen himself foreman of the +jury at Bastard’s inquest.</p> +<p>‘Well, what’s all this I hear about a woman and +two kids?’ said the fanner threateningly. ‘Is +that Malpas’s wife?’</p> +<p>Abner told him what had happened. What bewildered him +most was to realise that after all they had hit the upper part of +their own valley. The Pentre was indeed the farm on which +old Drew worked, and less than five miles from Wolfpits +itself. The farmer poured himself out a glass of cider and +stood smacking his lips while Abner told his story.</p> +<p>‘Well, this is a pretty turn-out!’ he said. +‘I heard some talk of an accident to a little girl over +there.’</p> +<p>He went to the door. ‘Hi!’ he shouted, +‘you’d better put to again, missus! Shove the +new cob in the stall and give ’en some hay. Mind he +don’t bite you.’</p> +<p>He chuckled to himself, being what people in those parts call +‘market-peart,’ then drank off another glass of +cider, and motioned to Abner to follow him. +‘We’d best find Badger to give us a hand,’ he +said.</p> +<p>He tied the reins of the harnessed horse to a post in the +yard, and threw a blanket over its back. Abner followed him +silently out of the yard and up the road. They stopped in +front of a small cottage, and Williams knocked at the door. +After some delay Badger in his shirt-sleeves opened it, emitting +a queer odour of naphthaline and the dried skins of animals and +birds.</p> +<p>‘Put your coat on, Bill,’ said the farmer. +‘Malpas’s wife and kids is up by the sea-crows’ +pool. Got lost in the fog.’</p> +<p>In a few moments, as it seemed, they had found the +derelicts. By this time Mary protested, she was quite able +to walk. Abner again picked up Gladys, Williams carried +Morgan, and an easy path brought them down <a +name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 278</span>to the farm +again. Badger walked beside Abner, but never spoke a +word.</p> +<p>‘Now I reckon I’ve got to drive you home,’ +said Williams sourly. ‘You’d better jump up +quick.’</p> +<p>The lights of the house shone on Mary’s pale face. +She did not look at Abner, but the woman of the farm, who +appeared to be Williams’s wife, stared at her with hostile +eyes. ‘Good-night, Bill!’ the farmer called, as +Badger slouched away.</p> +<p>‘Thank’ee, Mr Badger!’ Abner added. +But Badger only mumbled something that he could not hear.</p> +<p>The sweating horse jogged easily down the lane to +Wolfpits.</p> +<h2><a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 279</span>The +Nineteenth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">All</span> that night Abner heard Gladys +crying softly and Mary moving about in the room beneath +him. In the small hours she knocked at his door and begged +him to take Morgan into his bed. Gladys was so restless +that the child could not get to sleep. They spoke together +with the oak door between them, and a moment later, having +knocked again, she thrust a small, red-eyed figure into the +room. Abner picked him up and carried him into bed. +The child nestled close to him, like a small, warm-blooded +animal. Abner wrapped him up in his arms, protectively, as +though, by steadying his muscles, he could compel him to settle +down to sleep. Morgan’s fingers lay gently on his +forearm, soft and listless. He was so quiet that Abner +thought he had fallen asleep already. In this he was +mistaken. The change of rooms and the adventure of finding +a new bedfellow had completely wakened him, and when he had lain +dead still for a little while, Morgan’s fingers began to +stroke Abner’s arm. Then he fidgeted and spoke in a +reverent whisper:</p> +<p>‘Abner, are you awake?’</p> +<p>‘Ay, what is it?’</p> +<p>‘Why is your arm all hairy, Abner?’</p> +<p>‘Why? Because I’m grown up.’</p> +<p>‘Mam’s isn’t,’ said Morgan, after a +thoughtful pause, and then: ‘I like being here.’</p> +<p>‘Then don’t you go asking questions or I’ll +put you out again,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>After this the child was quiet. He lay there burning in +Abner’s arms. Falling asleep, his limbs relaxed, and +then, suddenly clutching at consciousness, twitched +violently. These movements were like those of a very young +animal, feeble and frightened, and Abner, feeling them, gathered +the child more closely in his arms, until he moved no longer save +with the gentle breathing of a sweet sleep.</p> +<p>Abner had never slept with a child before. It gave <a +name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 280</span>him a +queer, almost physical sensation of comfort in addition to the +protective emotions which Morgan’s helplessness +aroused. He had never thought seriously what it would be +like to have a child of his own, and even now he did not explain +his feelings in that way. He pictured himself, for a +moment, in the position of father to a child of Susie +Hind’s, and the prospect did not move him. The only +way in which he could explain this curious enthralling tenderness +was by the fact that Morgan was really part of Mary, that the +child had come to him straight from the warmth of her arms, +carrying with him an impalpable essence of herself. He +wondered vaguely what he would have felt like if the child had +been not only Mary’s but his as well, and in the midst of +these tender and dangerous reflections he fell asleep +himself.</p> +<p>Next morning, before returning to work, he left a message with +the doctor at Lesswardine, asking him to call at Wolfpits. +All through the day he was restless and unhappy, feeling that his +proper place was at Wolfpits lending Mary a hand, supporting her +anxieties. He consoled himself with the knowledge that Mrs +Mamble was used to domestic troubles and would probably be of +more use to Mary than himself, even apart from the fact that +their finances would not easily stand the strain of the lost +time. He only wondered, all the time, what the +doctor’s report would be, and whether their wild +night-journey might have added to the child’s injury. +He did not mention anything of what had happened to his mates, +and the day was therefore long and anxious.</p> +<p>It was after dinner-time when the doctor reached +Wolfpits. Escorted by Mrs Mamble, he soon got to business +and took down the injured limb, complimenting the Brampton Bryan +surgeon on the way in which he had done his job. The +dislocated fragments, he said, had been skilfully opposed, and +the leg now lay in a good position. Gladys was young, a +child’s tissues were full of vitality, and the splint, +which he put on again, need not be worn for more than three +weeks.</p> +<p>He stayed a little longer than he need have done, for <a +name="page281"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 281</span>he had +finished his round and Mary Malpas was an attractive woman. +He was a middle-aged man and not above taking a kind of guarded +pleasure in the intimacy with such charming creatures that his +profession gave him. He asked her how it had all happened, +and Mary told him, without hesitation, of their train journey two +nights before, of their difficulty of finding rooms at Redlake, +and of all that had led up to the accident. He listened +gravely, giving no sign of unusual interest when Abner’s +name was mentioned, but when he drove away again he chuckled to +himself, being intrigued by this new little sidelight on the +frailty of human nature, and taking an interest that was not +wholly professional in the idea of this extraordinarily desirable +woman finding consolation in the arms of her lodger. For +that was how he interpreted the case.</p> +<p>When he got home that evening he told the story to his +wife. Little incidents of this kind, which came so often +into his professional experience, supplied him with a vicarious +sexual stimulus which his marital relations had lacked for some +years. Mrs Hendrie, listening, pursed her lips, and +smiled. The story was not one for general publication, but +she knew that it would be acceptable to the vicar’s wife, +who had already taken such a kindly, if profitless, interest in +this unfortunate young woman.</p> +<p>In this way the scandal of the Redlake adventure began to be +whispered in that most exclusive circle of which the sewing-party +at the vicarage was the centre. In this quarter, indeed, +Mary had been already judged and damned as a woman who preferred +a life of open sin to the privilege of attending to the +blameless, physical needs of the Rev. Cyril Malpas. The new +intelligence did no more than supply a sorrowful confirmation of +what was already suspected. ‘It’s those two +sweet children I’m thinking of,’ said the +vicar’s wife. ‘Imagine the awful effects of +surroundings of that kind in later life!’ The vicar +only shook his head. After all, Wolfpits was so very nearly +in his neighbour’s parish as to make him scarcely +responsible.</p> +<p>It came as a great relief to Abner to find that Gladys was +none the worse for her journey in his arms. In <a +name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 282</span>the morning +they pulled round the long kitchen settle into the sun, and in +the evening he carried this out of doors so that the child might +enjoy the mellow light with the others. She took a few days +to get over the original shock of the accident, but after that +she settled down into a placid convalescence, fully aware of her +importance and treating, not only Mary and Mrs Mamble, but Abner +and Mick Connor, as her slaves. Morgan was vaguely jealous +of the attention that they paid her.</p> +<p>‘But <i>I</i> slep’ with Abner,’ he said, +‘and Gladys an’t, has her, mam?’</p> +<p>Mary smiled at him. Now that she knew that +Gladys’s injury was not so severe as they had imagined she +could afford to smile, sitting there in the summer evening with +her friends about her. It was so quiet at Wolfpits. +Not even the birds were singing. She sat there and heard +the trout rising and plopping in the pool beneath the bridge, a +hundred yards away, and then the murmurous wings of a +humming-bird-hawk moth, hovering in a nebula of bronze, swooping +to plunge its curled trumpet into the cups of flowers. Then +beetles droned above them and bats zig-zagged with rapid +wings. She told Abner that it was time for him to take the +settle into the house. While he did so she held Gladys in +her lap and watched the man’s big shoulders as he moved +almost without effort under the weight of the settle. It +reminded her of another memory of him that she knew she would +never forget: a picture of trailing mists and loneliness, and a +man walking before her with a child in his arms.</p> +<p>In this state of happiness and innocence neither of them +suspected any mischief of tongues. It is true that Abner +had found the presence of Badger at the Pentre on the night of +the fair a little sinister at first, but the fact that they had +chosen to descend into the Wolfpits valley at the level of the +sea-crows’ pool and Williams’s farm was the purest +accident, and Mary, who only knew the keeper by name, and had +never seen him outside a court of law, thought nothing of it, +while Mr Williams of the Pentre never entered into their +calculations as a source of evil.</p> +<p><a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 283</span>But +Williams, in spite of his ready kindness in driving them back to +Wolfpits with his tired horse, had chuckled to find in this +incident a chance of annoying his old enemy, Mrs Malpas of the +Buffalo. In all things he was a gross and childish man, +whose plan of life embraced only two classes of acquaintance, +enemies and friends, and he spent the greater part of his time in +scheming to annoy the former and overwhelm the latter with the +most naïve of kindnesses. As for Mrs Malpas, not even +pity for her in the affair of George could induce him to forget +his quarrel over the hogshead of cider. He knew very well +that her weak spot was her own claim to an unassailable chapel +morality, and having already enjoyed the pleasure of scoring her +off by sending her only son on his first stage to Shrewsbury as a +felon, he could not now resist the satisfaction of telling her +that her daughter-in-law had been away with the lodger while +George was in Salop jail.</p> +<p>Next week, at Ludlow market, he entertained the farmers’ +ordinary with the story, and in the evening, having done a good +day’s business and drunk enough to make him fear no man, he +drove home, chuckling to himself, by way of Chapel Green, pulling +up at the Buffalo for a final drink. It was the first time +that he had visited the inn since that unfortunate quarrel. +The cloggers who had gone away in the previous winter had found +lodgings in a village farther westward on their return in the +spring, and the Buffalo had never emerged from the silence in +which they had left it. Mrs Malpas seemed surprised that +any one should call so late at night. The bar was empty, +and she had to light the swinging oil lamp for him, standing on a +chair. Williams himself found a match and lit it for her +out of sheer fuddled kindness. It struck her that he was +too kind by half. He drank his whisky standing in the +middle of the taproom, smacking it on his tongue.</p> +<p>‘You didn’t go to Bron Fair, ma’am?’ +he said.</p> +<p>‘No,’ Mrs Malpas replied. ‘Nor have I +these many years.’</p> +<p>‘There’s pretty things to be seen there,’ +said Williams, with a grin. She made no reply, and he +advanced obliquely from another angle.</p> +<p><a name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +284</span>‘How’s your son getting on?’</p> +<p>‘But for the shame that we all bear, Mr Williams, +he’s out of harm’s way.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, it’s a good Christian prison, I’m +told,’ said he, laughing. ‘Chaplains and +all! How’s his wife, eh?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Malpas +shortly. ‘And I don’t want to know.’</p> +<p>‘Smart looking young woman!’ Williams leered.</p> +<p>‘I know nothing about her, Mr Williams.’</p> +<p>‘Then I’ll tell you something, ma’am. +She’s been off on the spree, childer an’ all, to Bron +Fair. Slept the night at the Harley Arms, Redlake, with +that lodger chap. What do you think of that?’</p> +<p>Mrs Malpas blenched. ‘That’s your story, Mr +Williams, but there’s no need to believe you, thanks +be!’</p> +<p>‘But seeing’s believing, ma’am,’ said +Williams heavily. ‘And I seen. What is it I owe +you now?’</p> +<p>She gasped: ‘Sixpence,’ and took the money. +Williams gave her a cheery good-night. He wondered at the +way in which she had taken his scandal. ‘A proper +hard old case, an’ no mistake!’ he thought. Mrs +Malpas, forgetful of economy, left the light burning and went +straight in to her husband. In moments of stress, even +though she despised him and knew that he hardly understood her, +she would use him as a dummy on which to vent her feelings.</p> +<p>‘Dad, dad!’ she cried. ‘That was Mr +Williams of the Pentre.’</p> +<p>‘Ay, mother . . . good land, good land! Williams. +. . . Ay.’</p> +<p>‘He has a tale of our George’s wife. +She’s going on with that Fellows as lodges with them, the +one that brought trouble on George. They was caught the two +on them, at the Harley Arms, Redlake. You know . . +.’</p> +<p>The old man, who was now awake, mumbled something about that +being in the nature of things when a young woman was left too +long to herself. She picked up the word furiously.</p> +<p>‘Nature!’ she cried. ‘It’s the +nature of a brute beast, not the nature of a Christian +woman! It’s the bad blood in her!’</p> +<p><a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 285</span>He +let her rave on in the dark. It was late, and now unlikely +that any one else would call in at the bar. His head +nodded, while she went on fuming, half to him and half to +herself. She persuaded herself that her morality had been +offended, though it was really the spiteful satisfaction of +Williams rather than his news that had wounded her, for she could +not think any worse of Abner and Mary than she did already. +When the heat of her irritation against the farmer subsided, its +place was taken by another and more subtle flame. She +realised that she had found something to explain her former +unreasonable hatred. Williams, in trying to shame her, had +put a new weapon into her hands, one with which she might +positively injure Abner and Mary together in George’s +eyes. It had been the hardest part of her dealings with him +at the time of the trial to see the way in which his loyalty to +Mary, however little that might mean, returned. Now that +her chance had come, George couldn’t keep up this +sentimental pretence of a belief in Mary’s goodness any +longer. Williams had justified her at last.</p> +<p>She helped the old man up to bed, blew out his candle, and +left him in the dark. Then she went downstairs, carried the +lamp from the bar into the parlour, took out a sheet of lined +paper, and a penholder carved out of olive wood from the garden +of Gethsemane, and—began a letter to George. She +wrote without haste, in the firm pointed characters that she had +learnt as a young girl, carefully, methodically, with a perfect +and cold precision. From first to last not the least quaver +of indecision stayed her pen; but when she held the paper to the +light to read what she had written, her hands trembled and the +words ran like fire across her brain.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<span class="smcap"><i>My dear +Son</i></span>,’—<i>she had written</i>, ‘<i>I +hope this finds you in perfect health as it leaves me</i>, +<i>thank God</i>, <i>and your father</i>. <i>I am sorry to +say that I have sad news to tell you which</i>, <i>I am +afraid</i>, <i>is all too true</i>. <i>Your wife and the +young man Fellows have been away together</i>, <i>living in sin +at the Harley Arms</i>, <i>Redlake</i>. <i>It was madness +of you</i>, <i>as I tried to tell you before</i>, <i>but you +would not listen to your </i><a name="page286"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 286</span><i>mother</i>, <i>to have trusted +them</i>, <i>but you only laughed me to scorn</i>. <i>Now +it is an open scandal and hard for your poor father to +bear</i>. <i>You can do nothing to mend it where you +are</i>, <i>but be patient</i>, <i>dear George</i>, <i>and +remember the word of Hebrews xii. 6</i>: “<i>Whom the Lord +loveth He chasteneth</i>.” <i>I wish I had not to +write this</i>, <i>George</i>, <i>but I have always told you that +she was a light and wicked woman</i>. <i>Still it is just +as well</i>, <i>and God moves in a mysterious way</i>, <i>for +when you come back you can take the children away from her</i>, +<i>though do not think that you will have the Buffalo</i>, +<i>even if God should take your dear father</i>, <i>for the +justices would never give it to one who had been in jail</i>, +<i>even for no fault of their own</i>. <i>In this way you +are saved from temptation</i>. <i>This is the Lord’s +doing</i>, <i>dear George</i>, <i>and it is marvellous in our +eyes</i>. <i>Why did you not send for me last month</i>, +<i>my son</i>? <i>I will tell you more</i>, <i>please +God</i>, <i>when we meet</i>, <i>I remain</i>, <i>with fond +kisses</i>,</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Your loving mother</i>,<br /> +‘<span class="smcap"><i>Arabella +Malpas</i></span>.’</p> +<p>She sighed, sealed the envelope, and addressed it +to:—</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘<span +class="smcap"><i>George Malpas</i></span>,<br /> +‘<span class="smcap"><i>No</i></span><i>.</i> 157. <span +class="smcap"><i>County Jail</i></span>,<br /> +‘<span class="smcap"><i>Shrewsbury</i></span>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Then she folded her spectacles, blew out the light, and went +upstairs in the dark to the room where her husband was already +snoring. She crept into bed beside him and soon fell asleep +in the blessed consciousness of innocence.</p> +<p>Williams, blabbing to old Mrs Malpas in the childish hope of +irritating her, was not the only person who found an interest in +spreading the story. Badger, pulled into the mist out of +the stink of his preservatives and walking sullenly up the slope +toward the sea-crows’ pool, had slowly realised that here +was an opportunity of discrediting Abner in the eyes of Susie +Hind once and for all. Although the lovers’ meetings +had of late been fewer and secret, while Susie, reminded from +time to time of the keeper’s jealousy, had been clever +enough <a name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +287</span>to laugh him off and to make him feel ridiculous, +Badger had not forgotten his suspicions. It was true that +he never now saw Abner at the Pound House, and never heard his +name mentioned outside the tirades of Mr Hind, who was still +anxious for his licence, but the rearing of his young pheasants +was now keeping Badger busy, and since he had no time to waste in +watching, he could never be quite sure that Abner was not +profiting by his forced neglect. Sometimes he would +threaten Susie as he had done before, pretending that he knew +more than he did; but experience had taught her how to deal with +this crude creature; she treated his violence as though it amused +her, and he always ended by accepting what she said with certain +dark reservations that only troubled him beneath the threshold of +consciousness, and set him strangely wondering at night.</p> +<p>In the middle of one of these doubting moods Williams had come +knocking at his door with Abner beside him, asking for his help +in the search for Mary, and next day he and his neighbour had +talked together, Williams delighted as a child in his discovery +of such frailty in old Mrs Malpas’s daughter-in-law. +Badger cared nothing one way or the other for Mary’s +chastity, he had no particular grudge against Mrs Malpas or her +son, but he quickly saw that in Williams’s discovery he had +hit on a rare touchstone for Susie’s feelings toward +Abner. He saw that he must make use of it before the tale +became common talk, so he cornered Susie at the first opportunity +that he found, and told her, as bluntly as was his custom, what +had happened.</p> +<p>‘He’s brazen-faced enough, that chap +Fellows,’ he said, ‘seeing that he told Mr Williams +right out that he and George Malpas’s wife had slept at the +Harley Arms, over Redlake way. Took the two children with +’em and all! That was the rum part of it!’</p> +<p>While he spoke he watched Susie with his small keen eyes, +sharpened by the habit of observing wild game, waiting for her +face to betray to him exactly what she felt toward Abner. +But it was not for nothing that Susie had learnt the art of being +all things to all men. Badger’s eyes were a little +too eager, and she was quick to see it.</p> +<p><a name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +288</span>‘Why do you want to tell me this, Mr +Badger?’ she said slowly.</p> +<p>‘He’s an old friend of yours. You +don’t put me off as easy as that!’</p> +<p>‘Then you might have saved yourself the trouble,’ +she said, turning her back on him. ‘If you’ve +any other dirty stories to tell, I’ll be obliged if +you’ll keep them to yourself.’</p> +<p>He flushed darkly, so that she felt she was overdoing +it. She came back to him and stood talking of other things, +her hand on the table within an inch of his own.</p> +<p>‘I hope you didn’t take any offence,’ she +said softly. ‘Only I don’t like to hear my name +coupled with a chap of that kind.’</p> +<p>Badger swallowed his liquor with satisfaction. It seemed +to him that he had artfully secured his point. He looked +Susie up and down, appraising her, lazily satisfied. She +had gained a new value in his eyes. He held her in talk, +and she loitered by his table, standing on one leg. In +taking away his glass she even touched his hand. They were +alone in the bar. He caught her and kissed her. +Protesting, as a matter of form, she smiled. In her heart +she hated him like poison. Her mind was aflame with vague +jealousies, for any fool could see that Abner was worth two of +this man.</p> +<p>That night she heard the gang from the pipe-track discussing +the accident at Bron, winking at each other over the way in which +the story had come out. They laughed without +condemning. To them it seemed no more than a good +joke. When her father’s back was turned the Gunner +began to pull her leg about it; but she laughed back at him, +giving him coarseness for coarseness, and went on wiping her +glasses, humming to herself the refrain of a pantomime +tune. She heard herself singing. Her voice sounded +toneless and unreal. When she went to bed she could not +sleep for fretting. Abner had not been near her for more +than a week, and she did not dare to take the risk of sending him +a message at his work. She knew that she wanted him. +She was not going to lose him without a fight.</p> +<p><a name="page289"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 289</span>Next +afternoon she was free, and knowing that Abner would be safely at +work, she dressed herself elaborately in her best clothes and a +pair of new shoes and set off boldly for Wolfpits. Her +hands trembled and her frock was drenched with perspiration as +she dressed.</p> +<p>‘Where are you off to, got up like that?’ her +father called after her.</p> +<p>‘Can’t I dress as I like, dad?’ she said, +with a toss of her head.</p> +<p>‘There’s tempest about. You’ll get +soaked to the skin!’ he shouted.</p> +<p>She felt as if she were soaked to the skin already. The +long spell of rainless weather had reached its climax, and the +delaine frock that she had chosen had been cut for elegance +rather than for comfort. The sun went in, leaving a white +and heavy sky. The leaves of elm and chestnut drooped in +the heat as with the weight of their own dust. Her new +shoes were too small for her, and by the time that she had toiled +up to the bridge over the Folly, she wished that she had not +come. A yaffle mocked her from the edge of the wood. +Swallows were hawking low down over the dust of the road. +An awful, oppressive silence weighed on the land. She +hesitated, then turned painfully up the Wolfpits avenue, but when +she had almost decided to turn back, the thunder broke above her +and big drops spattered the dust. The thought of the new +tulle in her hat made her run for shelter. The trees of the +avenue gave a long sigh and the rain swished down in +torrents. Round the corner she saw Mrs Mamble running +about, like a woman possessed, after the washing that she had +spread on the bushes to dry.</p> +<p>‘Slip into the porch, miss,’ she cried, catching +sight of Susie, ‘or you’ll be drownded.’ +Then she called to Mary, who was ironing in the kitchen: +‘There’s a young lady got caught in the storm, Mrs +Malpas!’</p> +<p>‘Please come inside and wait till it’s +over,’ Mary cried, glancing through the window.</p> +<p>Susie entered. ‘Take a seat,’ Mary said, and +went on with her ironing. One side of her face was flushed +with the heat of the iron that she had tested by holding it to +her cheek. It made her look as if she were angry <a +name="page290"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 290</span>or +embarrassed. The kitchen was full of the sweet, scorched +smell of linen. Susie, sitting nervously on the edge of the +seat to which she had been shown, felt that the falseness of her +position must be made clear. She was out to fight, and not +without courage.</p> +<p>‘My name is Hind . . . Susan Hind,’ she +said. ‘From the Pound House, you know.’</p> +<p>Mary stopped ironing and looked at her. She began to +wish that she had not turned herself out so elegantly. She +felt that she must look like a street-woman.</p> +<p>‘Yes . . . I thought I knew you,’ Mary said.</p> +<p>‘I came over to speak to you.’ Susie +hesitated: ‘About Mr Fellows . . .’</p> +<p>‘Yes?’</p> +<p>‘There’s a tale going round . . .’ She +faltered. She wished that she were not sitting on the edge +of the chair, that Mary were not taller than herself. There +was something unfair and consciously superior in the +woman’s plain white apron. More than this, she had +the subtle, inexplicable advantage of being a married woman with +children . . . even if her husband had deserted her. Mary +put down her iron on its stand and looked her full in the +eyes. Now her cheeks were equally flushed. Susie +wished that she would speak, even if she were only to repeat her +provocative ‘Yes?’ She took fright suddenly, +stood up, and plunged.</p> +<p>‘It’s not fair!’ she cried. ‘You +know it’s not fair! You, a married woman, that have +had your life and a couple of children! But as soon as your +husband’s well out of sight you must go running after +another man. Take his money—that’s one +thing! But take him—that’s another! I +suppose you’re the kind that can’t make yourself +happy unless you’re making some man soft on you . . . so +they can hang round you and you play the lady on them! +Don’t you imagine I don’t know the dog’s life +you give George! And now you’ve got hold of your +lodger—lodger, I says!—and turned him crazy. +Call yourself a lady! Doesn’t every one know what +your father was? We all know about that. George +himself told me. And I can tell you what you are, +straight. You’re nothing better <a +name="page291"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 291</span>than a +whore on the streets if the truth was known.’</p> +<p>Mary trembled. ‘Don’t shout so! +Don’t shout so!’ she said. ‘I don’t +know what you mean.’</p> +<p>‘What I mean?’ cried Susie hysterically. +‘What I mean? Why, going about the country in strange +places and laying about with single men. That’s what +I mean. Call yourself a married woman . . .’</p> +<p>‘You’re wrong . . . you’re quite +wrong!’</p> +<p>‘Am I wrong then? I know whose word I’d +sooner take: Mr Williams’s and Mr Badger’s or +yourn! I know that was the first time it came out, but that +makes no difference to what every one in the district has known +for a fact these months. But I’ll tell you one +thing—and don’t you forget it!—you’re not +going to take Abner off me. Not if I kill him first. +And I’m not talking wild, understand. I mean +it. If I have to shame you to your face I’m not going +to let him go. Shame . . .’ she laughed. +‘That’s a fine word to use for the likes of +you!’</p> +<p>She gave a gasp for breath, then, with a flash of hopeless +hatred, as though she were searching the room for something that +her violence might appropriately destroy, she went out blindly +into the rain.</p> +<p>Mary stood rigidly at her ironing-table. A flash of +lightning ripped the sky in front of her window, nearly blinding +her, and her lips uttered a cry. Mrs Mamble ran in with her +skirt thrown over her head, for she was frightened of +thunder.</p> +<p>‘My!’ she cried from under the skirt. +‘My, what a downpour!’ She looked out +timidly. ‘Well, I never! She’s +gone!’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said Mary, with a helpless laugh. +‘She’s gone!’</p> +<p>‘Gone? Why, the girl must be mad!’</p> +<p>Again Mary laughed at the wide astonishment in Mrs +Mamble’s eyes. Another flash followed and the old +woman wrapped up her head again, waiting for the thunder. +It came with a crash, right overhead, and the house shook. +Mary suddenly remembered the children, who were playing in the +parlour.</p> +<p>‘Do go and see to them, Mrs Mamble,’ she +said. ‘There’s a dear.’</p> +<p><a name="page292"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 292</span>She +herself could not move. She went on folding her +linen. It seemed as if she must find some mechanical task +for her hands to do. In a moment Mrs Mamble returned to say +that the children were not in the least frightened. She +kept dodging in and out of the house all afternoon for fear of +the storm returning and catching her unawares, telling of the +damage that the rain might have done to the hay lying out in the +meadows or to the standing corn.</p> +<p>‘But there’s no denying that it’s +wanted,’ she said inconsequently.</p> +<p>By the time that Abner left work that evening the storm had +rolled away, rumbling over the treetops of Bringewood +Chase. All day he had worked under the heavy sky, breathing +an air that was dead and choked with dust. Now the vault +was clear and brilliant as that of an evening in spring. +The smell of dust rose from the road, blackbirds were singing, +and from the pale, steaming hayfields waves of sweetness drifted +across his path. His steps were light and his heart +happy.</p> +<p>Mary received him as usual and gave him his tea. He +laughed with her over the violence of the storm and asked her +gaily if the doctor had been to take the splint off +Gladys’s leg.</p> +<p>‘We must put by a shillin’ or two for that,’ +he said. For the moment he was so full of his own content +that he had scarcely noticed her preoccupation; but when he +mentioned money she made a quick, instinctive movement, as though +she wanted to speak and to refuse it. Little by little he +began to realise that she was trying to avoid him and sometimes +leaving his questions unanswered.</p> +<p>‘What’s up with you, missus?’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘Nothing at +all that I know of.’</p> +<p>But her denial did not convince him. All the evening he +tried to guess what could have upset her, but she evaded him, +pretending that she was her normal self. He knew +better. Even when she spoke to the children or to Mrs +Mamble, who came in to talk about the havoc of the storm and to +give them the news that a sheep had been struck by lightning on +Williams’s farm, Mary was listless and dull.</p> +<p><a name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 293</span>Abner +used her gently. He knew that women must have their moods, +and that a man needed to be patient with them if he would be +happy; but day after day now passed without any change in her +attitude. Since the discovery of his own passion that he +had made by the sea-crows’ pool, it had been hard enough as +it was for him to live with her on ordinary terms; but now, even +though he humoured her, she was distant with him.</p> +<p>He tried to make her explain herself. She only shook her +head. It seemed, indeed, as if a single day had thrown them +back into all the awkwardness of his early life at Wolfpits, and +that she had suddenly taken it into her head to upset the +convention under which they had agreed to live. Most of +all, she avoided him whenever he spoke of money, and when he +brought her his wages at the end of the week she left them lying +on the table as though touching them would have burned her +fingers. If he had not loved the woman, and her children +too, he would have broken away in accordance with his +nature. As it was, he hung on, sore and bewildered, +wondering what new coldness she could inflict upon him.</p> +<p>Another shock awaited her. One day, when Abner was away +at work, the postman bicycled up to Wolfpits and handed her a +letter. This was so rare an event at Wolfpits that the man +waited, as country postmen, who also act as interpreters, often +do, to hear its contents.</p> +<p>‘You’ll see by the postmark it’s come from +Shrewsbury,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Yes, so I see,’ she replied, thrusting it into +the pocket of her apron.</p> +<p>She had already recognised George’s freehand +writing. He went away, but she kept the letter in her +pocket unopened. She dared not open it; and when at last +she did so, the words sent a chill over all her body.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<span class="smcap"><i>My dear +Wife</i></span>,’—<i>she read, +shivering</i>—‘<i>Although I may be doing time +I’m not yet dead that I know of</i>. <i>They say that +love is blind</i>, <i>but don’t you go imagining that other +people haven’t got eyes</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">‘<i>Your loving +husband</i>,<br /> +‘<span class="smcap"><i>George</i></span>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 294</span>She +was seized with a pain that had scarcely abated when Abner came +home at night. She could not bring herself to speak to +him. She desired, passionately, to show him the letter, but +shame would not let her do so. He, in his turn, was sick of +the wretchedness of their present relation, and when the children +had been put to bed, he told her so in words that he had chosen +for their roughness. She stared at him from the other side +of the supper table with grief and resentment in her eyes.</p> +<p>‘If it’s as bad as that, what makes you stay +here?’ she said slowly.</p> +<p>‘I like that!’ he replied. ‘You know +as well as I do.’</p> +<p>She took fright at this, for she wasn’t sure of his +meaning, though she knew in her heart what she wanted him to +mean. She was afraid that he would guess at her unspoken +admission.</p> +<p>‘<i>I</i> don’t keep you here,’ she +said.</p> +<p>He got up and walked the room. A hay-moth hurled itself +against the shade of the lamp with a sharp ringing sound and fell +crippled on the tablecloth.</p> +<p>‘It’s hurt,’ she cried. ‘Kill +it!’</p> +<p>Abner crushed the insect with his thumb and threw it in the +fireplace. The coppery bloom came off on his fingers. +For a moment she was hypnotised watching him. Then she +recovered her senses.</p> +<p>‘I don’t keep you. There’s no need for +you to stay in every night,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘No. There bain’t. I’m damned if there +be!’ he replied.</p> +<p>He picked up his cap and walked out of the room. She +nearly ran after him to thrust George’s letter into his +hand. But she was too late. ‘So much the +better,’ she thought. She felt that she had been +saved from some calamity.</p> +<p>He set off, walking furiously through the mellow evening, +trying to cool his blood with violent exertion as instinctively +as an animal eats grass. By nightfall he had reached the +remote valley, nine miles away in folds of the Forest of Clun, +whither his friends the cloggers had returned in the +spring. He found their <a name="page295"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 295</span>canvas pitched in a coomb under high +sheepwalks, and Wigan Joe made him as welcome as ever. They +sat out in the soft, moonless night, talking and drinking +beer. It was like old times for Abner to hear Joe reeling +off stories one after another in his flat Lancashire +dialect. He lolled there listening till the company grew +drowsy. There was no question of his returning to Wolfpits +that night, for the sky drooped like a pall of velvet on the +earth and he could never have found his way. He turned in +with the others on a pile of dried bracken, waking at dawn to set +off again toward Chapel Green.</p> +<p>For a few hours he had shed his restlessness, but when he +reached Wolfpits in the evening the sense of restraint descended +on him again. He felt that Mary was watching him, wondering +where he had been. Her eyes were tragic, and, as he +thought, reproachful.</p> +<p>This only irritated him. He couldn’t be bothered +with her moods. When, speaking to Mrs Mamble, he happened +to mention that he had walked over in the evening to the +sloggers’ workings, she looked at him with such a searching +suspicion that he could not contain himself.</p> +<p>‘What’s up with you?’ he said. +‘Do you think I’m codding you?’</p> +<p>She looked away without answering.</p> +<p>‘There’s no need to believe me if you don’t +want to,’ he said.</p> +<p>And what the hell did it matter to her where he went or what +he did? If he were to leave her to herself for a bit +perhaps she’d begin to realise that he was useful, and that +it wouldn’t pay her to treat him like dirt. It was +time she had a lesson!</p> +<p>He spent the next evening with Mick Connor in a pub at +Lesswardine, mixing his drinks, standing treat recklessly. +He had to borrow six shillings from Mick to pay his score. +It pleased him to think how Mary would stare at his money next +Saturday when she found it six bob short . . . she, who was too +proud to pick it up when he gave it her!</p> +<p>At the yellow turnpike house outside Lesswardine their paths +diverged; and this was unfortunate, for it was easier to walk arm +in arm. Mick left him; but as <a name="page296"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 296</span>soon as he found himself alone the +vision of Mary returned to him: Mary, as he had seen her and +desired her, sitting pale on the border of the pool a fortnight +ago. In his perverse and drunken mind he hated her. +It seemed to him that she had been making a fool of him, +alternately alluring and rejecting.</p> +<p>He walked along, sweating violently, in the direction of +Mainstone, wishing to God he’d never known the damned +woman. Women . . . and yet a lusty man of his age +couldn’t live without women! It was against nature to +live without women, and a man was a fool if he did so. He +went hot and cold, thrilled with voluptuous sensations. He +laughed at himself, and staggered up to a gate at the side of the +road to light his pipe. He broke three matches and then +discovered that they were damp and would not strike. He +remembered indefinitely that Mick had upset a pint of beer into +his pocket. He cursed the matches and Mick together.</p> +<p>A light breeze moved above him, and as in the distance he +heard a sound like that of a gentle shower falling on leaves in +June: a sound that meant something to his memory. He became +suddenly aware that he was standing at that moment on the +outskirts of Mainstone village, immediately beneath a big poplar +tree. A dozen times he had stood there in the shadow +waiting for the light to go out in the windows of the Pound +House, for the steps of Bastard to pass him, for the moment when +he might safely steal across to Susie’s door.</p> +<p>His pulse quickened. Some hidden instinct must have made +him stop there. No light could be seen, but there, in the +darkness, was a woman whom he could have for the asking. He +pulled himself together, and a moment later was standing by the +outhouse door. He threw a clod at her window-pane. +She had better not try putting him off to-night! If he had +to climb in at her window she must come to him. He fretted +with impatience.</p> +<p>But he had not long to wait. In a few minutes she had +opened the back door. He heard the door scrape, but it was +so dark that he could not see her. He put <a +name="page297"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 297</span>out his +hands, groping in the darkness, and found her, warm and +breathing.</p> +<p>‘I thought you were never coming again,’ she +whispered.</p> +<p>He took her in his arms and clothed her in kisses. She +clung to him, breathing softly, while his kisses enveloped +her. His misery left him, vanished miraculously in the +darkness. In the black confusion of his thoughts it seemed +to him as if he were kissing Mary Malpas.</p> +<h2><a name="page298"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 298</span>The +Twentieth Chapter</h2> +<p>A <span class="smcap">strange</span> fate awaited this renewal +of passion. Over the border in Wales, where many dark and +violent things are born, a sultry flame had been kindled about +this time in the heart of a Wesleyan local preacher named Evan +Hughes. He was a Montgomery peasant, a carpenter by trade, +on whom, brooding over the historical sanctity of his calling, an +inspiration had fallen. He preached in the chapel Bethesda, +in the hamlet Llandewi Waterdine. He spoke in the dialect +of his fellow-workmen; his words were ludicrous and pathetic; but +the fire that scorched his heart was in them, so that men and +women rode over the mountains on their ponies to hear him and +many professed themselves converted. Why, or to what they +were converted it would be hard to say, unless it were that the +isolation of their lives laid them open to long broodings on sin +and on salvation, and that knowing, as all men know, that they +were sinful, they could not be happy in solitude till they were +saved.</p> +<p>The unconverted said maliciously that Evan Hughes had been +shocked into sanctity by proceedings of affiliation and a +maintenance order. However this may have been, his +preaching was on chastity of the body, and more particularly of +the bodies of women, a doctrine that was acceptable, for the most +obvious reasons, to married men with wives younger than +themselves, and on sentimental grounds to young unmarried +girls. The flame spread quickly through these green shoots, +and the dry, withered twigs went up with a crackle. Women +of sixty years and older stood up on the chapel floor and prayed +God to grant them continence. Evan Hughes, with a singular +lack of humour, hailed them as souls plucked from hell and +greeted them as sisters. Thus, having cleansed the Kerry Hills +and the borders of Clun, he set his eyes, like any spiritual +freebooter, on the English border, cursing the fatness and +laxness of the Teme valley so violently and with such free <a +name="page299"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 299</span>quotations +from the prophet Jeremiah, that the local circuit invited him to +conduct a revival from their pulpits.</p> +<p>First he came to Chapel Green, and naturally enough converted +old Mrs Malpas, who was always on the side of the angels. +She sat under him with tears streaming from her eyes for the sins +of her friends, and afterward had the honour of putting him up at +the Buffalo in spite of his prejudices against the licensed +trade. On this, the first Sunday of the revival, the Chapel +Green Methodists achieved the authentic shiver, and the vicar of +Mainstone, who had heard all about it, made a reconnaissance of +his parish, shaking his head and warning his people against the +influence of unhealthy fanatics.</p> +<p>‘It’s a crime,’ he said, ‘putting such +ideas into young people’s minds. We don’t want +that sort of thing in the country. Mainstone is a clean +parish. Apart from that unfortunate young Mrs Malpas at +Wolfpits there is scarcely an . . . unsavoury household in +it.’</p> +<p>In spite of this official discouragement, Evan Hughes +increased. The revival, unlike those epidemics of disease +which afflict the body, spread steadily eastward. Chapel +Green with its sober, bucolic population, had made the mildest of +beginnings. At Mainstone half the vicar’s +congregation thronged the chapel. People walked over from +Lesswardine on the Sunday evening in little laughing groups and +returned in silence with a Roman segregation of the sexes. +Those who scoffed had such a bad time of it that they held their +tongues.</p> +<p>Among the victims of this collective exaltation was Susie +Hind. No doubt the violence of her renewed passion for +Abner had thrown her into an emotional state. Abner was now +absorbed in it, and content to be absorbed, seeing that in this +way he purchased forgetfulness; but Susie had to run the risk of +discovery or worse until her nerves were all on edge.</p> +<p>At first Abner could not make out what was the matter with +her. One Sunday night she cried and cried in his arms and +would not tell him why. For the rest of the week she +brooded on the extremity of <a name="page300"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 300</span>her sin; then, with the same queer +directness that had driven her to confront Mary Malpas some time +before, she sought an interview with the evangelist and laid her +confession before him. He turned away from her.</p> +<p>‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘I +cannot hear these things. My ears are full of them. +“<i>Go and sin no more</i>!” and remember me when you +pray.’</p> +<p>She went home burning but humiliated, and gave herself up to +an ecstasy of self-abasement in prayer. When the men joked +with her in the bar at night she would not listen to them. +Next Sunday she went again to the chapel and wept. She knew +that after dark that night Abner would come and call her. +She loved him, but it seemed to her that her immortal soul was +more precious than mortal love, and here were two souls to be +saved. She lay stiff in bed waiting for his signal, +compelling herself to be cold. A clod struck the +window-pane. She clasped her hands in an attitude of prayer +and lay like a stone. Again he signalled to her. She +dared not lie there any longer for fear he should become +impatient and waken her father. She slipped on some clothes +and came to the door.</p> +<p>‘I can’t see you, Abner,’ she whispered +hurriedly. ‘I can’t let you in. I +can’t . . . don’t ask me.’</p> +<p>He thought she had taken leave of her senses. +‘What the devil’s up with you?’ he said.</p> +<p>She shook her head and would have closed the door on him, but +he put his foot in it. ‘Don’t!’ she +said. ‘Oh, don’t!’</p> +<p>He had no intention of being put off like this. He tried +to kiss her, but she kept him at arm’s length, and when he +had done his best with persuasions and still could get no sense +from her, he became angry and raised his voice. Now genuine +fear was added to her other emotions, and in order that he should +not awaken her father she consented at last to follow him out +into the lane. He was on the point of agreeing when it +flashed into his mind that this was only a ruse to get him away +from the door so that she might lock it in his face.</p> +<p>The only explanation that suggested itself to him was that she +might be expecting another lover. ‘No, <a +name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 301</span>you +don’t my girl!’ he said. ‘You’ll +come along with me.’</p> +<p>He waited for her, and in another moment they had crossed the +road under the shadow of the poplar. From that point she +could see the roof of the cottage where the evangelist was +staying. The gable rose up high like a symbol of the power +she was obeying. ‘Not here,’ she +whispered. ‘We might be seen.’ He helped +her over the gate, taking her down in his arms. She +stiffened beneath his touch. A heavy dew had come out on +the grass that washed her ankles as she walked, for she had not +pulled on her stockings. Owls were hunting in the misty +starlight. One floated before them along the +hedgerow—ghostly on quiet wings. He caught her up in +his arms.</p> +<p>‘Now what’s it all about?’ he said.</p> +<p>She hurried to tell him before it grew more difficult, +stammering with haste; but when she came to the story of her +conversion and her interview with Evan Hughes she felt the weight +of his ridicule overbearing her. She hadn’t humbled +herself enough to bear the indignity of being laughed at, and +least of all by Abner. She stopped suddenly.</p> +<p>‘Let me go back!’ she said, trying to free +herself. ‘Let me go back!’</p> +<p>He only held her closer.</p> +<p>‘What’s all this havering?’ he said. +‘What’s up with you, eh? Give us a +kiss!’</p> +<p>She put her hands up to his mouth, struggling. ‘I +can’t . . . I can’t!’</p> +<p>‘What do you want then?’</p> +<p>She took her plunge. ‘Abner, why don’t you +marry me?’ she said.</p> +<p>‘Marry you? Marry?’ he cried. He +laughed out loud at the idea.</p> +<p>Then it came to him in a flash that there must be some urgent +reason for her request. People in his class and in that +part of the country rarely married unless they were obliged to in +accordance with the local custom. He had been caught in the +same way as nine out of ten of his married mates. It was +like his cursed luck! He wouldn’t believe it. +His first feeling was one of bitter <a name="page302"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 302</span>rage. He saw himself tied hand +and foot, helplessly handed over to the commonest of fates, +another fool caught in the web that women spun for a free +man’s undoing. He saw in front of him an endless dull +routine of life at Mainstone. He saw himself finished, and +the idea of paternity gave no consolation to his +bitterness. Then, in the same swift vision, he saw the +little household at Wolfpits that depended on him for support, +and among them the wan, devoted face of Mary Malpas.</p> +<p>‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ he said at +last. ‘How do you know you’re like +that?’</p> +<p>She flushed in the dark, with an involuntary affectation of +modesty.</p> +<p>‘How dare you?’ she cried. ‘How dare +you? I’m not. There’s nothing wrong with +me.’</p> +<p>‘Then what the hell is all this talk of marrying +about?’ he cried. ‘What d’you take me +for? I’m not that soft?’</p> +<p>He laughed out loud in the suddenness of his relief. It +stung her pride to think that he was laughing at her. Anger +boiled up in her, and she forgot all her pietistic resolves as +she freed herself in abuse. In a single second the penitent +had been turned into a virago mad with jealousy, letting fly at +him a spate of foul words that she had learned in the +taproom. She didn’t stop to think what she was +saying. The words swept over her mind in a flood and made +her deaf. Then she saw Abner shaking with laughter at her +performance and pulled herself together.</p> +<p>‘I’ve finished with you, you great beast!’ +she said. ‘A dirty chap that goes running all over +the country after women! I’m not going to take turn +and turn about with a married woman, so don’t you think +it! You and that great stick of a Condover as George Malpas +got sick and tired of in three year . . . you and your +Mary!’</p> +<p>‘Here, drop that?’ said Abner darkly. +‘Shut your mouth!’</p> +<p>‘Drop it?’ she cried. ‘You’re +not going to shut my mouth when the whole village is disgusted +with you and your goings on . . . and her putting on a face as +innocent as a saint and taking the children out for <a +name="page303"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 303</span>walks, poor +little devils! You wait till George comes back and then +she’ll show you the back door quick enough. I +don’t know what you want taking up with a piece of muck +like that. You’re a dirty hypocrite, and as for her . +. .’</p> +<p>Abner stopped her mouth, but she fought and struggled.</p> +<p>‘Next time you’d better go farther off than +Redlake,’ she spluttered. ‘You dirty, rotten +swine!’</p> +<p>It was lucky for her that she wrenched herself away from him, +for Abner’s blood was in his head. She went running +like a madwoman over the ghostly field. If she had stayed +he could have murdered her. Slowly following, he came to +himself, and wondered what the devil he was doing in that damp +field in the middle of the night. He cursed all women as he +saw them in her violent image, but when he set his feet on the +high road, his anger had subsided and he began to realise how +blind he had been. He knew that Susie had probably spoken +no less than the truth about the local scandals. Looking +backward he found that he could explain the smiles and winks and +sidelong glances of his mates. Fine friends they were, who +made sport of a man and never told him why! And it dawned +on him, still stupidly incredulous, that this trouble and nothing +else was the cause of the change in Mary’s behaviour, the +thing that had snatched her so violently away from him. No +doubt it had come to her ears through Mrs Mamble. All women +were spiteful by nature, and could not resist the pleasant +temptation of giving pain to others of their kind. They had +let her know in some covert way what folk were saying, and she, +too proud to confide in him, was protecting herself as best she +could. He knew her pride . . . he wished to God she were +not so proud, and yet, since that was her nature, he must be +patient with her.</p> +<p>He was not built for patience. Walking home to Wolfpits +with the high road beneath him, and the mild humming of telegraph +wires that stretched away to the ends of the earth above, he felt +once more the restlessness with which his spirit was so familiar: +the desire that had come over him in fierce gusts from time to <a +name="page304"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 304</span>time ever +since the days of his childhood, the will to be free, to cut all +coils and launch out into the life to which he had a right. +Ever since his boyhood he had been as much a prisoner as George +Malpas, and for even less reason. Breaking free from Mawne +and reaching out over these hills, he had merely passed from one +prison to another. The only periods of freedom he had known +had been those dimly-remembered days with his father before Alice +came to Hackett’s Cottages, and the week of his travels on +the road with Mick Connor. Always, somehow or other, a +woman had been at the bottom of his slavery. Women were the +curse of his existence. It pleased him fiercely to think +that in his breach with Susie he had shorn through one of these +shackles. He hated women, and yet, in his heart, he could +not remember Mary without tenderness, and knew that, however +loudly he might protest, he was going back along the road to +Wolfpits of his own free will, and whatever it might cost him, +must stay there until George Malpas returned.</p> +<p>That night he was too late to see Mary; but next morning, when +he arrived at the work, he tackled Munn on the subject of the +Redlake scandal.</p> +<p>‘What do they say about me and Mrs Malpas, Joe?’ +he asked.</p> +<p>Munn stammered. ‘Nowt as I know, Ab,’ he +said.</p> +<p>‘Drop that, kid! Don’t you come that over +me!’ he said. ‘Spit it out!’</p> +<p>‘Naught out of the way,’ Munn said at last. +‘They say as you and her is pretty thick.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, they do, do they?’ said Abner. +‘And what do you think about it, eh?’</p> +<p>‘It’s none of my business,’ said Munn +doggedly.</p> +<p>‘No more it is, my son,’ Abner laughed. +‘Get on with it!’</p> +<p>‘They said you’d been caught out over at +Redlake.’</p> +<p>‘Then it’s that bleeder Badger!’ said +Abner. ‘Wait till I see the sod! That +all?’</p> +<p>‘I didn’t hear no more,’ said Munn.</p> +<p>‘Well, kid,’ said Abner. ‘You keep +clear of the women! Don’t you have naught to do with +them!’</p> +<p>‘No fear,’ said Munn, with a smirk of his +hare-lip.</p> +<p><a name="page305"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 305</span>Abner +had meant to have the matter out with Mary, but when he thought +it over he saw that nothing was to be gained by this. He +understood her awkwardness, and, knowing the delicacy of her +temper, left well alone. She, on her part, would have +suffered an agony of shame in showing him George’s +letter. After his final interview with Susie she noticed a +change in him and wondered what had caused it. He began to +spend his evenings again at Wolfpits, going out to talk in the +stables with old Drew, picking baskets of fruit from the walled +garden and working, more rarely, in their own tilled plot. +She was curious to know what had happened, but kept her thoughts +to herself, and was grateful at least for his forbearance.</p> +<p>She had heard no more of George, and though she had lived in +fear of seeing old Mrs Malpas ever since Susie’s visit had +told her that the new scandal was abroad, the weeks passed by and +no outside intelligence penetrated the remoteness of +Wolfpits. At times, when she saw Abner moving quietly about +the heavy work of the house she was overwhelmed with a sensation +which she persuaded herself was gratitude, and longed to burst +through the convention of silence or commonplace that bound +them. It would have been fairer, she thought, to open her +heart to him, to stand face to face without a veil between. +But she did not know what her own heart contained, or what the +veil concealed, and her courage always failed her. Not only +would her confession involve an abasement, a sacrifice of pride +that she could not face, but Heaven only knew where it might +lead. And yet, in spite of these things, they were almost +happy.</p> +<p>One Wednesday evening early in August, just before the gang +knocked off for the day, the clerk of the works came walking +gingerly among the scattered culverts to the trench in which +Abner and Munn were working. He carried a paper in his hand +which he consulted with short-sighted eyes before he addressed +them.</p> +<p>‘Fellows and Munn, isn’t it?’ he +mumbled. ‘Munn and Fellows. Yes.’</p> +<p>‘That’s us!’ said Abner, throwing down his +shovel.</p> +<p>‘I’ve a letter from the boss,’ said the +clerk, ‘orders <a name="page306"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 306</span>to cut down the wage-bill on this +job. We’ve got to sack all supernumerary +hands—those that aren’t regular, that is—so we +shan’t need you two after Saturday week. That gives +you ten clear days’ warning to look about you.’</p> +<p>‘Right you are, gaffer!’ said Abner.</p> +<p>The clerk went blundering on to another trench, having ticked +off two names on his list.</p> +<p>‘Well, Joe,’ said Abner. ‘What about +it, my son?’</p> +<p>‘I dunno, Ab,’ said Munn dolefully. +‘Back to bleedin’ old Brum, I reckon. +That’s about the ticket. I wouldn’t have had +this happen not for a bit! I shall never find another lodge +like old Mrs Taylor’s. She’s been a mother to +me, that woman! What are you going to do?’</p> +<p>‘Stay on here, Joe,’ said Abner. ‘Pick +up another job somewhere.’</p> +<p>‘That’s right enough for you,’ said +Munn. ‘I can’t go farmerin’ an’ +all.’</p> +<p>‘Right enough is it?’ Abner laughed. +‘You wait and see!’</p> +<p>The siren sounded, and Connor came along the trench whistling +jauntily as he always did when he was up against it.</p> +<p>‘Got the boot, Mick?’ Abner asked.</p> +<p>Mick nodded. ‘It breaks the heart in me to think +I’m afther leavin’ all them pheasants,’ he +said. ‘Off on the touch again: that’s what +it’s come to. Ireland’s the only place to live +in, and I’ll knock down enough for a double at Punchestown +if it’s only hawking of dead Roses of Jericho round the +basements of Merrion Square. Shure, an’ you’ll +come along wud me!’</p> +<p>Abner shook his head.</p> +<p>‘God help you, you couldn’t be worse if you was +married’ said Mick, with a leer.</p> +<p>Abner laughed. He knew Mick Connor too well to take his +tongue seriously.</p> +<p>That night when he went home he did not tell Mary what had +happened, for it seemed to him his news would only disturb her +needlessly. At the same time he knew that something must be +done, and after tea he went down to the bridge to wait for old +Drew’s return.</p> +<p><a name="page307"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 307</span>The +labourer looked at him and scratched his head. +‘That’s the worst of they casual jobs,’ he +said. ‘Money? Yes . . . but you never get +knowed, and there’s nothing permanent to them.’</p> +<p>Abner asked how he should set about finding a job in the +district, and the old man looked solemn.</p> +<p>‘I rackon you’ll find it easy enough for a month +or maybe six week with the harvest coming. They be glad of +any help they can get in they times. After that you can +whistle for it.’</p> +<p>‘Anything ‘ll do for me,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘Now mark ’ee, ’tis like this,’ the +old man explained, ‘this country, when fust I know’d +’en, were a tarrable place for barley and wheat, but now, +like the vules they be, they’ve a’ given it up and +gone in for this dairyin’. Proper women’s work, +I call it; and women be cheap in these parts, as they ought to +be. I don’t say as there ban’t the apples as +well.’</p> +<p>Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. Abner knew +now that he could not look beyond the harvest for regular work, +but harvest labour, being rare, was well paid, and by working +overtime he might easily amass a little store of money. +More than that, he might even prolong his employment, if he made +good friends, by helping to pick the yellow apples from which +thin Shropshire cider is made, but on this, he knew well, he +could not count with any certainty, as the orchards were alien +and few. He begged old Drew not to mention his quest to any +one at Wolfpits, and the old man blinked his assent.</p> +<p>Next Sunday evening he said good-bye to the friends who shared +in his dismissal. Munn, who had scraped together a little +money, was going to Ludlow, where he would catch a train for +Dulston. Mick Connor, being sick of England, as he said, +was tramping north to Holyhead. Abner walked with him to +the crest of hills above Clun.</p> +<p>‘If you’re ever in the city of Dublin,’ Mick +said, ‘all you’ve got to do is to go into +Nagle’s Back. Ask for the devil they call Kerry Mick, +used to lodge with Mother Muldoon, and the grocer’s curate +‘ll give you a naggn’ for the love on him.’</p> +<p><a name="page308"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 308</span>Abner +watched him swing away down the hill, with his loose-jointed, +loping stride. He returned home late at night. Mary, +contrary to her custom, was sitting up for him.</p> +<p>She sat at the table reading, and he quickly tumbled to her +reason for doing so. In the midst of his farewells he had +forgotten to give her his week’s wages the night +before. She would not ask him for money; but she was hoping +that her unusual presence would make him realise what he had +forgotten. Seeing this he was tempted, for a moment, to +withhold it; to wait and see what she would do, to force her into +a spiritual submission; but then he remembered that the shock +which he was being forced to give her would be quite enough.</p> +<p>‘Here’s the brass,’ he said, placing it on +the table in front of her.</p> +<p>‘Thank you, Abner,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘I reckon it’s got to go a long way this +week. I’ve kept none back.’</p> +<p>‘What do you mean?’ she asked.</p> +<p>‘It’s going to be the last, far as I can +see.’</p> +<p>For a second she thought that the moment had come; that her +coldness had actually forced him into leaving her. Remorse, +mingled with cold fear for the future, overwhelmed her; but he +saw her bewilderment and told her simply what had happened.</p> +<p>‘I’ve got to look out for work,’ he +said. ‘It may come along any day, only the +harvest’s late.’</p> +<p>‘We shall have to manage,’ she said calmly. +‘You can trust me to do the best I can.’ She +stood waiting as if she wanted to say something more, but at the +last her courage failed her. ‘I have a few shillings +put by,’ she said. ‘I always thought something +might happen.’</p> +<p>‘Well, yo’m a marvel and no mistake!’ he +cried.</p> +<p>During his first week of idleness Abner went out every day +visiting the farms of the neighbourhood in search of a promise of +harvest work. It was a lean year: the drought of the summer +had stunted the straw; a couple of violent thunderstorms had done +more harm than good, and the farmers were now hanging on as <a +name="page309"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 309</span>long as +they dared, gambling on the chance of rain that was due. +Wherever Abner went they shook their heads.</p> +<p>‘Can’t say when we’ll be cutting,’ +they said. ‘Next week, or week after, or three +weeks’ time. It depends on the weather, and the +damned stuff’s that poor it isn’t worth +reaping. Worse than the hay . . . and that’s saying +something!’</p> +<p>At night, when he came home, Mary looked anxiously for his +news, but he could tell her nothing. He made casts farther +afield. He did not care how far he went if only he could +find work; but down in the plains, although he could see for +himself that the ears were fuller, he was met by the same evasive +replies. He came to hate the sight of these sour, +prosperous farmers. It seemed to him that they all had the +same callous faces as the distant Mr Cookson who had killed his +dog; but he knew better than to let Spider follow him on these +visits.</p> +<p>‘You might try Mr Prosser of The Dyke,’ said old +Drew one evening. ‘That be a fine big farm, and they +say he do go in for barley.’</p> +<p>Next day Abner visited The Dyke. It was a farm that he +had missed in his former expeditions, a house buried in +beechwoods that stood, unappropriately, high and dry on a lofty +ridge south of the main road between Mainstone and +Lesswardine. It lay five miles from Wolfpits as the crow +flies, and nearly seven by road. A green drive bordered by +hazels and sheltered by smooth beeches in which squirrels were +playing, brought him to the house: a melancholy edifice, built +four-square, and covered with plaster that had once been painted +white but was now streaked with green. He knocked at the +back door, but could make nobody hear. A dog flew out of a +kennel near the yard gate, tugging at his chain, and inside the +house two others, excited by the sound, came pattering along the +passage and scraped at the lower edge of the door with their +paws.</p> +<p>Abner gave it up. Evidently nobody was at home. He +took a drink of cold water at the pump and set off home through +the green lane. Half-way down it he heard a sound of +muffled hoofs, and a dog-cart, of the sturdy kind that farmers +use, came swinging round <a name="page310"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 310</span>the corner. The driver was a +woman of twenty-five to thirty years of age, swarthy, with a rich +autumnal colouring, and gray eyes. Another, younger girl, +with her hair in a pigtail, sat beside her. They passed +Abner at a trot, but twenty yards later the driver pulled up and +looked back.</p> +<p>‘Have you been up to The Dyke?’ she called.</p> +<p>‘Yes, miss,’ said Abner, taking off his cap, and +approaching.</p> +<p>‘I don’t suppose you’d find any one +in,’ she said. ‘Dad’s gone to Ludlow, and +the girl’s out. What do you want?’</p> +<p>‘I came to ask if Mr Prosser wants any outside help for +harvest.’</p> +<p>She looked at him steadily. Their eyes met. +‘I don’t know. What’s your +name?’</p> +<p>‘Fellows. Abner Fellows.’</p> +<p>‘Where do you live? You don’t belong to +these parts?’</p> +<p>‘Wolfpits.’</p> +<p>‘Wolfpits?’ She examined him more closely, +repeating the word with an accent of surprise. She put a +brown-gloved finger to her lip. ‘I think dad will +want some one: they’re beginning the barley on +Monday,’ she said slowly. ‘Tell you what . . . +you’d better look up here to-morrow morning. +I’ll tell dad you’re coming. So +long!’</p> +<p>She touched up the horse and the dog-cart shot forward. +Abner went on his way encouraged.</p> +<p>‘Where did you try to-day?’ Mary asked him. +She was doing her utmost to appear interested in his quest. +Indeed she could not well do less.</p> +<p>‘Up to The Dyke . . . Prosser’s place.’</p> +<p>Mary blushed. ‘Did you see any one +there?’</p> +<p>‘The place was all shut up,’ he said, ‘but I +met a young lady as I took to be Mr Prosser’s daughter in +the drive just after I turned back.’</p> +<p>‘What age was she?’</p> +<p>‘Summat about yourn.’</p> +<p>‘Dark?’</p> +<p>‘Ah, darkish. There was a young ’un along +with her.’</p> +<p>‘How was she dressed?’</p> +<p><a name="page311"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +311</span>‘Now you’m asking things out of +reason,’ Abner laughed. ‘Them’s the sort +of things a man don’t notice.’</p> +<p>‘It must have been Marion,’ she said, and later in +the evening she explained to him that Mr Prosser’s elder +daughter was an old schoolfellow of hers, and rather more than a +schoolfellow, for they had once been great friends. +Mary’s father, the unfortunate Condover, had been something +of a crank on the subject of education and had sent her to a +school in Ludlow, where she had mixed with all sorts of people +who were, in fact, her social superiors. ‘But +that’s all ages ago,’ she said. ‘I expect +that she’s forgotten me by now. Mr Prosser lost his +wife five or six years ago, and Marion’s had charge of the +house ever since then. A great big place, The Dyke! +She’s a queer girl, I’ll give you my word for +that.’</p> +<p>Next day Abner went up early to the farm. In the yard he +found the younger of the two girls. She was dressed in a +holland overall and a big straw hat and was watching a hatch of +ducklings that an anxious hen had mothered, learning to swim in +an iron bath. When she saw Abner she ran into the house +calling: ‘Marion! Marion!’</p> +<p>The elder came to the door. Abner scarcely recognised +her, for she had changed her tweeds and her sporting hat for an +overall like that of her sister, and her dark hair was bound in +thick plaits about her head. She greeted him frankly, +smiling and showing between her parted lips a set of beautiful +teeth.</p> +<p>‘I’ve told dad about you,’ she said. +‘He’s just gone over to have a look at the bull and +’ll be back in a minute. Have a glass of +cider?’</p> +<p>Abner thanked her. She returned brightly with a mug of +cider and a plate of scones hot from the girdle.</p> +<p>Five minutes later Mr Prosser came into the yard with his +ploughman Harris. The farmer was a tall, fair man, with +golden whiskers and a moustache that almost hid the weakness of +his mouth.</p> +<p>‘H’m, you’re the young man, are you?’ +he said, looking Abner up and down with more curiosity than he +could have been expected to show for a casual labourer. +‘What is it you want? Eh?’</p> +<p><a name="page312"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 312</span>Abner +repeated his request, and the farmer, with a little less than the +usual surliness of his kind, said: ‘Well, yes, I dare say +we can do with you so long as you’re not afraid of +work. But it’s a short job, I warn you!’</p> +<p>The younger girl, who had been listening dreamily to their +conversation, turned and uttered a shrill cry. +‘Dad! Dad!’ she said, ‘I’m afraid +I’ve drowned one of them!’ She ran forward with +an inanimate piece of yellow fluff in her hand. ‘Oh, +what a shame!’</p> +<p>‘That’s like you, Ethel,’ the father +grumbled. ‘Take it in to Marion.’</p> +<p>But by this time the elder sister had appeared and was holding +the duckling to her breast as though she would have liked to +nurse it back to life. Ethel stood watching her with tears +in her eyes.</p> +<p>‘You’ll never make a farmer’s wife, +Ethel,’ said Mr Prosser, teasing her. ‘Come +here! Give us a kiss!’ He held the +child’s face in his hands and kissed her noisily. +Marion had carried the duckling into the house. He turned +to Abner.</p> +<p>‘Day after to-morrow,’ he said. ‘Come +up early . . . about five o’clock.’</p> +<h2><a name="page313"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 313</span>The +Twenty-First Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Since</span> the time of her Ludlow +schooldays and her friendship with Mary Condover, Marion +Prosser’s horizon had widened to an extent that might +easily have explained the distance which now separated +them. From Ludlow she had been sent on to finish her +education at a Cheltenham college; for her mother had social +ambitions and knew that the nearest way to the homes of her +superiors lay through the schools that their daughters +frequented. She always taught Marion to speak of her father +as a ‘gentleman-farmer,’ a description which Mr +Prosser accepted under more protest than he usually offered to +anything that his wife dictated. For all that, he was proud +of the fact that The Dyke had belonged to his family for six +generations, and when he walked round his fields on a Sunday +evening and surveyed their richness from the crumbled earthwork +of Offa’s Dyke, which gave the farm its name, could even be +sentimental on the subject.</p> +<p>Marion went to Cheltenham when her sister Ethel was a baby two +years old. She made many friends, for she was good at games +and a creature of unusual spirit; but the principal feature of +her life was a sudden and passionate friendship for one of her +mistresses, a languid pre-Raphaelite young woman with a +phthisical tendency who made her read a good deal of romantic +literature of a sentimental kind. Miss Randall’s +literary heroes were Parsifal and Galahad, and her fetish +personal purity, the shame-faced purity of impotence. She +was not fond of men, she said, although she allowed herself the +licence of a spiritual flirtation with an advanced young priest +of the Church of England, to whom she opened her soul.</p> +<p>In due course Marion’s adoration of her mistress went +the way of all such passions; but her taste for letters +remained. In her eighteenth year her mother suddenly died, +and she returned to The Dyke to look after her father and her +baby sister. Even in the <a name="page314"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 314</span>excitement of her new activities she +rebelled, feeling herself isolated, alien, condemned to an +infinity of small-talk.</p> +<p>She became the hostess of her father’s friends; farmers +of every age and type, who made love to her with varying degrees +of rustic clumsiness but seemed to Mr Prosser the most desirable +of suitors. Usually they drove up to The Dyke on Sunday +evenings or after Ludlow market. Some, by their liquorish +assumption of an easy conquest, offended her and caught the rough +side of her tongue; but she soon found that with them her genteel +shades of irony were so much waste of time, since they were not +even understood.</p> +<p>The young men retired puzzled, and their sisters sympathised +with them. ‘She isn’t natural,’ they +said, ‘and you can’t go against nature like +that. I never could think what you saw in her.’ +In this way Marion Prosser got a reputation for shrewishness and +conceit. The young men of the neighbourhood felt that even +the possession of The Dyke would be a small compensation for that +of such a difficult wife. They began to treat her with the +instinctive respect of the terrier for the hedge-hog, leaving her +to her books and to her fancies.</p> +<p>With these, for some years, she was content. The walls +of her bedroom at the Dyke showed evidences of culture in as many +strata as can be found in the coloured ribbon along the edge of a +geological map of England. They ranged from the primary +Rossettis of her Cheltenham period to reproductions of late +impressionist pictures. Among books she groped her way +determinedly. In Ludlow she found a branch of one of the +London circulating libraries. Every week she would drive +there in her pony trap and bring back the books that she had +ordered, to the amazement of the stationer who kept the +shop. Her father laughed at her tastes. Among his +friends she gained the reputation of a bluestocking, which was +enough to make any young man think twice before he spoke to +her. And the years went by.</p> +<p>They were dull years, and for very boredom she tried to +identify herself with the work of the farm. She threw +herself violently into these new interests to the <a +name="page315"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 315</span>amazement +of her father. Although he was still more than a little +afraid of her, he could not help respecting her capability. +During the lifetime of her mother he had been so infused with the +spirit of this active woman that he had appeared to be a man of +some determination. Her death annihilated him: he had +relapsed into nonentity, caring nothing, as it seemed, for his +crops or his herds, driving in regularly every week to Ludlow +market like an automaton, driving back in the evening, morose and +fuddled, with no clear idea of what he had been about. On +these occasions he would talk piteously of his motherless girls, +and his large, sentimental eyes would fill with tears. He +confided to his friends that he himself was not long for this +world, though, physically, he was as strong as a horse.</p> +<p>Marion’s determination changed all that. Subtly, +without his knowledge, she pulled him together and made a man of +him again, and, never having known the subjection with which her +mother had entered the estate of marriage, she did what she liked +with him, sometimes wounding his pride with her rather brutal +frankness. Yet, even when he was wounded, he submitted to +her; for she flattered him by pretending that he was the real +head of the household. At root he was a lazy man, and dared +not quarrel with his comforts. He realised, too, that the +knowledge of practical farming, that was as deeply rooted in him +as an instinct, was more essential to the success of their +partnership than Marion’s acute and active mind.</p> +<p>He prospered, and in moments of exaltation would tell himself +that she was only a girl after all and that he was the man who +counted. He made a startling recovery of his +self-possession and talked no more of death; but his greatest +happiness he still found in the society of his younger daughter +Ethel, a child whose nature was nearer to his own. Some +day, he decided, Ethel should marry a solid husband of his +choosing, some big man with many lowland acres, and when the +grandchildren began to come along, he would pass a quiet old age +among them. Marion should have The Dyke. Even if she +were not the elder she had earned it. It seemed unlikely +that she would ever marry, being so hard to please.</p> +<p><a name="page316"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 316</span>Now, +at the age of twenty-eight, Marion found herself lonely. +The farm work had become so intimate a part of her life that it +served no longer to distract her. Life was slipping away +from her. Ten years had passed almost without her knowing +it. In another ten she would be nearly forty. A +hidden fear possessed her that by separating herself from her own +class and kind she had sacrificed the chance of living. +Life was the thing that mattered, and she had exchanged her +heritage for a few pitiful shreds of culture. The motherly +cares that she lavished on Ethel were a poor substitute for +veritable maternity, and she knew it. She began to see that +by refusing all commerce with the men of her own class in the +hope of realising a problematical grand passion she had +sacrificed all opportunity of passion whatever.</p> +<p>For some years after leaving Cheltenham she had exchanged +letters with a number of her college friends, but little by +little this correspondence had grown more slender and at length +it had ceased. In her growing apprehension she made an +attempt to revive several of these ancient friendships. The +result filled her with despair and vague envies. Most of +her girl friends were married: many of them sent her photographs +of their husbands and children. She alone, it seemed, of +all their company was left alone. It was her own +fault. She knew it was her own fault, for her mirror told +her that she did not show her age and that she was still +desirable. All things seemed to conspire in fostering her +unrest. The sights and sounds of the great farm around her +were full of insistence on the cycle of birth, fruitfulness, and +decay. Her books helped her no more. Her old +æsthetic idols had long since been broken, and her latest +passion, Whitman, whom she had discovered through the +anthologies, swamped her mind with an endless adoration of the +body’s pride, the splendour of the flower no less than that +of the fruiting.</p> +<p>In this distressful and desirous state, two incidents moved +her deeply. The first was the dismissal of one of the farm +girls who had been seduced by a clogger and had gone into the +workhouse to have her baby. She was a puny, undesirable +creature, with <a name="page317"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +317</span>neither beauty nor health, yet she had found a +lover. The second was the scandal of Mary Malpas, her old +school friend, and the young lodger at Wolfpits, rehearsed with +many winks by Mr Williams, whom her father had brought in for a +glass of whisky on a Sunday evening.</p> +<p>‘A well set-up chap, that Fellows!’ said Williams +to her father. ‘It’s no great wonder +she’s took a fancy to him.’</p> +<p>‘Well, well, ’tis the way of the world!’ +said Mr Prosser comfortably. ‘Fill Mr +Williams’s glass, Marion!’</p> +<p>She did so, and then, furiously blushing, left the room.</p> +<p>‘What’s up with your maid?’ Williams +asked. ‘I reckon I’ve shocked her. Did I +say anything out of the way?’</p> +<p>‘Not you! She’s a rum ’un is +Marion,’ Mr Prosser laughed.</p> +<p>And a few days later she had met Abner returning from his +fruitless visit to The Dyke.</p> +<p>She had looked at him standing bare-headed in the level +sunshine, and seen that he was well-favoured, but when she pulled +up her horse and emerged from the dream state into which the +rhythm of trotting hoofs had thrown her she had not thought that +this meeting would be different from any other with a labourer +out of work. She liked Abner’s face, and for this +reason had taken the trouble to ask him where he lived. +Then came the word ‘Wolfpits,’ and a sudden +realisation that Fellows was the name that Mr Williams had +mentioned in his scandalous tale. It thrilled her to find +herself face to face with Mary’s lover. She lowered +her eyes, not daring to look at him, and all the time her soul +was consumed with a curiosity to see more of him, to find out +what he was like. She knew that this curiosity was +dangerous, that she was deliberately courting temptation, but she +had had enough of prudence and felt that she was old enough to +look after herself. And yet she knew that she had done a +momentous thing when she told him to call next morning at The +Dyke, and feared that trouble, indefinite trouble, might come of +it.</p> +<p>Abner had not been working three days on the farm <a +name="page318"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 318</span>when +Harris, his principal labourer, told Mr Prosser who the new +workman was: ‘Young Mrs Malpas’s fancy man,’ he +called him; and Mr Prosser, who set great store on the +respectability of his farm, felt that he had made a mistake in +employing him. The matter had been settled by Marion. +No doubt if she had known all the circumstances of the case she +would not have taken him on.</p> +<p>‘Do you know who this young chap is, Marion?’ he +asked.</p> +<p>‘Yes. He comes from Wolfpits.’</p> +<p>‘Do you realise that he’s the chap Williams was +talking about, the one that’s living with Mary +Malpas?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I do. Mr Williams himself said he +didn’t blame her.’</p> +<p>‘I thought you yourself were put out a bit by his +mentioning it.’</p> +<p>‘Put out? Of course I wasn’t. Why +should I be put out?’</p> +<p>‘I think it’s bringing the scandal rather near +home having him here.’</p> +<p>‘He’s a good workman, isn’t he?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with +him that way.’</p> +<p>‘Well, that’s all you want to know.’</p> +<p>‘Harris doesn’t speak well of him.’</p> +<p>‘Harris is jealous of every one who sets foot in the +place. You’d think he owned it.’</p> +<p>‘And what’ll the vicar say?’ he joked.</p> +<p>‘I don’t know nor care. But I’m sure +we’re doing right to employ him. I don’t know +what would happen to poor Mary with that good-for-nothing Malpas +in jail and this man out of work.’</p> +<p>‘Well, I suppose you know best,’ said Mr +Prosser. He had not expected Marion to take the matter up +so warmly. And Abner stayed.</p> +<p>He was not long in finding out who was the real ruler of The +Dyke and that Mr Prosser, for all his commanding figure, stood +for nothing. When the men knocked off for their dinner at +midday and the two girls came down the field carrying +‘baggins’ of bread and cheese and great jugs of +harvest beer, they would wink at each other and say: ‘Here +comes the boss!’</p> +<p><a name="page319"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +319</span>Marion scarcely ever spoke to him more than a word, but +her eyes were conscious of him, and he always felt that he was +working under her scrutiny. Whenever they spoke together he +was aware of the fact that it was she who had got him his job and +that she could take it away from him as easily. When he +came back from his work at night Mary would ask him questions +about her old friend, but he could never satisfy her.</p> +<p>‘Does she know that you come from here?’ she would +say.</p> +<p>‘Of course she knows. I told her at the +first.’</p> +<p>‘But she’s never mentioned me? Never asked +after me?’</p> +<p>‘We’ve never spoke ten words together.’</p> +<p>‘It’s funny, that! When you come to think of +her and me having slept in the same bed. . . . She must +know about me!’</p> +<p>‘She’s a rum ’un, Miss Marion. +There’s no getting away from that.’</p> +<p>He and Mary never saw much of each other in those days, for +Abner had to get up very early in the morning in time for his +seven mile walk, and the harvest labour was severe. Severe, +and yet pleasant, for the summer weather held and no rain +fell. The sun shone pitilessly on the whitening stubbles, +but the corn-fields of The Dyke were so lifted upon the back of +the hills that they seemed to be part of a high cloudland and +free from all heaviness. On the lower levels the whir of +reaping machines might be heard, but higher up the fields were so +unlevel, following the broken contour of the hills and bounded by +the sloping ramparts of the dyke, that all the reaping must be +done with sickles and the dry shocks carried to the head of a +rough road. Abner had not the skill to wield a sickle, and +so in this part of the labour he was useless. Harris, the +labourer, who acted as foreman when Mr Prosser was not in the +fields, resented this. Before Marion’s interest in +the farm began he had been his master’s right-hand +man. He had been present at the time when Abner was first +employed by Mr Prosser, and knowing that the newcomer was a +protégé of Miss Marion’s, was naturally +jealous. When the men sat in the shade of a hedgerow for +lunch he grumbled to his mates and grudged Abner his share <a +name="page320"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 320</span>of the +food. The two casual labourers were inclined to take +Harris’s side; but old Avery, a man of sixty who had worked +at The Dyke all his life, stood up for Abner.</p> +<p>‘I don’t know what the place is coming to,’ +Harris said. ‘We don’t want no navvies +here. There’s too many about as it is. +’Tis a farming man’s job, reaping. I reckon +you’re one of Miss Marion’s fancies. +You’d a’ better look out!’</p> +<p>The men laughed, and Abner asked him what the hell he +meant.</p> +<p>Harris was a dangerous-looking customer for all his years, +strong as a bull, with a low, ape-like forehead, badger-gray +hair, and long, ungainly arms that seemed to have been bowed by +the carrying of trusses of hay.</p> +<p>‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘And +I’ll tell you another thing. We don’t want no +bleedin’ outsiders here, snatching the bread out of our +mouths.’</p> +<p>Violence would surely have followed, but at the most dangerous +moment the farmer and his daughters arrived. The reaping of +the twelve-acre field was almost finished, a huge expanse of +stubble lay gleaming under the noon-day sun, and crackled with +heat. In the midst of the field a square of barley stood +unreaped and shimmering, and within it cowered a secret multitude +of field-mice, hares, and rabbits that the destruction of their +homes had driven inwards. Mr Prosser and Marion carried +guns, and Ethel was playing with three dogs that sniffed and +trembled with eagerness for this annual pastime of slaughter.</p> +<p>‘Now, Harris, let’s get a move on!’ said the +farmer.</p> +<p>The horses, that had stood stamping and swishing their tails +and flicking flies from their ears in the shade of an elder-bush, +were brought round with cries of encouragement, and the machine +rolled clanking over the stubble towards the standing corn. +Prosser and his daughters stayed behind in the hedgerow, the +day’s work went on, and as the square diminished, narrowing +with each turn of the machine, the dogs sniffed along the edge of +that narrow sanctuary until the guns were ready.</p> +<p>‘Give Miss Marion a hand with her loading, +Fellows,’ Prosser shouted. ‘Tell the men to get +their sticks <a name="page321"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +321</span>ready, Harris, and we’ll put the dogs in on the +far side.’</p> +<p>Abner and Marion stood together with the sun beating on their +backs. The dogs ran barking into the corn. Above +them, in the eye of the sun, a kestrel hovered. Three +frightened rabbits bolted from the farther edge. Prosser +fired two barrels and killed one. Another was wounded, and +Harris ran after it with ungainly strides and stick +uplifted. He brought down the stick with a savage cry and +dashed out the animal’s brains. ‘I got him, the +varmint!’ he shouted.</p> +<p>The multitude within the square of corn trembled. One by +one, terror drove them out into the open. Marion fired +twice and missed. Her hands shook as she gave the gun to +Abner to reload. She could not see her pitiful target; she +saw nothing but the young man at her side with his sun-bleached +hair, his red chest and neck, and the milk-white skin above the +roll of his shirt sleeves.</p> +<p>‘Quick! You’m missing of them!’ he +cried.</p> +<p>She fired again, and missed. She could hit nothing.</p> +<p>‘I don’t know what’s the matter with +me,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve been too +long in the sun. You’d better take the gun +yourself.’</p> +<p>And she stood watching the sureness of his aim as he fired, +knocking over the pitiful, bright-eyed, furry creatures one by +one. She watched him, fascinated, conscious only of his +health and strength and the perfect co-ordination of his +body. She saw it as that of her friend’s lover, and +in a yearning tenderness she thought of that hidden life away in +Wolfpits. She could stand it no longer.</p> +<p>‘Give me the gun,’ she said. +‘Don’t shoot any more.’</p> +<p>She took the weapon from him and went over to join her sister +in the hedge, where she sat watching the scene of slaughter in a +dream. Then she got up suddenly, telling Ethel that the sun +was too much for her, and went straight home to her +bedroom. All afternoon she lay on her bed in the green +light of a venetian blind. Her eyes burned and her head was +splitting, but she knew that this was not altogether because of +the sun. Later, when she had bathed her eyes in cold <a +name="page322"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 322</span>water and +done her hair, she pulled out an old album in which there was a +photograph taken at the Ludlow school where Mary Malpas had been +her friend. It was a group ranged round the central figures +of the two precise spinsters who kept the academy. She and +Mary Condover were standing side by side: two solemn, +self-conscious, childish faces with eyes staring straight at the +photographer. Now Mary Condover was Mary Malpas, and had +this man for a lover. Over in the secrecy of Wolfpits they +loved. Ethel came knocking at the door with a cup of +tea. The sound of her knock made Marion jump. It was +not like her to be nervous.</p> +<p>‘They’ve counted the rabbits,’ said +Ethel. ‘Thirty-two! That’s two more than +last year. Dad’s ever so pleased. Is your +headache better?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I’m all right,’ said Marion. +‘I’ll be down in a minute.’</p> +<p>For several days she saw next to nothing of Abner. One +morning, however, her father sent him up to her with a +message. She was making pastry in the kitchen; her hands +and arms were white with flour and the heat of the range had +flushed her face. Again she found that in his presence she +lost her self-possession, and falling on an awkward silence she +blurted out:</p> +<p>‘Well, how does it suit you?’</p> +<p>‘Well enough,’ he replied. ‘Thanks to +you, miss.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, don’t thank <i>me</i>!’ she said, with +a laugh.</p> +<p>He was going, but she called him back to the kitchen door.</p> +<p>‘Don’t you find the walk to Wolfpits rather +tiring?’ she asked.</p> +<p>‘It’s a fair step,’ he said. +‘But I don’t take much count of it.’</p> +<p>‘Why don’t you stay up here till harvest’s +over?’ she said. ‘You could make up some sort +of a bed in the loft.’</p> +<p>He thanked her, but refused. ‘I find a good bit to +do when I get home nights,’ he said. ‘They +can’t get on in the house without me.’</p> +<p>‘They?’ she said, with a laugh. ‘Ah, +well, it won’t be for long.’</p> +<p>While they were speaking together at the door Harris <a +name="page323"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 323</span>passed them +with his basket slung over his stooping shoulders. He +touched his cap to Marion, and gave Abner a wry smile as he +passed. Marion returned to the kitchen without another +word, and Abner, on his way back to the field began to puzzle his +head as to what she had meant by her sudden change of front when +he had excused himself from sleeping at The Dyke. The scorn +that she had put into her repetition of the word +‘they’ made him think that perhaps there was more +justification than he had imagined in Mary’s feeling of +resentment against Marion Prosser. But if she felt sore +with Mary for any reason, there was no need for her to practise +on him. He wasn’t going to be lugged in to any petty +feminine quarrel, they might be sure of that! He had quite +enough to do on his own keeping even with that leering devil +Harris. Mr Harris was going to cop it one of these days, +and no mistake!</p> +<p>He dismissed Marion Prosser from his mind. And yet, all +through the hot harvest season the two of them were meeting and +passing with a sense of something desired but unspoken on the +part of Marion; and whenever they met there came into +Abner’s mind a grudging recognition of her physical +presence. He decided that he did not like this strong, +dark, almost boyish creature who, without even speaking, could so +thrust herself upon his consciousness. She was too secret +for him. He wished that she would speak out what she had to +say so that they might know where they were and be finished with +it, and since she would not do so he avoided her.</p> +<p>Meanwhile the harvest season was drawing to a close. The +later crops were marred by the long-awaited rain. From +every corner of the uplands came the same story: straw so weak as +to be worthless and wheat sprouting in the ear. Prosser, +who could well stand these losses and many more, picked up an +infection of grumbling at the Ludlow market ordinary. Not +only were the standing crops ruined but the extra hands were +eating their heads off. Harris echoed his lamentations, and +Abner, together with the two other outsiders who had been engaged +for the harvest, would have been paid off but for the +intervention of Marion.</p> +<p><a name="page324"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 324</span>He +knew nothing of this. Through all that dead, wet season, +when the baked hill-sides steamed with rain and morning skies +were heavy with autumnal mist, he busied himself with odd jobs +about the farm. It was important for him if he were to find +work in the neighbourhood when the job at The Dyke was over, that +he should learn as much as he could of the farm-labourer’s +craft. He learned to milk, to brush the horses and to bed +them down, helped with the lifting of the main-crop potatoes and +dug them into the immense buries, shaped like the barrows of the +stone-men on Castel Ditches, in which they were stored for +winter.</p> +<p>Then, sudden, unheralded, came a September summer. The +mists disappeared; the drowned crops stood up golden in a hot and +level sunshine; the work of the fields began again. They +laboured incessantly, for the sunshine and drought were now more +precious than gold. They worked so hard from the light of +dawn until the stunted sheaves threw gigantic shadows, that there +was no room in his mind for the foibles of Marion or the growing +jealousy of Harris. Prosser and his girls came down into +the fields to aid them. The sheaves ripened against time, +and Prosser watched the sky and tapped his glass all day +long. He held on as long as he dared; but on the eighth day +of the drought the glass began to fall, and the last sheaves were +carted from the fields by moonlight.</p> +<p>At one o’clock in the morning they knocked off, +exhausted, and strangely happy in the consciousness of a work +well done; but the sense of happiness departed from Abner as he +walked home through the owl-haunted twilight, for he knew that +the job at The Dyke was over, and he had nothing else before +him. At the end of the week, he supposed, he would draw his +money and be faced with a new search for employment.</p> +<p>Next day, in accordance with the ancient custom of The Dyke, a +harvest home was held in the long kitchen of the house. All +morning Marion, her sister, and Agnes the maid were busy baking +cakes and boiling hams for the festival. The wives and +children of the labourers were asked to share in these +rejoicings, and more than twenty usually sat down to the long +table <a name="page325"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 325</span>at +night. Abner and the other extra hands were expected to +come, but Mary Malpas was not invited.</p> +<p>Abner saw nothing strange or pointed in the omission, and +indeed he had no time to spare for ceremonies of this kind, +having been bred in a country where feudal customs had long since +died away under the new and harder influence of capitalism. +But to the labourers at The Dyke, and particularly to older men +such as Daniel Avery, the harvest home was a feast as religious +as any ancient mystery. To them it was the crown of the +year and its labours, more vital and more significant than any +convention of the calendar. Mr Prosser, as a member of the +older generation, was himself attached to the custom. It +reminded him of his boyhood, of the days when his father was +master of The Dyke and his grandfather sat watching the dances +from the chimney corner, and in this way it comforted him with a +sense of continuity and flattered those vestiges of family pride +which were the deepest elements in his nature. The day +always found him in the best of spirits, and Marion, who loved to +see her father made happy even by the simplest things, caught a +little of his joyful infection. The house was in a stir; +the servants laughed and sang about their work; the oaken dresser +was spread with holiday fare. Marion caught old Avery in +the yard and made him promise to sing his mole-catcher’s +song.</p> +<p>‘If I do sing it, I mun sing it right through,’ +said the old man, with a wink. ‘I can’t mind +the verses without I sing them in arder.’</p> +<p>She laughed; for many of his verses were indecent. +‘You shall sing just what you like, Dan,’ she +said. As well quarrel with the indecency of the Bible as +that of Avery’s songs.</p> +<p>Mr Prosser had told the men to leave their work at five +o’clock instead of at six, in order that they might go home +to clean themselves and fetch their families. Only Hayes, +the cowman, who slept on the premises, was to be left +behind. Abner, old Avery, and Harris set off down the drive +together. The others moved too slowly for Abner, for he had +seven miles in front of him. All day long Harris had taken +a malicious pleasure <a name="page326"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 326</span>in letting Abner know that his time +was up and that The Dyke would soon be shut of him. There +had been one or two ugly moments, softened by the good humour of +old Dan. Now they walked alongside in silence, Abner +setting the pace.</p> +<p>‘Hey, you do go too fast for old bones, my son!’ +said Avery.</p> +<p>‘Wants to get home to his missus,’ said +Harris.</p> +<p>‘Here, you’d better drop that!’ said Abner +warningly.</p> +<p>But Harris would not be warned. He knew, as well as the +others, that Mary Malpas had not been invited to The Dyke. +‘I reckon you’m going to leave her behind +to-night,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘I reckon you’d better mind your own +business. I’ve had a damn sight too much of your +lip.’</p> +<p>Harris laughed. ‘Stands to reason they won’t +have that kind of muck in the company of decent married women and +innocent childer,’ he said.</p> +<p>Abner did not wait to answer him. He let out with his +right, catching Harris on the temple, and sent him spinning +toward the ditch.</p> +<p>‘Steady, lad, steady!’ cried old Avery.</p> +<p>Harris pulled himself together and made straight for Abner +with his head low down like a bull. He was the older man, +and, in spite of the iron strength of his arms, Abner always had +the advantage. Harris fought desperately with his +hob-nailed boots as well as his fists. They fought till +their faces were bloody and their clothes torn. Old Avery +whined at them to give over, but they took no notice of +him. At last Abner drove Harris into the ditch, where he +lay spluttering blood. ‘I reckon that’ll teach +you to keep your bleedin’ mouth shut!’ said Abner +savagely, and left him there with the old man trembling and +shedding weak tears above him.</p> +<p>He washed in the Folly Brook and had made himself fairly +presentable by the time he reached Wolfpits.</p> +<p>‘I thought you were going to the harvest home,’ +said Mary.</p> +<p>‘Then you thought wrong,’ said Abner +irritably. ‘Give us some tea.’</p> +<p>Neither Harris nor his family turned up at The Dyke that +evening. Old Dan, who had kept his own counsel, <a +name="page327"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 327</span>was in the +middle of his mole-catching song when one of the +ploughman’s children came in with a message to say that her +dad was in a fever, and the bed wringing wet under him.</p> +<p>‘Why didn’t your mother come?’ Prosser +asked.</p> +<p>‘Dad wouldn’t let her,’ said the child.</p> +<p>Marion took her aside and gave her a piece of cake.</p> +<p>‘It never rains but it pours,’ Prosser +grumbled. ‘Here’s Harris badly, and now Hayes +tells me he’s got a poisoned finger. I don’t +know what we’ll do for the milking to-morrow.’</p> +<p>‘There’s Fellows,’ said Marion.</p> +<p>‘Yes, it’s lucky we’ve got him. Why, +he isn’t here either! What the devil’s the +matter with them all?’</p> +<p>Marion said nothing. She had guessed long ago why Abner +was not there. She had half suspected that he would not +come to The Dyke without Mary, but her pride would not let her +ask her father to invite the family from Wolfpits. In the +bottom of her heart she doubted if she would dare to meet her old +friend. It would be so difficult, and besides that she felt +that the intuitions of the other woman might discover her own +leaning toward Abner. It was too dangerous.</p> +<p>Next morning Abner arrived at his usual hour. During the +night Dr Hendrie had been summoned to The Dyke and had found that +the neglected splinter in the cowman’s finger threatened +him with blood-poisoning, and the loss of his arm. At dawn +Mr Prosser had driven him in to the infirmary at +Shrewsbury. Marion received Abner on his arrival.</p> +<p>‘Why didn’t you come up last night?’ she +said.</p> +<p>‘That sort of thing bain’t much in my line,’ +he replied.</p> +<p>‘I wanted you to come,’ she said.</p> +<p>He only smiled awkwardly, and she wished that she had been +more prudent. She told him that Hayes was in hospital and +that Harris was laid up with influenza. It would be a +convenience to them if he could take over Hayes’s work, +which was the care and milking of the cows and the driving of +milk-cans morning and night to Llandwlas station. He was +astonished at this turn of luck, for he had expected to be +dismissed with his <a name="page328"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +328</span>harvest earnings in his pocket. For all that, he +didn’t mean to take the job on false pretences.</p> +<p>‘So Harris has caught the influenza, has he?’ he +said.</p> +<p>‘Yes, he sent up his little girl with a message last +night.’</p> +<p>‘Well,’ said he, ‘it wasn’t +true. What Harris got was a damned good hammering from +me—one that he won’t forget.’</p> +<p>She thrilled to hear him. In her eyes he had become a +hero. She knew already that he could be gentle. It +gave her a curious, almost physical pleasure to realise him as a +fighting man, for every one in the district was aware of +Harris’s iron strength.</p> +<p>‘Tell me what happened,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘He only got what he asked for,’ said Abner, +‘with his dirty talk about young Mrs Malpas.’</p> +<p>‘Mary Malpas . . .’ she said quickly. +‘Oh, I’m sick of hearing her name.’</p> +<p>She did not pass on to her father what Abner had told +her. He came back from Shrewsbury that evening tired and +depressed. ‘The doctors reckon that we were only just +in time with poor Hayes,’ he said. ‘It’s +a near shave for his left arm. They’ve had to open it +right up to the shoulder and he’ll be lucky if he’s +out of hospital by Christmas. I don’t know what we +can do, with Harris ill as well.’</p> +<p>‘There’s Fellows,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘Yes, there’s Fellows,’ he repeated, +thinking of other things. He stared at her vaguely, but it +seemed to her that his eyes were searching her, and she left him, +blushing.</p> +<p>Abner’s new work kept him almost exclusively on the farm +premises, and for this reason he and Marion often crossed each +other’s paths. They met so often that Marion lost a +little of her shame in speaking with him. She handled him +cleverly, so that in the end he lost a good deal of the +awkwardness that she herself had created. She was frank and +kind, helping him in many small things. He came to take her +for granted, and even to like her. In a little time he +became accustomed to the cowman’s job and took a pride in +it. To all intents <a name="page329"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 329</span>and purposes he was his own master; +for the dairy was Marion’s province, and Mr Prosser rarely +interfered with its management.</p> +<p>Within a week of his hammering, Harris returned, apparently +not much the worse for it. Nobody but old Avery knew what +had happened, and the ploughman kept to himself a story that was +hardly flattering. Abner had been prepared to treat him +friendlily; but he soon saw that Harris had no intention of doing +the same, maintaining a surly silence that was never to be +broken, since their work now lay in different directions.</p> +<p>So autumn passed, the first frosts of winter whitened the +upland, and the first ploughing began. Abner kept to his +own work. The Prossers’ dairy was a small one, for +their pasture land was limited, but he found that with the two +station deliveries, the milking, and the care of the cows, his +hands were pretty full. He saw less and less of Wolfpits, +for it had been arranged that he should take his evening meal at +the farm on his return from the station, and Mary was not +altogether sorry for this, since it freed her from many +embarrassing moments.</p> +<p>Abner was now earning a good wage, and the household was +relatively prosperous. He was even able to replace the +watch that had been stolen at Bran. In this peaceful +interlude the only thing that really disquieted Mary’s mind +was George’s letter. She had never yet dared to show +it to Abner, but she had not destroyed it, and from time to time +a cruel fascination compelled her to take it from the drawer +where she had hidden it and to read it again. It seemed +strange to her that she had received no other word from +him. If he could write once he could surely write again, +and though she did not dare to confide its contents to Mrs +Mamble, she induced the old woman to question the wife of a +policeman at Lesswardine whom she had attended in a confinement +as to the conditions under which a prisoner in the county jail +might receive visitors or write letters. A prisoner in +George’s condition, Mrs Mamble told her, was entirely +separated from the outside world for the first three months of +his sentence. After that, if his conduct were good, he +might write and receive one letter every month, and invite one +visitor to see <a name="page330"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +330</span>him during the same period. This knowledge amazed +her; for George had now been in jail more than nine months but +had only written her this one, disturbing letter and had never +once asked her to visit him. The fact filled her with an +inexplicable pang of jealousy; but what troubled her more deeply +was to know that Mrs Mamble was conscious of her humiliation.</p> +<p>‘The less you think about him the better,’ said +the old woman stoutly. ‘He was never no good to you, +and never will be.’</p> +<p>But Mary could not put the matter out of her mind. Once +again she commissioned Mrs Mamble to make inquiries in Chapel +Green and find out if old Mrs Malpas had visited George in +prison. The answer was definite. Mrs Malpas had never +left the village since the day of the trial, although she had +received several letters from George, as the postman, who lodged +with one of Mrs Mamble’s friends, could vouch.</p> +<p>Then Mary hardened her heart; for she guessed that George was +choosing for his only visitor the widow woman from Lesswardine, +whom she had seen at the trial. Re-reading George’s +letter she burned with anger. What right had he to dictate +to her how she should behave? Her soul was full of hatred +and contempt, so that she almost wished that she had given him +real cause for suspicion. In this state she allowed her +memory to dwell with tenderness on the surprising moment that had +come to her and Abner by the sea-crows’ pool. She +felt that she had been foolish to shrink from it. And yet +she dared not let Abner see what she was thinking; knowing for +certain, that if she did so something violent and terrible must +happen to them. For herself she had no fear; but the +thought of what the children might suffer chilled her. And +she released her surfeit of feeling in a more passionate devotion +to these small creatures, determining, whatever might happen, to +hold on for the remaining eight months of George’s +imprisonment. This artificial resolution made her harden +herself more than ever against Abner.</p> +<p>One day Mrs Mamble brought her the news that Susan Hind was +being married in less than a week to Badger, the keeper. +She now saw so little of Abner that she <a +name="page331"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 331</span>could not +be sure that his old relations with Susie had ceased, but she +found herself snatching eagerly at an occasion for wounding +him.</p> +<p>‘I hope you’re going to your old friend’s +wedding, Abner,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘I don’t know nothing about one,’ he +said. ‘I’ve no friends in these parts that I +know to.’</p> +<p>‘Susie Hind . . . she’s marrying Mr Badger next +Monday.’</p> +<p>She watched him carefully.</p> +<p>‘Well, he’s welcome!’ said Abner, with a +laugh.</p> +<p>And then, instead of being relieved, she found herself +overwhelmed by a new suspicion. He would not have spoken +like that unless he had been entangled with some other +woman. She wondered who it could be, and a few days later +began to ply him with deliberate questions about Marion +Prosser. He did not guess what she was driving at; imagined +that she was still brooding over her old slight.</p> +<p>‘I know naught about her,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Do you like her any better than you did?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t mind her,’ said Abner. +‘At any rate she don’t werrit me with questions about +you.’</p> +<p>One day in October Marion renewed her proposal that Abner +should sleep at The Dyke. She told him that she +didn’t like to think of him walking to and from Wolfpits +every day. If she had substituted ‘Mary Malpas’ +for ‘Wolfpits’ she would have been nearer to the +truth.</p> +<p>‘We can make you quite comfortable in the little loft +above the harness-room,’ she said. +‘There’s no point in your wearing yourself +out.’</p> +<p>He said nothing; but told Mary of her proposal. +Listening, she held her breath.</p> +<p>‘I don’t want to keep you,’ she compelled +herself to say. ‘You’d better go.’</p> +<p>‘No fear!’ said he. ‘You don’t +catch me losing my liberty that way! A man that sleeps over +his work’s no better than a slave.’</p> +<p>She felt a sudden relief. ‘Yes, you’re quite +right,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’re +right.’ She spoke as if it were the matter of +principle that interested her.</p> +<p><a name="page332"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 332</span>Next +day he refused Marion’s offer, and she left him in a +huff. She was miserable, for she could not overcome the +attraction which he had exercised over her from the first, yet +was too bashful to declare herself more openly. She tried +to tell herself that Abner was only a labouring man and her +inferior in station, but she could not pretend that physically he +was not her equal, nor deny his influence. She hoped that +he would notice the change in her attitude, see that she was +avoiding him, and, perhaps, miss her; but he went on with his +work as usual and did not seem to care whether she came near him +or sent him messages by Ethel or Agnes, the maid, and so, +gradually, with a feeling of shame, she was driven back to his +company.</p> +<p>The days were now drawing in rapidly, and it was after sunset +when the cows came to be milked. It had been Marion’s +custom to carry the scoured pails to the byre and stand by +Abner’s side while he milked. When he drove the cows +into the shed he would light a stable lantern and hang it from a +nail in the wall before he found his stool and took the pail from +her hands. These were the moments when she felt herself +nearest to him. Standing in the doorway of the shippon she +would watch him as he sat with his fair head pressed to the +cows’ flanks and listen to the milk swishing into the +pails. It was a moment of most soothing silence. +Neither of them spoke, nor was there any other sound but that of +the cows snatching hay from the racks above them with their lips +and filling the shed with their sweet breath. Marion stood +very still in that slow-breathing quietude, and thither, like +shadows, came the cats that lived in the lofts and roofs of the +granary, shy, half-savage creatures. It was part of +Abner’s ritual to set a tin basin of milk frothing-warm on +the floor for them, and round this they would walk, five or six +of them, with sidelong gait and tails uplifted. Every night +at milking-time they came. But if she stirred a muscle they +were gone. She watched them, quiet, hallucinated; and when +they were gone she stayed on in the silence, while Abner strained +the milk into her scalded buckets and passed from stall to +stall.</p> +<p>One evening she found him troubled.</p> +<p><a name="page333"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +333</span>‘I don’t half like the look of Daisy +here,’ he said.</p> +<p>Daisy was a red Devon cow, the only one of her breed in +Prosser’s herd of white-nosed Herefords. Some weeks +before she had calved; but the calf had been feeble and had died, +and though they had given her a calf-skin stuffed with straw to +lick she had pined, and the milk had failed in quality. Now +she stood miserably in her stall with her ears turned back and +her sleek coat staring.</p> +<p>‘Why, what’s wrong with her?’ Marion +asked.</p> +<p>‘She was coughing a good bit when I drove her +in—seemed to have no heart in her either—and you can +see she’s breathing quicker than the others. You put +your ear to her and hearken. It’s like a lot of +bubbles going off inside of her.’</p> +<p>He put his arm over the animal’s neck and +listened. Marion did as he told her. They listened +together, but she could hear nothing but Abner’s own deep, +placid breath. He seemed very near to her. She could +see his serious eyes shining with pin-points of +lantern-light. Her heart began to beat so violently that +she feared he must hear it. She felt a choking sensation in +her breast, as though her heart was bursting and she must cry out +or weep. It was intolerable.</p> +<p>‘Do you catch it?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Yes, I hear,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘I reckon she’s worse than she seemed,’ said +Abner. ‘I think she’s got the bronchitis. +You’d best let the gaffer know.’</p> +<p>‘He’s gone down to Craven Arms for the sales +to-morrow,’ she replied. ‘He’s booked a +bed at the Railway Hotel.’</p> +<p>‘Like our luck!’ Abner grumbled. +‘Well, we’d better give her a drench of gruel and +poultice her when we’ve finished the milk.’</p> +<p>When he came back from the station she was ready with a +draught of oatmeal gruel. Then she set herself to making a +poultice of linseed meal and brought it out to him.</p> +<p>‘I reckon I can’t leave her to-night,’ he +told her.</p> +<p>‘Hadn’t we better send for Harris?’ she +asked.</p> +<p><a name="page334"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 334</span>He +flared up at once. ‘Harris? . . . I +don’t want that Harris poking his nose in my +shippon!’</p> +<p>‘Very well,’ she said mildly. She watched +him adjust the poultice over Daisy’s throat. The +animal was now coughing painfully, and the chill of the night air +seemed to strangle her breathing. Marion found it difficult +to leave him.</p> +<p>‘There’s no call for you to go catching your death +of cold,’ Abner said.</p> +<p>Again she submitted. ‘But I think we’d +better take turns with her,’ she said. +‘I’ll go and tell Agnes.’</p> +<p>She left him, and though she could not persuade him to let her +take his place she returned from time to time to the byre. +He scarcely spoke to her, for the animal’s condition made +him more and more anxious. At one o’clock in the +morning she came out in her dressing-gown with her dark hair +braided down her back for the night. The cow was now a +terrible sight. She had sunk down upon the floor of the +shed and was breathing in desperate, quick gasps, with her brown +eyes piteously upturned.</p> +<p>‘I don’t like the look of her,’ said Abner, +‘not half.’</p> +<p>‘We shall have to send for Harris. He understands +them,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘All right,’ he returned, grudgingly.</p> +<p>‘I’ll send Agnes down to the village. And +then I’ll bring you some tea.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you worry about that!’</p> +<p>‘Agnes is making it now.’</p> +<p>She sent the maid running off at once. The kitchen fire +was nearly out and the kettle would not boil. It seemed to +her an age before she could get it boiling. Then she filled +a jug with tea and prepared to take it to him. At the door +a shadow startled her and she gave a cry. Abner was +standing on the step.</p> +<p>‘It’s a bad job,’ he said. +‘She’s gone. She went off quite +sudden.’</p> +<p>She did not realise what he was saying. She gave a +nervous laugh.</p> +<p>‘Oh, what a start you gave me!’ she said, putting +down the jug on the table. And then, suddenly, she put her +hands to her face and started sobbing hysterically.</p> +<p><a name="page335"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +335</span>‘Don’t take on like that!’ he +said. ‘It’s no fault of yourn.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, it’s not that!’ she cried. +‘It’s not that!’</p> +<p>He put his hand on her shoulder, trying to soothe her, and the +next moment she was clinging in his arms and he was covering her +face and neck with kisses. Harris, who had run up from his +cottage as fast as he could travel, stood panting and gazing at +them in the doorway, but neither Abner nor Marion saw him, and +when he had stared at them for a moment he moved quietly across +the yard into the byre.</p> +<h2><a name="page336"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 336</span>The +Twenty-Second Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> Mr Prosser returned from +Craven Arms next evening he was in a bad temper. At the +Railway Hotel on the night before he had fallen in with a number +of cattle dealers from North Bromwich and Manchester. He +had drunk more than he could stand, and had sat up playing cards +in the commercial room till three o’clock in the morning, +losing the price of a bullock in the process. Marion, who +met him at Llandwlas station, told him that the Devon cow had +died in the night.</p> +<p>‘Died?’ said he, ‘what do you mean +“died”? She was all right yesterday.’</p> +<p>‘Fellows says it was bronchitis. It was awful to +see her breathing.’</p> +<p>‘Bronchitis! They don’t die that quick with +bronchitis. What the hell does Fellows know about +it?’</p> +<p>‘He couldn’t have done more than he did,’ +she replied. ‘He sat up with her till she +went.’</p> +<p>‘I’ve never known such an unlucky year,’ he +grumbled. ‘Hayes’s wife says that he +won’t be out of hospital for another month or more. +Fellows means well enough, but he’s not like an experienced +cowman.’ He sat broodily in the trap for a few +moments. ‘Why didn’t you send for +Harris?’ he asked at length.</p> +<p>‘We did, but Daisy died before he could get +up.’</p> +<p>‘I shall advertise for a cowman,’ he said, with a +show of determination that gave him a better opinion of +himself.</p> +<p>‘Fellows did his best. It wasn’t his +fault.’</p> +<p>‘What do you know about it, anyway?’ said Mr +Prosser roughly.</p> +<p>Reaching The Dyke in the worst of tempers, he had not even +time to give Ethel the kiss for which she stood waiting. He +went straight into the dining-room and mixed himself a stiff +whisky and water, then, feeling masterful and businesslike, he +went straight out into the fields to look for Harris. He +found him driving in his team from the plough.</p> +<p><a name="page337"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +337</span>‘Did you see Daisy last night?’ he +asked.</p> +<p>‘Yes, I see’d her, but not afore she was wellnigh +cold.’</p> +<p>‘How did she come to go off sudden like that, +eh?’</p> +<p>‘If you want to know what I thinks, Mr Prosser, +I’ll tell you. That cow she died of violent +neglect. I’ve had my eye on her some days +now.’</p> +<p>‘Then why the devil didn’t you say so?’</p> +<p>‘Me and Fellows don’t speak to one another, and +you was gone off to the sales.’</p> +<p>‘Why didn’t you tell Miss Marion, then?’</p> +<p>‘It’s no good talking to Miss Marion about +he. Her wouldn’t hear a word against Fellows, though +he be no more fit to look after cows than rabbits, and I know for +why.’ Harris shook his head knowingly.</p> +<p>‘What do you mean by that? Why don’t you +speak plain?’</p> +<p>‘And I will speak plain, Mr Prosser, though I +don’t know where your eyes have been if you haven’t +seed it for yourself. Miss Marion’s soft on that +Fellows, and he knows it and takes advantage on it.’</p> +<p>Prosser gave an uneasy laugh. ‘You don’t get +me to believe that,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘You can believe it or not, gaffer,’ said +Harris. ‘It’s all the same to me. +I’m only telling you of what I knows, and what I’ve +seen with my own eyes. When Daisy was dying that Fellows +was in your own kitchen and the two of them kissing one another, +so took up they never saw me coming. And that’s the +truth, as I’m standing here!’</p> +<p>Prosser could only stare at him.</p> +<p>‘You ought to have known the name that chap has with +women. There’s Mr Hind’s daughter over at the +Pound House; there’s George Malpas’s wife, not +counting those that was never found out. He’s a +proper young bull, that Fellows, and no mistake!’</p> +<p>The farmer left him in a fury. He found Marion laying +the supper-table in the dining-room. Ethel was crouched by +the fire reading a book of fairy-tales.</p> +<p>‘You go out into the kitchen, Ethel,’ he +said. ‘I want to talk to Marion.’</p> +<p><a name="page338"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +338</span>‘I’m so comfy here, dad,’ said the +child sleepily.</p> +<p>‘Do as you’re bid!’ he shouted, and Ethel, +frightened, left the room.</p> +<p>‘You’ve scared her,’ said Marion. +‘She’s not used to being spoken to like +that.’</p> +<p>‘No,’ said he, ‘and it ’ld be better +for the both of you if you were. Just you put those things +down and tell me the truth about Fellows.’</p> +<p>‘What do you mean, father?’ she asked. +‘I’ve told you he did all he could. He sat up +with her.’</p> +<p>‘And that’s a damned lie to start with! Sat +up with her, did he? Sat up spooning in the kitchen along +with you. That’s more like it!’</p> +<p>She blushed, then straightened herself and faced him with her +hands clasped before her. He was almost frightened of her +burning eyes.</p> +<p>‘Who told you that?’ she said quietly.</p> +<p>‘Never you mind who told me. They that told me saw +it with their own eyes. Saw you behaving like a +labourer’s girl in a hedge. That’s a fine thing +to come to! You deny it if you can!’</p> +<p>‘I’m not going to deny it,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘Then you’ve no shame left in you. Thank God +your poor mother hasn’t lived to see it! I never +thought to hear a daughter of mine speak like that!’</p> +<p>He waited for her to defend herself; but she stood as though +petrified, cold, with a furnace of emotions flaming inside +her. He took her by the arm, roughly, and shook her.</p> +<p>‘Don’t dad!’ she whispered.</p> +<p>‘Here, tell me how far it’s gone.’</p> +<p>She wouldn’t answer him.</p> +<p>‘You’d better make a clean breast of it. How +long has it been going on? There’s nothing wrong with +you, eh? Better tell me straight!’</p> +<p>The implication affronted her modesty, for though she had +fearfully imagined physical passion and its admonitions had found +their way into her dreams, the least suggestion of crudity +shocked her. Her father’s words made her want to +cover her face for shame. Her resolution wavered. In +a piercing moment of revelation she saw the scene in which she +was taking a part: the <a name="page339"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 339</span>hard, tasteless room, with its steel +engravings of sporting pictures and its horsehair-covered +furniture, the coarse cutlery that she had been putting on the +table, the metallic ticking bronze clock on the mantelpiece, the +worn hearthrug, and, in front of her, the angry, flushed face of +her father, the face of a man inflamed by passion and the +prejudices of his class. And she saw herself, a +farmer’s daughter in a print overall, discovered, shamed, +in a gross affair with a labouring man. How many times in +the history of the countryside had the same scene been +enacted? How many women of her kind had been pestered with +the same urgent questions? And still he pressed her.</p> +<p>‘What’s done can’t be mended. Better +tell me straight, my girl!’</p> +<p>All her suppressed idealism rose in revolt against him, +against her surroundings, against her whole manner of life. +She hated her father and utterly despised him.</p> +<p>‘I won’t have you talking to me like that,’ +she said. ‘I’m not a child, and you +shan’t treat me like one. I’m a woman. +I’m nearly thirty. Do you think a woman can go on +living this miserable, separated life and settle down into an old +maid like Aunt Isabel without feeling anything? No . . . +people like you don’t think that a woman should have any +feelings. You think as long as you’re well fed and +get your glass of whisky at night and all your books kept up to +date, you think that’s enough life for a woman, you think +that it’s a privilege for her to spend her days looking +after you. Do you think a woman never wants a +man?’</p> +<p>Prosser gasped. ‘I think you’ve taken leave +of your senses, Marion,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘I’ve a life to live as well as you!’ she +cried. ‘You call yourself a farmer, but you’ve +no more idea of nature . . .’ She could say no more, +but threw her hands wide in a gesture of despair.</p> +<p>It slowly dawned on him that she was defending herself. +He saw himself shamed among his fellows. There had never +been a scandal at The Dyke in his time. He said: +‘Good God! Good God!’ then helped himself to +another glass of whisky and took a stiff gulp. <a +name="page340"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +340</span>‘Well, I never thought it of you,’ was all +he could say. He poured out another tot.</p> +<p>A sudden gust of anger swept over Marion. Scarcely +knowing what she did, she picked up the cut-glass whisky decanter +and sent it crashing into the fire. The flames roared up +the chimney; blue tongues of lighted spirit ran out over the +hearthrug.</p> +<p>‘Marion! My God, you’re mad!’ he +cried. ‘You’ll set the house afire! What +do you think you’re doing?’</p> +<p>He snatched a rug from the sofa and went down on his knees +stifling the flame. She burst out into a fit of +uncontrollable laughter. He stared at her, +frightened. ‘What are you laughing at?’ he +cried.</p> +<p>‘I don’t know,’ she said weakly. +‘I felt I must break something. What an awful +mess!’ The outburst had sobered her, and more than +that the sight of her father’s scared and innocent +face.</p> +<p>‘It’s all right now,’ she said. +‘I’ll fetch a cloth from the kitchen.’</p> +<p>He looked so bewildered that she couldn’t help laughing +at him.</p> +<p>‘I’m damned if I can make you out,’ he +said.</p> +<p>‘Of course you can’t. You’ve not the +least idea. . .’</p> +<p>‘Then it’s all right?’ he said solemnly.</p> +<p>The dawning relief in his face was too much for her. She +knelt down on the carpet beside him and kissed his head.</p> +<p>‘Oh, dad, you’re too killing!’ she +said. ‘Do you think I can’t look after +myself?’</p> +<p>‘Well, thank Heaven for that!’ was all he could +say.</p> +<p>They talked the matter out more soberly that evening over the +embers of the fire when Ethel had been sent off to bed. +They were as happy in each other’s company and as tender as +lovers who have quarrelled and made it up again. The moment +of vision had faded for ever. The room in which they sat +had regained its old familiarity in Marion’s eyes, forcing +itself to be accepted as her home; Mr Prosser was no longer a +coarse, fair-whiskered man with more than a drop of whisky in +him, but the father whom she had always known; the sombre life of +The Dyke, with its slow, <a name="page341"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 341</span>rich comfort, was the life to which +she had been born. And she considered what would be the +effect on that life of her marrying Abner Fellows, for if her +father’s suspicions had been justified there was no doubt +but that he would have compelled the lover to make an honest +woman of her. No happiness worth the daring lay in that +direction. She knew that she could hope for nothing but a +continual clashing of the two men’s wills and herself a +buffer between them. Her father had a long memory for his +hates. There could never be any peace in the house till he +died. Rather than submit to such a humiliation she would +cut herself free from The Dyke and share Abner’s +life. Love in a cottage with a vengeance! But did he +love her? She had no real reason to believe it. And +did she love him? She could not say. Better, far +better, cling to the certainties, whatever they might be.</p> +<p>‘We’ll say no more about it,’ said Mr +Prosser. ‘Let bygones be bygones, eh?’</p> +<p>She nodded her head slowly at the fire. A piece of the +shattered decanter that had escaped her brush suddenly caught a +gleam of light. It meant no more to her now than a flake of +the stone-men’s flint of the kind that she and Ethel found +on their picnics at Castel Ditches.</p> +<p>‘Of course Fellows must go,’ said Mr +Prosser. ‘I reckon I can find another man by the end +of the week.’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ Marion murmured. ‘At the end of +the week.’</p> +<p>‘Luckily there’s no scarcity of labour,’ +said Mr Prosser happily.</p> +<p>Marion’s thoughts turned idly to Wolfpits. She +shut the idea of Wolfpits out of her mind. It was wrong, +she thought, that Mary Malpas should ever have come again into +her life. It was always wrong to uncover the past. +They sat for a long time in silence. She crouched on the +floor at her father’s side and his arm was thrown +carelessly over her shoulder. His head nodded and he fell +asleep, but Marion still stared into the embers, seeing +nothing. It was nearly midnight when Mr Prosser woke with a +start and rubbed his eyes.</p> +<p>‘I think I must have dropped off,’ he said. +‘Why, look at the clock!’ He kissed her +good-night.</p> +<p><a name="page342"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +342</span>‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I saw young +Fred Maddy over at Craven Arms. He talked about riding over +for tea Sunday. He’s doing pretty well, is Fred +Maddy, since his father died.’</p> +<p>He stood blinking at her curiously; but she made him no +reply.</p> +<p>‘Will you put out the light in the kitchen, dad, and see +to the doors?’ she said.</p> +<p>Next morning, when he had listened to Abner’s own +version of Daisy’s death and stood for a few moments in +contemplation of the carcass, Mr Prosser told him without +offering any explanation that he would not be wanted at The Dyke +after the end of the week. Abner took it for granted that +the loss of the cow explained his dismissal. It was a piece +of bad luck, and no more was to be said for it. The blow +was a heavy one, for he had felt that his position on the farm +was secure and that the fortunes of Wolfpits were safe for the +winter. He would have to begin his search for work all over +again, and this at a time when the demand for labour was at its +lowest. What made him particularly savage was the look of +triumph that he now saw on Harris’s face. No doubt +the ploughman had managed to put a word in against him with Mr +Prosser. Well, a man who had taken such a hammering as +Harris got on the night of the harvest home had a right to get +his own back, particularly when fortune had given his enemy a +trip.</p> +<p>What puzzled Abner more was the strangeness of Marion’s +attitude. He did not attach any great importance to her +breakdown in the farm kitchen and the tender moment that +followed: that was the kind of thing that might happen with any +woman: but he did find it rather shabby of her to abandon him as +soon as he was down on his luck, for he had always felt that she +was his friend and supporter, and knew, indeed, that he had owed +his job to her from the beginning. Still, he believed that +it was in keeping with human—and even more with feminine +nature—to kick a man when he was down. The school in +which he had been brought up had left him with few romantic +illusions: so, instead of brooding over her defection, he went on +steadily with his work until the day of his departure.</p> +<p><a name="page343"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 343</span>On +the last evening they met, for one moment only. She came +into the byre at milking-time and took up her old station in the +doorway, watching him as he worked. He looked round and +found her standing there: it was too dark for him to see her +face. She handed him the pails in silence, and when he had +finished and stood wiping his hands on his trousers, she said, +almost timidly:</p> +<p>‘This is the last time.’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and I’m sorry to +go.’</p> +<p>‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, though she could +not be sure that she was speaking the truth. +‘You’ve been a great help to us.’</p> +<p>He gave an uneasy laugh. ‘If that old Daisy +hadn’t gone and catched cold,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Where are you going?’ she asked abruptly.</p> +<p>‘That’s a hard one to answer,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘I wish I could help you.’ She found it +difficult to speak without wounding his delicacy. ‘If +you’re in want of money at any time . . .’ She +felt it was her duty to give him anything she possessed. It +was necessary for her own self-esteem that she should not feel +under any obligation to him.</p> +<p>‘Money’s no use to me,’ he said, falling +back on one of Mick Connor’s characteristic phrases.</p> +<p>‘But if ever you’re in need?’ she +persisted. ‘I know that Mrs Malpas and her children +are dependent on you.’</p> +<p>It was the second time that she had ever mentioned +Mary’s name. She compelled herself to do so now +because in this way she could make it quite clear that the +incident of the other night was forgotten and that he could not +build on it. She wanted to clear herself at any +price. Even as she spoke the consciousness of her own +motives filled her with shame. She held out her hand.</p> +<p>‘You won’t forget that, will you?’ she +said.</p> +<p>‘No, Miss Marion, you’ve been a good friend to +me.’ And he took her hand in his.</p> +<p>His unexpected use of the respectful prefix emboldened her and +made her feel surer of herself. In a moment the +indefiniteness of the situation had gone. They were back on +their old footing of servant and mistress. Her <a +name="page344"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 344</span>heart gave +a leap of thankfulness. She felt that she was saved. +The man whose rough hand her fingers now touched for a moment was +no longer the symbol of an ideal but simply a farm-labourer whom +her father had dismissed. She withdrew her own hand +hurriedly.</p> +<p>‘I’ll say good-bye, then,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘Good-bye, miss, and thank ’ee,’ said Abner, +and touched his cap.</p> +<p>The idea of leaving The Dyke had shocked him; but when he +passed down the drive for the last time, with Prosser’s +money in his pocket, Abner experienced a sudden feeling of +relief. It was probable that hard times were ahead of him, +and yet he had never felt so free since the day when he left his +father’s house at Halesby. When he got home he told +Mary with an affectation of lightness that he had got the +sack. Her first impulse was one of fear for their finances, +but almost as quickly she found herself thankful that Abner was +no longer in touch with Marion Prosser. The world in which +she and Marion had been friends was so far behind and spoke to +her so poignantly of a lost content that she was glad to be +wholly freed from it. She could not disguise the fact that +she was jealous of Marion, not only for this but for other +reasons. She put on a bold and heartening front.</p> +<p>‘I’ve a nice bit of money in hand,’ she +said. ‘That shows how wise we were to go +easy.’</p> +<p>Her show of cheerfulness and courage pleased him. +‘I thought it ‘d put you out a bit,’ he +said.</p> +<p>‘We ought to be used to uncertainty by this time,’ +she replied. ‘I’m glad you won’t have +that long walk there and back. It was enough to take the +strength out of any man.’</p> +<p>‘It’s a rum thing,’ he said, ‘but I +don’t mind it any more than you do, leaving The +Dyke.’</p> +<p>‘You must get a job nearer home now,’ she +said. ‘You’re quite a stranger.’</p> +<p>‘Ay, I’ll have a look round to-morrow,’ he +said.</p> +<p>When the day came he had not the heart to set out in quest of +work. Instead of doing so he lounged all morning, and after +dinner took the children out for a long walk over the stark, +wintry fields. They were <a name="page345"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 345</span>wildly excited to go with him, for +it was now many months since they had known such a holiday. +Mary watched them, smiling as they left Wolfpits. She saw +that they were happy, and marvelled at her own happiness. +Abner and the children made their way through the silent +larchwoods to the top of Castel Ditches and sat there gazing idly +down upon the river valleys. About the time when cohorts of +starlings wheeled through the sky above the reed-beds of the +Barbel where they made their nightly roosting place, the three of +them dropped down the slope towards the waterworks. There +Abner found a diminished gang still working on the last details +of the track. The sidings, the cranes, and the engines were +gone, and in place of the trenches on which Abner had worked a +year before, he now saw trim walls, culverts, and bridges of +stone. A single wooden hut remained standing, and there he +found the Gunner rubbing his hands over a bucket of coke. +He stared at Abner as though he were a stranger.</p> +<p>‘Well, our Abner,’ he cried, when he recognised +him, ‘how goes it? I thought you’d left these +parts long ago. What have you been up to?’</p> +<p>‘Farm-labouring, up at The Dyke,’ Abner told +him.</p> +<p>‘That’s a poor game,’ said the Gunner, +shaking his head.</p> +<p>‘Don’t I know it!’ said Abner. +‘I’ve just finished with it. . . Can’t +you give us a job here?’</p> +<p>‘No, my son . . . nor any one else,’ said the +Gunner. ‘We’re just clearing up like. +I’ve got ten men of the old gang left, but in another week +we shall have finished the lot. Don’t you imagine +I’m sorry for it either. I’ve had enough of +Mainstone to last me for a bit.’</p> +<p>‘Well, I’ve got to get a job somehow,’ said +Abner.</p> +<p>‘Then you won’t get it here. This place is +dead, my son, and that’s the truth! You’d best +get back to dear old Brum. Or Coventry, that’s the +place for you. Everybody’s going mad on these here +motor-cars the same as they did on bicycles. +Coventry’s your ticket!’</p> +<p>He gave the children a red-cheeked apple apiece. Abner +bade him good-night and turned homewards.</p> +<p><a name="page346"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +346</span>‘Did you hear about our wedding at the Pound +House?’ the foreman shouted after him. +‘Whisky? You could have swum in it! Pity old +Mick wasn’t about.’</p> +<p>It was dusk when Abner reached Wolfpits.</p> +<p>He began his quest for a new job hopefully, undeterred by the +foreman’s warning or the still gloomier prophecies of old +man Drew. He knew that work was scarce at that season; but +it could not well be scarcer than it had been when he found +continued employment at The Dyke. Abner felt that luck +would come to him in much the same unexpected way.</p> +<p>His first attempts seemed full of promise. At the time +when he had set out canvassing before, he had always been +received with a kind of negative pessimism that he learned to +consider as the normal attitude toward life of the border +farmer. Now, he noticed that the farm-people, and +particularly the women, listened to his applications with more +interest, remembered his name, asked him questions about himself, +and even appeared to regard his person with curiosity. He +took this as a good sign; but though he was encouraged his hopes +came no nearer to realisation. One after another the local +farmers or their wives heard his story, had a good look at him, +and turned him down.</p> +<p>The reason for their interest was not far to seek. In +spite of Mr Prosser’s anxiety to keep dark the true cause +of Abner’s dismissal and the scandal that it implied, +Harris, the ploughman, had not been able to resist the temptation +of making public his enemy’s discomfiture, and though +nobody dared to whisper to the principal actors in the comedy +that they knew what had happened, the whole story of Marion +Prosser’s infatuation for her father’s cowman went +the rounds of the neighbourhood. At Ludlow market it passed +for a good tale against Prosser, who was envied for his +possessions, and Marion, whose aloofness had made her +unpopular.</p> +<p>In the most frequent version of the story Abner had been +caught out with Marion in the byre at a time when that astute +young woman had arranged for her father to stay the night at +Craven Arms for his health’s sake. Marion, it was +said, had refused, for the most pressing of reasons, to give her +cowman up; but <a name="page347"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +347</span>Prosser’s family pride—a well-known +quantity—had been so deeply wounded that he had threatened +to shoot the fellow on the spot and let his daughter’s name +go hang. The men enjoyed the joke against Prosser; the +women were agreed that proud creatures such as Marion usually +found their own level by some such violent means. The +principal question of interest that remained was where Marion +would go to hide her shameful condition.</p> +<p>In every stratum of local society from that of Lesswardine +Court to that of the newly-married Mrs Badger at the Pentre, the +incident was discussed; but nobody in the district heard it with +more triumph and satisfaction than old Mrs Malpas of the +Buffalo. By this time the whole village was so used to her +vilifications of Mary that they were scarcely taken seriously, +for village opinion, even when it is censorious in expression, +is, as a rule, charitable in deed. Now that she found +herself armed with a new enormity to reinforce the old, she set +herself steadily to the task of making it impossible for Abner to +find work. She determined to drive him out of the district, +for in this way she knew that Mary and her children must undergo +the suffering that they deserved and that Abner’s devotion +had spared them.</p> +<p>With incredible patience she made it her business to interview +every farmer within five miles of Lesswardine and to beg him, or +failing him his wife, to refuse employment to such a scandalous +character. The Wesleyan minister at Chapel Green, who +regarded Mrs Malpas as one of the principal pillars of his +church, helped her in this, and only the laziness of the vicar of +Mainstone prevented his wife from making him a party to the same +plan. Abner, in his ignorance, was faced by a deliberate +boycott. The men who spoke him fairly, when he asked them +for work were prepared to see him and the family that he +supported starve before they gave it to him.</p> +<p>For a whole month this heart-breaking business went on. +When first Abner began to look for work Mary had greeted him +every evening with enquiring eyes, Now she no longer dared ask +him what had happened during the day. The monotony of +unfulfilled promises <a name="page348"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 348</span>told on him. He began to avoid +her society and to shrink from that of the children, trying to +exhaust his strength with long walks afield and cutting wood for +Mrs Mamble and old Drew as well as for their own household. +She pitied him with all her heart, but dared not show him pity +lest it should tax his courage too heavily. Money was +running short. She starved herself in order that he and the +children might not lack, and thus found herself dragged into a +vicious circle, for her sacrifice lessened her own resistance and +made her temper uneven and liable to be irritated by +Abner’s moroseness. They did not speak of their +troubles, but neither of them could see what the end would +be.</p> +<p>Wolfpits, in its utter isolation, was the last place in the +district that rumour ever reached. It was five weeks after +Abner had left The Dyke when Mrs Mamble heard the cause of +Abner’s dismissal and whispered it to Mary. In a +normal state she might have borne it, but her exhaustion made her +an easy prey to jealousy. One evening Abner found her +unusually pale and speechless, and asked her what was the matter +with her.</p> +<p>‘I’ve only just heard the truth,’ she said, +scarcely controlling her passion.</p> +<p>‘What about?’ he asked innocently.</p> +<p>‘About why you left The Dyke. Why didn’t you +tell me?’</p> +<p>‘I did tell you. You know as well as I +do.’</p> +<p>‘You never said a word about Marion. Not one +word!’</p> +<p>‘Who’s been putting that rubbidge into your +head?’ said Abner angrily.</p> +<p>‘Rubbish!’ she repeated. ‘You can call +it that now! But if you’d left the girl alone we +shouldn’t be where we are now, not knowing where to look +for a shilling and the children likely to want for +bread.’</p> +<p>‘You’ve got a maggot in your head, missus,’ +he said. ‘Why I left The Dyke’s got nothing to +do with Miss Marion, so don’t you think it.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, I’m tired of you!’ she cried. +‘It’s no use your telling off your lies to me. +I’m dead sick of you and your women . . . you and your +Susie Hinds and Marion <a name="page349"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 349</span>Prossers! Running after loose +women with your eyes shut and never a thought for those that keep +themselves decent like me. And if there was another caught +your eye to-morrow, you’d be up and away after her the +same. You’re no better than an animal! Like the +rest of men: they’re all the same!’</p> +<p>She stood up to him, trembling with rage. At that moment +she was ugly, and rising to the violence of her challenge, he +hated her. He lost sight of her weakness. All he saw +was her impudent provocation. An answering anger fumed up +into his head and carried him away so that he could easily have +struck her. He came towards her with his hand lifted.</p> +<p>‘Don’t! Don’t!’ she shrieked in +terror.</p> +<p>He dropped his hand and walked straight out of the room. +Left alone, she was overborne with shame for what she had done, +and cried for her lost dignity. Never in her life had she +so abased herself. ‘But he lied to me! He lied +to me!’ she told herself. ‘If he hadn’t +lied to me it wouldn’t have happened!’ Little +by little the turmoil of her thoughts abated and she began to +remember his goodness, his patience, all that she owed to +him. ‘If he had struck me,’ she thought, +‘I should have deserved it.’ She almost wished +that his hand had fallen, for nothing less than a blow could have +justified her violence and her base ingratitude. The only +thing with which she could comfort herself was a firm +determination that she would never offend him again. By +nothing but the most complete sacrifice of her feelings could she +repay him a thousandth part of what she owed him.</p> +<p>After that day she never uttered one complaint, though the +tale of her sufferings increased beyond the bounds of +endurance. To their hardships she turned a front of steel, +but to Abner himself she was as tender as she dared to be. +The consciousness of this discipline sustained her. She was +a new woman, worn and anxious but invincibly cheerful; and Abner +himself took heart from her courage.</p> +<p>Winter fell upon them. The snow-bound ramparts of the +hills came nearer to them, encircling the valley with a clear-cut +beauty. The colours of life faded <a +name="page350"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 350</span>from the +land, and every farm was like a fortress of stone, close-barred +against the assaults of rain and icy wind. The fields lay +cold and dead; the sap sank downward from every frozen +branch. There was no colour in all the land but a brilliant +mockery of red berries on brier and holly and thorn. +‘There’s a tarrable lot of berry this year,’ +said old Drew. ‘I reckon we’m in for a hard +winter again.’</p> +<p>And so the remotest possibility of finding work on the farms +drifted away from Abner. The few labourers who moved about +the fields, the solitary teams at plough, seemed glued to the +frozen surface of the land, stirring sadly as in a dream. +In spite of the kindness of their neighbours, so delicately shown +in the gifts of roots and bundles of wood that old Drew carried +home on his bent shoulders, the family at Wolfpits felt the pinch +of cold and want. Mary, true to her resolution, uttered no +word of complaint, but her face told Abner what she was suffering +so plainly that he could not bear to look at her. One night +he left her and spent the evening with old Drew in his bedroom, +drinking the labourer’s home-made poison till his brain was +fuddled and his limbs, for the first time, were warm. Mary +heard him stumbling up the stairs at night, but when they met +next morning she did not reproach him.</p> +<p>Her little store of money was nearly gone. One day, +racking her brains for some new expedient to stave off the +inevitable end, she remembered Mrs Malpas’s visit and the +story of the fifty pounds which George had stolen from the +Buffalo on the eve of his imprisonment. She wondered, +desperately, if the old woman was right, and he had hidden it in +some corner of the house. She began to search, with the +fierce enthusiasm of a seeker after treasure. She spent all +her energy in turning the bedroom and kitchen inside out; she +looked into the chimneys, for she had heard that money was +sometimes hidden in such places. By the end of the day she +was utterly exhausted but had found nothing. ‘At any +rate,’ she thought, ‘the place looks +tidier.’ A poor consolation!</p> +<p>That night it occurred to her that if only she could get as +far as Shrewsbury she might pawn some of her <a +name="page351"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 351</span>wedding +presents, particularly a set of plated tea-things which her +father, lavish in the expenditure of other people’s money, +had given her. They made a clumsy parcel, difficult to +conceal, and in order to spend as little as possible on the +railway fare she decided to walk over the hills towards Clun and +catch a train on the branch railway. She left the children +in Mrs Mamble’s care, and slipped away without letting +Abner know that she had gone. In Shrewsbury a sad +discouragement awaited her. The man in the pawnshop sniffed +at her property. ‘This kind of thing’s gone out +of fashion,’ he said. ‘If you’d brought +it here five year ago I might have done better for you. +Twenty-five shillings’s all it’s worth.’ +The sacrifice hurt her, but she accepted his figure. The +fare home to Llandwlas left her with a guinea in hand, and on +that money they existed for more than two weeks. She only +prayed that Abner would not notice the blank in the cupboard from +which she had taken the silver, but she need not have been +frightened, for Abner had no eye for things of that kind. +One imprudence, however, nearly betrayed her. On the way to +the station at Shrewsbury she had seen a box of oranges newly +imported for Christmas and had not been able to resist the +temptation of buying two for the children. Next day Abner +saw them on the table.</p> +<p>‘Oranges?’ he said, his eyes shocked by her +extravagance.</p> +<p>She lied quickly.</p> +<p>‘Yes, Mrs Hendrie met me on the road and gave me them +for Morgan and Gladys.’</p> +<p>Afterward, in the curiously sensitive state of her conscience, +this lie troubled her. He himself was so open with her that +she felt it almost a duty to tell him the truth. She +brooded over the question for several days, but in the end it +sank into insignificance before the fact that they had no money +left. Looking at her empty purse she felt that she could +face the situation no longer. She dared not ask for credit +in any shop in Mainstone, for she suspected that all the +shop-people must be aware of her plight. Greatly daring, +she made an expedition to Lesswardine and entered a +grocer’s <a name="page352"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +352</span>with whom she had not dealt since the days before her +marriage. The man had been a friend of her +father’s. Perhaps that would count for something.</p> +<p>It was Saturday night, and the shop was buzzing with +people. The grocer, flurried with work, scarcely nodded to +her, and she was nearly leaving the shop in fright when a new +assistant whom she did not know asked her what he could serve her +with. Fortunately, she had dressed herself with care and +looked respectable. She ordered blindly, lavishly, and the +smart young man dumped her purchases on the counter with a +flourish and dashed off the bill with a pencil that he carried +behind his ear in a hieroglyphic of his own.</p> +<p>‘Cash or account, madam?’ he asked rapidly.</p> +<p>‘Account,’ she murmured.</p> +<p>‘Certainly. What was the name?’</p> +<p>‘Mrs Malpas, Wolfpits.’</p> +<p>‘Of course,’ said the young man, excusing +himself. ‘Pardon. Shall we send +them?’</p> +<p>‘To-morrow’s Sunday, isn’t it?’ she +said. ‘I think I’d better take them with +me.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you, madam. Very kind of you,’ said +the assistant, making a large blue-paper parcel, which he handed +her over the counter with an obsequious bow.</p> +<p>She picked up her parcel and fled, thankful that the grocer +was too busy to notice her. She felt that the eyes of all +the women were on her and that they knew her for a thief. +Also she knew that she could never attempt this adventure +again.</p> +<p>So the end came, or what they thought must be the end. +They sat together one night in the kitchen at Wolfpits, and both +of them knew that they were beaten. A fire burned brightly +in the hearth—in this thickly wooded valley they need never +lack warmth—the room seemed cosy and almost gay in the +firelight, showing no signs that they had fallen from prosperity, +for though Mary had paid three more visits to the +pawnbroker’s and now felt hardened to the adventure, she +had always managed to conceal the deficiencies in the furniture +by some new arrangement. On her last journey to Shrewsbury, +hurrying to the station under the walls of the jail, the idea had +struck her that she might be forced <a name="page353"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 353</span>in the end to pawn her wedding ring, +and she had laughed bitterly to herself. Much good had it +done her! The idea had only struck her as a whimsical +prospect. She had too much common sense to allow herself to +be driven to this conventional expedient. She knew that +they could not go on indefinitely stripping the house of its +furniture. It would be far better to face the facts. +If Abner could not find work, and there seemed no probability of +his doing so, the best that they could do was to part. He +must leave her, and she, pocketing her pride, must apply to the +relieving officer, whom she had once shown to the door, for money +from the parish. She knew that it must come to this, and +yet she could not bring herself to tell Abner. She had +settled in her mind that the proposal must come from him, and for +the present he seemed numbed, worn, incapable of thinking. +He sat opposite her in silence with an empty pipe between his +teeth staring at the fire. After a little while she found +herself silently weeping, and turned her face away from him, +blowing her nose to hide her tears.</p> +<p>Some one knocked at the door, and she cried: ‘Come +in!’</p> +<p>It was old Drew. They were not surprised. By this +time they were used to the labourer’s visits. Often, +in the evening, he would drop in with the excuse of having a talk +with Abner, though most of the talking fell to Mary, and then, +just as he was on the point of leaving, he would produce from one +of the vast pockets in his coat some article of food that he had +picked up at the farm. They knew so well this delicate +subterfuge! At first Mary had been amused by it, and more +than a little touched. Now she only waited impatiently to +see what the old man had brought.</p> +<p>That night it seemed as if he would never go; but just when +they had reached the point when it seemed that the eggs or +turnips must appear, he turned to Abner and told him that he had +some good news for him.</p> +<p>‘Good news?’ said Abner. ‘It’s a +long time since I’ve heard anything of that.’</p> +<p>‘I was talking about ’ee to Mr Willums,’ +said Drew, <a name="page354"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +354</span>‘and told en that you was in a purty bad +way. “Well, Drew,” says he, “if +it’s as bad as that, I don’t say we mightn’t do +something. There do be a heap of stones scattered over the +top fields as us might well be rid on. It do be a +boy’s work, ’tis true, but Fellows might be glad of +it.”’</p> +<p>Mary flushed with pleasure and clasped her hands. +‘I’d be glad of anything,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘Well,’ the old man went on, ‘I do reckon +that there be no more’n a fortnight’s work there, and +a poor, niggling job that’s like to break your back at +that. But I thought you’d be glad of it, and I told +en so. So up you comes along with me at six o’clock +to-morrow morning, for I told en you’d come for sure. +Threepence an hour he’ll pay ’ee. That makes +twelve shillin’ a week. ’Tis not much, but +’tis something.’</p> +<p>They thanked him without reserve, but he shook his head at +them. ‘I don’t know as it’s me you have +to thank,’ he said. ‘’Tis your old mother down +to the Buffalo as you’d ought to be grateful to. Mr +Willums have took it into his head as giving Abner work would +make her mazed. He’ve never forgive her over that +cider, and never will. He’s a long memory, Mr +Willums.’</p> +<p>When he left them Mary was so full of an emotional +thankfulness that she could not speak. Abner went to bed +cheerfully. She heard him whistling in his room above +her.</p> +<p>Next morning his work at the Pentre began. As Mr +Williams had said, it was a boy’s work by rights and +unfitted to a man of Abner’s strength. At first sight +it seemed like one of those labours which malignant kings impose +upon their daughters’ suitors in fairy tales. The +Pentre was a large farm of miserable land. Its uppermost +cultivated fields reached nearly to the crown of the smooth hills +at the valley head, ending abruptly at the foot of stony +screes. From these unstable precipices the winter torrents +rolled down many stones, flat rocky fragments that impeded the +plough. Nor were these all, for the soil was so thin, that +every ploughing turned up thousands more, and in winter the +fields were overspread with a pale bloom of stones.</p> +<p>At this season of the year the uplands were always <a +name="page355"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 355</span>cold, +enwrapped in icy vapours or glistening with frost that glued each +fragment to the ground. Abner’s task was to clear +these stubborn acres of their surface stones: an endless labour, +for no sooner had he picked the surface over than new stones +appeared. No convict labour could have been more +monotonous, more thankless, nor, as it seemed, more futile. +From dawn to sunset he worked in loneliness. No single +human figure approached him all day long except that of Mr +Williams, whom he would see coming like a speck in the lower +distance urging his pony upwards. When he reached Abner the +farmer would stay scowling at him for a few minutes. He was +a surly man, and rarely spoke except on Monday evenings after +Ludlow market. Then, having satisfied himself that Abner +was not shirking, he would turn away and walk his pony down the +hill again.</p> +<p>There was never any fear that Abner would not work. It +was only by violent exertion that he could keep any heat in his +body, for his food was poor, and the winter, as old Drew had +prophesied, severe. He toiled there in rain, in sleet, in +snow, and in blinding mist. The pay was so poor that he +knew he could not afford to miss a day, picking up stones with +numbed and ragged fingers when no other labourers were +afield. Every evening he walked home dead tired, scarcely +knowing if his legs were his own, for the continual stooping took +all sensation away from them.</p> +<p>Once, in the dusk, he lost his way, for he had tried to +shorten his journey by a cross-cut. He found himself +suddenly on the brink of the sea-crows’ pool, but not a +bird was to be seen, for in winter they returned to their homes +on the Cardigan coast. His memory of what had happened +there was as hazy as that of a dream. It seemed to him that +he had lived half a lifetime since that night. He stumbled +down through the fog and passed the door of Badger’s +cottage. A light burned in the window, and he thought he +saw Susie moving in the parlour. He laughed to himself and +damned her . . . damned all women. Another evening on his +way home a dog-cart overtook him coming over the hills from +Clun. It had passed him before he saw <a +name="page356"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 356</span>that its +occupants were Marion Prosser and a young farmer named Maddy, +whom Abner only knew by sight. They bowled by him at a good +pace. He wondered if she had recognised him, for he had +been in their sight for some time. If she had, she made no +sign of having seen him. And again he hardened his heart +against all women.</p> +<p>And yet, though he did not know it, the sight of Abner +trudging homeward down the lane had awakened a palpitating +interest in Marion’s heart, and inspired her with a sudden +distaste for the man who was sitting in the trap beside +her. She looked down on him from the height of the +driver’s seat, seeing his mean shoulders, the thin nape of +his neck, and his small foxy face in profile. She felt that +she would like to lash at him with the whip that she held in her +hand; but since she knew that ladylike young women did not do +such things, she flicked him with the lash of her tongue +instead.</p> +<p>‘That was Fellows, our cowman, Fred,’ she said, +knowing that the name would wound him.</p> +<p>He gave an ugly laugh. ‘I know him. He had +the face to come and ask me for work. I soon gave him the +right-about!’</p> +<p>‘You!’ she cried scornfully. +‘You’re not fit to talk to him! He’s +twice the man that you are.’</p> +<p>He flushed. ‘Look here, Marion, who the hell do +you think you’re talking to?’ he said, clutching her +arm with a show of strength.</p> +<p>‘Don’t!’ she cried. She wrenched +herself free and slapped his face. The horse broke into a +canter.</p> +<p>‘That’s not the way to get yourself +married,’ he said.</p> +<p>She would not reply to his insult and they drove to The Dyke +in an uncomfortable silence.</p> +<p>Next day she set out deliberately to meet Abner on the +road. She called ‘Good-evening’ to him, but he, +still smarting under the discomfort of Mary’s outburst, +would not answer her. She followed him and took him by the +arm.</p> +<p>‘Abner,’ she said. ‘Will you ever +forgive me? I don’t like to think of the way we +parted.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t bear you any ill-will,’ he +said. ‘That’s all over and done +with.’</p> +<p><a name="page357"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +357</span>‘I want you to think of me as a friend,’ +she said. ‘Abner, if ever you’re in need of +money . . . if you want money now . . . I wish you’d take +it from me.’</p> +<p>He laughed. ‘I’m in work now,’ he +said. ‘You’d best leave us alone. We +don’t want your money.’ His resentment burst +out afresh. ‘Nor you neither,’ he added.</p> +<p>She controlled herself. ‘Very well. +That’s understood,’ she said, and left him without +another word.</p> +<p>She walked home violently in the dusk, thinking of the +desperate mess she had made of her life, wondering if she could +ever bring herself to marry a man with sloping shoulders and a +squeaky voice like Fred Maddy. What did it matter? +What did anything matter?</p> +<p>Mr Williams had reckoned that the top fields would provide +Abner with a fortnight’s work. He had merely given +him the job to satisfy a passing whim of inflicting a pin-prick +on Mrs Malpas, and had told him from the first that he could not +continue to employ him when the work was done. Luckily for +Abner at the end of the fortnight half the fields remained +uncleared. Mr Williams recognised that he had worked well, +and decided to keep him on, for perhaps another ten days. +The expense was trivial, and the job worth doing. +Christmas, his second Christmas at Wolfpits, intervened, but by +the third of January Abner’s work at the Pentre was nearly +finished.</p> +<h2><a name="page358"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 358</span>The +Twenty-Third Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Once</span> again the situation had to be +faced. This time Abner was in no doubt as to what must be +done. Those lonely days on the cold upland had given him +time to think. He now realised that as far as finding work +in the Lesswardine district went he was definitely beaten, and +that every day that he spent at Wolfpits must make him more and +more a drag upon the resources of the family. The obvious +thing for him to do was to turn his early experiences at Mawne to +account, to set off southward for the coal valleys and work as a +miner underground. On the Welsh coalfield, wages ran high +and he might be sure of earning enough to keep himself in comfort +and to supply the Wolfpits household with a living that would +seem luxurious after their long privations. In solitude +this determination had been easily made, and the feeling that +something definite was in view had made him happier and better +pleased with himself; but when he left the Pentre and came to lay +his plans before Mary, his course did not seem so clear or so +free from complications.</p> +<p>During their three months of hardship their relations had +undergone a curious change. Mary’s outburst of +jealous anger when she learned the true cause of his dismissal +from The Dyke, had swept through her like a storm, stripping her +heart of its hidden grudges and reservations. It passed, +leaving her weak, bewildered, and yet happy. It was as if +this sudden tempest, while almost destroying her, had snapped the +last threads that bound her to her old life. All the past +was broken. It rolled away from her in a tumult of spent +cloud, and in the serene silence that followed she came to +herself, realising that she was alone in the world with Abner and +her children. It was like the bewildered calm that comes +after an escape from death; the hushed birth of a new world; a +strange, unearthly quiet.</p> +<p>In this new state she found herself most eager to atone <a +name="page359"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 359</span>for the +endless, wordless contest that she had waged against him. +She knew that she could never repay him a hundredth part of what +he had given her and suffered at her hands. The money was +nothing. What he had sacrificed for her was his freedom, a +hard denial for a man in the prime of youth. And so, +thinking gratefully of his goodness toward her and of his +unfathomed patience, she began to dwell tenderly on other aspects +of the man: his splendid, supple strength, his honest eyes, the +straightness and simplicity of his whole nature, and to compare +them, instinctively, with what she knew of her husband: his +superficial charm, his persuasive manners, and his callous heart: +all those qualities that she had been taught by bitterest +experience to hate and to mistrust. It was in this light +that Abner seemed to her most wonderful. And she had used +him like a shrew! Every natural impulse of kindness in him +she had checked and thwarted! Pride had made her thankless; +prudishness had hardened her. She was detestable, and if he +hated her she had only herself to thank for it.</p> +<p>But did he hate her? She hoped, fervently, that he did +not. She could not bear that he should hate her. It +pained her even to think that she owed his kindness to the fact +that he had given some promise to George, and in the simplicity +of his nature felt that he must redeem it. She knew that he +was fond of the children and could not bear to see them suffer; +but that was not enough for her. Her new being craved for a +personal devotion. If that were not forthcoming she felt +that she would have little left in the world, that her life must +be finally bitter and useless. And she knew that she was +far too young for any such finality. She hated the pride +that had brought her to this, and resolved to proclaim her new +humility by every means in her power.</p> +<p>Abner himself was sensible of the change in her attitude +toward him. During the time of his work at the Pentre, he +became aware of it. Little by little, for she was far too +cautious to make the change a sudden one, she was demolishing the +barrier that she had built so carefully between them, and he, +reluctantly, had <a name="page360"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +360</span>accepted. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they were +nearing once more the point which they had reached in a moment of +stress and abandonment on the night of the white mist six months +before, the moment when he had seen her transfigured, or rather +revealed, as the one woman in the world whom he wanted, body and +soul.</p> +<p>In all those hard days not a single chilling word passed her +lips, not a single intolerable silence drove him away from +her. Her kindness made her beautiful, but the nearness of +her beauty frightened him and he withdrew himself, having once +cruelly burnt his fingers at that flame. He was happy, but +could not trust his happiness, not because any scruples of honour +pricked him, but because he feared a new rebuff.</p> +<p>Even though he dared not believe in her submission he could +not escape the influence of her tenderness. The lean days +were the best he had ever known at Wolfpits: even if he had had +money to spend he would not have gone elsewhere, and every moment +that brought him nearer to the inevitable parting on which he had +decided, made the idea of it more painful and more +difficult. It now seemed to him monstrously unreasonable +that when such complete happiness was in his grasp he should +wilfully renounce it. And yet, what else could he do? +A sense of the futility of her kindness made him shrink from +it.</p> +<p>She saw what was happening, knew that she deserved it, and in +order that she might justify herself she now tried to play on his +affection for the children, to create an atmosphere of +interdependence among the four of them, to bind him closer to her +with a web of many strands each so slender that he need not be +aware of the process. But he felt the light pressure of the +net in which he was being entangled; he struggled to free +himself. And she saw the convulsions of his struggle and +feared to lose him. The thrill of this new, half-hidden +conflict held her.</p> +<p>On the Saturday night before his last week at the Pentre, he +kept back five shillings of his earnings. By working from +dawn till sunset each day he had managed to put in many hours of +overtime, so that he was able to give her half a sovereign +clear. It seemed to him a <a name="page361"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 361</span>good opportunity for breaking the +news of his plan to her. Sooner or later the word must be +spoken. She held the gold coin in her hand and looked at +him inquiringly.</p> +<p>‘You’ll be two bob short this week,’ he +said, ‘but if any one knows how to manage, you do. +After that I reckon things’ll begin to look up a +bit.’</p> +<p>She flushed with a sudden pleasure.</p> +<p>‘Abner!’ she cried. ‘You don’t +mean to say that Mr Williams is going to keep you on?’</p> +<p>‘Not he!’ said Abner. ‘There’s +not more than four or five days left of the stone picking, and I +can tell you I’m not all that sorry. My back’s +fair broke at it! No, I’m thinking of a change. +I might stay on round here a year before I find another job worth +calling one. They’ve got a down on you and me, these +farming chaps, them and your old mother. There’s only +one thing to be done as I can see. And that’s what +I’ve kept five bob back for to-night.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t understand, Abner,’ she said, +understanding only too well.</p> +<p>‘Of course you don’t. Well, I’ll tell +you. While I’ve been up on the hill I’ve had a +good few hours for thinking. I’ve reckoned it all up +square. There’s about four month as you’ll have +to hang on here afore old George comes out, and you can’t +keep the lot of us for four odd month on nothing. +That’s clear enough, bain’t it?’</p> +<p>She assented.</p> +<p>‘So I thought like this. What’s the use of a +chap of my sort, that’s learned a trade and all, and can +pick up good money at it, going round cadging work from a lot of +beggars that don’t mean to give it me? I’ve had +a bellyful of farmers’ promises, I have, and I tell you +straight!’</p> +<p>Again she said: ‘Yes . . .’</p> +<p>‘And so this is how I see it. The only thing left +for me when I’ve finished along with old Williams is to +take a turn down Swansea way.’</p> +<p>‘Swansea?’ she cried.</p> +<p>‘That’s it. I looked it up Sunday in the +time-table on Llandwlas station, and asked about the fare. +You <a name="page362"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 362</span>go +down through Builth and Brecon and Neath, and five bob’ll +do it. There’s plenty of work going in the Western +Valleys, they say, and good money and all. You can pick up +two pound ten a week, without killing yourself either. They +say lodging’s dear, but I reckon I can send you a clear +pound easy: postal orders you can change at Mainstone and nobody +know where they come from. I ought to have done it +before. I know that. But now it looks like as if +there’s nothing else.’</p> +<p>While he spoke he was walking up and down the little room, +never looking at her. Her eyes followed him, but her heart +fell within her. He finished and faced her. She could +scarcely answer him.</p> +<p>‘You mean that you must go away . . . leave +me?’</p> +<p>‘That’s the ticket,’ he said. ‘I +ought to have done it afore. If I had they’d have +left you alone.’</p> +<p>‘But you can’t,’ she said. ‘You +can’t!’</p> +<p>‘You can’t live on nothing,’ he said +brutally.</p> +<p>She could not listen to reason. She was beyond reason +now.</p> +<p>‘No, no,’ she cried. ‘Abner, you +mustn’t go!’</p> +<p>He set his will against her. She stood and trembled +before him, but he would not face her for fear that he should be +softened. He kept silence.</p> +<p>‘You can’t,’ she cried again. ‘I +couldn’t face it . . . the loneliness! I +couldn’t, really! This place . . . all alone. +No, Abner, you can’t!’</p> +<p>‘It’s not for so long,’ he reassured +her. ‘What’s four month? After that +you’ll have George back again.’</p> +<p>‘George!’ she cried. ‘Oh, don’t +speak of it! You’re cruel!’</p> +<p>Her words came as a shock to him. It was now many months +since they had spoken of George. Since the evening of his +letter she had not even mentioned his name to the children nor +encouraged Abner to talk about him. Abner saw the fateful +direction in which the tide was drifting, and held steadily to +his course.</p> +<p>‘It’s not so long since,’ he said, +‘that you told me to go away if I wanted to. The time +they tried to get you to go and keep house for the parson. +I reckon you’ve changed about a good bit since +then.’</p> +<p>‘Of course I’ve changed,’ she said. +‘I was a fool then. <a name="page363"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 363</span>I didn’t know what I +wanted. It’s different now.’ She paused, +and then returned instinctively to her first words. +‘You can’t! You can’t!’</p> +<p>‘You’re talking wild,’ he said +brusquely. ‘I’ve thought it all out. +It’s the only thing. You’ll have the comfort +you’m used to, you and the kids. You won’t find +it all that lonely with your stomachs full. It’s the +bad times we’ve been having that makes you talk like +that.’</p> +<p>Still she protested. ‘No, no, it +isn’t. I couldn’t bear it. It’s +like taking the life away from me.’</p> +<p>He didn’t wait to think what she meant. He was +angry that she should increase the difficulty of his parting.</p> +<p>‘It’s no good talking to you,’ he said, +‘if you can’t see sense. I can’t take you +along with me, can I?’</p> +<p>‘Why not?’</p> +<p>She stood before him, meek, submissive. He was +overwhelmed. Through all those months he had schooled +himself so thoroughly that this sudden, voluntary surrender +staggered him. His heart melted within him; the blood beat +in his wrists. The past shrivelled away in that +moment’s flame. The future was a blaze of light, and +in the present he saw nothing but the woman of his desire. +There had been no one like her. In all his lighter loves he +had been able to see himself from without as a creature fevered +with appetite. But now he was lost. He knew nothing +in the world but Mary: her softened eyes, the curve of her lips, +the thrill of her yielding body. He picked her up in his +arms, holding her so that her breath came quickly on his cheek, +and strained her toward him as though, by doing so, he might make +her a part of himself. Even if he killed her with his +strength in that moment she was made his, clasped immutably to +him in the surrounding darkness. Their lips were joined in +eager kisses. Her proud body gave itself to his arms. +Her eyes were closed: her lips infinitely happy.</p> +<p>‘Mary, Mary . . .’ he whispered to her, rejoicing +in the sound of her name. But his voice was strange, +distant, thick with passion, and his clasping hands could not be +certain that they held her. They followed every <a +name="page364"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 364</span>curve of +her body, seeking to know if it were really she. His tongue +stumbled on phrases that had never come to him before.</p> +<p>‘Mary, my little one, my beauty! Did I use you +rough? Did I hurt you?’</p> +<p>She shook her head and smiled back at him, full of +content. She herself, shyly daring, allowed her hands to +caress his head, stroking his hair, his ears, his neck. And +the light contact of her fingers maddened him, finding strange +nerves that had never felt before, awakening new yearnings.</p> +<p>At last she opened her eyes.</p> +<p>‘The lamp’s flaring,’ she said, in a +curious, toneless voice. Smiling gently she freed herself +from his arms and turned down the wick. He followed her, +feeling that she was escaping him. Never again should she +escape him. Obedient to his will she came back to him.</p> +<p>‘Us bain’t gooin’ to wait for the parson, +bin’ us?’ he said, and when she would not answer: +‘Durs’n’t you, wench? We’ve waited +above a bit, us two!’</p> +<p>‘There’s the children,’ she said, lowering +her eyes. ‘I thought I heard Morgan cry out in his +sleep.’</p> +<p>‘Bless them!’ he said. ‘And +don’t I love every bone in their bodies as if they was my +own?’</p> +<p>‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know. And +they’re so fond of you.’</p> +<p>‘It’s because they’m yours,’ he +said. ‘So what does it matter?’</p> +<p>‘Don’t ask me. Poor sweet lambs! Oh, +Abner, where am I?’</p> +<p>‘You’m here with me, wench! In my +arms. You belong to me, Mary. There’s nought +can take you away from me. I don’t let you go now +I’ve got you. Not a minute, not a second!’</p> +<p>‘I can’t take it in,’ she said. +‘If Mrs Mamble could see through the wall! To think +of all that people have said of us!’</p> +<p>‘They can say it again. They’re welcome +now! Talk? They can talk their damned heads +off. We’ve been through all that!’</p> +<p>‘I should just think we have,’ she sighed. +‘They can’t touch us now. Abner! +Abner!’</p> +<p><a name="page365"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 365</span>She +clung to him and kissed him again and again. ‘Ah, +Abner, don’t ask me!’ she said. ‘Just let +things happen as they will.’</p> +<p>She hid her face against him.</p> +<p>‘But afterward,’ she whispered. ‘What +can we do? How can we get away, Abner? I feel as if +something might stop us. Let’s get away at +once. Let’s go. I can’t bear +waiting!’</p> +<p>He laughed at her. ‘To-night?’</p> +<p>‘No, to-morrow.’</p> +<p>‘Nobody will know it’s any different till +we’re gone,’ he said. ‘They can’t +say worse of us than they have done.’</p> +<p>‘They will. . . . Of course they will. They +can’t help seeing. Mrs Mamble . . . an old woman like +that sees everything. I shall look different. I know +I shall, if it’s only that I’m happy.’</p> +<p>He laughed as he kissed her. ‘Bin yo’ happy, +my love?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, Abner!’</p> +<p>‘Three or four days’ll see me finished up at old +Williams’s. He done us a good turn, and don’t +you forget it. Besides that you couldn’t get ready by +to-morrow. You’ll take a few days over that, and +I’ll go on and look for a home.’</p> +<p>‘No, no, Abner!’ she cried. +‘Don’t leave me now! Don’t you leave +me! If ever I lose sight of you now something will +happen. I know it as sure as sure.’</p> +<p>‘You’m a baby, that’s what you are!’ +he said, teasing. He gathered her up in his arms and talked +foolishly to her.</p> +<p>‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I +mean it. I’m as serious as I can be.’</p> +<p>‘A damned sight too serious for me!’ he +grumbled.</p> +<p>‘We must all go together. In three days I can be +ready. No, two.’</p> +<p>‘In that case every one’ll see us. +You’m all the other way now.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t care who sees us now,’ she said +passionately. ‘What does it matter? Let it take +its chance! It’s nothing to us. I’m so +sick of their talk that it means nothing to me.’</p> +<p><a name="page366"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 366</span>She +became thoughtful once more.</p> +<p>‘Abner,’ she said suddenly, ‘tell me truly, +when did you first want me?’</p> +<p>Again he teased her.</p> +<p>‘What does that matter?’</p> +<p>‘I want to know,’ she protested.</p> +<p>And he told her of the night at Redlake when he had stood +burning in the moonlight beneath the jasmine-covered windows of +the inn.</p> +<p>‘I knew, I knew!’ she said softly. ‘I +couldn’t sleep that night. The time we’ve lost, +us two! Oh, how I hate myself! It was nearly the same +with me. Just when we’d missed our way and my legs +ached so that I felt I couldn’t walk another step. +Poor little Morgan, and the bottle of pop you promised him! +And then those strange sea-birds crying up in the dark. Do +you remember how I turned on you and told you I hated the sight +of you? That was when I loved you. Then and ever +since.’</p> +<p>‘We’ve been through something, one time and +another,’ he said.</p> +<p>She laughed softly.</p> +<p>‘It’s like a long courtship,’ she +said. ‘George and I only knew each other six weeks +before we were married.’</p> +<p>It amazed her to find that now she could speak of George +without discomfort. Her mind ran swiftly over those early +days.</p> +<p>‘Abner,’ she said, ‘I feel sorry for George +now, don’t you?’</p> +<p>‘Don’t speak of him!’ said Abner +seriously.</p> +<p>‘You’re jealous . . .’</p> +<p>‘Don’t speak of him. I gave old George my +word. I’ve not been a pal to George.’</p> +<p>‘You’re a funny boy,’ she said, loving him +with her eyes.</p> +<p>‘I want to forget old George,’ he said +obstinately.</p> +<p>‘Then I won’t speak of him, Abner. What time +is it?’</p> +<p>She put her hand into his waistcoat pocket and took out his +watch. The sweet familiarity of the action entranced +him. His eyes followed her fingers, and the newly conscious +turn of her head as she looked at it.</p> +<p><a name="page367"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +367</span>‘Ten o’clock,’ she said. +‘Who’d have thought it?’</p> +<p>She rose, and again she abandoned herself to his arms. +Then she left him suddenly and went before him, never looking +back. He followed with the little lamp in his hand. +At the foot of the stairs he stopped.</p> +<p>‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered, +turning. ‘Aren’t you coming?’</p> +<p>‘There’s a step outside,’ he said. +‘Some one on the garden path.’</p> +<p>‘Whoever can it be at this time? Take the light to +the door and see.’</p> +<p>The darkness of the staircase engulfed her as he opened the +kitchen door and peered outside.</p> +<p>‘Who’s that?’ he called.</p> +<p>‘Is that you, Abner?’ a voice replied. +‘Now I thought I see’d a light. I guessed +you’d have gone up over by this.’</p> +<p>‘What do you want, Mr Drew?’</p> +<p>‘You wait while I do get my breath back,’ said the +old man. He had evidently been drinking and walked +unsteadily. ‘Ah, that’s better! Well, +Abner, I’ve a’ been down to the Buffalo to-night for +a quart, and I thought as how I’d bring ’ee a bit of +downright good news I heared. Yes, old Mrs Malpas +she’ve got news from Shrewsbury—whether it be by +letter or word of mouth I can’t say for certain—as +young George have behaved himself so well into prison that +they’m going to knock off part of his time. Any day +this week he may be coming home along, so they says, and I +thought I’d better bring the news quick to his +missus.’</p> +<p>‘Coming home . . .?’ said Abner, dazed.</p> +<p>‘Yes. ’Tis not onusual, they do say. +If she’s abed you can tell her in the marnin’. +Wish ’ee good-night, Abner.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll tell her. Thank’ee for looking +in.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, that’s nothing! ’Tis only +natural. Good-night!’</p> +<p>‘Good-night, Mr Drew.’</p> +<p>He closed the door. The light fell on Mary, standing +pale at the foot of the stairs.</p> +<p>‘He’s coming back,’ said Abner.</p> +<p>‘I heard. When?’</p> +<p>‘He couldn’t say certain. In a day or +two.’</p> +<p><a name="page368"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +368</span>‘Abner!’</p> +<p>‘Well, there it is! We’re only just in time, +my girl.’ She stood mute, paralysed. He wished +she would speak.</p> +<p>‘It’s no good your standing there,’ he +said. ‘Go on up. I’ll hold the +lamp.’</p> +<p>She did not move.</p> +<p>‘I can’t take it in,’ she said.</p> +<p>He put the lamp down on the table again and held out his +arms.</p> +<p>Still she did not move.</p> +<p>‘Mary . . .!’</p> +<p>She obeyed, came to his arms, shuddering, shaken with sobs, +and through her tears he kissed her, comforting: ‘Mary, +don’t cry now, don’t cry . . .’</p> +<p>‘What did I tell you?’ she wailed. +‘Abner, I knew, I knew! I told you something would +happen. Thank God it came in time! We’ve not a +minute to think. Two or three days! Abner, we +<i>must</i> go to-morrow.’</p> +<p>He did not answer her, for his mind was deeply troubled.</p> +<p>‘I think I can manage if you leave it to me,’ she +said. He held her closer. ‘What does it matter +if we take nothing away? Only just a few clothes for me and +the children. I can leave everything tidy, just as it was +when he went.’ She hesitated, for she remembered the +tea-set that she had pawned in Shrewsbury. He would miss +that. Then she realised, thankfully, that it was her +wedding present, not his.</p> +<p>‘Nearly everything,’ she said. +‘Don’t you think it’s better that we should +start with nothing? In lodgings at first. Won’t +it be strange?’ She laughed softly. ‘And +not a soul to know! It’s beginning life all over +again. Oh, Abner, my love!’</p> +<p>So she spoke, confidently, at times almost gaily, and he made +believe that he was listening to her, humouring her +childishness.</p> +<p>‘And isn’t it lucky,’ she said, ‘that +Mr Drew’s working up at the Pentre. You won’t +need to go there yourself. If you get up early you can +catch him before he goes and send up a message to the farm. +It isn’t as if it <a name="page369"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 369</span>mattered your breaking your word to +Mr Williams. People must make allowances, mustn’t +they?’</p> +<p>He did not answer her, and she became conscious of his +brooding.</p> +<p>‘Abner! What’s up with you? Tell +me! You’re frightening me. Abner!’</p> +<p>‘We can’t go to-morrow,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘But, Abner, we must, we must! Two or three days, +he said. He might even be a day early. He might come +to-morrow. Think of it, Abner! I should +die.’</p> +<p>‘If George is coming home like that we can’t +go.’</p> +<p>‘Abner, are you mad? What’s come over +you?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know. Naught’s come over +me. It’s hearing his name sudden like that. +It’s like a judgment. It makes you think.’</p> +<p>‘Judgment!’ she scoffed. ‘Oh, Abner, +haven’t we thought enough? Haven’t we been +thinking for six months? I’m sick of +thinking!’</p> +<p>‘Like a warning. Just the very second. If +he’d come an hour later . . .’</p> +<p>‘What’s the difference, Abner? If he’d +come to-morrow or in a week’s time it would be no +different. We’d made up our minds, Abner, we’re +not children. Things like that don’t count. +Whether you’ve had me or not, I’m yours. You +know that.’</p> +<p>She clung closer to him, but his mind would not accept the +sway of her emotion. He freed himself from her hands, and +the movement swept her into a passion.</p> +<p>‘Abner!’ she cried. ‘Don’t do +that! Don’t! You’ll kill me . . . kill +me!’</p> +<p>‘George is my pal,’ he said stolidly. +‘I gave old George my word. We shook hands on it, +George and me. “Abner,” he said, +“you’m the only pal I’ve got that I can +trust.”’</p> +<p>‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ she cried, and her +voice went shrill. ‘That’s it? What +children men are! Gave George your word! Don’t +you see that you’ve broken your word already . . . broken +it long ago, ever since you thought of me like that? And +then you say you love me! That isn’t love, Abner, not +my kind anyway!’</p> +<p>He caught her up in his arms, and she could not speak now for +tears. His own face was anguished.</p> +<p><a name="page370"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +370</span>‘You’d better kill me and have done with +it,’ she sobbed. ‘Far better. Oh, why +don’t you kill me right out if you’re going to leave +me? I wish I were dead! I do! Abner, if we +don’t go away to-morrow I shall lose you. I know it . +. . I know it! For my sake, Abner! I’ve had so +little happiness.’</p> +<p>He fondled her as she spoke. ‘I’m not going +to leave go of you,’ he said. ‘Don’t you +ever think that!’ He kissed her tearful face. +‘But I gave old George my word,’ he continued +obstinately.</p> +<p>‘Oh, damn your word!’ she cried, violently +wrenching herself away from him.</p> +<p>‘Don’t get wild,’ he protested. +‘Listen to me.’</p> +<p>‘I won’t listen. You’re talking +wickedly, madly.’</p> +<p>‘You’ve got to listen, my girl!’ He +took hold of her and held her with his strength. ‘A +chap may go back on his word. Every one knows that. +But a man that’s worth calling don’t go slinking away +behind another chap’s back like a dog. If old George +is coming home he’s got to hear what I say to his face, not +find the place empty and say I’ve run away from him. +Me and George has got to have this out.’</p> +<p>‘Then take us away first,’ she pleaded, ‘and +come back to see him afterward.’</p> +<p>‘You’m talking soft now!’</p> +<p>‘I’m frightened, Abner . . . +frightened!’</p> +<p>‘You’ve no need to be while I’m here. +I can look after myself and you too. I’m going to see +old George and tell him straight. You may like it or lump +it. That’s my way.’</p> +<p>She wept, inconsolable. She would not let him comfort +her. She hoped that her tears would soften him.</p> +<p>‘Can’t you do just one thing for me, Abner? +You’re cruel . . . cruel! You don’t love +me. That isn’t love.’</p> +<p>‘I’ve got to do it my own way.’</p> +<p>‘You might just as well kill me.’</p> +<p>‘I’ve never run away from a man yet.’</p> +<p>‘If you don’t take me away from here now,’ +she said desperately, ‘you’ll never have me at +all. Never! I know it, Abner, it’s our last +chance.’</p> +<p>‘It’s been too much for you,’ he said. +‘You can’t see anything clear. I’m not a +chap that changes.’</p> +<p><a name="page371"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 371</span>She +stared at him in silence with sad, resentful eyes. Then she +lost control of herself and began to curse the clumsiness of old +Drew, who had blundered in on them with his drunken gossip in the +middle of the night. ‘I’ll never forgive +him!’ she cried. ‘Never!’ She +shouted like a drunken woman. Then she stopped and listened +intently, just as an animal listens in suspicion. Morgan, +awakened by the sound of raised voices, had begun to cry.</p> +<p>‘It’s Morgan,’ she whispered.</p> +<p>‘You’d better go to him,’ Abner replied.</p> +<p>She put her hands to her face.</p> +<p>‘Don’t!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Abner, +don’t! You’re driving me!’</p> +<p>‘Go on!’ he said roughly. ‘I’ll +put the light out. Got the matches?’</p> +<p>She saw that he meant it, and blindly went.</p> +<p>Slowly, methodically, Abner locked the kitchen door and put +out the light. A moment later he himself went upstairs in +the dark. Morgan was still sobbing, mechanically, for the +sake of hearing his own voice, and as Abner passed the door he +was aware of a soft moaning which told him that Mary was crying +too. His heart ached, his body yearned for her; but in his +brain George Malpas’s words re-echoed: ‘By God, +you’re the only pal I’ve got that I can +trust!’ In a day or two George would be home, and +then the situation must be faced. He could not be a man and +run away from it.</p> +<p>He got into bed. Lying there in the dark, listening to +the ceaseless creaking of the boards and joists, he cursed +himself for a fool. His body was on fire. He knew +that he could not possibly sleep, and guessed that Mary surely +was awake. He was a damned, soft fool, and nothing +more! Lying there with eyes open, staring at the darkness, +it seemed to him that he heard a soft step on the stairs. +The latch of his door started. His heart dissolved within +him. He leapt out of bed, trembling, tingling in every +limb. Mary had been wiser. He knew it. She had +come to him for comfort. She was his. In a moment she +would be sinking warm into his arms. His scruples vanished +like a puff of smoke. He heard himself swallow, heard his +breath <a name="page372"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +372</span>coming in short grunts. He opened the door to +meet her, to take her. The stair was empty and dark. +A rat scuttled away in the wainscot. A dank, wintry air +possessed the house. He slammed the door to, viciously.</p> +<p>Next morning, before Mary had stirred from her bed, he had set +out as usual for the Pentre.</p> +<h2><a name="page373"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 373</span>The +Twenty-Fourth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">On</span> the same day, at noon, George +Malpas paraded before the Governor of Shrewsbury Jail to take his +discharge. The interview was short, almost friendly. +The prisoner had behaved well throughout his term, the chaplain +had reported on him as a young man of superior intelligence, and +for these reasons a remission of a quarter of his sentence had +been recommended and sanctioned. From the governor’s +office he was marched across the rigid quadrangle that he knew +and hated to another room where he signed a receipt for the +personal belongings that had been taken from him in the +Lesswardine police-court and now miraculously reappeared. A +warder checked them as each was handed out:—</p> +<p>‘One watch. Silver chain with medal. One +packet of letters. One notebook and lead pencil. One +steel foot-rule, folding. Four shillings and twopence, +silver and copper. One pocket-knife.’ He +paused. ‘Is that all?’</p> +<p>George Malpas was seized with a sudden anxiety. He tried +to speak; but long familiarity with the ways of warders made him +frightened to use his tongue.</p> +<p>‘Not half!’ said the other, with a wink. +‘One leather wallet. Fifty pounds in Bank of England +notes.’</p> +<p>‘God! That’s something like!’ said the +other, handing it to George with a wink.</p> +<p>He thrust it into the breast pocket of the coat which had been +placed that morning in his cell, and the action gave him an +unfamiliar thrill. What a thing it was to have pockets!</p> +<p>‘Well, Malpas, it’s good-bye, then,’ said +the warder, who was also a humorist. ‘Look in any +time you’re passing!’</p> +<p>George Malpas did not smile. They showed him out of a +small doorway at the side of the arch under which the prison vans +came grinding in. From his cell he had been able to hear +the sound of the horses’ shoes sliding on the stone. +He saw a street along which <a name="page374"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 374</span>free men were moving with a rapt, +purposive hurry. Sometimes a passer-by would turn and look +up idly at the great nail-studded doors and the fan of spikes +that surmounted them. George had never seen the gateway +before. He only knew the jail as a heavy building +dominating the hill above the station. When they had +brought him handcuffed from the train, humiliated, wondering if +it were worth while wrenching himself free and throwing his body +on the rails, they had driven him to the prison in a black +van. Now he stood undetermined, not knowing which way to +take. Over the hill-side the city of Shrewsbury sprawled: +spires, chimney-pots, towers, and smoke stacks blowing in a free +and windy sky. Not a leaf on the trees, and black, +unfriendly dust whirling along brick pavements.</p> +<p>He shivered. For some reason his newly-pressed clothes +hung loose and damp upon him. He must have lost +flesh. Of course he had lost flesh. Who +wouldn’t after fourteen months in jail? A cart came +slowly past him with a load of horse manure. A good smell . +. . a country smell! The driver cracked his whip, and the +noise made George Malpas jump. That was a bad sign +surely! The sooner he got a drink and steadied his nerves +the better. He looked up and down the road for the sign of +a public-house. A hundred yards away a strip of hoarding +with gilt letters topped the sky-line of a red brick +building. Astill’s Celebrated Entire, it said. +Brummagem beer was better than nothing. He crossed the road +with long strides, but a dog-cart driven fast down the middle of +the street made him pause. There was a bicycle behind it, +and he did not think he could avoid both. People should not +be allowed to drive so furiously.</p> +<p>He reached the public-house and thanked God for his +escape. He felt that in gaining the shelter of its walls he +was doing more than sheltering from the bitter wind and the +dust. He grew surer of himself, cracked a joke with the +barmaid, and paid for his beer. The florin that she +tendered him in change for a half-crown looked like a foreign +coin. He examined it suspiciously.</p> +<p>‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘One +of these new ones. It’s quite a change to get the +Prince of Wales’ head, <a name="page375"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 375</span>isn’t it? I don’t +think he looks half the man of King Edward.’</p> +<p>‘No,’ he agreed. ‘No, he +don’t.’ He examined the coin, bewildered. +Then, fearing that she must read the whole of his story in his +ignorance, he pocketed his money and darted out into the street +again. It was strange how a broken habit reasserted +itself. He put his hand in his unfamiliar waistcoat pocket +and pulled out his watch. Nine o’clock. That +was impossible. He laughed, realising that his watch had +run down at its usual winding time on the night of his +arrest.</p> +<p>‘I’m like a fool,’ he thought. +‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m +dull, useless. I want another drink.’</p> +<p>Gradually, under the influence of the liquor, his confidence +returned. It must be market day in Shrewsbury, he thought, +for the streets were so full of people; but reflection told him +that Shrewsbury market is not held on a Monday and that the crowd +that moved on the pavements of the steep high street was no more +than the normal week-day traffic. It gave him a thrill of +pleasure to realise that people were not staring at him. He +was encouraged to slacken his pace, to walk no longer as if some +one were pursuing him. He stared in several shop windows, +and at last found himself gazing at his own image in a long +mirror. It gave him a start to find himself facing an +elongated lath of a man that he did not know, until he realised +that the mirror was a convex affair placed as an advertisement +outside an eating-house to emphasise the contrast between a man +who had fed there and one who had not. It was not such a +bad idea. He would go in and eat his first square meal.</p> +<p>The place was nearly empty, for Shrewsbury does not dine till +one o’clock. They brought him steak and kidney +pudding, the best that he had ever tasted, and a pint of half and +half. He began to feel a man again. He called the +waiter for a second drink and ordered, with it, a local +time-table. Looking through it at leisure he found that the +trains to Llandwlas had not been altered, though there was now +time to get a drink in the change at Craven Arms. If he +caught the afternoon train he would have time to look about +Shrewsbury <a name="page376"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +376</span>for another two hours and see to certain business +matters that were in the back of his mind.</p> +<p>He paid his bill, gave the waiter a liberal tip, and walked up +the hill past the half-timbered houses to the main street. +He wondered if the place was where it used to be. Yes, it +was still there. It pleased him to think that he +hadn’t lost his memory. Nothing would have surprised +him after all those useless, numbing months. Above the shop +door was the inscription: ‘Emigration Office.’ +Inside, a long counter, backed by posters of shipping companies, +and a single yawning clerk who had been left in charge during the +luncheon hour. He asked George what he could do for +him.</p> +<p>‘Canada,’ said George. ‘I want to know +all about it.’</p> +<p>The young man produced a sheaf of circulars and began to +explain. He found it difficult to place the applicant, his +pale face, his hat jammed on his head to hide the prison crop, +his equivocal hands.</p> +<p>‘Are you a mechanic?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘No. Farmer.’</p> +<p>The clerk stared at him. ‘Farmer? You want +to buy land?’</p> +<p>‘No, I don’t. I want to work on it. I +have a little money.’</p> +<p>‘Married?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Taking the missus with you?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘And children?’</p> +<p>‘No children.’</p> +<p>‘You have to get two references for an assisted passage, +you know,’ said the clerk, producing a form.</p> +<p>‘Never mind that. I can’t wait for any +rubbish of that kind. What’s the fare, +steerage?’</p> +<p>The clerk looked it up. ‘Liverpool, Quebec. +That’s what you want,’ he said. ‘Then you +get right over to Calgary if you take my advice. I’ll +write it all down for you.’</p> +<p>He did so, in a sloped, flourishing hand, on the back of one +of the circulars. ‘You’ll get the Allan boat +from Liverpool Saturday week,’ he said. George +thanked him and plunged out into the street.</p> +<p><a name="page377"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 377</span>At +the station he bought a daily paper, the North Bromwich +<i>Courier</i>. As usual on Monday it was full of +football. Albion at the top of the first league: Notts +Forest, second. Strange clubs from the Southern League had +invaded that sanctuary: the season was half over, and they were +shaping well. He read words that meant nothing to +him. He could not concentrate, for he had drunk as much as +was good for him. The platform seemed to him a noisy, +exposed situation; for he could not yet be at his ease in a +crowd. He started at the sound of a familiar voice speaking +the word Lesswardine. A man passed him in a drab +covert-coat: Mr Prosser of The Dyke, talking to young +Maddy. They had not recognised him. He slipped into a +urinal to avoid them and waited there till he heard the +south-bound train roll in. Then he made a dash for a +non-smoking carriage and hid himself behind his newspaper in the +corner. The train was not full, and to his great relief no +one entered his compartment.</p> +<p>They started smoothly and soon left Shrewsbury behind. A +wintry landscape unfolded on either side of him: the low bow of +the Wrekin; Caer Caradoc, a sheer crag on the left; the cloven +bastions of the Long Mynd. He threw up the window and drank +in great draughts of hill air. He laughed to see the green +of the fields and the gray, monstrous hills. But he knew +that he was a stranger. The country that he rejoiced to see +had rejected him. If he lived to be a hundred not a single +man of his acquaintance would forget that he had spent a year in +jail. As soon as he should have left Craven Arms the hills +would fold him in, draw him within the confines of his old +life. He was free, but this could never be a real +freedom. A wider country, a new life, Canada. . . . +He was dying for a drink.</p> +<p>At Craven Arms the satisfaction of this desire did not seem +easy, for others were before him in the Refreshment Room and +every moment his chance of meeting Lesswardine people +increased. He took a flask of brandy from the counter and +paid for it without waiting for the change. The local train +stood humbly in the siding. He chose a carriage already +full of Radnor farmers whom he did not know. He drank <a +name="page378"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 378</span>down the +whole of his flask of brandy, and then fell into a kind of doze +lulled by the sing-song voices of his companions. The train +twisted along the valley in the dark, pulling up with a jolt at +every upland station. At Llandwlas he turned out in a hurry +and handed his ticket to a new porter, who stood at the gate in +the dusk swinging a lantern. Men were shouting, driving +bullocks into a pen. A trap was waiting with the lamps +already lit. He avoided their light, but guessed by the +colour of the horse and the erect figure of the driver that +Marion was waiting for Mr Prosser. A year before he might +have dared to ask for a lift to Chapel Green. God, how +strange, how hauntingly strange the country smelt!</p> +<p>An hour later he staggered into the bar at the Buffalo. +Mrs Malpas, a withered, pathetic figure, half the size of the +woman whom he remembered, gave a cry and ran to meet him.</p> +<p>‘My son, my son!’</p> +<p>He kissed her, laughing heavily, blowing gusts of brandy into +her eyes. She would not think of the spirit in his +breath. Her hands caressed his face. She turned him +to the light to see if he were changed.</p> +<p>‘Oh, George, you’re that thin! They +haven’t fed you proper.’</p> +<p>He freed himself from her. ‘How’s +dad?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘The same as ever, George.’</p> +<p>‘Poor old devil!’ he said.</p> +<p>She drew him into the bar-parlour where the old man was +sitting.</p> +<p>‘It’s George, my dear,’ she cried +excitedly. ‘It’s our George!’</p> +<p>George slapped his father on the back: ‘Don’t you +know me, dad?’</p> +<p>The old man only mumbled.</p> +<p>‘He’s gone downhill,’ said George. +‘You’ve been with him all the time. You +don’t see the change like I do.’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps,’ she said listlessly. She could +not keep her eyes from her son. ‘You’re thin, +George, so thin!’</p> +<p>‘Then give us a drop of beer, mother. +That’ll help fatten me.’</p> +<p>She could not refuse him. While she was filling the <a +name="page379"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 379</span>tankard at +the counter old Drew and another labourer from the Pentre who had +been driving Williams’s bullocks to Llandwlas station came +into the bar.</p> +<p>‘My son’s home,’ she told them gaily. +‘And so thin! It’s a scandal. They starve +them.’</p> +<p>‘So I’ve always heard tell, ma’am,’ +said Drew, with a wink. ‘Here’s his +health.’</p> +<p>‘Who’s that?’ George asked anxiously. +He still found it difficult to resist the impulse of hiding +himself.</p> +<p>‘I didn’t see,’ Mrs Malpas lied.</p> +<p>She gave George his beer, and he settled down to it. The +two labourers spoke spasmodically in the bar.</p> +<p>‘Well, mother,’ he said at last. ‘Tell +us how things have been going on.’</p> +<p>Mrs Malpas pursed her lips. ‘Going on! +That’s the word. I wrote to you, George. You +got my letter?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I got that all right.’</p> +<p>Mrs Malpas grew intense. Her hands trembled with +emotion. ‘She’s a bad woman, George. +Downright bad. I told you so before.’</p> +<p>‘There’s not another kid waiting for me, no +surprise packet of that kind?’</p> +<p>‘No. But she’s that deceitful, George. +She’s no better than her father. She couldn’t +have used you worse than she has. So open! You never +made a worse mistake.’</p> +<p>‘You let me teach her!’ said George between his +teeth. ‘I’ll learn her her bleeding +duty!’</p> +<p>‘Don’t swear, George!’</p> +<p>‘You ought to be more shocked at her than me!’</p> +<p>‘And that Fellows is no better. Rotten bad. +Always going after women. There’s Susie +Hind.’</p> +<p>‘God! He’s welcome!’</p> +<p>‘And Mr Prosser’s daughter. They had to turn +him off The Dyke.’</p> +<p>‘Her?’ George laughed. ‘He’s a +proper young bull!’</p> +<p>‘And all the time living as man and wife with +Mary. Laughing at you, the two of them, behind your +back.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll see to that!’ said George +grimly. The liquor was spreading in hot fumes through his +brain.</p> +<p>‘But you won’t go up to-night, George,’ she +said anxiously.</p> +<p><a name="page380"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +380</span>‘Won’t I? You bet I will.’</p> +<p>‘You’d best stay here, George. Don’t +you go near her. She’ll talk you round.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll shut her mouth for her. And I’ll +get level with him too!’</p> +<p>The old woman grew alarmed.</p> +<p>‘Don’t go near them, George,’ she +pleaded. ‘There’s a home for you here. +Leave them to it. They’re not worth taking the notice +of.’</p> +<p>‘What about the kids, eh?’</p> +<p>‘Fellows will have set them again you. They +won’t know you. You see!’</p> +<p>‘That’s what I’m going to do.’ +He grew excited. ‘And I tell you, if I have to do +time again I’m going to put that b— on his +back!’</p> +<p>He put down his tankard with another oath. One of the +drinkers in the bar knocked at the counter.</p> +<p>‘Keep still till I’m back, George. I +won’t be a minute,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘Get us another pint, then,’ George grumbled.</p> +<p>She took his tankard, and having given the labourers their +change and wished them good-night, she brought it back to him +filled. God would forgive her this sin. Even if he +were drunk she wanted to keep him at the Buffalo, for she dreaded +Abner’s strength. When she returned he was still on +his feet, talking indistinctly to the old man, who was shaken by +a fit of coughing that choked him. She thumped his +back.</p> +<p>‘That’s right, dad,’ said George. +‘Better out than in!’ The joke appeared to +please him.</p> +<p>She drew him down gently to his chair and gave him the +tankard.</p> +<p>‘Sit down, my dear,’ she said. ‘I want +to talk to you.’</p> +<p>‘I’ve done talking,’ said George +obstinately. ‘Let me get at him: that’s what I +want. Let me get at the dirty pair of them!’</p> +<p>She bent over him and whispered in his ear.</p> +<p>‘The money, George,’ she said. ‘Where +did you put it? She told me you hadn’t hid it in the +house, but I reckon she lied to me, or they couldn’t have +lived all this time with him out of work. They must have +got at it. Where did you put it, my son?’</p> +<p><a name="page381"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 381</span>He +stared at her with affected stupidity. ‘What +money?’</p> +<p>‘Fifty pounds. Out of my box. I guessed it +was you that had it. That’s why I didn’t dare +tell the police.’</p> +<p>He laughed. ‘Good old woman! I knew you +wouldn’t. You’re a good mother. +I’ll say that for you.’</p> +<p>‘Then you can give it back to me. Give it to me, +my son.’</p> +<p>His cunning returned to him.</p> +<p>‘I’ve lost it, mother. Every penny. +It’s gone.’</p> +<p>‘Gone? Fifty pounds? You couldn’t lose +it, George.’</p> +<p>‘You try backing horses, and you’ll see,’ he +said.</p> +<p>‘Racing, too!’ she cried. ‘Oh, George, +George! It was all I had.’</p> +<p>‘Well, you’ve got me, mother,’ he +said. ‘What more do you want? It’s no +good crying over spilt milk.’</p> +<p>She came to his arms, weakly sobbing, and clung to him.</p> +<p>‘Now don’t go crying all over me,’ he said +thickly. ‘Loose me! I’m going.’</p> +<p>‘George, you mustn’t go, dear. You’re +not fit.’</p> +<p>‘I tell you I’m going. Leave hold of +me!’</p> +<p>‘George!’</p> +<p>‘Do you say I’m drunk? I’ll show you +if I’m drunk!’</p> +<p>Still she clung to him. He gave her a push and she went +over into the hearth with a clatter of fire-irons. The old +man began to wail in a high-pitched voice: ‘Help! +Help!’</p> +<p>‘Shut your damned mouth, you!’ said George.</p> +<p>He blundered out into the bar, knocking against the end of the +counter and bringing down a tray of glasses with a crash. A +freakish idea seized him. He took the key from the door and +locked it on the outside. He shook with laughter at the +joke.</p> +<p>A young moon sank slowly over the misty woodland. He +stopped in the middle of the road and solemnly turned over the +packet of banknotes in his pocket for luck. Drunk? +Not he! He was sharp enough to think of everything. +He turned his uncertain steps toward Wolfpits.</p> +<p><a name="page382"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +382</span>Before him, with half an hour in hand, old Drew went +pounding along the same road as fast as his rheumatic knees would +let him. He reached Wolfpits breathless and knocked +violently at Mary’s kitchen door. She was upstairs, +putting the children to bed. Morgan was tucked in already, +and Gladys was having her hair brushed. Panic seized Mary +when she heard the old man’s knock. Those rapid blows +seemed to her to herald catastrophe. She ran downstairs and +came to the door with an ashen face.</p> +<p>‘Hey, missus,’ Drew panted. ‘Be Abner +in there with ’ee?’</p> +<p>‘No, he’s not back yet,’ she said, +relieved. Then, as a new fear chilled her: +‘Isn’t he at the Pentre?’</p> +<p>‘Most like he be,’ said Drew, slowly regaining his +breath and leaning on the doorpost. ‘I’ve been +a driving they bullocks to Llandwlas station.’</p> +<p>She looked at the clock. It was a little earlier than +Abner’s usual hour of return.</p> +<p>‘Better wait if you want him. Take a seat, Mr +Drew. He’ll be back in a few minutes.’</p> +<p>‘You must stop ’en . . . you must stop +’en!’ said the old man impressively. ‘If +he come down over the field I shall meet ’en myself. +But often he do come by the road. You must send some one to +stop ’en that way.’</p> +<p>‘Stop him? What do you mean?’ she cried.</p> +<p>‘You must stop ’en. Your George be coming up +from the Buffalo, mad with the drink. You must stop +Abner. Keep him away, or there’ll be murder done, +sure ‘nuff! Murder! You take my word for +it!’</p> +<p>‘How can I stop him? What can I do, Mr +Drew?’ she cried.</p> +<p>‘Go yourself, missus. Or send Mrs Mamble. +Her’ll run along for ’ee.’</p> +<p>‘No. I must wait for George,’ she said.</p> +<p>An inspiration came to her. She took a piece of paper +and scribbled a note to Abner, telling him that George was +coming, begging him, for her sake, to keep out of the way until +she had seen him. Then she called upstairs: +‘Gladys!’ and the child came down with her hair +plaited for the night.</p> +<p><a name="page383"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +383</span>‘Come here, my darling,’ she said. +‘Put your shoes on. I want you to go down to the +corner and meet Abner and give this to him.’</p> +<p>‘Isn’t it rather dark, mam?’ said Gladys, +thrilled by the prospect of adventure. She shivered.</p> +<p>‘No, my darling. There’s a lovely moon, +isn’t there, Mr Drew? Just wait at the bottom of the +drive till he comes, or go a little way up the road. Let me +put your coat on.’</p> +<p>She helped the child into her overcoat and kissed her. +Gladys took the note. ‘Won’t our Abner be +surprised?’ she said, as she went.</p> +<p>‘I’d best bide along with you, missus,’ said +old Drew darkly.</p> +<p>‘I’d rather you went, Mr Drew,’ she +replied. ‘I know you mean it kindly.’</p> +<p>‘Well, my dear, I’ll be going on up to the +Pentre. Maybe I’ll meet Abner up the fields. +Shall I send Mrs Mamble in to ’ee?’</p> +<p>‘No. Mrs Mamble’s out: gone to the shops in +Lesswardine. I’d rather be alone when he comes. +It was good of you to warn me.’</p> +<p>He left her, and she waited. Her brain followed the +messenger down the avenue step by step. She realised that +the most awful moment of her life was upon her. She +wondered if she ought to pray. She could not pray. +What right had she, a guilty woman, to call on Divine help? +She must fight for herself. She looked at the clock. +Barely two minutes had passed since she had looked before. +Surely Abner could not be long.</p> +<p>Her strained ears heard steps in the distance. She +peered out into the moonlight. Two dim figures were +visible. Abner, in his obstinate folly, had seen her note +and refused her warning. Even now there was time to stop +him. She dared not call, for it struck her that George +might well be coming up behind him. She stood, trembling +with impatience, waiting for him to come within earshot. +The figures of the man and the child became more distinct. +His gait was unsteady but too fast for Gladys, who ran at his +side. He carried her note unfolded. The paper showed +white in the moonlight. They came toward her, and she saw +that <a name="page384"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 384</span>it +was George. A cry came from her lips. He left the +child behind him, stalked straight into the kitchen and flung his +hat on the table. He was as pale as death; his cropped head +shaped like a skull. The walk had partially sobered +him.</p> +<p>‘Go straight upstairs, Gladys,’ she called.</p> +<p>‘It’s dad, mam. I give him Abner’s +note.’</p> +<p>‘Go upstairs as I tell you!’</p> +<p>Gladys’s mouth fell. ‘Why, mam?’ she +faltered.</p> +<p>George pulled a chair toward him and flopped into it. +‘You be said!’ he shouted.</p> +<p>The child ran upstairs, frightened. George sat on, his +eyes staring savagely at her out of his sunken orbits.</p> +<p>‘Well, Mary,’ he said at last. ‘This +is a bloody fine game!’</p> +<p>She could not speak for her increasing terror. She had +never felt so frightened of him in her life. ‘He +looks like a criminal,’ she thought.</p> +<p>‘Speak up,’ he said. ‘What’ve +you got to say for yourself. What’s the meaning of +this?’ He held out her note. ‘Tell him to +keep away, would you? You dirty bitch!’</p> +<p>‘George,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t +believe all people tell you. You know your mother’s +against me!’</p> +<p>‘Hold your noise about my mother! She’s a +good woman, she is, and a good wife. The likes of +you’s not fit to go near her. I know what’s +been going on here without her telling me. Sleeping with +the lodger! Don’t you deny it, or I’ll bash +your mouth in for you!’</p> +<p>‘Never, George, never!’ she cried, passionately +righteous. ‘I swear by God as I’m standing +here, it never came to that.’</p> +<p>‘You can swear by the devil for all I care. +I’ve finished with you. It’s him I +want!’ His voice left him. He cleared his +throat and spat viciously in the fire.</p> +<p>Mary pulled her senses together. ‘George,’ +she said, ‘have you ever known me tell you a +lie?’</p> +<p>‘I never knew a woman who wouldn’t,’ he +said, with a laugh.</p> +<p>She let his speech pass. ‘Imagine the hard times +we’ve had,’ she went on, ‘and not so much as a +word <a name="page385"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +385</span>from you! Not a penny in the house! The way +he’s worked for us and suffered for us, and all for the +sake of the word he gave you. There’s not a man in a +million who’d have done it! And all for +nothing!’</p> +<p>‘All for nothing!’ he mocked: ‘tell that to +some one else!’</p> +<p>‘Without him we should have starved . . . me and the +children. Can’t you see that for yourself? And +yet you believe the first word that’s spoken against him +and me. You ought to go down on your knees to him and thank +him for what he’s done. If it hadn’t been for +him you’d have found us all in the workhouse. George, +you must believe me!’</p> +<p>‘Oh, shut your bloody mouth!’ he said, rising +clumsily.</p> +<p>‘George, you must!’ she repeated. She put +her hand on his shoulder, but he pushed her away. Both of +them heard a step on the path. She made a last, desperate +effort. ‘George, if you touch him . . . ‘ she +cried. ‘If you . . .!</p> +<p>Abner stood in the doorway. His face was solemn and +heavily lined. The sight of Malpas did not seem to disturb +him.</p> +<p>‘Hallo, George,’ he said, in a thick voice. +‘How goes it?’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you talk to me!’ said George, +threateningly. ‘You wait till I’ve told you +what I think of you, you damned swine!’</p> +<p>Abner flushed.</p> +<p>‘Steady, George! Go steady! We’ve got +to talk this over. You sit down.’</p> +<p>‘There’s a sight too much talk about the both of +you,’ George snarled. ‘When you’ve broke +up a man’s home behind his back and then tell him to take a +seat in it. I’m going to give you your lesson before +you get kicked out!’</p> +<p>He made a threatening movement toward Abner, who watched him +closely. Spider came dancing into the room. She leapt +up at Abner with little yelps of joy at his return, licking his +hand. At this sight the anger that smouldered in +George’s brain leapt into flame.</p> +<p>‘Not only the wife and the kids,’ he cried. +‘You’ve <a name="page386"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 386</span>got round the lot of them, even the +bleeding dog!’</p> +<p>He snatched up the poker and hit out at Spider. Abner +took the blow on his thigh.</p> +<p>‘Here, drop that!’ he cried.</p> +<p>But George’s senses had left him. He flew at +Abner, raining desperate blows at his head.</p> +<p>‘George! You’ll kill him!’ Mary +screamed.</p> +<p>Abner had picked up a chair and protected himself as best he +could. For a second the two men stood staring at one +another, panting for breath. Then another gust of anger +swept over George and he made for Abner again. Mary tried +to throw herself between them, but Abner flung her aside. +The legs of the chair were splintered under George’s +blows. He continued to lash out, and it was as much as +Abner could do to defend himself. He saw that the +man’s flushed brain meant murder, nothing less. +Somehow he must put an end to this madness. George’s +hobnails slithered on the stone flags. Abner took his +chance, and timed his blow. George went down with a groan: +his poker sang like a tuning fork on the floor.</p> +<p>‘Abner, Abner, what have you done?’ Mary +cried. She ran to George and bent over him, pulling up his +head. Abner, with black blood dripping from a bruised vein +on his forehead, stood back. The corners of his mouth +twitched with his violent breathing: he still held his chair +uplifted.</p> +<p>‘It was him or me,’ he panted.</p> +<p>‘He’s dead! You’ve killed +him!’</p> +<p>‘Not he! That sort don’t die.’</p> +<p>But he himself was anxious for a moment and stooped over +George’s body, breathing heavily.</p> +<p>‘No. He’s all right,’ he said. +‘Just knocked out. I’ve been like that +myself.’</p> +<p>‘What can we do?’ she cried, staring at him with +frightened eyes.</p> +<p>‘Leave him alone. He’ll come +round.’</p> +<p>‘I sent you a note by Gladys,’ she said +inconsequently. ‘He met her and took it off +her. I’d told you to keep away.’</p> +<p>‘If I’d had it it would have made no +difference. <a name="page387"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +387</span>You can’t stop a thing like this. Get up +and put your things on. I’ll keep an eye on +him. Get the children dressed and all.’</p> +<p>She stared at him as though she couldn’t take in what he +was saying. She was still holding one of George’s +inanimate hands that she had clutched in her first anxiety. +‘Dress them, Abner? What do you mean?’</p> +<p>‘It’s time we cleared. He won’t +hurt.’</p> +<p>‘But I couldn’t leave him like this!’</p> +<p>He took her arm. ‘Do what I tell you. Go +on! The sooner we clear the better.’</p> +<p>‘Abner, we can’t turn out in the middle of the +night.’</p> +<p>‘That’s all right. You won’t come to +no harm. I’ll look after you.’</p> +<p>‘Abner, I can’t!’ she wailed. +‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’</p> +<p>‘It’s either go now or stay altogether. I +can’t stop here. That’s clear enough. If +you and me are going together we must go now.’</p> +<p>‘Abner, my dear, I can’t face it. Not after +this. Abner, I’m too frightened to move a step. +And if he died . . .’</p> +<p>‘I tell you he’s all right. He’ll come +round sober. If I was to wait for that there’d be no +end to it. It’d begin all over again.’</p> +<p>She gazed at him, anguished.</p> +<p>‘Abner, my love, I daren’t. Don’t you +understand? They’ll follow us. They’re +bound to. The police . . .’</p> +<p>‘It’s no good thinking of that,’ he +said.</p> +<p>She began crying softly, there on the floor above the +prostrate body. Her fingers mechanically stroked +George’s hand. The action irritated Abner. He +could not look at her. He took a cloth from the table and +mopped the blood that was running into his eyes. He propped +himself up with the table edge, for he was still giddy from +George’s blow on his temple. A sudden vision came to +him of another kitchen, another man lying on the floor, another +woman crying. The room swam before him. He steadied +himself and sank down into a chair. The sense of time left +him. He could not be certain where he was or in what period +of his life. <a name="page388"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +388</span>A shrill singing noise was in his ears. Through +it, distantly, he heard the clear tone of a clock striking eight; +and this recalled him to life, to the room that he had lost in a +blur of confused memories, to the sound of Mary’s +sobbing. He remembered that he had been speaking, but could +only repeat the last words that had left an echo in his memory: +‘It’s no good . . .’</p> +<p>‘What?’ he heard her ask.</p> +<p>‘Wasting time over this. If you’re coming +you must come now. Now or never.’</p> +<p>She neither moved nor answered him. He felt sorry for +her: bent over her, pressed her to him. She turned her face +away.</p> +<p>‘I can’t, Abner . . . not now,’ she +whispered. ‘I can’t think: I can’t +feel. Oh, why didn’t he kill me . . . why +didn’t he kill me?’</p> +<p>He would have lifted her to her feet, but she lay a dead +weight in his arms. All power of volition had left +her. She sank back again limply, shaking her head from side +to side. Her hair had become loose. It hung down over +her shoulder.</p> +<p>Abner felt that he must do something to break the paralysing +spell that held them.</p> +<p>‘I’m going, Mary,’ he said. ‘I +can’t stay. Let me help you up! Come along +now!’</p> +<p>She shook her head. ‘It’s no use, +Abner.’</p> +<p>‘There’s naught left for you here that I can +see. It’s only you and the kids I want to look +after.’</p> +<p>She could only go on sobbing: ‘It’s no use . . . +it’s no use!’</p> +<p>‘Well, I’m no judge. Maybe yo’m +right,’ he said.</p> +<p>He turned from her and went upstairs to collect a few of his +belongings. On his way down again Gladys came timidly to +the door of Mary’s room and called his name. Her +piteous fragility touched him. He took her in his arms and +kissed her.</p> +<p>‘Where are you going, Abner?’ she whispered. +‘Where’s mam?’</p> +<p>He picked the child up and carried her to her cot, telling her +that she must be a good girl and go to sleep. Morgan was +sitting up with his fingers in his eyes, <a +name="page389"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 389</span>crying +mechanically. ‘You look after our Morgan till mam +comes,’ he told her.</p> +<p>He came down into the kitchen.</p> +<p>‘Mary . . .’ he said.</p> +<p>She did not answer. He went to her and put his arms +round her neck.</p> +<p>‘Good-bye, lass,’ he said.</p> +<p>Her sobbing increased, but she would not raise her head. +He wanted to pick her up in his arms as he had picked up Gladys, +to carry her away with him; but he knew it was useless. He +kissed her again, then rose and went to the door, closing it +softly behind him. The cold air revived him. He drew +it gratefully into his lungs. He was conscious of a strange +physical lightening, as though a material load had slipped from +his shoulders.</p> +<h2><a name="page390"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 390</span>The +Twenty-Fifth Chapter</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Behind</span> him Wolfpits lay brooding in +the moonlight on its departed life. He did not turn to look +at it, and in half an hour had reached the main road. He +did not know where he was going, but turned mechanically toward +the east, the quarter from which he had first entered the +hills. At present it was not in him to strike out a way for +himself; he could do no more than retrace his steps. He +walked fast, impelled by an unconscious energy, and all the time +one dominant thought possessed his brain. ‘Curse +women! Curse all women! Curse the bloody lot of +them!’</p> +<p>He passed through Chapel Green and Mainstone, dead villages +both. Not a light in their windows. As dead as +Wolfpits. The poplar under which he had trysted with Susie +hung above him. The moonlight broke in ripples on its lofty +crown. He saw nothing at all, heard nothing but the steady +rhythm of his feet and the monotonous burden of words in his +brain. The moon sank. Now the road was only faintly +luminous with the reflected pallor of the sky. He heard a +new noise behind him, and the lamps of a motor-car swept a +slanting beam that carried his shadow into the hedge. The +noise of the engine became distinct. A top-heavy van loomed +up above the two blinding eyes of the headlights. He stood +aside to let it pass; but as its roar overtook him, his own voice +gave a hail that was swept along in the draught. He did not +know why he had shouted, but a second later the car pulled up +with grinding brakes, striking sparks of fire from the +road. He ran after it.</p> +<p>‘What’s up?’ the driver called.</p> +<p>It was a man whom Abner had sometimes met at Llandwlas station +when he was driving the milk from The Dyke.</p> +<p>‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he said. +‘Want a lift?’ Abner caught him up and climbed +into the seat next his.</p> +<p>They set off again, whirling like a tornado through <a +name="page391"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 391</span>the +darkness. They could only speak to each other by shouting, +for the engine was old and full of rattles, and the milk-pails +jangled behind.</p> +<p>‘Drop you Lesswardine Bridge?’ the driver +shouted.</p> +<p>‘Drop me in hell if you like,’ Abner replied.</p> +<p>‘What about Shrewsbury to be going on with?’</p> +<p>‘That’ll do me!’</p> +<p>The roar and vibration filled Abner’s aching +brain. They turned northward at Craven Arms and plunged on +between the rising masses of the Mynd and Caer Caradoc. The +hotels of Church Stretton burned like a constellation in the +darkness on their left. The lights of Shrewsbury +appeared.</p> +<p>‘That’s good going, bain’t it?’ said +the driver, with a laugh.</p> +<p>He refused the drink that Abner offered him and set him down +in the outskirts of the city. Abner’s head was +splitting. He staggered into a pub and drank three double +whiskies straight off. What was there for a man to do but +drink?</p> +<p>He passed into the main streets of the town. After the +silence and darkness of Wolfpits it seemed to him a city of +palaces sparkling with light. He moved in a dazed manner +through the streets; had another drink, and began to feel +better. For the first time since he had set out he felt +capable of a determination. He resolved, as far as his +money would let him, to get drunk.</p> +<p>He sampled several pubs and at last found one to his +fancy. There, in a small and crowded bar, he settled +himself in a corner next the counter and ordered his drinks +methodically. Nobody took much notice of him, for most of +the men who had gathered there were regular customers who came in +every night. The only person with whom he had anything in +common was a lanky labourer with a small head and dark eyes who +sat at a table opposite to him drinking beer. The evening +wore on. Abner was no longer conscious of such +details. The only things that detached themselves from the +warm, rosy confusion were certain points of light, the stopper of +a cut-glass decanter that flashed rays of ruby and emerald-green; +a brooch of brilliants that <a name="page392"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 392</span>the barmaid wore; a medal hanging on +the watch-chain of the labourer opposite to him. +Abner’s fancy played with these lights childishly +fascinated. He heard not a word of the conversation that +buzzed around him, keeping only enough of his senses to ask and +pay for his drinks.</p> +<p>It was nearly ten o’clock when another figure entered +the bar: a man dressed in a military uniform with staring eyes +and a red face that appeared to be transfixed by the skewer of a +waxed moustache. He carried a silver-headed cane under his +arm; his tunic fitted his back like a glove, and in his cap he +wore a raffish bunch of ribbons. He shook hands with the +barmaid, swept the room with a curious glance and settled down +with his drink at the elbow of the lanky labourer. He spoke +so loudly, and with such an accent of gentility that his voice +could be heard above the rumour of the bar. He slapped his +neighbour on the back.</p> +<p>‘Out of work?’ he said. ‘There’s +no need for any one to be out of work in these days. I know +the kind of work you chaps get, and damn me if I can see how you +put up with it. Now, what have you been earning on the +farm? Fifteen shilling a week? I guessed as +much. And ten hours’ work a day. That’s a +fine life for a man! That’s a damned fine life! +I know what it is, my boy. I’ve had some of it. +But that was many years ago. I had the sense to join the +army, the good old Fifty-third, and I’ve lived the life of +a gentleman ever since. That’s what you ought to +do. Take the King’s shilling! You don’t +know what you’re missing. Travel? See the +world? I can tell you I’ve seen things you +wouldn’t credit. India . . . Egypt . . . +Cyprus. That’s a fine place now. You should see +the women in Cyprus! Hey? Women!’ He +broke into an obscene laugh.</p> +<p>The last word echoed late in Abner’s brain. +‘Women!’ he heard himself mumble. ‘Curse +the lot of them! That’s what I say.’</p> +<p>The sergeant turned to him, delighted to have dragged another +person into the conversation. The old hands nudged each +other and smiled.</p> +<p>‘No, that’s going too far, my boy,’ he +said. ‘You <a name="page393"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 393</span>don’t know women till +you’ve rolled about the world a bit. There’s +many a chap that’s been disappointed with them in England +that’s gone into the army and changed his mind. Now +you’re another, like my friend here, that’s cut out +for a gentleman’s life. There’s no saying that +a fine chap like you mightn’t go a lot farther than I ever +did. Athletics count a lot in the army. Football, +cricket, and that. Upon my word, it’s just like a +long holiday, and that’s the truth. A chap like you +might be an officer before he finished with it.’ He +crossed to Abner, took his arm, and whispered in his ear: +‘If you went out to Egypt where the second battalion is +now, I could show you some places in Cay-ro as would soon change +your mind about women. God, it’s a gentleman’s +life, Egypt, with all the blacks to wait on you as if you was a +lord! And whisky twopence a glass in the canteen! +Women! I’d learn you about women.’</p> +<p>‘I’ve learned all I want about <i>them</i>,’ +said Abner sullenly.</p> +<p>But he allowed the sergeant to stand him a drink, and found, +as the time went on, that he was as good a fellow as he had ever +met . . . he and the dark labouring man who sat at their +table. When Abner’s money was finished, the sergeant +behaved like a friend to him. ‘Money! +What’s money?’ he said, and pulled out of his pocket +a handful of silver that fell in a tinkling cascade on the +marble-topped table. They sat and talked. The +sergeant kept the ball rolling, patting Abner on the back and +taking him by the arm with a friendly grip. He passed +through a phase of exaltation into one of contented stupor, in +which his only anxiety was where he should find lodging for the +night.</p> +<p>‘Don’t you worry about that!’ said the +sergeant. ‘I’ll see you through, my boy! +You trust me. There’s just time for +another.’</p> +<p>So, in a flash of brilliant light, the evening passed. A +policeman put in his head at the door and disappeared. +Abner found his new friend helping him to his feet. He +laughed weakly, for he found that he could not stand.</p> +<p><a name="page394"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +394</span>‘Steady does it, my boy, steady does it. +You holt on to me and you’ll be all right. God, +you’re a tidy weight!’</p> +<p>They passed laughing through an uncomfortably narrow doorway +and out into the road. Street lamps danced before them in +an eddying line. The road had a resilient, velvety feeling, +like no other road that Abner had known. They walked arm in +arm, the three of them. Abner felt himself impelled to stop +suddenly, and take the sergeant into his confidence.</p> +<p>‘Look here, kid,’ he said, ‘I’m +boozed.’</p> +<p>‘Boozed? Not a bit of it!’ said the +sergeant, with an encouraging slap on the back.</p> +<p>‘Here, you’ll look after me?’ said Abner +anxiously.</p> +<p>‘You bet I will!’</p> +<p>‘You’re a good pal, kid,’ said Abner. +‘Straight, you are!’</p> +<p>Half an hour later he threw himself with relief upon a +mattress that was built up of three distinct slabs and pulled a +gray blanket over his eyes to shut out the host of lights that +swam before them. He heard the voices of men buzzing round +him and heavy, regular steps on the stone flags. All he +cared about now was sleep.</p> +<p>He fell into a drugged slumber, haunted by many dreams. +He dreamed of Halesby, of old Mrs Moseley’s room and Susan +Wade sitting demurely at the foot of her aunt’s bed. +Alice put in her head and called him, telling him that his father +was dead and that she could not do without him. He got up +and followed her with Tiger prancing at his heels. ‘I +can’t abear dogs, Abner,’ she cried. All his +old resentment against her rose up in him, and he would have told +her what he thought of her had not Mick Connor appeared at that +moment and shouted his name. ‘Come along wud +you!’ said Mick, ‘why would you be bothering your +head about the likes of her? It’s time we were +looking for a drop in Nagle’s Back.’ They +walked on over twilight fields talking of old times. +‘Go aisy round the corner,’ Mick warned him, +‘for the ould devil of a policeman’s got his eye on +us!’ They went round the edge of the woodland on +tiptoe, and there, sure enough, stood Bastard, with <a +name="page395"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 395</span>a face as +white as death and a thin stream of blood trickling from his +nose. ‘He’s dead said Abner. +‘Don’t look at him. Our George killed +him!’ ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Mick +replied. And as he spoke Bastard turned and stared at them +with blank eyes. Abner set off running. He knew that +his only chance was to run as hard as he could. He plunged +into a close lane, smelling of elder trees and nettles. Now +he knew where he was! This was the Dark Half-hour, and if +he kept on running he would emerge in safety on the hill-side +above Mawne Colliery, just below the cherry orchard. Even +now he could hear the thudding of hammers at Willises’ +forge. Bastard was gaining on him, pounding along behind +him, but a man stood in his path and barred the way. At +first he thought it was his father, but a sudden revelation +showed him that it was George Malpas. George Malpas, +deathly white under his prison crop, and armed with a +poker. They closed and struggled. It was a desperate +business, for George managed to keep on battering his head with +the poker, and Mary, in her strange tragic beauty, clutched at +his arm. He knew that he was done for; fell with his hands +locked about George’s throat. Bastard seized him from +behind, and he woke.</p> +<p>In prison? Surely this could be nothing else. A +long stone room lit by a single gas-jet burning low and +blue. He saw that he was not alone. The whole room +was spread with mattresses, on which were lying figures covered +with gray blankets like his own. His neighbour, a man who +snored heavily and clutched at his hair with his hands, gave a +groan. This could not be a dream. Through the +thudding of hammers in his head his consciousness painfully +emerged. He remembered that he had come to Shrewsbury the +night before, that he had slunk into a pub and drunk +heavily. Where was he now? In a workhouse . . . a +hospital . . . a doss-house . . . a jail? He could not +guess. In any case it hurt his head to think. He +tried to get his bearings. He had gone to bed in his +boots. That was natural enough. He felt for his new +watch. It was not there. He swore under his breath, +not at the unknown people who had stolen it but <a +name="page396"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 396</span>at his evil +luck. He supposed that they had stripped him of his money +too—not that it mattered! He searched his left hand +trouser pocket to see if anything remained. Not a +penny! He laughed to himself. In the other pocket, to +his astonishment, his fingers lighted on a single coin. How +the devil had it got there? He fished it out, then propped +himself on his elbow and held it up in the faint light. It +was a new shilling. He stared at it; then spat on it for +luck. So, tired and wretched beyond words, he turned over +on his side, wrapped the blanket round his head, and went to +sleep.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Anacapri</i>;<br /> + <i>March</i>, <i>1910</i>.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK DIAMOND***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 48813-h.htm or 48813-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/8/8/1/48813 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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