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diff --git a/78485-0.txt b/78485-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bbfb7cd --- /dev/null +++ b/78485-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13265 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78485 *** + + + + + THE GEORGE AND THE CROWN + + + + + _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ + + + GREEN APPLE HARVEST + THE TRAMPING METHODIST + STARBRACE + THE CHALLENGE TO SIRIUS + SUSSEX GORSE + TAMARISK TOWN + SPELL LAND + JOANNA GODDEN + LITTLE ENGLAND + ISLE OF THORNS + THREE AGAINST THE WORLD + THE END OF THE HOUSE OF ALARD + + + + + The George and the + Crown + + + By + SHEILA KAYE-SMITH + + [Illustration: colophon] + + CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD + London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne + + + First published 1925 + + _Printed in Great Britain._ + + + To + G. B. STERN + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + +PROLOGUE 1 + + +_PART I_ + +THE VALLEY 7 + + +_PART II_ + +THE ISLAND 143 + + +_PART III_ + +THE SEA 233 + + + + +THE GEORGE AND THE CROWN + + + + +PROLOGUE + + +His name was Thomas Sheather, and he was born in the Ouse Valley of +Sussex, between Lewes and Newhaven; her name was Kitty le Couteur, and +she lived at the Pêche à Agneau, in the Island of Sark; so it was +strange that they should have met and married. Nevertheless, their +marriage took place in the little island church of Peter the Fisherman, +among the memorials of the drowned, with their refrain. “_Ta voie a été +par la mer et tes sentiers dans les grosses eaux._” + +Tom had come to Guernsey in a coaster from Deal, a tramp which had +butted her way along the coasts of Kent, Sussex, Hampshire and Dorset, +and then adventured south in the tomato season. There had been a longish +wait for repairs at St. Sampsons; the _Queen of the May_ had been built +for coasting, and the coasts of England, even at Land’s End, have no +weather like the weather of the Casquets and the Burhous. Tom had spent +a great deal of his time ashore, exploring this new island of forts and +greenhouses, and he had met Kitty le Couteur at the home of her cousins, +the le Cheminants, who kept an eating-house in St. Peter Port. + +Kitty was small and slim and dark, with big black eyes burning in her +pointed face. She wore little dark modest garments with long tight +sleeves, and demure aprons of which she was not ashamed. She had never +seen a railway, and was afraid to go in a tramcar. She was quite unlike +the girls at home, and her voice was unlike their voices, with its +pretty Frenchy accent like the twitter of a bird. She called him Mister +Sheeter very sedately, and it was quite three days before he could +persuade her to come with him for a walk, and then nothing would make +her go out of Town. But she told him more about herself this time, about +her home in Sark, right away at the Pêche à Agneau, beyond the road’s +end; about her father, who kept the farm, and her brothers Eugene and +Philip, who sailed the cutter; about her own life, lived between sea and +sky, in which this visit to Guernsey was the first adventure. + +“My father he not mind me come before, but my brother Eugene and my +brother Philip say, ‘If you go to Guernsey you meet strangers, and +perhaps you marry a stranger, or even an Englishman.’” + +Tom cared nothing for brother Eugene nor for brother Philip. Kitty’s +pale face and dark eyes now held the magic which the sea was beginning +to lose. When the _Queen of the May_ started north with pounding +paddle-boxes and a cargo of tomatoes she left Tom Sheather behind in the +island of forts and greenhouses, taking in his stead a Cornishman, who +wanted to see his home after ten years of gathering vraic. Tom stayed +behind as an extra hand for the tomato-picking. He worked on an estate +near Torteval, and once a week he crossed over to Sark in the Saturday +excursion steamer, and walked along Sark’s high backbone to its granite +horns, to where Helier le Couteur’s house looks over the sloping bracken +to Rouge Caneau and Moie de la Bretagne. + +He was well received by the old man himself, a kindly, simple creature, +who loved his daughter and was proud of the admiration she had kindled +in the stranger’s breast. He could speak very little English, so their +intercourse consisted chiefly of bowings and smiles. The brothers were, +unfortunately, more fluent, as a part of their business was to take +visitors fishing and sailing, and they were not slow to let Tom hear +their disapproval of his courtship. + +“Our sister never marry a Guernseyman or an Englishman,” said Philip. + +“Oh, my gar! she do not,” said Eugene. + +But she did. + +Old Helier was ruler of his household, and when he saw that not only did +the stranger love Kitty, but that Kitty loved the stranger, he refused +to let the island prejudices against England and Guernsey stand in her +light. Besides, it was not true, he told his sons, that the stranger was +_vagabond_. His parents lived in a comfortable house near the big town +of Sussex, and had written the bride’s father a very aristocratic +letter, which _le ministre_ had read to him, and in which they told him +of their intention to do well for the young couple. Then why did he go +to sea in a dirty coaster and turn tomato-picker? says Eugene. Why, +because there are horse-races in England, just as there are in Guernsey, +and the young man lost his money at them, just as they do in Guernsey, +and ran away to sea rather than face his father afterwards--which shows +he had been well brought up. But his father was now ready to forgive +him, and was delighted that he should be marrying a good, pretty girl +like Kitty, whose photograph, taken by a lady visitor, had been sent +over for him to see. + +So Tom and Kitty were married, in spite of the grumblings of Eugene and +Philip, and settled down in one of the outlying cottages of La Belle +Hautgarde. Tom helped the old man on his farm, living once more, there +in the midst of the sea, a landsman’s life; for the brothers would never +let him come into their boat. + +Time passed and two children were born, both boys, and both with their +mother’s black eyes. Tom created ill-feeling by the names he chose for +them--first Leonard, then Daniel. They were English names; no such names +had ever been given to babies in Sark. There every boy was either Peter +or William or John if he was not Philip or Eugene or Helier--large +clumps of Peters and Williams existing bewilderingly among swarms of +Hamons and Carrés. The Sheathers already had a foreign surname by the +misfortune of their birth, and now their father had doubled their +strangerhood at the font. + +Then, after five years, Helier le Couteur died, and his farm became the +property of Eugene, who had lately married a Hamon and begotten a Peter. +Tom Sheather found his position untenable. In his own words, he was fed +up. It was all very well to be on your guard with strangers--at home in +the farms between Lewes and Newhaven foreigners were generally on trial +for a year or two before being absorbed into the local life--but these +Sarkies were just about the limit ... when it came to making foreigners +of your own kin.... Ever since his marriage Eugene and Philip had +mysteriously forgotten the English language; and as he couldn’t learn +their outlandish speech, it was impossible even to have a good quarrel. +They refused to take him out in the cutter, though everyone knew he was +handier with a sail than anyone in this island of toy-boats--they had +persisted in treating him, their sister’s husband for five years, as an +outsider and interloper; and now when the old man, his only friend, was +dead he confessed himself sick of it. Life wasn’t worth living in these +damned islands.... He asked Kitty if she would go home with him to +England, and she agreed--for she loved her stranger. + +Nevertheless, she would have liked her third child to be born like the +others in the little room whose windows were full of the sea; and when +he came it was hard to persuade her that he had not taken his fair hair +and blue eyes from the new pale country instead of from his father. She +could never quite get used to the pale, clear colours of the Downs, to +the white cliffs by Newhaven, and the grey, calm sea. But she said she +would never go back to Sark. “I never go back now. It is not my country +any more.” Perhaps this was because--or perhaps it was why--she loved +the flaxen child better than either of the black-eyed children born in +her father’s house. + +The old Sheathers had a farm in the parish of Piddinghoe, almost in +the suburbs of Newhaven. The backward growth of the port into the Ouse +Valley had greatly improved the value of their land, and they were able +to do well for their prodigal, whose return they welcomed. They offered +to set him up on a small farm; but Tom had grown tired of farming, just +as he had grown tired of the sea; he thought he would like to be an +innkeeper for a change. Since his parents were anxious to provide for +him, wouldn’t they put him into a nice pub? He would like the Crown, at +Bullockdean, for choice. The landlord had just died. + +But the price of the Crown, which was a free house with a substantial +piece of land attached to it, was too high even for a farmer whose +fields are being turned into streets. Another place must be found, and +after a time the George Inn, the other public-house in Bullockdean, came +into the market. It stood almost opposite the Crown, which was certainly +a superior concern in every way. Still, the old George wasn’t so bad. It +was a tied house, of course, but some people said it was none the worse +for that. Tom thought it would be rather fun to see if he couldn’t bust +the Crown. Also he had set his heart on establishing himself near Lewes, +for he had once again begun to frequent the races, the dim first cause +of his romance. Bullockdean was almost midway between Lewes and +Newhaven, and Tom saw the George becoming famous as a house of call for +sailors and racing men. After all, the Crown was much too high-class for +him--too much like a country hotel instead of an honest pub. He liked +something livelier. + +So after six years beyond the sea Tom Sheather settled down as landlord +of the George at Bullockdean, and had soon forgotten the islands between +England and France. The mists of the Ouse Valley blotted out the cliffs +of Sark. He never thought of the unfriendly island, of Rouge Terrier or +Moie Fans, of the sunset red and black behind Brecqhou, or of Eugene and +Philip le Couteur mending their nets and talking to each other in their +throaty foreign tongue. + + + + + +_PART I_ + +THE VALLEY + + + + +CHAPTER ONE + + +§ 1 + +The George was King George the Third, and the Crown was Queen Anne’s +Crown, and they faced each other across the street of Bullockdean. The +George had a face of stucco, cracked and discoloured with age and the +mists of the Ouse Valley, and a parapet behind which its old roof rose +rakish and wrinkled. The Crown’s face was of ruddy brick, gashed with +long, deep-set windows, and topped by a huge pediment of new-painted +whiteness. + +So close and friendly were they that from one bar-parlour you could +almost see what was going on in the other--that is, if you cared to +look; but on the whole the doings in the bar of the George had very +little interest for the bar of the Crown, and contrariwise. The Crown +catered chiefly for sedate farmers and good class visitors from Lewes, +Newhaven and Eastbourne--the George catered for the rowdier elements of +all three towns, which frequented it at race-time, and the more +disreputable, poaching class of farm-labourer. The only occasion when +the two inns had had any manner of warfare was when Mr. Munk, the +landlord of the Crown, sent over a dignified protest at the noise made +by the George’s dispersing drunks at closing-time; whereat Mr. Sheather, +the landlord of the George, had retorted that the sight of the Crown’s +lady visitors undressing with the blind up was demoralizing his family. + +On the whole the neighbourhood disapproved of the George and approved of +the Crown, though both were equally frequented by different elements of +local society. The stain on the George’s sign was drunkenness, and, it +was whispered, betting too. Still, as everyone said, what could you +expect from a man like Tom Sheather, who had gone roving in his youth +and brought back a wife from foreign parts? It was his own fault if the +George was but a sorry pub, while the Crown was very nearly an hotel, +with visitors staying all the summer. Visitors would never stay at the +George, even if there was room for them, which there was not. Tom +Sheather filled the place up with his roughs, such as decent farmers +would not drink with. He’d have racing-men from Lewes, a drunken, sharky +lot--he’d have sailormen from Newhaven, making a night of it in a hired +shay. The Oddfellows had given up meeting at the George ever since the +crew of a Margate trawler had insisted on playing their piano for them; +and if the Buffaloes still met there it was only because Mr. Batup, +their Grand Master, had a liking for old Tom in spite of his rotten +ales. + +As a matter of fact, most people liked Tom Sheather, though it was +agreed that you could never quite trust him, and that you felt sorry for +his second boy Daniel, who was always having to play policeman to his +dad. The eldest son was married, and had a sad little farm over at +Brakey Bottom, beyond Telscombe, while the third boy, Christopher, was +no good to anybody. His mother spoilt him, and gossip accused her of +having kept him at home by disreputable means, when other women’s sons +and her own elder boys had gone to the war. + +The war had dealt hardly with the George. The suspension of racing, the +limitation of the hours in which liquor could be sold, the no-treating +order--all had been bad for the George’s particular constitution, +whereas the Crown had thriven on high prices and a congested population. +Also James Munk had money come to him through his wife, who at her death +had left her entire fortune to his enjoyment and disposal. While Tom +Sheather had none, for his parents at their death, shortly before the +war, were shown not to have dealt very wisely with the landlords of +streets, and of the little that they left, nothing remained after a few +years’ fluency in Tom’s hands. It was obvious that he had not realized +his ambition of busting the Crown. But if there was little comfort in +the thought that he owed his failure largely to his own mismanagement, +there was considerable alleviation in the fact that it troubled him not +at all. He still thought the George was a better pub than the Crown--he +would rather be in debt to his brewer and have a good crowd of boys +round him, than be solvent and honourable like James Munk, and have +nothing but a couple of old maids dozing in his parlour--which he had +let off to them, so that he and his son Ernley had to sit in the +kitchen. + +Anyhow Tom was better off in his home and family than poor Munk, whose +wife was dead and whose elder son had been killed in the war, leaving +him with no one but Ernley, whom everybody knew was rotten--an officer +and a gentleman, but rotten. Whereas Tom had a tidy little wife--even if +she was growing a bit sharp-tongued these days and inclined to snap her +old man’s head off--and three spanking boys: Len, who was clever as you +made ’em, for all he hadn’t been educated at Lancing College like some +folks’ sons; Dan, who was the stoutest, handiest chap between Lewes and +the sea; and Chris, who was the handsomest.... He was glad they’d all +three come safe through the war, and if ever he wished that the old +George was a better paying concern, it was for their sakes.... He’d have +liked to be able to buy Len some new machinery for that farm of his, +which wouldn’t produce more than one quarter to the acre--and Chris had +been badgering him for months because he wanted new breeches and +leggings--and it wouldn’t have been a bad thing if old Dan could have +had a boy to help him in the yard.... But there you were--times were bad +for innkeepers, unless they were foxy like old Munk--and anyhow, it was +good to have his three boys under his roof, even if he couldn’t give +them all he and they wanted. He liked to see them sitting in his bar. + + +§ 2 + +They were all three sitting there that evening in February, just twenty +minutes before six and opening-time. Len had come over from Telscombe to +an auction at Tarring Neville, and was on his way back, disappointed +because of high prices. Dan had just come back from Batchelors’ Hall +over by the Dicker--where he had gone ostensibly to sell a pig, but +really, as everyone knew, to court Belle Shackford. Now he was helping +Christopher and his mother polish glasses in readiness for six o’clock. +The three young Sheathers were much of a middle-size, but they were very +different in face and colouring. Leonard and Daniel were both dark, but +whereas the former had his mother’s sharp nose and chin, the latter had +the broad face, short nose and wide mouth of his Saxon fathers. +Christopher was blue-eyed and flaxen, with a weaker version of Dan’s +blunt nose, and a sulky, inviting mouth. + +There was a shuffling, scurrying sound outside, followed by a rap on the +door. + +“Go see who that is, Dan,” said Kitty. “We aren’t open yet.” + +Dan unlocked the door, and revealed an ancient shepherd in charge of +some muddy tegs. + +“Hullo, Mr. Gadgett! What brings you round at this time?” + +“‘Tis gone six o’clock, Maas’ Sheather.” + +“Not for half an hour,” called Kitty from the bar. + +Mr. Gadgett consulted an elderly turnip. + +“My watch says three o’clock, which means ten minutes past six,” he +affirmed. + +“And my clock says half-past five, which means half-past five,” said +Kitty. + +The old man heaved a deep sigh. + +“I comed all the way from Brakey Bottom, and there’s a wunnerful lot of +mud on the roads. Leastways it wur wunst on the roads--reckon it’s all +on my boots now.” + +“Poor old chap,” said Tom. “I can’t see any harm in serving him. It’s +nearly opening time.” + +“Oh no, dad, it isn’t,” said Daniel. + +“Besides, if it was,” said Len--“even if it was only two minutes to six, +you’d be breaking the damn law just the same. The law’s a fine thing, +ain’t it, Mr. Gadgett?” + +The shepherd looked confused and weary. + +“Wot wud six o’clock, and two o’clock and ten o’clock, I’m wunnerful +muddled.” + +Dan felt sorry for him. + +“Maybe we could let you have a cup of tea since it’s too early for +beer,” he suggested. + +“Well, you go into the kitchen and make it,” said his mother, “since +you’re the only one who’s doing nothing.” + +This statement was open to challenge, but Dan accepted it +good-humouredly. + +“I’m a fine handy one with the tea, ain’t I, mum? You come around to the +kitchen door, Mr. Gadgett, and I’ll give you as good as ale.” + +When he was gone, Leonard took his pipe out of his mouth. + +“This is an all-fool’s game with the clock. I wonder you stick it, dad. +If I was you I’d kick for my right to sell my own beer at my own time.” + +“It ain’t my own beer, seeing I haven’t paid for it yet.” + +“Maybe you could pay for it easy enough if they didn’t tie you hand and +foot in your trade. I tell you, this sort of thing makes me sick. Us +working like slaves, and getting nothing but abuse and interference ... +they said ‘Come and fight for your country, and we’ll give you a country +fit for heroes.’ Now they say ‘You’ve fought for your +country--thanks--now get out of it.’ They tell us strong chaps to go and +emigrate, and I’m----” + +“Well, I’d do it for two pins.” + +“Don’t you make him think of it,” cried Kitty. + +“He won’t be such a fool. Besides, it isn’t the same for him as for me. +He didn’t lose four years mucking about, though it wasn’t his fault, +like some----” + +“Now, don’t you go hitting at me,” said Chris. + +“I’m not hitting at you. It wasn’t your fault, neither--and I’d never +blame a young boy of eighteen for not choosing to go out and get killed. +But I blame those chaps that hid in Government offices, and wore +uniforms, and got a thousand a year, and call themselves major and +colonel these days, and say to us poor fellows who were fools enough to +get sent out to France----” + +“Oh, chuck it, Len,” said Chris. + +“You’re a fine chap to say ‘chuck it.’” + +“You said you never blame him,” broke in his mother. + +“No more I do, but he’s got to let me talk.” + +And talk he did. + + +§ 3 + +Meanwhile in the kitchen Dan made tea for old Mr. Gadgett. He had none +of the normal awkwardness and shame of a man making tea. The special +complications of his life had taught him to be handy at most things. He +blew up the dying fire into a roar, filled the kettle with fresh water, +fetched tea from the caddy and a cup from the shelf just as efficiently +and a good deal more graciously than his mother would have done. Old +Gadgett watched him from the chair where he sat stiffly, as one unused +to rest. + +“You’re a wunnerful kind young chap, Maas’ Sheather, and some day if +you’ll come around to my house I’ll show you what I ain’t shown nobody +yet.” + +“And what may that be?” asked Daniel. + +“My teeth.” + +“Your teeth!” + +“Yes, you come around to my house and I’ll show you my teeth.” + +“But I didn’t know as you had any,” said Dan, with a rather tactless +stare at the thin, receding old mouth. + +“No, there ain’t many as knows; there’s doctor, and there’s Miss Belle, +and now there’s yourself--that’s all. I don’t go wearing them about the +place. But I’ve a wunnerful fine set of teeth.” + +“Got ’em at the hospital?” asked Dan, as he set the tea on the table. + +Mr. Gadgett, with deliberate, shaking hands, emptied his cup into his +saucer, and supped a few mouthfuls before answering impressively: + +“No--not I. I made ’em myself.” + +“Reckon that was smart of you. How did you do it?” + +“It’s taken me nigh on ten year. They’re sheep’s teeth, wot I’ve picked +up on the hill, and rubbed ’em and filed ’em till they’re a proper +size. And I’ve strung ’em on two wires, and I hitch ’em around two old +stumps I’ve got ... you never saw the like.” + +Dan was properly impressed. + +“Reckon you’re a hem clever man, Mr. Gadgett; and I bet you find ’em +useful at supper time.” + +Mr. Gadgett looked superior. + +“Oh, I’d never use ’em for eating. They ain’t that kind of teeth--and I +don’t say as I can rightly speak wud ’em. I wear ’em for the looks of +things. Some day I mean to have my likeness took wud them in. But if you +come around to my house I’ll show ’em to you.” + +“I’ll come one day when I’m at Batchelors’. I’ll be proud.” + +“Reckon it ain’t everyone I’d show ’em to. But you’ve done me a kindness +to-day, Maas’ Sheather, and it ain’t the fust. I often wish as my poor +Ellen cud see my teeth, for many’s the time she’s said, ‘If we cud only +get you fitted for a set of teeth, maaster.’ ... Maybe it’s wot put the +notion into my head, and I’m larmentable sorry she didn’t live to see +wot I done. Howsumdever, they may have told her where’s she’s gone.... +There’s my dog barking--reckon the sheep’s uneasy; I mun be off, or I’ll +lose the moon before I get to Batchelors’. Thank you kindly for the tea, +Maas’ Sheather.” + +He went out, comfortable and slaked. It was now nearly six--a few more +minutes would have seen him in legal enjoyment of a glass of beer; but, +reflected Daniel, a cup of tea was better for these old chaps. He +wished the George would provide it as a matter of course, instead of +selling only brewers’ stuff. They’d never get on that way; but dad cared +for nothing but messing about in the bar, and mother said she’d work +enough without waiting on strangers.... Dan shrugged and whistled +himself into his overcoat, then went back into the taproom. + +“Where are you going, Dan?” asked Kitty. + +“Just round to the Parsonage to fix that henhouse, and then I’ll go and +see old Ernley for a bit.” + +“You’re never at home. Is it not enough you going out all day without +being out half the night as well?” + +“The evening’s my best time for seeing my friends.” + +“And a fine set of friends you have--a clergyman who has holes in his +coat, and a young girl who already makes herself the talk of the place +with your other friend; and he’s a lazy, fine, wicked, extravagant young +boy, who rides about the country on a motor-bike and keeps an inn that +he says is better than ours.” + +“And so it is, if you go by class. I’m unaccountable fond of old Ernley, +anyway. And reckon no one’s any call to say anything against Miss +Shackford--for it ain’t true, and I won’t listen to it neither. And as +for Mr. Marchbanks, he pays me for what I do for him, and it ain’t +much.” + +“Oh, you be off, then. I got Christopher to help me. Thank God I got +one son who stays at home.” + +“Thank God you haven’t got two,” said Daniel good-humouredly, “or the +bills ’ud never get paid.” + +“Now, don’t you get saucy.” + +“He ain’t saucy, Kit,” put in his father; “he’s only reminding you that +all his outings ain’t for pleasure. The boy’s a good boy, sure enough.” + +Dan looked deprecatingly at his mother. He wondered what she would do if +he took her in his arms and cuddled her. He had often wanted to, but +something about her made him shy. She would not like it from him as she +would from Chris. He had often seen Chris put his arms round his mother +and lay his cheek against her shoulder.... He wanted to do that. +But--well, he didn’t like to, somehow. He pulled his cap over the thick, +shiny, black hair which was brushed back undivided from his forehead, +and went out with rather a sheepish look in her direction. + +“You’ll be back before closing time,” his father called after him. + +“Yes, I’ll be back.” + +His voice came to them with the chiming of the church clock as it struck +six. + +“Open the bar!” cried Tom Sheather. + + + +§ 4 + +It was nearly dark when Daniel went out. A sheet of lingering red in the +west showed up the masses of Fore Hill and Bullock Down, but the rest of +the sky was a dim, lightless grey, pricked with a few stars, and the +valley beneath was grey, with the river dark among the mists, save where +its waters held one faint glimmer at the Shine. + +Dan blew on his hands, for he was cold; but his work at the Parsonage +would soon warm him. He must get on with that henhouse ... and if the +bulbs were to go in, they’d better go in now. He wanted the garden to +look nice by springtime.... It would want a bit of manure; he would see +if he couldn’t get some from Place.... + +Bullockdean Parsonage was a big, ramshackle house, where the unmarried +rector camped like some squatter in the vastness of the prairie. Its few +tokens of care and ornament--that is to say, a bright blue gate and +windows and doors in the piecemeal process of becoming blue, also an +artistic flower-bed border of bottle glass and scallop shells--were the +fruits of Daniel’s industry. Daniel “had an arrangement” with Mr. +Marchbanks; that is to say, he had quasi-sole charge of the house and +the garden for ten shillings a week. This worked out to the rector’s +advantage in that he would never have found anyone else to do half the +work for twice the money; so he was willing to put up with a certain +growing eccentricity in the appearance of his domain. It also worked out +to Daniel’s advantage, for he could come and go as he pleased, suiting +his hours to the demands of the George. At the same time it helped +lighten that house’s financial burden, for ten shillings a week, he +knew, went far in his mother’s thrifty housekeeping. + +To-night he stood for a moment at the gate, contemplating his handiwork +with a satisfied smile. One of the lower windows was lighted, and he +could see through its uncurtained panes a young man stooping over a +writing-table covered with books and papers. Mr. Marchbanks was busy, +and Dan had better get on with his jobs without troubling him. + +Dan had an almost maternal feeling for Mr. Marchbanks, who had not been +in Bullockdean more than two years. He came from a big church in Oxford, +where, by report, he had spent his time in study and in writing books. +Why he had chosen to leave it for the care of an obscure Sussex parish +was his own private adventure. He was still, after two years’ residence, +inclined to be shy of his country parishioners, whose ways were so +unlike the ways of Oxford; and they, on their side, were inclined to +look down on him for his lack of clerical state. Also, immediately after +his arrival, he had made an almost fatal mistake. He had failed to see +the devotional aspect of a composition known as White-Wilcox in C, which +had been sung at harvest festivals in Bullockdean from the days they +were first started. All unknowing the enormity he was contemplating, and +having already made, without outcry, several small changes in the +direction of simplicity, he abolished White-Wilcox’s crashes and +quavers, and substituted plainsong. The earth shook, the skies roared, +the heavens fell. More literally, the choir went on strike, the people’s +warden joined the Wesleyans, and a protest was drawn up by the +Oddfellows in the bar of the Crown, and then taken across to be signed +by the Buffaloes in the bar of the George, providing yet another +instance of the Odium Gregorianum. + +Then Mr. Marchbanks made a still worse blunder. He retracted. Moved with +pity for the simple souls he had offended, and realizing that he had +really dethroned the local god, whose identity he had at first been at +some loss to discover, he restored White-Wilcox in C to all his former +glory. As he confined himself almost entirely to the repeated statement +that “Lebanon skips like a calf, Sirion also like a young unicorn,” +there was nothing that made him unfit for Christmas, Easter or Whitsun +or other occasions of rejoicing. Once more his familiar arpeggios +wheezed forth on the organ, once more Mr. Pilbeam’s alto took, even +though it could not hold, notes above the stave, while cantori and +decani became antiphonally calves and unicorns, and old Auntie Harman +“joined in” as usual from her pew, and you heard, as usual, her nieces +Jess and Maudie “shushing her down.” Mr. Marchbanks thought he had +re-established himself. But, on the contrary, he had only doubled his +error. His congregation would now more than ever talk regretfully of +“the old days” which had been before he came. The “old reverend” would +never have taken away White-Wilcox in C, but if he had, he would most +certainly never have put him back again; he’d have seen the entire +congregation Wesleyans first. + +It was during these months of crisis that the rector and Daniel Sheather +became friends. Dan had no special devotion to White-Wilcox, and he had +never loved the “old reverend,” who had once thrashed him for putting a +firework in the hinge of the parsonage gate. He was sorry for Mr. +Marchbanks, who so obviously didn’t know his job, and so obviously +wanted looking after by a sensible chap. There being no mistress at the +rectory made him particularly vulnerable to the form of attack which Dan +called “helping around.” He had soon obtained control of all the outside +of the house and of the parson’s boots as well. + +This evening he used the last of the fading light for planting +bulbs--hyacinths and tulips, whose origin in the borders of Place Farm +might have distressed the rector had he known of it. Then when it grew +too dark to see he went into the shed, and, lighting a candle, tinkered +away at the henhouse he was making. He had decided that Mr. Marchbanks +was going to keep fowls, and had arranged with the chicken boy at Upper +Barndean to supply him with one or two good pullets for a start. + + +§ 5 + +At eight o’clock he stopped work, put away his tools, locked up the shed +and went quietly off. It was now very cold indeed. A snap of frost made +the stars shiver above the black ridges of the Downs, and Daniel walked +quickly, with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat, +and his collar turned up to his red ears. It was bad luck never having +quite enough clothes to keep you warm.... However, it would be warm +enough at the Crown. Ernley always had a good fire, and often a good +drink of something hot as well. + +The bar of the Crown was altogether a superior affair to the bar of the +George. The sawdust on the floor was thicker, the windows were covered +with cosy, bright red curtains, and there were one or two comfortable +chairs about. Moreover, behind the counter stood pleasant Maudie Harman, +with her slow, pretty ways and welcoming smile. + +“Good evening, Mr. Sheather,” she greeted him. “It’s some days since +you’ve been in.” + +“Good evening, Miss Harman. How are you? And how’s auntie and your +sister Jess?” + +“Oh, we’re all fine. Jess is looking after Doctor Penny’s children now. +She gets six bob a week and her dinner.” + +“Say, that’s good! I bet your auntie’s pleased, with the two of you +doing so well.” + +“Oh, she’s pleased inside, I reckon, though she don’t say much out, +’cept that we’re hussies, for we both bought lace collars last week.” + +“And uncommon smart you look in them. I saw them in church on Sunday.” + +“Well, I tell auntie that we must dress a bit, seeing as everybody knows +us.... Yes, Mr. Luck, two sherries in a minute.” + +She hastily took her elbows off the counter and became professional. Dan +saw that James Munk had come into the bar. + +“Evening,” he said glumly. “Is Ernley in?” + +He hated James Munk for a variety of reasons, the chief one of which was +that he wielded a weapon against which Daniel Sheather, like most of his +class, stood helpless--the weapon of sarcasm. He never knew whether or +not the landlord of the Crown was “getting at him”; his simplest remarks +were full of danger, his praise was barbed, his blame two-edged. Dan in +his presence became a mumbling oaf. + +“Evening,” repeated Munk, in tones of courtesy. “Ernley is in his room.” + +“Well, I’d better go upstairs.” + +“Yes, I think that would be the best way to get there.” + +Munk did not like having the young Sheathers in his bar; his comfort was +that they never stayed there long. Daniel was now half-way up the +stairs, stumbling in the darkness, and wondering exactly where he had +been stung. The Crown people were almost like gentry with their talk and +their ways. The queer thing was that he didn’t in the least mind old +Ernley’s imitation of a gentleman, though he hated his father’s. + +He knocked at Ernley’s door. It was merely a consoling fiction of Tom +Sheather’s that James and his son had to sit in the kitchen because +their parlour was let to visitors. It was often so let, it is true, but +Ernley would never have sat in it. He had a room of his own, a long, +low, comfortable room that ran along the frontage of the Crown, and +looked out over its sign at the village street. A bright wood fire +burned luxuriously in the grate, showing the thick carpet and +comfortable chairs, and Ernley’s bed with its warm quilt--lighting up +his pictures and dancing on the covers of his books. + +“Hallo, Dan! That you?” + +“Hallo, Ernley!” + +Dan came in and sat down on the other side of the fire. + +“What’ll you have to drink?” + +“Oh, I dunno.” + +“May as well have the port out--you look cold.” + +“It’s turned cold.” + +Ernley fetched a bottle and glasses out of the cupboard. He was a tall, +well-made, well-dressed young man, with a dark complexion and queer, +restless eyes. He and Daniel had been in the same battalion of the +Sussex Regiment. They had joined up about the same time, and they had +been together in the second battle of Ypres, where Ernley had been +wounded and gassed. Soon afterwards he had been given a commission, and +his way and Dan’s had parted, but their friendshi--psuperseding a mere +distrustful acquaintanceship--had remained. There was a world of +difference between them--difference in birth, for Ernley’s mother at +least had been well-born; in education, for Ernley had been to Lancing +College and Daniel to the council school; and in character, for Ernley +had queer, dark, hidden ways and moody adventures in which Dan could not +share. But the friendship stood firm, built on a double set of +memories--memories of childhood spent in the same village, of games and +jealousies and quests, and memories of the black and ravaged soil of +Flanders, of horrors and dangers and terrors and squalors, lit up by +queer gleams of human laughter ... it was strange, thought Daniel, that +he should have remembered all the jokes he and Ernley used to have +together, about rats and dud crumps and the corporal and plum-and-apple +jam, and should have forgotten all the rest--except at the distressed +end of sleep.... He did not think Ernley had forgotten so much, and that +was perhaps why he was often difficult and mood-ridden, requiring the +whole of his friend’s toleration. + +“Why didn’t you come yesterday?” asked Ernley. “I was expecting you.” + +“I went over to Brakey Bottom. Len was that done over his pigs, and Em +having a headache and all----” + +“Which did you look after, Em or the pigs?” + +“Both,” said Dan innocently. “I give Em her mixture, seeing old Len’s in +a terrification, and heated her a brick, to draw it out of her feet; and +as for the pigs, I tell Len straight they’ve got pneumonia, and he may +as well kill ’em quick before they die.” + +“Then there’s no use strafing you because you didn’t come to me, but I +wish you hadn’t quite so many people to look after, or that you’d count +me in as one of them.” + +“I do count you in--not that you want looking after as much as some.” + +“But I do. That’s where you make a mistake--you put too much stress on +physical comfort. If a chap’s got good boots you never think there’s +anything more he can want.” + +“Well, you seem to have a lot besides boots. Howsumever, Emley, you +can’t say I haven’t done my bit to help in other ways--it’s only that +things being so muddled up these times----” + +“I know--I know. I’ll never forget, old chap, how you worked through +that awful business. By the way”--carelessly--“have you seen her at all +of late?” + +“I saw her this afternoon.” + +“The devil you did--and how is she?” + +“Oh, she looked fine.” + +“Oh--I say, do you think she’s heard anything about me and Pearl?” + +“I don’t think she has. Anyway, she didn’t speak of it.” + +There was a moment’s silence. Dan broke it first. + +“Are you still so keen on Pearl?” + +“Of course, I am. The affair’s only just starting.” + +“And she on you?” + +Ernley smiled reminiscently. “She seems willing enough.” + +“Going to see her again soon?” + +“I’m taking her to a _thé-dansant_ in Eastbourne to-morrow.” + +“Lor!” Dan was impressed by this aristocratic wooing. Then he gulped a +little, and turned red. + +“Then you aren’t sweet on Belle any more, Ernley?” + +“Good lord, man, no. I’ve cut that off clean. It’s over and done with, +thank God!” + +He got up and took a turn across the room, passing into the shadows +beyond the firelight. + +“She hasn’t sent a message--said anything to you, has she?” he asked, +“because I tell you I’m through with with it all. I’ve had enough of +kissing and making it up. I tell you it’s done with now. There’s no good +her trying to whistle me back again.” + +“She ain’t trying, Ernley. She never spoke of you. It’s only I’m +thinking that if you’ve really stopped caring and have got someone else, +I--I’d have a shot at courting her myself.” + +Ernley suddenly stopped his pacing. He turned and faced Daniel, but as +he was still in the shadow, young Sheather could not read his face. + +“I’ve been sweet on her for months,” continued the boy, “but I wouldn’t +speak a word, seeing as you hadn’t got properly shut of each other. It’s +only when you started courting Pearl I thought it really must be the +end.” + +“It is the end. But you’re a fool, Daniel, if you think Belle Shackford +will have you.” + +His voice came cruelly at Dan. Ernley could sometimes speak like +that--all fierce and cruel--but it was better than being sarcastic. + +“Why shouldn’t she have me?” asked Daniel, much hurt. “I’ve got as much +chance as anyone else, haven’t I?” + +“I’m sorry, old chap. I didn’t mean to be offensive. What I meant to say +is this--that we’re so different; it’s hardly reasonable to expect a +girl who’s liked me to like you, and t’other way round. And anyhow, it’s +only three weeks since our break. You’re a much more cynical fellow than +I thought if you can expect any girl to console herself so soon.” + +“But that’s just it,” said Dan sagely. “It’s the rebound. They’re more +likely to take up with someone else in the first month than afterwards. +Look at Mrs. Light, look at Letty Pilbeam--look at yourself, Ernley.” + +Ernley flushed. + +“I’ve had a sickener. It’s a relief to turn to a girl who’s not always +tearing passion to tatters, who knows how to keep cool, and doesn’t +always want to get more than she gives.” + +“Come, Ernley, that ain’t fair on Belle. Reckon she gave a lot. She +ain’t the sort of girl for you, that’s all, and I’m glad you’ve got a +different. She couldn’t understand your ways--she’d no notion of putting +up with you.” + +“Thanks,” said Ernley. + +“Well, reckon folks have always got to put up with each other. I’m not +saying there weren’t faults on both sides. But I’m quite a different +sort of chap--more comfortable like--more easy going--you understand +what I mean. I’m as different from you as your Pearl is different from +her--and if you like the change I don’t see why she shouldn’t.” + +“Is there anything--anything in her manner to make you think she’d take +you?” + +“Yes,” said Dan confidently, “there is.” + +“Oh ... it’s easy-come easy-go, is it?” + +“No, Ernley, you misjudge her. It’s simply as she’s worn out, and I’m a +comfortable chap. Reckon she don’t want no more passions, just a homely +sort of affair as this ud be.” + +“Are you able to marry her?” + +“If she don’t mind putting up with the George, I am. Dad and mum ud have +her and welcome if she’d help with the place--and though it ain’t fine, +it won’t be any worse than Batchelors’ these days. And maybe some time +we’ll do better--with Belle to help, mum wouldn’t be so set against us +having a tea-place and apartments and all.” + +“A damn fine life for her,” sneered Ernley. + +“Well, leastways, I’ll be marrying her and treating her proper.” + +“Now don’t start getting at me. You know why I couldn’t marry her--you +know the way dad treats me--that I haven’t a bean of my own, and my only +hope is to work round dad so that he takes me into the business. If +Belle ud have waited we could have done it some day.” + +“She’s not the sort as waits.” + +“Evidently not.” + +He came out of the shadows, and sat down opposite Daniel beside the +fire. + +“I tell you, Dan, being in love is hell--it’s like having your skin +off--it’s damned--it’s--well, thank God, I’m out of it, and you think +twice before you go in.” + +“Ain’t you in love with Pearl, then?” + +“Not in that way--never again in that way--my God, no!” + +“Well, then, maybe I shan’t be in that way. I hope not, I’m sure.” + +He stuck out his legs to the fire, and stared into it, silent and +satisfied. He was glad he had told Ernley about his feelings, for until +then he had had an uneasy suspicion that his friend still cared, and +while there was a chance of that he would not speak to Belle. But now +Ernley had practically said “go in and win”; he had also implied: +“You’ll be likelier and luckier to lose.” Well, time would show that. +Anyhow, Dan was not afraid of love. He did not expect it to burn him up +as it had burnt up Belle and Ernley. He wasn’t such a combustible sort +of chap. Maybe some people would say that what he felt wasn’t love at +all. But it did well enough for him, and he hoped it would do well +enough for Belle. + +The clock in the tap-room below struck ten. Daniel sprang out of his +dream. + +“Losh! I must be getting back. I promised dad I’d be back by +closing-time. It’s awkward for him if there’s anyone drunk and won’t go. +Mother won’t have Chris chuck ’em out, and I ain’t so bad at it.” + +He began buttoning up his coat. + +“So you’re still wearing your army coat,” said Ernley. “I thought it +would have been done by now.” + +“So it is--done in, as you might say. I’d meant to get myself a new one +this fall--seen it in Lewes--but mum wanted parlour curtains, and reckon +her old curtains were worse than my old coat.” + +“Would you like my British warm? Dad’s giving me a new one this season.” + +“Ernley, old chap, you don’t mean it!” + +“Of course I do--it’s not new, but there’s a lot of comfort in it yet, +and if you like to have it, it’s yours.” + +“Would I like to have it?” asked Dan. “Oh, no, of course not!” + +He went home muffled in Ernley’s British warm. His humility in receiving +gifts was one of the things that made their friendship delightful to +both of them. But some people thought Dan Sheather was too ready to +accept Ernley Munk’s cast-off possessions. + + +§ 6 + +The next day broke as cold as the night had been. An early frost had +touched the Downs and given a faint bite to their pale colours, and the +sun that rose behind Mount Caburn raked long orange beams across the +Brooks. + +Daniel was up before the sun, lighting the kitchen fire. This was his +daily task, as his mother did not care these days for early rising, and +the nondescript assistance known as “the girl” did not arrive till eight +o’clock. So Daniel lit the fire, put the kettle on to boil, gave the cat +its breakfast and went out to feed the fowls and the pony, by which time +the house was astir, noisily shaking itself into activity. First Tom +Sheather came thundering down the stairs, yelling after Daniel to ask if +he’d remembered to order the sherry, as if not he’d have to drive into +Lewes and fetch it; then Kitty Sheather shouted to her husband that she +wasn’t going to fold his night-shirt, and he could come back and do it +himself; and, last of all, Chris Sheather came yawning and stretching +his supple limbs and laughing at Dan because his face was dirty. + +“And I’d like to know what yours ud be if you’d been down raking out +the fire instead of laying in bed like a lady.” + +“Well, Daniel, if you grudge helping me, I know Chris will do it,” said +his mother. + +“I reckon he won’t. Nothing ull get Chris out of bed before half-past +seven. He’s Miss Flossie Fluff of the Pinktights Theatre, I reckon.” + +“D’you want to have your head punched?” asked Christopher. + +“Yes,” said Daniel. “You come on and do it.” + +Two hours’ hard work on an empty stomach had not improved his temper; +besides, it always did him good to knock Chris about. + +But the battle was not to be. At the mere thought of it Kitty Sheather +threw her arms round her darling’s neck and burst into tears. She would +not let him fight Dan any more than she had let him fight the Germans. +So Daniel had to sit down unrelieved, and eat his bread and cold bacon +to the accompaniment of his mother’s scolding. + +“Whew!” said his father, after breakfast, as he followed him into the +stable. + +When the family “took sides,” it was always Dan and Tom on one side and +Chris and Kitty on the other, though in his heart Dan would rather have +had a different alliance. + +“I sometimes think,” continued Tom, “that I shall have to leg it.” + +“Leg it! What do you mean?” + +“Beat it--sling my hook. I can’t stand being treated like this.” + +“But you aren’t treated like anything, dad. We all have to mind mother. +It’s I who got it in the neck this morning.” + +“Well, I don’t see why you should, for you’re as good a boy as ever +breathed.” + +“I ain’t. And, anyways, it won’t help me much if you clear out. It’ll be +worse having to stick it alone.” + +“But I shan’t have to watch you sitting there being wigged for what +ain’t your fault--me the master of my own house and not able to say a +word.” + +“It’s because you’re scared.” + +“That’s just it--I’m scared--scared in my own house; and I won’t put up +with it. I’m beginning to think I was a fool to leave the sea.” + +“The sea! But, father, you’ve left the sea almost a lifetime ago. You’d +never go back to it.” + +“A lifetime! I like your cheek. Your lifetime, maybe, but not a man’s, +not mine. I’m only forty-six, and as strong as a dromedary. I tell you +I’m wasted here, having to sit and listen to my boy being slated, when +I’m not being slated myself. I’m not master in my own house.” + +“And would you be master on board a ship?” + +“No, I shouldn’t. But I shouldn’t have a woman over me. It’s that what +stings, having a woman ordering you about all day. It ain’t right. God +made man the head of the woman. It says so in the Bible--and look at me. +Am I your mother’s head? And she promised to obey me, too--and though +she said it in French it’s just as good as if she’d said it in English. +I asked the minister and he told me.” + +“Father, I think you shouldn’t ought to speak so of mother before me.” + +“Well, I can’t help it. I must let out before someone or I’ll bust. And +it’s better than letting out before the chaps in the bar. You’re a good +boy, Daniel. I say, what if you and me was to go away together and get a +sea job? Then you wouldn’t have to stick it alone--and you’d like the +sea, I know, for you’re handy as they make ’em.” + +“Father! Have done, do!” Dan was aghast at such treason. + +“Well, and why not?” + +“You should ought to be ashamed of yourself. How’s poor mother to get on +without us? and us leaving her in debt to the brewers and all--and Chris +no good, and no woman ever fit to manage a pub. Father, you shouldn’t +ought to speak so. I’m ashamed of you.” + +“Lor! you’ve got your mother’s own tongue. You take after her in that +way if you don’t in no other. Reckon I’m to be pitied. Howsumever, I +shan’t ask you for any more sympathy.” + +“Oh, father, I’m ready enough if it’s only sympathy you’re wanting. But +when you talk like that about going away, all I can say is that it’s +wicked.” + +“Well, I won’t talk about it any more, since you feel bad about it.” + +“And you won’t do anything, neither?” + +“Not I. What should I do now after twenty-five years ashore? I was only +joking, and wishing I hadn’t been such a mortal fool as to--howsumever, +you’d say that was wicked too.” + + + + +CHAPTER TWO + + +§ 1 + +Daniel had not remembered to order the sherry, so most of the morning +was spent in driving in to Lewes to fetch it. Spot, the pony, was +eighteen years old, and the trap must have been about twice as old as +that, so the equipage lacked both speed and smartness. None the less Dan +enjoyed the jog-trot over the Valley road, past Iford and Spring Barn +and all the flat wildness of the Brooks, even though at least fifty +motor-cars must have passed him and covered him with dust. + +“Nearly got done in, Spot, that time--nearly sent west the two of us. +Yah, you brute--I’ve got your number”--at the whisking rear of a +Rolls-Royce--“road-hog, that’s what you are, ain’t he, Spot?” + +After some mutual impoliteness with the wine-merchant, whose bill had +not been paid, Dan brought back the sherry, and took his stand in the +bar. He generally worked in the bar of mornings, to make up for his +evenings elsewhere. The mornings were comparatively sedate--a stray +labourer or two, or a tramp with the price of a pint on him, and +generally a lot of conversation. Outside the Crown a comfortable couple +of gigs were drowsing, but the George’s patrons usually came on foot, +except at race time. + +At last the clock struck two, sign of banishment or liberation, +according to one’s circumstances and point of view. Dan came into the +kitchen whistling, and buttoning Ernley’s British warm up to his chin. + +“Where you going now, Dan?” asked his mother. + +“Over to Batchelors’. They asked me to tea.” + +“And when ull you be back?” + +“Not till closing time. I promised Len I’d have supper with them.” + +“Why, the boy’s never at home.” + +“Well, mum--seeing as I’ve been on your jobs all the morning----” + +“Oh, yes, I know you grudge everything you do for me.” + +“But I don’t, mum. It’s only, as I’ve told you, I must see my friends.” + +“You were over at Batchelors’ yesterday.” + +“Well ... say, is there anything you want me here for this afternoon?” + +“Nothing. I got Christopher to sit by me. He don’t want any sweetheart +but his mother.” + +“He’s only a kid--not old enough for girls.” + +“I don’t like girls,” said Chris. + +“Well, you wait till you’ve cut your teeth.” + +“Anyways, when I take a girl, I’ll take somebody fresh, not another +chap’s leavings.” + +Once more Kitty Sheather saved her darling’s beauty; but this time she +would not have done it if she had not run between them, for Dan was +really angry. + +“He’s a swine to speak so--and I’ll knock his head off some time when he +ain’t hiding behind your petticoats.” + +“Well, you chipped at him first--with your talk about cutting teeth.” + +“I don’t care what I said. He’s a swine to speak so. I ain’t taking +nobody’s leavings. I--I----” + +Daniel spluttered. + +“Whose coat are you wearing?” mocked Kitty. “Isn’t that somebody’s +leavings?” + +“Well, seeing as ... well, mother, you’ve got no call ... seeing as I +bought your curtains ... leastways----” + +His anger was turning to grief and was choking him. He was only one +against two this afternoon--his father having gone for a “lay down” +upstairs--and he could not stand any more of it. He muttered something +thick and foolish and went out. + +The air of the Down cooled him. His way to Batchelors’ lay across +Heighton Hill--first by the little chalky path that wound up from the +end of Bullockdean Street, and then by the green faint track that +crossed the ridge into the wider valley of the Cuckmere. Before him +spread the curves and swells of the down-top, cut into clear strips of +colour by the plough--brown and gold and delicate green, with the round +eye of a dew-pond looking up to the sailing clouds. Dan watched the +birds that came with flurrying, dipping wings across the bottoms, and +they seemed to join with the sailing clouds and the spreading Down in +giving him an impression of freedom and vastness, which healed. +Something like this the sea would feel if he were on it ... for the +first time his father’s mad scheme had an attractive savour.... But, +no--it was foolish to think of the sea; he was a landsman born--besides +he loved the land--and he loved pre-eminently two who lived on land--his +mother and Belle Shackford. Neither of his loves seemed in a flourishing +way just then--his mother thought of no one but her youngest boy, and he +feared that Belle, in spite of what he had said to Ernley last night, +was turning to him only because she wanted a contrast, wanted +comfort.... Poor Belle! But that didn’t make his loyalty any less. He +owed his mother service, even if she did not appreciate it; and if all +Belle wanted was comfort, then he owed her that. + +As he walked over the Down’s back, past the dew-pond and Five Lords +Bush, he wondered how many times he had taken that way on Ernley’s +errand. Often during the summer and continually during the autumn he had +tramped to Batchelors’, to inquire, to explain, to reconcile. He had +carried notes in his pocket, and messages in his head--he had had to +bear the blame of Belle’s freezing, with occasional rewards in the +praise of her melting. He had seen her angry, sorrowful, relenting, +glad, tender, obdurate, despairing. He knew all her moods, all the +changes in her voice, all the changes in her eyes. Surely he had never +known a woman so well; and yet with all his knowledge he had come to +love her--indeed, out of knowledge and with knowledge had grown his +love. He had begun to love her before the autumn was well on its +way--that is some weeks before the final quarrel, which, with one brief +interval of reconciliation, had lasted over two months. And now he was +free--loosed by Ernley--to go and see her on his own behalf. She had +always a kind welcome for him, and he felt this could not have been +unless she felt towards him pretty much as he had guessed and said. He +did not flatter himself that she loved him as she had loved Ernley--but +then he did not expect that, would scarcely have wanted it. He had felt +the distant scorch of that fire, and he knew it belonged to an order of +things he did not understand. + +Ernley was right--it was terrible to love like that. Dan didn’t hold +with the wickedness of it, and though he had helped, he had always +grieved. Love ought to be a warm, friendly, comfortable thing--a glowing +hearth, not all the house on fire. Though of course, if you asked him, +he knew well enough all the wickedness was due to that James Munk not +letting them marry, and keeping Ernley out of the business, so as he +hadn’t a penny he could call his own. If Ernley and Belle could have +married and settled down there wouldn’t have been all this flare up. For +he knew Belle, knew her sort, knew that all the trouble was because she +wasn’t a wife, and had been made for nothing else. Of course Ernley was +different--you couldn’t say he was made for nothing but a husband. +Still, old Ernley would have settled down if he’d been given a chance. +Now it was too late--the house of love was burnt, and those who had +tried to keep house in it wandered separately, searching for a roof. + + +§ 2 + +Batchelors’ Hall stands in the flat waste of fields between the Firle +downland and the lower Dicker. It looks down on the windings of the +Cuckmere through a ragged spinney, remains of the ancient state of trees +with which it was once surrounded. Some hundred years ago Batchelors’ +was still the Manor of the two Dickers, but during the last century it +had crumbled from manor to farmhouse, as its estates waned from the +holding of two parishes to a few hundred acres of indifferent arable and +boggy grass. + +To-day it stood unprosperous and untidy, a mere tenant farm, beautiful +perhaps to the inexperienced eye, that can ignore fruitfulness run to +waste as it feasts on lichened walls, great roof bossed with stone-crop, +and those sharp, sinister gables of pre-Tudor imagining--but tragic to +those with knowledge to see it as it was, forlorn and rotten, like one +of the derelict trees beside the Cuckmere. + +To Daniel Sheather the most wonderful part of Batchelors’ was its barn, +flanking it on the west, and indeed a very cathedral among barns. Its +acre of roof flowed red and golden over a hundred beams, supported +inside by wooden pillars that made aisles of its vastness. It had the +dim, sweet smells of an old church, and a church’s queer lights and +glooms--it had little warm homely corners, and great arches and aisles +and shafts of drifting light, full of mysterious motes, that raked +across its darkness, and displayed like altars the piles of oats and hay +and linseed, the root-slicer and the straw-rope-twister and other +agricultural shrines. + +Daniel would have liked always to meet Belle Shackford in the barn, to +talk to her there in the homeliness and dimness of it, away from her +family, away from her home with its cheapness and decay. But instead he +had to see her in the sitting-room at Batchelors’, a room crowded +enormously with cheap, modern furniture, the walls papered with a +heavily striped black-and-white paper trailed over with roses. The same +paper was in the dining-room, where they always had tea. The Shackfords +lived in what they called the “new part” of the building--that is to +say, a wing which had been added disastrously in the Regency. Here they +had high ceilings and high windows with soaring sashes, instead of the +low-beamed ceilings and casement windows that were to be found in the +rest of the house. It was far too large for them to inhabit the whole, +so they left the old, the essential Batchelors’, either empty or full of +farmhouse and family stores, and lived in the rooms best adapted to the +eldest Miss Shackford’s ideas on furniture and household decoration. + +The family consisted of a father, three daughters and a son. Lucy was +the eldest, a thin, smart girl, with a mass of carefully, elaborately +dressed hair. All the Shackford girls had wonderful heads of hair, but +Belle, the next sister, wore hers in untidy, tumbling heaps, like a +stook of corn half-blown over by the wind. Indeed, it must be confessed +that the whole appearance of Belle could have been described as untidy +and tumbling. She was a big, tall girl, extraordinarily well-developed +for her twenty years, with more pretensions to beauty than her sisters, +but fewer to elegance. Like all the Miss Shackfords she was fond of +clothes, and spent in finery most of the little money that came her way; +but she was reckless in detail. Her skirts hung askew, her blouses +gaped, revealing camisoles and chemises in whose integrity the pin had +more share than the stitch. Daniel knew Belle’s underclothes by sight in +a way which embarrassed his modest soul. The two other children were a +rowdy girl of fifteen and a sedate boy a year younger. They had nothing +in common except their teens and their derision of those sop-headed +males who came to court their sisters. + +Daniel approached the house with some diffidence, being uncertain which +member of the family he would encounter first. Each would have a +different attitude with which to overwhelm him. Lucy would be ladylike +and superior, obviously comparing him to his disadvantage with her own +suitor, who was a chemist’s assistant in Lewes. Nellie would make noisy +fun of him; Tim would make a more deadly sort of quiet fun, and Belle +would be just Belle--beautiful, blowsy, tragic, sweet and utterly +confounding. + +As it happened, he met their father. Fred Shackford was not a bad +fellow, though all the neighbourhood said he was a damn bad farmer. He +seemed almost to encourage Daniel’s courtship; perhaps because he saw +that though young Sheather was inferior to young Munk in every point of +position, education, breeding, air and wealth, he was superior in the +one point of intention. His intentions were strictly honourable; in +other words, strictly practical. He had every intention of marrying +Belle and taking her away. + +“Hullo! sir,” he cried cheerily from the doorstep. “Come to tea with the +girls? They’re just starting.” + +Daniel came in, breathing hard. + +The three Miss Shackfords and their brother were sitting round the table +in the dining-room with the black-and-white striped wallpaper. Lucy sat +at the head in her best silk blouse, with her hair done a new way. Belle +sat on one side in her old woollen jersey, which gaped to display +sky-blue silk beneath, and her hair was done in the old way. Daniel +shook hands all round, even with hateful Tim and Nellie, and sat down at +the table, squeezed between Fred Shackford and Belle. + +The conversation was colourlessly polite. It consisted chiefly of +remarks about the weather and the pressing of the visitor’s appetite. +Dan felt as sop-headed as he knew Tim and Nellie thought him. Belle +always had this effect upon him, reducing him by her odd, mixed pressure +of floppy beauty and keen tragedy to the likeness of a deaf and dumb +idiot. She did not have it so much when they were alone; queerly enough +he was never so overpoweringly conscious of her when they were alone as +when he saw her in the midst of her family. It was when Belle joined +with the others in talking to him about the weather, about the new +sheep-dip they were going to try this year, about the prices of hops +and wheat, that he found her utterly overwhelming. During the summer and +autumn they had had many interviews of terror and intimacy, but these +had never embarrassed him in the same way as this light rattling of the +conversational counters round the family tea-table. + +All the Shackford girls as well as Tim and their father worked on the +farm, and their rough, toil-worn hands were in startling contrast with +their silk blouses, lace collars and elaborately dressed hair. + +“I’m dreading the lambing,” said Lucy. “I know what it means, with old +Gadgett getting past his work and all. I’ll have perhaps half a dozen +lambs in the kitchen. My, it’s a life!” + +“I like lambs in the kitchen,” said Belle in her husky voice. “Dear +little mites, it’s a happiness to give them their bottles.” + +“I’ll remember that when the time comes,” said Lucy. “I don’t say I +shouldn’t like to see them sucking if I’d time to enjoy it, but I +haven’t, and that’s plain. There’s nothing makes you care so little +about animals as farming,” she remarked, as a side-piece of conversation +to Dan. + +“I reckon there ain’t,” was his lame reply. + +“Oh, I dunno,” said Belle; “it isn’t the animals I mind, it’s the work.” + +“Animals mean work,” said Lucy, “especially when you’re like us and +can’t afford a decent shepherd’s pay. We wouldn’t keep Gadgett another +month if it wasn’t that he takes eighteen bob a week, and all the young +chaps belong to the Agricultural Labourers’ Union, and think they’ll +work from nine till four, as if a farm was the same as a factory----” +She tossed her head to finish the sentence. + +“Len’s getting a bit down in the mouth over Brakey Bottom,” ventured +Dan. + +“Oh, I don’t pity a man. I don’t see that there’s any cause for a man to +get low because he has to work hard. But when it comes to girls, it’s a +shame. Six o’clock I got up yesterday, and in bed at eleven, and to-day +up at six again. I tell you my back’s aching. And I want to go up to +London next week and see my feeonsay’s people. They live quite near +Westbourne Grove, and always take upper circle tickets when they go to +the theatre. Oh, I like London, I do.” + +“I don’t,” said Belle, with a sidelong glance through the window at the +dark flow of the Down against the sunset. + +“Nor do I,” said Shackford, “if it’s going to fetch my girls away to +theatres. Always gadding these girls are, Mr. Sheather; always after +theatres and pictures and shops. All except Belle, that’s to +say”--remembering his visitor’s Intentions--“she’s more fond of the +country like. But Lucy--she’s sometimes in to Eastbourne twice a week +for the shops.” + +“And Belle, too, father,” said Lucy hotly; “she came with me both these +last times, and spent a shilling more than I did. And she hasn’t any +appearances to keep up like I have--engaged to a young man in good +circumstances. I must dress up to my position.” + +“Hold your tongue,” said her father. + +The conversation was now showing signs of leaving those rarefied levels +on which Daniel could not breathe; but just as he was almost beginning +to enjoy it, Miss Shackford swept it back on to the heights. + +“If everyone’s finished,” she said icily, “I suggest we all go into the +drawing-room and listen to the gramophone.” + + +§ 3 + +This adjournment was all according to the local rules of courtship, and +Daniel had no sense of frustration as he and the Shackford family sat +stiffly round the room on the “tapestried suite,” while the ancient +bell-mouth gramophone gave forth such strains as “The Rag Time Violin” +and “Honolulu Lu.” The first stages of a wooing were always conducted +more or less in public, and he knew that he had moved forward rather +than backward from those solitary meetings in the lane or on the down, +when he had pleaded with Belle as Ernley’s advocate. The family +acknowledged his pretensions by thus surrounding him and entertaining +him; he was a suitor publicly proclaimed. + +Neither was he conscious of any outrage done to the old walls--to +Batchelors’ dignity of casement and gable, to the manorial memories of +the ancient trees, nodding now against the first stars--by the gimcrack +of this new-style farmhouse-parlour, its noisy colours and sounds. His +experience held nothing of the quiet old ways, of the old oak and +chintz, of the farmer’s daughters in ginghams and sun bonnets. Those +things he considered rather to belong to the old folk of the cottages, +to old Gadgett and others like him, who had not moved with the times. +The Shackfords were essentially up-to-date, which did not mean that they +were better farmers than their forbears, but that they had somehow +brought into the mellow sweetness and rotting dignity of Batchelors’ the +air of strayed townees. One might have imagined the old house longing to +spew them and their furniture out of its venerable maw, in which they +existed only as foreign, fermenting substance. + +Belle alone seemed to have a certain affinity with her surroundings. It +might have been because her love of the Lights o’ Lewes, of cinemas and +shops, was superficial rather than essential, that she had never craved +for them except as means to an end, the end of love, seeking her romance +in the lighted mouths of picture-palaces and under the dazzle of street +lamps, as her grandmothers had sought it in the dark mouths of lanes and +under the dazzle of the stars. Belle knew that love was slow-footed in +the lanes but swift on the pavements in the light of the shops. It was +up and down those golden pavements of Lewes, under the hanging nimbus of +the town’s night, that she and Ernley Munk had first met and hunted each +other. But she had been glad when the hunt passed out into the lanes and +into the sheltered, reedy places of the Cuckmere. And now, when the hunt +was over, when love had been caught and killed, she no longer wanted to +go back into the town--she still preferred the quietness of the fields, +the bareness of the Downs, the darkness of the reedy places of the +Cuckmere. + +To-night, when at last in a silence of the gramophone, Daniel rose to +make reluctant farewells, she surprised him by offering to walk a part +of the way home with him up the Down. This was not a recognized part of +the courtship, and the freedom of the offer made him more doubtful than +hopeful of her favour. Her family were surprised too, and not well +pleased; they felt such forwardness might drive the suitor away. Poor +Belle had always been too much given to freedoms. + +“You’d never want to go out now--it’s growing dark,” said Lucy. + +“I’ve been stuck to the yard all day,” said Belle, “and I want a +stretch.” + +She did not wait for out of doors to take it, but stretched herself as +she sat there on the piano stool, spreading out her arms and throwing +back her head, so that her strong, round neck looked like the trunk of a +tree with the muscles at its base like roots in the earth, and her hair +like flying branches. + +“Belle!” exclaimed Lucy, and sniggered. + +She rose, still stretching, to her feet. + +“Come on,” she said to Daniel. “If I go now I can get a breath of air +before it turns cold.” + +Daniel made polite farewells all round, during which Belle huddled into +one of the men’s overcoats hanging in the hall. Her hair was like a pale +froth in the dusk as they walked through the yard, and out into the +farmhouse lane which led towards the Down. Her face was dredged of +colour and her eyes no longer held the warm blue sky, but the cold moon. +Dan felt a little afraid of her, even though he was alone. He wondered +whether perhaps she had come with him to give him a message for Ernley, +to ask him to carry once more in his unwilling head words of submission +and reconciliation. He had already carried so many, and one more would +make too many now. + +But she did not speak of Ernley, though after a time they fell into a +desultory conversation. It struck him that after all she might have come +out with him only because she was tired of the farm, tired of the yard +with its endless small toils, tired of the kitchen and the parlour with +their crowding and shrillness. She wanted quiet, she wanted coolness, +she wanted rest, she wanted room. But she might have had these without +his company ... then perhaps after all she had favoured him by coming +with him. It seemed as if he, too, were a necessary part of her +refreshment. He felt his cheeks glow, and he lost the thread of what she +was saying--her voice beside him in the twilight was a song without +words. + +They came to the foot of the steep chalky path which ascends Firle and +is known as the Bostal Way. Once no doubt it was a track on the turf of +the hillside, now it was sunk deep, into a queer tunnel, which to-night +was all black and white with the cast of its own shadows and the gleam +of the chalk in the dusk. In the entrance of it Belle paused. + +“I won’t go any farther--I’ll turn back here.” + +She wasn’t going to speak of Ernley after all. He reproached himself for +having lost any of the sweetness of her company in doubts and surmises. +If only she would go a little farther with him and let him give himself +entirely to the joy of her presence. + +“Come up with me to the top of the hill--don’t go now.” + +She shook her head, till her hair was like swimming light. + +“No; I must get back now. Lucy ull want me to help with the supper--we +have the men staying for it, you know.” + +She was turning to leave him without handshake or formal farewell. +Suddenly he knew he could not let her go till he had tried her. + +His hand shot out of the darkness and took hers. He felt it warm and +heavy in his--he pulled her to him by it, and at first, taken by +surprise, she came, then began to hold back. + +“Belle ... don’t ... I must.” + +“No, Dan--oh, no----” + +But he had pulled her to him and was holding her against him. He did not +dare kiss her, but his body thrilled against hers, content merely to +have it close, so that their hearts beat together. + +Then suddenly her breathing thickened into a sob, she drooped towards +him, seemed to melt into him, and the next thing he knew was that his +mouth was holding hers--melting into it--the next that they had suddenly +gone separate ways, he uphill and she down. + + + + + +CHAPTER THREE + + +§ 1 + +All his way across the down, Dan shivered with that kiss. It seemed to +have given her to him, without promise, without words. Or rather, it had +given him to her--he felt as if till now his courtship had been on wrong +lines, as if he had merely sought to win her, and now instead he had +given himself. He had given himself to her in that kiss; he belonged to +her now, whatever she chose to do with him. + +His emotional history was simple. He had never been in love before. +During the three years he was in the army he had received a fair amount +of attention from girls; he had taken out girls, as his fellow soldiers +took them out, he had kissed them occasionally when they seemed to +expect it, but he had never felt deeply nor roused deep feelings. He had +also--partly from a good disposition, and partly from practical +commonsense--escaped any of those sordid adventures which the war +brought into the experience of so many boys. + +But now that kiss seemed to have reversed all his preconceived ideas of +courtship, those ideas of the wooing, winning, possessing male. It had +made him the servant of love. He saw his life given to Belle, whether +she wanted his love or not. Hitherto he had rarely thought of rejection, +and if he had thought of it could not have faced it. But that kiss had +plunged him into an overwhelming humility. + +If he had not been so humble, he would have been triumphant; for he +could not think that Belle had not had her full share in that pledge. He +could not believe that her lips had been casual or merely affectionate. +It was she who had caused their embrace, their motionless contact, to +flame into a kiss. Without her leading he was not sure that he would +have dared touch her lips--her cheek, perhaps, but not her lips--the +paradise of her sad mouth.... In the depths of his humility there was no +room for triumph, but there was a dwelling-house for hope. + +As he walked over Heighton Hill, facing the last gutter of sunset beyond +the Ouse Valley, he thought of Belle as many things. He thought of her +as a white owl, flying out of a barn, and drooping against him with +tired, ruffled feathers. He thought of her as the lost pigeon he once +had found and nursed into warmth between his shirt and his breast. He +thought of her as the sea, far down at the mouth of the Ouse, beyond the +masts that rise from it like spears--the sea which was so sweet and so +rough, whose near shores were home and whose far shores were adventure, +who carried men’s hopes to sure harbours or swallowed them up alive. He +thought of her as the quiet Down, ridged with the scars of old +battlefields and burying the dead in its heart. He thought of her as an +inn, which had given houseroom to many before he came and whose last +guest had been his dearest friend.... He was not jealous of Ernley, any +more than a man is jealous of the guests who have been before him at an +inn. For he knew that he did not come to Belle as the others had come, +as even Ernley had come, as a guest to be entertained, but as the +host--to keep the house. + +He was glad that he was not going to stop at Bullockdean, but had the +extra miles over to Telscombe and Brakey Bottom. He wanted to still his +heart with more breaths of the night air before he had to join in the +unrest of other lives. Belle ... Belle Shackford ... to most men the +lovely, tawdry, easy daughter of a failing tenant-farmer, to Ernley Munk +the fire that had laid waste two years of his life, to Daniel a +frightened owl, a tired pigeon, a sweet and wild adventure, a friendly +house. The strange thing was that Daniel knew all about the others, all +that she had been to other men, and yet still hoped for what she could +be to him. He knew that he wanted to be to her something that the others +had never been, so he was not afraid that she would be to him what she +had been to others. + + +§ 2 + +Daniel generally had supper once a week at Brakey Bottom. He was the +representative of family intercourse, for Tom Sheather was too busy with +his own tangled affairs to care to go much into the coil of his son’s, +and his wife disliked the long, shingly road that wound over the +barrenness of Bullock Down and Highdole to the final desert of Brakey +Bottom, while Chris and Len were always quarrelling on the ever-fruitful +subject of “What did you do in the Great War?” + +Dan, on the contrary, loved mixing himself up with other people’s +affairs, and was equally ready to help Emmy with the housework or give +Len advice about the farm. + +“Why don’t you shack out your fowls in the pond stubble? It ud do them +good, and save you a bob or two in sharps.” + +“That stubble ought to be ploughs by now,” Len would mourn. + +“So it ought. But the point is that it ain’t. It’s stubble. And while +it’s stubble you may as well shack your fowls in it.” + +“What I want is a steam-plough. No wonder I’m all behind, with the +little toy I’ve got--and the share for ever turning against the stones. +It’s all stones, this farm; this is the sort of thing they give us +ex-service men, and expect us to build a new world out of it. Stones. +You could scarcely grow mustard and cress on the Brow fallow, and I +can’t get decent machinery. The prices are wicked, and I don’t care to +pay ’em into the pockets of greasy mechanics getting ten quid a week.” + +“If I was you, I’d do more with stock than grain. The ground isn’t good +around here, there’s no denying it--but if you had a few beasts----” + +“And what am I to do with stock? If I kept sheep I’d have to get a +shepherd, and I can’t afford his wages. And as for cattle, the farmers +have been losing hundreds over cattle this year, thanks to government +letting us down. I’d start a milk-round if I was anywhere near a road, +but stuck out here----” + +Dan would let him grumble on. Len had, in his brother’s opinion, been +born sorry for himself, and the only thing that ever seemed to make him +any happier was a good long cuss. So he seldom tried to argue him out of +his troubles, though convinced in his own mind that they were outweighed +by his blessings in the shape of wife and children, and though he found +their recital tremendously boring, especially this evening when his +heart was full of its own matters. He felt relieved when, after having +pessimistically considered the cows, shaken their heads over the pigs, +sighed over the oats, and given up all hopes of the barley, they left +Len’s dingy little box of an “office” for the cheerful kitchen, with its +leaping fire, flowered window curtains, and the colour and eyes of Emmy, +as she sat in a rocking-chair trying to force her daughter Ivy into a +clean pinafore. + +Emmy was a cheery, buxom, overflowing soul, with warm-coloured cheeks +and a mop of red hair. She gave her brother-in-law a hearty kiss, and +told him to hold Ivy so that there might be some chance of her being +properly dressed before it was time for her to take her clothes off. + +“Wriggling like a little worm, she is, and not fit to be seen since she +fell on that turkey’s egg--quite spoilt the front of her dress.” + +“And quite spoilt the egg,” said Len, heavily sarcastic. + +“Well, she couldn’t help it, poor mite, with those turkeys laying all +over the place as you might say. She finds it and she says: ‘Here’s a +beautiful egg, mumma,’ and brings it to me for a treat--and then she +falls over the dog’s chain and her father spanks her.” + +“Poor Ivy!” said Dan. “What luck!” + +“I don’ mind,” said Ivy. + +She was a stolid child with a jammy countenance. Neither of Len’s +children could really be called attractive. Ivy had her mother’s +moon-face without her animation, and Leslie had his father’s inheritance +of the Le Couteur features, with an added beadiness. But to Daniel they +were both charming--he thought them the prettiest, funniest kids he had +ever seen, just as he thought Emmy, with her round face and peony +cheeks, the prettiest woman--prettier than Belle, though he loved Belle +the best. He took Ivy on his knee, and succeeded after a struggle in +tying her pinafore strings, while Leslie tugged at his sleeve and whined +for cigarette pictures. Then after he had searched his pockets for four +penn’orth of bull’s-eyes he had bought that morning in Lewes, and given +two cigarette cards to the rapacious Leslie, they settled down to a game +of snakes and ladders while supper was preparing--a game in which, after +some preliminary contempt, the father was persuaded to join, and in +which he forgot his woes with surprising quickness. + +“Now--come to supper, or the tea will be cold!” summoned Emmy. + +“One minute,” cried her husband. “I’ll have won in two more throws, if I +don’t get on to that damn snake on the last square but one.” + +“If you get on the snake you’re to stop the game--I can’t wait while you +go back.” + +Unfortunately Len got on the snake, and the game of snakes and ladders +was added to his list of grievances. + +“They shouldn’t have a snake so close to the end--it isn’t fair, having +to go back almost from the winning post. Anyhow, I don’t think I approve +of these games with dice--teach the children to gamble, and we’ve got +enough of that already in the family.” + +“Dad doesn’t gamble with dice,” said Daniel. + +“No, he gambles with silly race horses he don’t know anything about. I +shouldn’t grumble if he was any good at it, but he can’t even give a +chap a tip that’s worth having--I dropped half a quid over that Selling +Plater he told me to back last meeting. Mark my words, Dan, he’ll have +you all sold up some day or other--what with his bets and his debts to +his brewer. Or, he’ll have his licence taken away for allowing betting +on the premises.” + +“He don’t.” + +“Yes, he does--I tell you; I’ve seen slips passed over the counter.” + +“Shush!” + +“We’re all friends here; you shouldn’t let him do it, Dan.” + +“I’ve never seen it, and if I had I couldn’t stop it.” + +“It’s all very well for you to take it so easy, but if dad loses his +licence and gets sold up, I tell you who can’t do anything for him, and +that’s me. It’s hard enough to keep my own place going. I sometimes +think I’ll chuck it up and take up fishing.” + +“Fishing!” cried Emmy and Dan together. + +“Yes--I might go into partnership over a trawler if I could put up the +money. After all, we’ve got the sea on both sides of the family. Have +you ever thought you’d like to go back to mother’s people and take up +that sort of life? Sometimes I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea to hook +it from this damn country and go back to Sark.” + +“Oh, Len!” cried Emmy. “You’d never.” + +“Why not? Reckon we’d do better for ourselves over there, and sometimes +I think I’d sooner be there than here. I can remember it a bit ... +rocks, and fog-horns for ever moaning ... can you remember it, Dan?” + +“Not I! Leastways, I remember a lobster’s claw I had to play with, if +that’s remembering.” + +“A lobster’s claw! What a thing to give a child,” cried Emmy. + +“I want a lobster’s claw,” said Ivy. + +“I want a lobster’s claw,” shrieked Leslie, and the conversation was +swept into an orgy of scolding and pacification. + + +§ 3 + +It might not have struck anyone that Len’s and Emmy’s household was a +particularly good advertisement for matrimony, but Daniel seldom left it +without an earnest desire to get married and have an Ivy and Leslie of +his own. At first this wish had been dim and general, a cloud that might +settle anywhere; but now it had definitely fallen on Belle Shackford. He +would like to see Belle sitting at his supper-table when he came home of +an evening; he would like to see her undressing his children as he had +seen Emmy undress Ivy and Leslie to-night. Of course, the domestic +picture was a little blurred by the fact that for the first years of +married life he and Belle would have to live at the George and bear with +its intrusions on their privacy and romance. Still, they would have +their own room--two rooms perhaps, for there was seldom any call to +house travellers at night--which would seem all the more private and +their own because of the family and tavern life surging outside. In his +mind as he walked home was a picture of candle light moving over low +beams, Belle’s face lifted into it, her hair streaming back into the +darkness of the bed as he stood looking down on her with the candle in +his hand.... It was a marvellously clear picture, the only one his +imagination held as yet of the intimate joys of marriage, and it brought +a strange fog of tears into his eyes. + +He reached home in time to persuade the mate and master of a Newhaven +trawler that it would be wisdom to leave the bar before the carrier’s +’bus went town-wards for the last time. Dan had a good persuasive way +with drunks and seldom had occasion to use more than his tongue, though +he was ready enough with hand and knee when the situation really +demanded it. “I never saw anyone run out a chap more neat than Daniel +Sheather,” was the verdict of the ploughman of Upper Barndean. + +When he had helped his father tidy the place and lock up he was free to +go to bed. His bedroom was a primitive matter, for of his own choice he +still slept in his childhood’s little room, hoping that the larger ones +might entice guests and raise the George from mere tavern level. He +slept under the droop of the George’s eaves--outside a far view towards +the Downs that make the Gate of Lewes, inside a cot-bed, a chest of +drawers with a jug and basin upon it, and one or two hooks on the wall. +To-night there was nothing either outside or in to distract him from his +rapid business of undressing and getting into bed. He had worked hard, +he had walked many miles, his lungs were full of the open air; so in +spite of the excitement thrilling at his heart he fell quickly asleep. +All that remained of that kiss at the foot of the Bostal Way was a dim +dream of candle light moving over the ceiling of a low-raftered room. + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + + +The worst of having a secret is that, if you are of a friendly, +communicative nature, it never lets you rest till you have told it to +somebody, and then it is no longer a secret. Daniel wanted badly both to +tell his secret and keep it, to eat his cake and have it. He nearly told +his mother when he unexpectedly met her going downstairs the next +morning--he had a queer feeling of treachery towards her, as if she +would have hated to see another woman set up in the place she had never +attempted to fill. + +He put his arms round her neck and kissed her. + +“What’s the matter with you, Dan?” + +“I dunno.” + +“You’re like a great baby.” + +“I’m only saying good morning.” + +“That’s a new way for you to say it.” + +“I’m sorry--I can’t help it, mum.” + +He took away his arms from her and went out. + +It was his “early day” at the Rectory. One of Mr. Marchbanks’ many +peculiarities as a clergyman was his fondness for having services +without any congregation. Every morning the little rasping bell of +Bullockdean Church made a short clamour at seven, and the village priest +stood before the village altar while the village yawned and pulled on +its trousers and lit its fires. Apparently the thing could not be done +if Mr. Marchbanks was quite alone, so three or four of the local youth +took turns to kneel beside him in the cold morning shadows and answer +for Bullockdean. By a process of the survival of the fittest, three +mornings out of the seven had fallen to Daniel’s share. Afterwards he +would have breakfast at the Rectory and do one or two jobs about the +place before going home. + +To-day he was a little flurried over his duties. In church he stammered +and gabbled and forgot his “piece”--and at the Parsonage he burnt the +boiled eggs, which, as everybody knows, is an achievement usually beyond +the reach of the worst cook. The lady who “helped” at the Rectory was +often late, and Daniel was used to cooking the breakfast as well as +eating it. He was, as he put it, “fond of messing about,” and certainly +did not as a rule produce a worse meal than Mrs. Ades herself. But this +morning he was demoralized, and not only brought an incinerated +breakfast to the table, but ate it heedlessly, without comment or +grimace. His friend could see that something was on his mind and very +near his tongue. + +“Mr. Marchbanks, have you ever been to Batchelors’ Hall?” + +“No, never; but I’ve met Shackford on one or two occasions.” + +“Ever met the girls--Lucy and--er--Belle?” + +“I met Belle once out walking with young Munk, and he introduced me. But +I haven’t seen her since.” + +“Oh, then you’d ...” Dan’s cheeks and tongue were burning. “I say....” + +“Well?” + +“What would you say if ... I mean, how would you like to keep a pig?” + +The clergyman looked startled. Was this the fruit of Dan’s soul in +travail? + +“I shouldn’t like it at all.” + +“I’d take care of him for you, and you could feed him on scraps and +waste ... or get a sow and mate her, and we’d make money out of the +litters.” + +In spite of various efforts on Mr. Marchbanks’ side and several +temptations on his own he stuck to pigs till the end of breakfast. + +Even by then the “help” had not arrived, and Dan, who could never quite +see where a man’s work ended and a woman’s began, proceeded to a +frenzied washing up and an unceremonious making of the priest’s bed by +pulling down the blankets. He was smoothing the quilt over his handiwork +when a ring came at the front door bell. + +Dan thundered downstairs to open it, and found Jess Harman on the step +with Dr. Penny’s twins in a push-cart beside her. + +“Hallo, Dan! I didn’t expect to see you.” + +“Mrs. Ades hasn’t come, and I’m doing her work.” + +Jess, who had as pleasant a smile as her sister Maudie, grinned widely +in derision. + +“I reckon you are. I reckon you’ve smashed the plates----” + +“I haven’t!” + +“And just pulled down the cover over the bed and thought you’d made it.” + +Dan blushed guiltily. + +“And have you emptied the slops?” + +“No.” + +“D’you think they’ll empty themselves? Or d’you expect the poor man to +empty them? Go on--you’re a fine housemaid.” + +“Is it why you’ve called--to tell me that?” asked Dan saucily. + +“No--I’ve got a message for the rector from Mrs. Penny. She says, ‘May +she put off the carving class from Tuesday to Wednesday as her cook +wants to change her night out?’--a verdible answer--‘yes’ or ‘no.’” + +“I’ll give it,” said Dan, turning into the house, “and then maybe you’ll +come and help me with the work, since you’re so smart.” + +“And what’s to become of the kids? I’m hired to look after them.” + +“Bring them in, and we’ll find something to keep ’em quiet. Let me help +you with the pram.” + +Jess wanted only a little persuasion, and the twins were brought into +the kitchen, while Dan went off to the study with Mrs. Penny’s message. + +“It’s ‘yes,’” he cried as he came back. “He says she may go to hell if +she likes.” + +“I’m sure he never said anything of the kind.” + +“Didn’t say it, but he meant it. He doesn’t care when she has her old +damn class.” + +“Dan, what’s the matter with you? You’re getting beyond yourself.” + +It was his secret again, tormenting him in a new way. It had already +made him sentimental, then embarrassed, now it made him uproarious. He +took the boy-twin out of his pram and tossed him up and down in his +strong arms. + +“Daniel--a-done do--or I’ll go at once. You’ll hurt him--he’s getting +frightened.” + +“Not he! He’s loving it.” + +The entertainment certainly appeared successful. Young Michael Penny +yelled with delight, and his sister Lois yelled with her lust for the +same experience. Daniel shouted with laughter and Jess scolded him at +the top of her voice. The Parsonage rang with noise--the scream of +children’s voices, the roar of a man’s, the scold of a woman’s. In his +study the parson put his fingers to his ears and wondered why there were +so many people in his house and what they were doing. + +At last the clamour subsided as the twins, tossed into gratification and +only just not into sickness, were given the cat to play with, while +Daniel and Jess turned to the house’s need. Dan did not go out, as he +had first intended--his secret still tormented him, and he longed to +tell it to Jess. So he followed her about with brooms and pails and +dusters, submitting every now and then to being told he was in the way +and worse than the twins for getting under her feet. + +Daniel had known Jess Harman all her life, which was a couple of years +shorter than his. He and the two Harmans had gone to school together and +had shared many secrets about frogs and toffee and the private life of +Jess and Maudie’s joint doll. Daniel had been jeered at by the other +boys and his elder brother Len for liking to play with girls, but though +in time he had realized his own ignominy and withdrawn to more manly +spheres, he had always been fond of the sisters, and on their leaving +school the friendship had been resumed with the greater +self-consciousness of adolescence. Dan had actually fancied himself in +love with Maudie for a couple of months--that was just after she had +become barmaid at the Crown and wore her hair in two great half-moons +each side of her face and was considered rather a smasher by the local +youth. He had never fancied himself in love with Jess, whose career had +been a lowlier one in pantries and sculleries; but to-day he certainly +did experience an overwhelming desire to tell her about Belle Shackford. + +“Jess,” he asked, “have you ever been in love?” + +“Have you been following me round the house on purpose to ask me that?” + +“Yes--oh, Jess, I’m in love myself.” + +She turned round and faced him, dust-pan in hand. + +“You! Daniel Sheather! Who with?” + +“Belle Shackford,” he said hoarsely. + +“Well!” + +Jess threw her hands in the air, unheeding of the avalanche that +descended from the dust-pan. “Well!” + +“Well, why not?” + +He was angry now. He had told his secret and wished he hadn’t. + +“Well, my boy--she’s been engaged to Ernley Munk for two years--and +anyhow she ain’t the girl for you.” + +“How d’you mean?” + +“She ain’t your sort. She’s fast. You want something quieter.” + +“She’s quiet enough for me.” + +He thought of her for a moment as the pigeon in his breast. + +“She’s--oh, I don’t want to miscall her, Danny, for I reckon she’s had +her troubles; but you know she’s fast--you know the things that have +been said about her as well as I do.” + +“I don’t care.” + +“But you don’t believe they ain’t true?” + +“I don’t care if they’re true or not.” + +“Then there’s some hope for you. If you’d said to me that Belle was just +like the female in ‘be thou hard as ice and chaste as snow thou shalt +not escape camomile,’ then I’d think you were just a poor loon that had +to be protected; but if you’re going into things with your eyes +open----” + +“I am.” + +“And how far have you gone?” + +“No way at all.” + +Since she was being so unsympathetic he would not tell her about the +kiss. + +“Then don’t go any further.” + +“I’ve gone too far to turn back.” + +“You say you’ve gone no way at all and yet you’ve gone too far to turn +back. You are a loon, after all, Daniel.” + +“There’s no good talking to you about it,” he said sulkily. “I’m sorry I +told you.” + +She melted at once. + +“Oh, don’t say that, Dan. I didn’t mean to be short with you--but I was +sorry to think of you.... Well, never mind. I wish you happy, I’m sure, +though I don’t expect it.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because--well, I’ve told you before, and you didn’t like it, so there’s +no sense telling you again. Besides, most likely, if she’s not the sort +of girl for you, she’ll see it herself and say ‘no.’ And don’t think I +shan’t be sorry for you, though I say it’ll be better if she does. I’ve +nothing against her myself, but I shouldn’t be acting friendly if I +didn’t tell you solemn that she’s not the girl for you.” + +“Then who is she the girl for?” + +“Oh, a more dashing sort of chap--the kind that’ll take her riding in +the side-car of his motor-bike and give her tea at an hotel in +Eastbourne, and ull dance with her sometimes, and buy her garters--a +chap like Ernley Munk. All the Shackford girls are like that--fond of +pleasure--‘She that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth,’ the +Bible says.” + +“Now don’t start preaching.” + +“I ain’t. But there’s no harm in you knowing what the Bible says about +Belle Shackford.” + +“And about you too. You go to the pictures every time you get a chance.” + +“Which is about once a year. Howsumever, I don’t say I shouldn’t go +oftener if I could. Now, Daniel, you and me had better stop quarrelling, +and go down and see if those kids haven’t baked theirselves in the oven +or cut theirselves open with the kitchen knives or otherways lost me my +place.” + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + + +§ 1 + +At Batchelors’ Hall Belle Shackford lay on her bed. She was tired. All +the morning she had worked in the house and in the yard, cooking and +dusting, feeding and milking. They were short-handed to-day, for her +father had gone early to Lewes for market, taking Tim with him, and the +day’s care had fallen entirely on the three girls with the couple of +elderly farm-hands. Belle did not as a rule get tired easily, but to-day +she was worn out--not only in body but in mind. Her body ached with +moving, bending, stretching and turning, and her mind was sick of pails +and mops and brooms, of straw and milk and snouts and beaks. She was +done. + +Her room was a tall, narrow slat in the “new part,” partitioned off the +hugeness of a Georgian best-bedroom, and looking out into the tops of +Batchelors’ trees. The walls were bright with her clothes hung on them; +she had no cupboard, only here and there a bit of curtain, from under +which sprayed out the greens and mauves and blues of her +attire--crumpled muslins of summer’s wear, frayed jerseys of this +winter, bits of silk and lace in want of mending--blouses hung by an +armhole, chemises hung by a shoulder-strap, knickers striding the peg +with dangling frills--hats like flowery nests and hats like flaming +wheels. She had a great many clothes--more signs of them protruded in +coloured tongues from the three drawers of her washstand, where a +silver-mounted scent spray stood beside the cracked white earthenware of +her common use. + +As she lay stretched full length on the bed, a woman’s magazine crumpled +under her body, her face hid in the pillow, Belle knew why she was +tired. She was tired as a woman starved must always be tired. For more +than a month now she had gone hungry--and it seemed a year. + +She could not believe that it was only a month since she had seen +Ernley. His going was like a death, a loss which time makes heavier +rather than easier, for with the days the emptiness grows. It is true +that for the last six months their friendship had been disruptive--he +had been moody, remorseful, doubtful--she had been jealous, frantic and +wearying. It had not been the kind of affair she wanted, though it was +with the man she wanted. Perhaps that was the very reason why. It had +been easy enough to have these adventures with men whom she did not +want, men who were only the vessels of love, without personality, +without being, save in so far as they brought her those rapturous dark +moments which from her first tasting them had been the immortal ichor of +her life. But Ernley had brought her something more--he had brought her +himself, and her quarrel with him had been because he had not given her +himself, but only those moments which now, without himself, were not +enough. + +When she had first met him and known that he would never be like the +others she had felt sure that he would give her what he promised. His +circumstances seemed to point to settlement and quiet possession. But +she was soon to discover that his circumstances were treacherous and +that he was their slave. His father would not hear of the marriage--he +planned better things than Belle Shackford for the Crown--and without +his father Ernley was penniless and tradeless, adrift in the great +overcrowded market of post-war England, with the poison he had breathed +in Flanders still infecting his body and his mind. They must wait--for +something, anything, nothing--and at first Belle had been content, not +knowing how much of Ernley would remain ungiven. But the content could +not last--they both wanted too much of each other--she reproached him +for weakness, he accused her of distrust--she was jealous of him so much +away from her, he resented her jealousy. There were quarrels--- +reconciliations--the stocky figure of Daniel Sheather was seen tramping +over the down between Bullockdean and Batchelors’ Hall ... then more +Daniel, less Ernley ... more and more Daniel, less and less Ernley ... +and now all Daniel and no Ernley. + +She began to cry as she thought of Dan--pity melted the ice of her +grief. Poor Dan who was so sure of her, when he ought to be sure of +nothing but his own disappointment. Did he really think she was so +easily and so quickly to be comforted? She was conscious of a faint +thrill of anger against him in the midst of her pity--anger for his +stupidity, for his groundless assurance, as maddening in its way as +Ernley’s groundless doubts, for his imagining that she would ever deign +to become part of the household furniture of the George ... though, +after all, why not? People who were not good enough for the Crown +usually went to the George, so Dan was only acting upon precedent. The +Crown had turned poor, penniless, lovely, careless Belle Shackford out +of doors, and it would not perhaps be so stupid of her to cross the road +to where the meaner inn stood open and lighted to welcome her. + +Dan might have been wise in rushing his courtship into her first month +of desolation. A few months later he might have found her hardened, +indifferent to shelter--and, as he had dimly guessed, it was in his +promise of comfort and shelter that his hope lay. He was so different +from Ernley that nothing about him would ever remind her of the lost +days ... to be loved by him would be like seeking forgetfulness in a new +country--and that was what she wanted more than +everything--forgetfulness. After all, he could give her much that was +sweet. She remembered his kiss at the foot of the Bostal Way--the boy’s +shy lips quickening against her own. He would be a good lover, and he +would give her, besides, a tenderness, a protecting care, that Ernley +had never given. + +But she wrenched her mind from the thought, not so much out of her +surviving love for Ernley as out of her almost maternal compassion for +Dan. Poor little soul! Poor little presumptuous ass! She must not hurt +him by giving him love as hard cash in exchange for protection and +oblivion. She must not seek comfort at his expense. She had no right to +have given him that kiss--she would have given it to any man who had +been kind to her, to any man who was young and comely and +tender-hearted--but he would never know that. He was probably thrilling +with it now. Poor baby! + +Belle sat up on her bed and thrust back the hair from her face. One +piece of practical action lay before her with the promise of such relief +as practical action brings. She must get rid of Daniel ... she must send +him marching--in common fairness. Though susceptible, easy, careless of +her own dignity, Belle was no devourer of men. The men she had known +hitherto had wanted the same sort of things as herself, and she had felt +no special responsibility towards them. But here was a man who wanted +something different--or rather, who wanted from her what she could give +only to another man. She could not bear to hurt him. She liked him. +Belle liked all men. + +In spite of many sad experiences she still liked them--though the manner +of her liking had changed. When she had known men only from books and +hearsay she had pictured them as strong, aloof, rather majestic beings, +on a plane above the frailties and reactions of her femininity. The +woman’s paper which her inert body had crushed for the last hour was +full of print and pictures of strong, silent men in heather-mixture +tweeds, with jutting chins and bulldog pipes hanging from their clenched +teeth--pictures of masculine magnanimity, honour, truthfulness and +protection. And such till a very few years ago she had imagined them, +and had lived through some bitter times while her idol was in process of +being shattered by experience. Yet out of the smash there had risen a +fresh reconstruction of the masculine image--as of a being frail, +erratic, sensitive, perverse, unreliable, helpless, and as such calling +for more of the maternal quality of her love than any of those broken +idols of tweed and iron. It was out of this infinite pity, bought of +experience in exchange for respect, that she resolved to send Daniel +away. + + +§ 2 + +Primed with this resolution, she went down to tea--a twilight tea, for +the Shackfords must be economical with their lamps--a tea with the cloth +a white stare in the grey dimness of the room, and the cups and saucers +all soft spots and gleams, and the high, uncurtained window a great pool +of grey light. + +Her father and brother were back, tired and hungry and unsuccessful. + +“Not a colt you could buy,” said Shackford, “except at ruination price. +We must hang on with Queen and Swaddy a bit longer for the plough. +They’ll take us through another year, anyway.” + +“I hate to see those poor old horses work,” said Belle. + +“But I tell you there was nothing we could buy--not half a dozen +possible colts in the market, and they all at impossible prices. One of +you girls should marry a millionaire, and then we could buy a +motor-plough and do without horses.” + +“Guess who we saw in Lewes to-day,” said Timothy in his sedate, +old-man’s voice. + +“Edgar,” guessed Lucy, with a glance at her pearl-set engagement ring. + +“No, he wasn’t yours,” said Tim; “he was one of Belle’s.” + +“How ‘one of mine’?” cried Belle. + +“Well, he was your last but one, Ernley Munk.” + +“Oh!...” + +“What was he doing?” asked Lucy. + +“He was taking out his new girl,” said Tim owlishly. + +“His new girl--you don’t mean to say he’s got a new girl so quick?” + +“Well, Belle’s got a new boy--why shouldn’t Ernley Munk have a new +girl?” + +“I haven’t got a new boy,” cried Belle fiercely. + +“Oh, no, of course not--my mistake--Daniel Sheather comes to see me and +Nell.” + +“Now, don’t let’s have any of your sauce.” + +“Sauce ... sauce?” queried Tim. + +Belle half rose in her seat, then sat down again. She saw the wisdom of +agreeing with her adversary while she was in the way of getting +information out of him. She wiped her mouth and tried to speak steadily. + +“I can’t help Dan Sheather coming to see me--I don’t encourage him. Did +you see Ernley, father? Who had he got?” + +“I don’t know who she was, but she was a stepper--silk stockings and fur +coat and everything. They were having lunch at the White Hart.” + +“And he called her ‘Kid,’” said Timothy--“I heard him.” + +“Oh, I think he’s consoled himself right enough,” said Shackford, +feeling that the occasion might be helpful in dispelling any surviving +hankerings after her old lover that might survive in his daughter’s +breast. + +“He was holding her foot between his under the table--I saw him,” piped +Tim. + +“You seem to have seen and heard a lot,” snapped Belle. + +“I always do,” the child retorted blandly. + +“Did you speak to him, dad? Did he tell you who she was?” + +“Yes; we had a word about the weather; and he introduced me to Miss +Pearl Jenner. He said he was taking her down to Bullockdean in his +side-car to spend the evening.” + +A gesture of defiance on Ernley’s part? + +“Sounds as if they were going to get married,” said Lucy. + +“I don’t say they’ll get married--he never was the chap for settling +down. But you could see he was gone on the girl. And my! she was a +corker--you should have seen her nails shine!” + +Belle rose from the table. She felt sick--physically sick with physical +jealousy and physical humiliation. The thought of Ernley entertaining +that girl at the White Hart ... it was at the White Hart that she and +Ernley had met and found paradise before they found it in the dark, +reedy places of the Cuckmere ... they used to have lunch, with wine ... +she felt the fierce, sweet taste of the wine upon her lips, mixed with +the taste of cigarettes and Ernley’s kisses.... And now perhaps this +girl, this stepper, this smasher, in her fur coat and silk stockings, +with her silk ankle held between Ernley’s under the table--this unknown +female, better looking, better dressed and better loved than Belle +Shackford--perhaps she now had that dry, sweet, smoky taste upon her +lips--cold, yet burning.... + +Belle was in the passage, tearing one of the milk and manure smelling +overcoats off the pegs, wrapping herself in it and going out. She wanted +air--breath--or she would be ill. She walked quickly across the yard, +splashing recklessly into the pools that lay between the cobblestones, +though they gleamed their warning in the light of the dusk. Her breast +was seething with the alchemy of love and hate. She had never felt it +before--this hate, this jealousy--shaking her, burning her. + +She wanted to kill Ernley--she wanted to kill that dim, mocking figure +of the girl her mind had dressed up. He was taking her home--to where he +had never taken Belle--to his own home, his fireside. He would marry +her--she would have him for ever--him, the real Ernley, whom passion +alone could not give ... she could not bear it.... She was +sobbing--screaming--she must go in somewhere and hide her shame. + +Halfway down the farm drive an old cowhouse stood open and empty. Belle +went blindly in and sank down on the floor. Bowing herself into a hoop, +she sobbed and sobbed--first fearlessly and then with tears that scalded +her face and blinded her eyes and finally exhausted her into motionless +silence. + + +§ 3 + +About an hour later, her mind bled of all thought and her heart bled of +all feeling, she walked feebly back into the yard, huddling the overcoat +round her and shivering. She had only physical sensations left. + +A lighted patch gleamed in the house, and suddenly her sister Nellie +filled it, calling from the doorway: + +“Come on, Belle--come on. Where have you been? Your young man says he +can’t wait any longer.” + +Her young man. Daniel Sheather. + +Lucy stood in the passage. + +“Here she is,” she called through the drawing-room door--then to Belle. +“Do take off that awful old coat. What are you thinking of? You can’t go +in like that. It smells of cow-dung.” + +Belle slid the coat from her shoulders and hung it up. Then she went +into the drawing-room. For a moment she stood in the door, swaying a +little on her muddy feet. Her skirt was muddied at the hem and torn in +two places, and in taking off her coat she had pulled her jersey off one +shoulder, which gleamed large and golden in the lamplight. + +Daniel, who was sitting at the far end of the room, sprang up and came +towards her. + +“Oh, Belle, I was so afraid you wouldn’t come in before I had to go. I +promised I’d be back early to-night--but I had to come over to--to----” + +The words poured out of him, then dried as he saw her close. “Belle, +dear, what’s the matter? Has anything happened? Are you ill?” + +“No, Dan, only--only ... I’ve been out walking, and slipped in the +dark.” + +She tried to finish the sentence in everyday words with an everyday +voice, but though she managed the words, the voice failed her. She said +“slipped in the dark” in the voice of a terrified child. + +“My poor little Belle.” + +His arms spread out maternally, and before she could grow up again they +were round her. He rocked her to him, and in the sudden comfort of him +her stiffness melted--her body relaxed and her heart began to feel +again. It was at first a feeling of sheer dependence, of the huddling +love of a child against the parent’s breast; she thrust her head into +the warm hollow of his shoulder and shivered like a child. + +“Oh, Danny, save me--such dreadful thoughts ... of Ernley ... help me to +forget him. I never hated him before ... I’m frightened. Oh, I can’t +bear it alone.” + +“You shan’t bear it alone,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of you, lovely +one. I will, I will. You’ll be all mine and I’ll take care of +you--you’ll be all mine--won’t you, Belle?” + +She had forgotten the promise she had made to herself and to him as she +lay on her bed upstairs. That ghastly hour of hatred and physical +jealousy, turning for the first time her tragedy into horror, seemed to +have mown down her life like a scythe. She was starting afresh, in a +bare field, unimpeded by old resolutions. All she knew was that she must +have comfort, tenderness and protection, and that, surprisingly, little +Dan Sheather could give them to her. She knew that she must have honour +and truth to restore her self-respect and the respect of her family, who +had guessed her humiliation. She knew that she must have some armour +against Ernley’s wounding, or, after a few more blows, he would wound +her to death. + +“Danny,” she cried--“Danny, save me.” + +He promised that he would, though he did not yet know from what or from +whom. + + + + +CHAPTER SIX + + +§ 1 + +It had all happened as in her heart she had expected. Her surrender had +broken her life in two, and the fiery city of her love for Ernley and +the bleak wilderness of its frustration lay beyond a gulf. She neither +loved him nor hated him, nor was she any longer jealous of the girl who +now had his kisses. She could face the prospect of meeting him--perhaps +meeting them both--in the inevitable future. Neither had she, curiously +enough, any feelings of triumph or self-vindication towards him or +towards her family. She was not proud of her engagement to Daniel +Sheather any more than one is proud of the bed on which one finds rest +at the end of a weary day. + +At first she was conscious of little except relief and peace. Those +experiences which might have disquieted her had now no power to shake +the lethargy of her being. The day after her promise Dan brought her +over to Bullockdean to show his parents. She saw the contempt flickering +in the younger brother’s eyes, she felt the occasional sting of the +mother’s tongue, but neither could rouse her from her quiet leaning +against Daniel. She liked his father too, who had Daniel’s face, with +sea-blue eyes in it; there was nothing sharp nor contemptuous about him, +and she saw in him without offence the naïve admiration of the male for +her big charms. + +Of course, if she would consent to live at the George and help with its +management they could be married almost at once--there was a room, +probably a couple of rooms, to spare, and she would be useful in the +house and in the bar, and so earn her keep. On the other hand, if she +refused, their marriage was as indefinite as hers and Ernley’s had ever +seemed; Daniel would have to hunt the blue lion of the ex-service man--a +job, and having found it would have to contrive, perhaps for some years, +to make a living out of it himself before he attempted to support her on +it too. + +He scarcely seemed to doubt that she would be willing to live at the +George, but she refused to make any promises. If the past were cut off +from her by a gulf, the future was wrapped from her in a mist. It was +essential to her new-found calm that she should not try to search it. If +she had to think of the future, new doubts and new cares would arise. +To-day she could look out unmoved from the shabby windows of the +George’s bar and see across the road the windows of the Crown behind +their snug red curtains. But could she feel sure that she would always +be able to do this? She would never even ask herself the question. When +the future came she would face it, but till it came she would not bring +it any nearer, either with questions or with promises. + +“It’s too soon to think of marrying now. I want to get used to--to this +first, Daniel.” + +He looked at her with his slow, spreading smile, which became mixed with +a little reproach when it reached his eyes. + +“Oh, Belle!... oh, dearie!” + +“We haven’t been engaged a week, and before we settle to get married +we’ll have to think of ever so many things. And I don’t want to think of +anything just yet, Daniel.” + +Her voice trembled a little, and his compassion was immediate. + +“Very well, darling--then you shan’t. You shan’t ever--I’ll do all the +thinking for you. Not that I was ever such a valiant chap for brains, +but I can think of ordinary things.” + +She knew that this courtship was moving on lines exactly opposite to the +old one. Then she had been the one anxious to marry, and Ernley the one +contented to drift. But probably the reasons had been the same--she had +wanted to marry Ernley for the same reason that Daniel wanted to marry +her--because she was not sure. She knew that, in spite of her promises, +Daniel was not sure of her, and sometimes a dreadful compassion smote +her. He was so sweet, so kind, so innocent, she must never make him the +victim of her needs, she must never let him suffer because of her. +Whatever she felt, whatever her awakening, he must not be hurt. She had +sacrificed him once to her own urgencies, and it was her task to see +that she did not sacrifice him again--though she realized vaguely that +he was the kind of man whom women will always sacrifice, either to +themselves or to other men. + + +§ 2 + +In spite of occasional qualms, those days of late February were happy +enough. Belle found Dan’s lovemaking a sweeter experience than she had +expected--she had expected to find him common and unpractised, +challenging contrast with Ernley every hour; she had expected to find +herself a cold slag-heap of burnt-out emotions. She was surprised to +find that the spark in her was not dead, and that the word and touch of +love had power to fan it once more into flame. She saw that Daniel would +be able to give her what other men besides Ernley had given, the things +which do not really matter and yet are so sweet. He could give her the +exquisite moments she loved, and because he was not Ernley, she could +forget herself in these, and be happy, and not wish for anything more +that he could not give. + +Hence she was, in a manner of speaking, happier than in the days of her +love for Ernley. Dan was a much more restful lover--though he showed +occasionally an ardour that surprised her, there was really as much of +affection as of passion in his wooing. It delighted him to cherish her, +to button her coat and tie her scarf, to rub her hands when they were +cold.... And she, in the new joy of being looked after, could forgive +him much that sometimes jarred--ways that weren’t the ways of Ernley, +the ways of the Crown, but the common ways of the George, reminding her +that she was stooping to her refuge.... + +Of course Ted Shackford was only a tenant farmer, and his daughters +worked hard in house and barn--but they wore silk, and when their young +men took them out they expected the best seats at the pictures and to be +fed at hotels and cafés. Ernley had been an especial adept at this +taking out. In the side-car of his motor-cycle Belle had ridden like a +queen--to hotels and theatres and picture palaces, in Eastbourne, Lewes, +Newhaven and Brighton. She had driven home with great beribboned +chocolate boxes on her knees, or bunches of expensive flowers. Her +sisters and friends had envied her. They did not envy her now, though +they thought Dan was well enough in his way, and were glad that Belle +should marry respectably before she came a cropper. + +Daniel never took her anywhere except upon the broad back of the down, +to the hollows by White Lion pond, or to the five haystacks standing +against the sky beyond Barndean. Here they would sit on his spread coat, +huddling together for warmth, he kissing and fondling her, smoking +innumerable Woodbines, and talking plain country talk of birds and +animals and paths and people. Nearly all their lovemaking took place out +of doors. Neither Batchelors’ nor the George was quite congenial. If it +had not been so cold, Belle would have asked for nothing better. As it +was, she sometimes wondered why he never suggested a picture palace. + +Beyond his family she had so far met none of his friends in Bullockdean. +She shrank from meeting people whom she knew thought no good of her. The +Harmans, the Pilbeams, the Ponts, everybody, thought of poor Belle +Shackford as trash. If socially she was stooping to Daniel, in every +other way he was stooping to her. She was a girl of no character, the +clack of two parishes, chiefly, but not only, in connexion with young +Munk. She knew that some people said she was a bad lot, and most that +she was no better than she should be. She didn’t try to justify herself +against these criticisms, but she sometimes wondered if the women who +judged her could ever have felt as she felt, or surely they would have +understood. Were there women who went through life cold, calm and +sedate, unmoved, untempted, unshaken? She wondered. + + +§ 3 + +Circumstances had combined to prevent a meeting between her and Ernley. +Almost directly she had given her promise to Dan, Ernley had gone off to +visit an uncle in Streatham. Belle had at first wondered if this were +mere circumstance, but Daniel had assured her that old Ernley had been +planning this visit for weeks, and he had expected him to make it just +about now. + +“You wouldn’t mind meeting old Ernley again--would you, Belle?” + +“No, of course not.” + +She spoke the truth. Her calm still remained unbroken; indeed it was +growing, thickening in the comfortable atmosphere of Dan’s affection. +She was a more placid creature than she had ever been before. + +Directly Ernley came back to the Crown, Daniel put him the same +question. + +“You won’t mind meeting Belle again, will you, Ernley?” + +“Of course not, you silly fool. Why the devil should I now?” + +“Oh, no, of course not. I was only asking. I was thinking of having +Belle over to spend a night or two next week. Maybe you could come to +supper.” + +“I’d be pleased. Why should you think I’d mind meeting her? Does she +mind meeting me?” + +“Oh, dear, no. She said she’d be glad.” + +“That’s all right, then. The past’s forgotten, the hatchet’s buried. +Have a drink.” + +Dan felt infinitely relieved. Having seen so much of Belle and Ernley in +the last destructive days of their love, he had found it difficult to +believe that they could ever meet like ordinary human beings--though +each had found, as they say, consolation elsewhere. + +“How are you getting on with Pearl?” he asked. + +“Oh, fine. Couldn’t be better. We had a day together in town while I was +at Streatham.” + +“Are you going to marry her?” + +Ernley flushed. + +“How can I tell? It depends on what dad thinks of it. He’s seen her +once--I brought her over here--and he likes her. But I dunno. I don’t +think I’m the sort of chap to get married. Not but that I’m sure to do +it some day. I’ll make a damn bad husband to some poor girl.” + +“That’s what you say. I don’t think so.” + +“Because you don’t know half what a moody, broody sort of devil I am. I +hate domestic life too--cookery books and babies and all that. You love +that sort of thing, so you’re wise to get married. When is it to be?” + +“I dunno. We haven’t settled yet. It all depends whether Belle ull live +at the George.” + +“You never thought of having her to live at the George?” + +“Well, where else are we to live? If I have to leave home and get a job +we can’t get married for years.” + +“But you couldn’t have her at the George. It ud be impossible. She’d +never cotton to that kind of life--all mixed up with your family.” + +“Well, she’s lived all mixed up with her own, and they not so good as +mine. And if you’d married her she’d have lived all mixed up with +yours.” + +“I’ve only got dad--and, Lord! it’s very different here.... But I’d +better not be offensive. Belle knows how to look after herself--damn +well she does! Not much putting up with unnecessary evils about Belle.” + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN + + +§ 1 + +In spite of the professed readiness of the parties to meet each other it +was not till a fortnight later that the meeting took place. First it had +been obstructed by Ernley’s wish to bring his new girl, who was not +available during the first week, and then by an unexpected reluctance on +the part of Belle. + +“But, sweetheart Belle, you said you didn’t mind meeting him.” + +“And no more I do. Only I don’t want to just yet.” + +“But you’ll have to do it some day--may as well do it now.” + +She held out her arms to him suddenly. + +“Oh, Daniel, I’m so happy--don’t let me go.” + +“Let you go, lovey? That I won’t!” + +He took her in his arms, and she felt his warm, gentle embrace drawing +her close, till the throbbing of his heart was under hers. + +“Daniel--I want to stay where I am--not go further, I mean. I’m so happy +here.” + +Her words were nothing to him but the echo of his own happiness in their +embrace. + +“Sweetheart ... I’d like to hold you always. Belle, my arms are round +you always, even though you don’t see ’em.” + +She gave way about meeting Ernley. After all, she must do so some time, +and to feel herself, in spite of all, unready, made her afraid--made her +deny her own unwillingness by acceptance. As for the added sharpness of +his bringing his new girl, that might make the dose more +efficacious--and she must get used to that too, as much as to the other +... every day--all her life ... only the road between them. + +When the evening came and Daniel fetched her over from Batchelors’ Hall, +he was disappointed to find that she was not looking her best. He too +was inclined to resent the inclusion of Ernley’s girl, and his aim was +to show her the woman she had supplanted as in every way a finer woman +than herself. But for the last two or three days Belle had looked tired +and off colour--her brightness seemed to have faded, her bigness seemed +to have sagged, and Daniel, who admired brightness and bigness, was +sorry, not for his own sake, but for hers. + +Possibly, to a taste less naïve than his, Belle was improved by her +paler looks. The ebbing of her brave colour seemed to have left her +features more delicately graven, and the dimming of her eyes had given +them a provoking shadowed look. She wore a yellow frock the colour of +her hair. + +“Your body’s undone at the back,” was Kitty Sheather’s greeting to her +future daughter-in-law. + +Dan--who had reluctantly contemplated Belle’s blue silk camisole on +every occasion of precedence due to a lady--but had been too shy to +admit it--felt relieved at his mother’s remark, though he could have +wished it made more graciously. + +Belle grabbed at her back, pulling her bodice, which straightway burst +on the shoulder. Kitty giggled, and it seemed to Dan as if his darling’s +blue eyes swam a little. His mother didn’t offer to help her, and moved +by tenderness, he was no longer shy. + +“Let me help you fasten up.” + +He was just going to embark for the first time on the pathetic masculine +struggle with hook and eye when Kitty indignantly pushed him aside. + +“How dare you! I always think you a modest boy. I won’t have such things +in my house. No!” + +She had Belle tidy only just as the others arrived. They came in +looking, perhaps by contrast, the picture of orderliness and ease. +Ernley wore a blue lounge suit that made Daniel, also in a blue lounge +suit, lose faith in the gent’s outfitters who had provided it. Ernley’s +girl, Miss Jenner, was hall-marked Eastbourne, and evidently made Belle +feel the same as Ernley had made Dan--though personally he didn’t think +much of her plain black frock and little black hat in comparison with +Belle’s yellow finery. + +Supper was laid in the parlour at the back of the bar. It was a very +superior supper, almost dinner in fact, with a couple of fowls and a +treacle sponge. The drinks had been surreptitiously bought at the Crown, +Tom having decided at the last moment that his bondmaster’s ale was not +good enough for his guests. Dan, who had made the purchase under a vow +of secrecy from Maudie Harman, suspected that Ernley guessed what had +happened. He knew that the George was tied to Messrs. Hobday and Hitch, +and that Messrs. Bass’s Number One was not to be found locally except in +the cellars of the Crown. In vain Dan laboured to keep the bottles out +of sight.... Not that he minded old Ernley knowing, any more than he +minded him having a blue lounge suit that really fitted him--but he did +not want Miss Jenner to think that Belle had fallen socially ... though, +of course, she had ... marrying the George after being engaged to the +Crown.... + +Dear lovely thing! As he watched her he thrilled with pride and +tenderness. She was beautiful--her dress was beautiful--even though the +bunch of silk flowers at her waist was a little crushed and she was +always pulling them up and flouncing them out a bit. She had more scent +than Miss Jenner too--it came to him in generous waves right across the +table--whereas Miss Jenner’s only rose faintly from beside him. He +didn’t really like scent much, still if girls used it he’d like Belle’s +to be stronger than anyone else’s ... and she’d made her nails shine +too, like the others--they were even brighter--though her hands were +very different, being large and work-worn instead of small and white. +Miss Jenner did not have to work at all--nor did her father, she told +them--he was private, having retired some years ago from the building +trade. + +The conversation on the whole lacked spirit. No one knew whether Ernley +and his girl were engaged, therefore how far it was permissible to go in +raillery, and neither said anything by way of enlightenment. They talked +a little about the rates, about the need of remaking the road on the +east side of the valley, about a recent meet of the Southdown Hunt at +Beddingham, about the new motor-’buses on the roads. Miss Jenner was +very polite to Belle, admired her dress, told her about a very good shop +for hats in Eastbourne and asked her if she ever went to dance at the +Grand Hotel. Belle, except in answer to such questions, scarcely spoke, +nor did she eat much. She sat, heavy and lovely and silent, the lamp +drenching her in gold. + +After supper they had a table for whist, that is to say Kitty and Ernley +played Christopher and Miss Jenner, while Tom Sheather served in the +bar. Dan and Belle sat and watched the whist-players, side by side on +the sofa, he with his arm round her waist, as he was privileged to sit +in public now they were engaged. + + +§ 2 + +“That’s a fine girl Munk has got,” said Chris, when the guests had +departed and Belle had gone to help Kitty wash up in the scullery. + +“Not so bad,” said Tom Sheather. + +Dan swelled in silence. + +“A lot of style,” commented Chris. + +“Oh, yes--a lot of style. But I don’t think she comes up to our Belle.” + +Chris said nothing--insultingly. + +“You’ve got the best girl, Daniel,” continued his father--“and I bet +young Munk sees it. I could see him staring at her all through supper. I +expect he’s sorry he changed--but I reckon Belle isn’t. Hey, Daniel?” + +He smote his son between the shoulders, and Dan felt loving and grateful +towards him, though he still wished the family differently grouped in +its alliances. + +Kitty also had something to say on the subject of Munk’s girl. + +“She’s quite a lady--you can see that. Never done any work.” + +“Ladies’ work,” said Dan sullenly. “Look at Mrs. Penny. I’ve seen her +washing her own curtains.” + +Kitty sniffed. + +“I dare say. I know Mrs. Penny’s sort of lady. A real lady never put her +hand to anything. Dr. le Hellé’s wife in Guernsey she sit in her +drawing-room all day, and ring the bell if she drop her handkerchief. +Give me that sort of lady.” + +“Well, don’t give her to me, that’s all.” + +“Oh, indeed, Mister Impertinence! That is the way you speak to your +mother when she is going to sit in the kitchen so that you and your +young woman can sit in the parlour. I have half a mind to go to bed, +and then you two cannot stay alone downstairs--no!” + +“I’m sorry, mum. But I can’t bear to hear everybody except dad getting +at Belle.” + +“Who’s been getting at her? Not I. I have nothing to say against Belle +if she will be a good girl. When I spoke of a lady I did not speak of +her for you. No lady would marry a common boy.” + +Holding his tongue with difficulty on the subject of common boys, Dan +walked out of the kitchen and into the parlour, where he found Belle +sitting under the lamp. + +“Are you tired, sweetheart?” + +“A little--only a little.” + +“You shouldn’t ought to have washed up. Why didn’t you tell mother you +were tired?” + +Belle said nothing. She rose slowly and came towards Daniel as he sat on +the sofa. She put her arms about him and hid her face in his shoulder. + +“My lovely, my dear!” He strained her to his heart. + +She did not want him to speak; she wanted just to lie heavy against him, +at rest in the homely comfort of his arms; but his tongue, oiled by more +generous liquor than he was accustomed to, ran on. + +“Oh, darling, it’s so lovely to think that I’ve got you here with me at +home to-night. That you’re not going away. It’s almost like the time +when I’ll have you here always. Oh, say that time ull come soon.” + +She did not speak, but he did not seem to want her assurance in words +but in kisses. He stooped his head to hers as it lay on his breast, the +bright rough gold all teased over his shoulder. She found herself giving +her usual response, or, rather, her response coming from her ungiven, +feeling apart from will. + +“If you can only put up with this place for a bit,” he ran on, “I reckon +it won’t be long before we get one of our own. With you to help, I’m +sure mother ud give teas--and maybe let rooms, even. Then she wouldn’t +want any of the money that I earn, and we could put it by. And I know +dad ud help us if ever he got the chance. It’s not much I’m offering +you, Belle, but I do feel as I could make you happy if you let me try.” + +“I know you could, Danny--but----” + +“Oh, say you’ll let me try. If you won’t come here, reckon we can’t get +married for months and years. And, oh, lovely Belle, I want you so. I +want you terrible--here, as I have you now. I want you and me alone +together. Oh, Belle, say you’ll let me try.” + +“And suppose you fail.” + +She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked him suddenly in the +eyes. + +“And suppose you fail.” + +“Fail!”--he seemed startled by the new thought--“I shan’t fail. I can’t +fail. I love you too much. And, Belle, you do love me--you’ve said you +love me. Oh, you still love me? Say it again.” + +“I do love you, Danny dear. You know it, but----” + +“Then why won’t you let me try? Why won’t you marry me at Easter and +come and live here? I know it’s not what I should ought to be offering +you, but it really won’t be so bad. We’ll have a couple of rooms of our +own--and I’ll see as you don’t do anything but what a lady ud be willing +to put her hand to in her house. We’ll keep quite private to ourselves a +lot of the time. Oh, Belle, you don’t have such an easy life at +Batchelors’ that you need worry about coming here. This ull be a rest to +you after Batchelors’, and mother ull be good to you, I swear she will. +Her tongue’s sharp like that to everyone--and dad he thinks no end of +you and ull treat you kinder than your own. And I--oh, lovely Belle, +I’ll be so good to you. I’ll stand between you and everything that’s +rough--I’ll take care of you as if you was my child. Belle, you shall be +my child and my queen if only you’ll be my wife.” + +The Crown’s ale had given him a new and surprising eloquence. Belle was +moved by it. She had never before had him so fluent, so shaken. As she +looked into his pleading face it was almost as if its Saxon bluntness of +feature was lost in the brilliance of his brown, French eyes. This was a +Daniel of another, more fiery race, stirred into life by the emotion of +his love. + +After all, he had only said what was true when he had argued that she +would, other considerations apart, be happier at the George than at +Batchelors’ Hall. Her mother-in-law’s tongue would not be much sharper +than her sister Lucy’s--she liked kind Tom Sheather--she need not see +much of Ernley.... And she would have Dan always with her--dear +Dan!--who was so strong and sturdy and comfortable, and so surprisingly, +amazingly sweet ... always with her ... never alone with her fears ... +too late for her doubts ... the future had come upon her. She must meet +it--surrender to it. She could not turn and flee--she could not +disappoint him, who had already saved her from so much. + +“Belle--let me try.” + +She turned her face once more to his shoulder, and gave her consent in +silence, while his incoherent words of gratitude stormed at her ears. + + +§ 3 + +For the first half of the night Belle slept heavily, according to her +nature. But towards morning she began to dream--queer confused dreams of +the supper-table and Ernley’s face.... She heard Ernley saying again and +again, “Let me try”--and awoke to remember it was Daniel who had said +it. She awoke in this way several times, and at last could not fall +asleep again. She lay on her back staring at the ceiling, which seemed +so near after the ceiling of her room at Batchelors’ Hall. A queer light +hung over it--the starlight reflected in her mirror and then cast +upwards to the beams. + +She must think now--she could not help it. She must think of Daniel and +Ernley--Daniel to whom she had promised herself, and Ernley to whom she +belonged. It was dreadful; it was humbling to realize that in spite of +all that had happened, all that she had done to break her chains, she +still belonged to Ernley; yet such was the situation as she saw it in +the clearness of the wakeful small hours. She saw, too, that her +complete surrender to Daniel, her promise to marry him at Easter, was +almost entirely due to her growing realization that her heart was still +Ernley’s. Twice she had known the full vitality of her surviving love +for Ernley--when she had heard he loved another woman, and this last +night; and each time the knowledge had driven her a definite step +towards Daniel. But for the first she would never have become engaged to +him; but for the second she would not have promised to marry him next +month. + +Was this fair to him? Of course it wasn’t; but she really could not help +it. The more she realized what she had lost in Ernley the more +imperative it became that she must take what she could get in Daniel. +The more she realized the superiority of the Crown, the more her only +chance of happiness seemed to lie in her finding a home at the George. +If she had not got Daniel, she would be down and out. She was not the +sort of woman who can say “the best or nothing”--she was not so +fortunate as that. She must have something, somebody to fill a little of +the emptiness which had come into her life when she lost her only chance +of the best. + +Of course it wasn’t fair to Daniel. Poor Danny.... He loved her. She was +quite sure of his devotion, and tragically he was quite sure of hers. He +had sometimes been doubtful and deprecating before their engagement, but +ever since he had taken her surprisingly for granted. Well, then, he had +only himself to thank if he was made the victim of her desperate need. +After all, it was rather cool of him to imagine that she would look at +him after Ernley--so soon after Ernley. He had changed his part of +vicarious wooer to that of actual wooer without apparently one qualm of +diffidence. It served him right to be taken at his word instead of being +sent packing, as would have happened with most women. He had offered her +comfort and oblivion--she would take them and let him face the +consequences of his own offering. + +Probably the consequences would not be so very serious. He was thick +enough not to guess much that would be passing in her mind; she could no +doubt make him happy enough--anyhow far happier than he would be without +her.... If only she could get rid of this queer sense of kinship she had +with Ernley ... a kinship quite apart from breeding, education and +manners--which would still have existed if Ernley had been the son of +the George and Daniel the son of the Crown. It was part of a feeling +that Ernley’s life, opinions, happiness, surroundings, mattered to her +intensely, whereas Dan’s did not. All that mattered to her about Dan was +his love, his kisses, his protection, all, in fact, of herself that was +in him. + +These thoughts carried her through into the morning. The window-square +became a chilly, sullen blue--the outlines of the furniture began to +appear among clouds of shadow. A photograph of Daniel, which he had +given her in the first week of their engagement, stood on the little +table by her bed, beside her candlestick. She had brought it with her +from Batchelors’ Hall, knowing that he would be pleased at such a token +of attachment. It was not a good photograph--it was a portrait he had +had taken soon after he joined up in ’16. There he sat, looking very +stiff and upright, with his swagger-stick across his knees, his eyes +black and bolting under his service cap, which was set at the +conventionally rakish angle. He seemed to stare at her through the +gathering light.... What a typical little soldier he looked--just a +little ordinary swaddy--such as she had seen in thousands marching +through Lewes, singing “It’s a long, long trail,” or “Sussex by the +sea.” ... But she was a beast to think of him like that--he was not an +ordinary little soldier; he was a kind, devoted, patient young lover +whose only crime lay in giving her more than she could receive. Even if +he knew what was passing in her mind he would not reproach her--he would +be humble enough to take the crumbs of Ernley’s feast. All he wanted +was, indeed, to be of service--to be her dog. In taking from him so much +and giving him so little, she was not, all things considered, using him +so ill. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT + + +§ 1 + +The next morning it was Dan’s turn to be Bullockdean at the village +altar, and having tried in vain to force an extra day’s representation +on Freddie Pont or Tommy Pilbeam, he resolved not to disappoint Mr. +Marchbanks, but to sacrifice five minutes of Belle’s society. It was not +likely to be more, as he expected her to take advantage of her absence +from home, by having a good rest in bed. But by seven o’clock Belle was +tired of her thoughts and of the hard places of the George’s best bed, +so she rose, dressed, and came downstairs into a silent and chilly +darkness. + +The blinds were all down, for the Sheathers were not at their best early +risers, and this morning they were tired after their dissipations. +Belle opened the door, which Daniel had left on the latch, and walked +out. The street was full of the pale March sunshine and the tossing +March wind. The signs of the George and the Crown swung creakingly to +and fro. Belle stared up at the blind face of the Crown. The street was +empty, the village seemed asleep except for the columns of smoke that +the wind spun, scattering them every now and then in wood-scented clouds +that swept down from the roofs and mixed with the pale sunshine in the +street. + +Belle knew where Daniel had gone and walked up the church lane in hopes +of meeting him. There were, in spite of his simplicity, one or two +things in him that she could not understand. She wondered if he was +religious--she thought not, for he never spoke of it. But he was a good +boy, that she knew. He had always been good, even during the difficult +days of the war--and, unlike many good people, he had always been +kind.... Oh, she must not let him suffer! He must never suffer because +of his sweetness, his generosity, his daring towards her. + +She had come to the churchyard gate and would not go any farther. The +lane had by now reached a level above the rest of the village, and from +where she stood she was looking down on the Crown garden. It was a fine +big place, plentifully studded with arbours which in summer would give +shade to tea-drinking couples. Dan wanted the George to “give teas,” and +thought perhaps it would do so when Belle was there to help. But there +wasn’t room for two inns of that sort in the same little village--the +George would simply smash once it went into deliberate competition with +the Crown. That was another of Dan’s silly ideas. He ought to see that +the George’s only chance was to keep its own common ways--his father had +better sense than he. + +A man had come out of a shed in the Crown garden and was walking towards +the house. She knew immediately, by his figure and his walk, that he +was Ernley. Her breath thickened, and suddenly she felt almost faint and +clung to a stake in the hedgerow for support. Good Lord! what was +happening to her if she could not bear even the distant sight of Ernley? +Every effort she made at her own reassurance seemed only to land her +further in doubt. What would become of her? + +“Belle--darling! This is a fine surprise.” + +Daniel had come through the gate while she stood lost in her new +weakness. He put his cold cheek to hers and she found her usual comfort. + +“Oh, Danny, I’m so glad to see you.” + +“And I to see you, sweetheart. I never thought you’d be out so early. + +“I woke up early.” + +“Didn’t you sleep well, dearie? Weren’t you comfortable? I know most of +our beds are full of lumps.” + +“Oh, I was right enough. But I felt wide awake--and I’m not used to +lying long.” + +“Belle, must you go home to-day? Can’t you stay till to-morrow? I seem +to have had so little of you.” + +“I must go, I reckon. We’re short-handed as it is. But you’ll be coming +over soon.” + +“I’ll walk over with you to-day--but I’d sooner have you here.” + +He stopped and drew her to him in the last shelter of the lane. + +As he released her he seemed to notice something. + +“Darling, are you well? You’re looking terrible pale.” + +“Oh, I’m right enough.” + +“But you shouldn’t ought to have come out like this before breakfast, on +an empty stomach.” + +“And what about yours?” + +“Oh, I’m used to it. I’m tough. But you--you just about want someone to +take care of you.” + +He kissed her fiercely--without shelter. + +“Oh, Danny--don’t. Not out here in the street.” + +She had a sudden fear that Ernley would see. + +“There ain’t nobody about.” + +“But someone might be looking out of a window.” + +He saw her eyes slant upwards to the windows of the Crown. + +“Don’t you worry about old Ernley. It ud do him good to see us.” + +She was seized with a strange fury at his insensitiveness. Her heart +beat wildly, and for the first time she nearly gave him bitter words. +But she managed to force herself to silence, and they went into the +George together. Breakfast was laid in the kitchen--a substantial meal, +richly various for a man who could not pay his brewer. + +“Good morning, mum--good morning, dad. Here we are--here’s Belle. Reckon +she’s dying for her breakfast, same as I am.” + +Dan’s cheerful voice seemed to fill the room, or rather to fill all of +it that was not filled by the voices of Kitty and Tom and Chris. +Perversely, Belle herself felt unable to speak a word. Having shut her +mouth on bitterness, she seemed unable to open it again for friendliness +or greeting. She sat down beside Dan at the table--sausages appeared +before her, bread and butter and a great cup of tea. + +“My, Belle! but you’re looking ornery!” + +Tom Sheather’s voice came down the table, bellowing ... she saw Dan +cutting more bread ... she felt just as she had felt when she was +watching Ernley in the Crown garden ... almost faint ... quite faint. +She went suddenly in a huddle to the floor. + + +§ 2 + +The next thing that she became conscious of was a pair of eyes, looking +down at her. They were dark eyes like Daniel’s, yet not Daniel’s, and +they seemed to be boring down into hers, reading the inmost secrets of +her heart--secrets of which even she herself was unaware. Then slowly a +face surrounded them, and she realized that she was lying with her head +on Kitty Sheather’s knee, looking up into her face. + +She stirred uneasily, and moaned. + +“Belle--Belle----” + +The agonized voice came from beside her, and with a slight roll of her +head she looked into Daniel’s face, convulsed and pitying. + +“Oh, my darling--my poor darling!... Don’t be frightened, sweet--you’re +better now. Here’s dad with some brandy.” + +Tom Sheather held a flask to her lips. She drank it, gulped and sat up. +For a moment the room seemed to go round, then steadied itself again. +She gripped Daniel’s arm and laughed weakly. + +“I fainted.” + +“You’re tired, my precious--you’ve been working too hard, and you +shouldn’t ought to have got up so early. Now you shall go back to bed +and stay there till you’re rested.” + +“No--I must go home.” + +The words were out of her almost before she realized her own urgency. + +“But you can’t possibly--it ud be wicked for you to go when you’re tired +and ill like this.” + +“I must go--I’m quite well now.” + +She had scrambled to her feet, and stood swaying and clutching him by +the shoulder. + +“Don’t be silly, my dear,” said Tom Sheather; “we’d have it on our +conscience if you went home to-day.” + +“But I must--I must. I tell you I can’t stay.” Her need seemed to grow +in desperation every minute. “Danny can drive me--you’ve got a trap. +Please, please, Danny, take me home.” + +The clear voice of Kitty Sheather broke into the discussion. + +“Let her go if she want to--there’s nothing the matter with her.” + +“Oh, mum! How can you speak so? Look how white she is. Is it natural for +a girl to faint at her breakfast?” + +“Yes,” said Kitty coolly, “sometimes quite natural.” + +Belle walked towards the door, waving back Daniel when he tried to +follow. + +“You go and get out the trap. Please don’t come--please don’t keep me.” + +She managed to hold back her tears till she was out of the room. She was +aware of some sort of argument going on behind the closed door, but +Daniel did not come out to her, as she had feared. No doubt his mother’s +notions of propriety forbade his helping her with her packing. To her +great relief, Kitty did not come either. She was left alone. She felt +quite well again now, but she could not stop crying. Her tears fell on +her clothes as she folded them and put them in her bag. When she had +finished packing she had to wait a few minutes till they had ceased. + +At last she was ready and had come downstairs in her coat of purple +freize, with her sky-blue tam o’ shanter crammed down over her hair, +which she had not troubled to brush out of its recent confusion. Dan was +waiting for her with the trap, miserable, but resigned. Her farewells +were said--defensively to Chris, gratefully to Tom, nervously to +Kitty--and she was up in the trap beside Daniel, driving down +Bullockdean street under the staring windows of the Crown. + +“How are you feeling, dear?” he asked her every moment, and when they +were out of the village he wanted to put his arm round her. Almost +without knowing what she did, she pushed him away. + +“Don’t, Danny, you mustn’t do that--you can’t drive with only one arm. +Please get me home quickly--quickly.” + + +§ 3 + +When they came to Batchelors’ Hall, she would not let him stay. He +wanted to go indoors with her and explain to her family that she was +ill, and must rest. But she would not let him. She gave him on the +doorstep an almost sacrificial kiss, and stood watching him drive +through the gate before she went in. + +Daniel was bewildered, not only by the last hour but by all the events +of the morning. He was bewildered by Belle’s illness, still more by his +mother’s indifference in the face of such a calamity, and most of all by +Belle’s new strange aloofness, refusing his comfort when most she seemed +to need it. As a rule, in her blooming health, he had always found her +eager to lean on him, but now when she was ill, faint and tired, she +seemed to turn away. He was distressed. + +These sad thoughts occupied him all the way home, but when he reached +the George they were immediately dispelled, not by any comfort, but by a +fresh piece of catastrophe. + +“What you think’s happened?” cried Kitty from the open door as he drove +up. + +“I dunno--anything good?” + +“Good! _I_ shouldn’t call it good, but I never know what you think.” + +She was evidently more moved than by poor Belle’s afflictions. + +“Well, then, what is it, mum?” + +“James Munk--old Munk--he’s dead.” + +Daniel gaped. + +“He was knocked down and killed in Lewes this morning,” put in Tom +Sheather over his wife’s shoulder. “A car got him as he stepped off the +pavement. This very morning it was--he’s just been brought home.” + +“And now Ernley have the Crown and get married at once,” said Kitty. + +Dan still found himself speechless. James Munk had continually maddened +him and scared him with his bitter gifts of tongue--but to be dead ... +to be swept suddenly out of life in the familiar High Street of Lewes, +among all the traps and cars and people and driven beasts ... he felt +the back of his throat thicken with the beginnings of a sob, and hastily +whipping up Spot, he drove round to the back yard, where he could be +unmanly if he wished. + +All that day nothing else was talked of in Bullockdean. Maudie Harman +answered a continual stream of inquiries in the bar, and by common +consent almost nothing but sherry was ordered, sherry being for some +obscure reason considered locally as the only suitable drink in the +presence of death. + +Dan did not go over to the Crown. He did not know what to say to Ernley. +He did not know what Ernley was feeling, whether he, too, felt all the +pathos and horror of death like that in Lewes Street, or whether he was +only thinking that now he was free, master of the Crown and of himself, +or perhaps wondering what would have happened if his freedom had come +earlier, when he was still Belle Shackford’s lover.... He had never +credited Ernley with any strong feelings for his father, and he knew he +wasn’t the kind of man to speak as he didn’t feel. He would not speak of +James Munk in the way Daniel was accustomed to hear speak of the dead, +and something in young Sheather’s country heart was shocked at the idea, +and would not let him go where there was a chance of good ways being set +at naught. + +At the George there was also plenty of talk, but it was in the right +tradition. Neither Kitty nor Tom had had a good word to say for Munk +while he was alive, but they had nothing but good to say of him now he +was dead. + +“Poor chap!” said Tom. “I saw him drive away soon after you did, +Daniel--wearing his grey suit ... it seems terrible, don’t it? I’d just +come up from the cellar with some of the stout, and I heard wheels and I +thought ‘that can’t be Dan come back--no, it’s from the Crown’--and that +very moment James Munk drove past the winder.” + +“Was Ernley with him?” + +“No, he was alone; but he’d got a crate or something at the back of the +trap. If I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have looked more +particular.” + +Tom sighed regretfully. The next minute he changed the subject. + +“But here we are in such a terrification about poor Munk, who’s dead, +that we’ve forgotten our Belle, who’s living. I hope you left her +feeling better, Daniel.” + +“Yes, I think she was better, dad. She said she was--she wouldn’t let me +come in.” + +“Well, I hope she won’t go working herself to death at that place. +That’s what’s the matter with her, you mark my words. Shackford can’t +afford a proper lot of men, so he works his girls to death. Poor soul! +It made my heart bleed to see her looking so ordinary.” + +“It was nothing,” said Kitty, “only a little morning faintness.” + +Something in her voice and in her look, as well as something vaguely +suggestive and familiar about her words, made Daniel start and turn +suddenly hot. + +“What d’you mean, mum?” + +“Only that I think you’ll soon have something more of Ernley’s to take +over.” + +She was standing near the door, and went out as she spoke. Dan remained, +gaping at his father. + +“Come, lad, don’t take on,” pleaded Tom. “Reckon mum didn’t mean what +she said.” + +But Daniel was no longer there. + + +§ 4 + +The news of James Munk’s death came to Batchelors’ Hall almost as +quickly as it had come to Bullockdean. Fred Shackford brought it back +from Lewes, and had it all ready to retail to his girls at dinner. + +“He’d left his trap at the White Hart, and was just going to cross the +road to Mr. Vine’s shop, when, as he stepped off the pavement, a car got +him. A private car it was, driven by a gentleman from Guildford. Lord! +they were upset--the lady in the back seat fainted right away. No one +was to blame, they say--car going quite slow and on its proper +side--only old Munk stepped off without looking around. I didn’t see it +happen--- didn’t get up in time--but I saw some of the blood.” + +“Was he alone?” asked Lucy. “Wasn’t Ernley with him?” + +“No, he was quite alone; but, of course, everyone knew who he was. I +heard it was Munk before I got anywhere near.” + +“Ernley ull be able to get married now.” + +“So he will, and he’ll be a bit of a catch, too. I hear the Crown’s +worth something these days.” + +“Mr. Munk wanted him to marry a lady. He thought he could, with the +education he’d given him, and he being an officer in the war. I wonder +if the girl he’s got now is a lady?” + +“She looked one. But by this time it don’t matter. He can marry whom he +chooses. Poor old Munk can’t stop him.” + +Belle said nothing till dinner was over, then she went up to her room. +She did not cry or make any sound, but in her heart was a twisting, +strangling despair. + +Ernley was free. He could marry anybody he chose. He could marry Pearl +Jenner in her refined black frock, with her Eastbourne accent and her +private father. He could have married Belle if only James Munk had died +a little earlier, or if only she had been patient a little longer. He +had always meant to marry her some day, either when he had found a job +or his father had relented. Belle had told herself--and, unfortunately, +him--that if he really loved her he would not wait, but would marry her +at once, and they would face poverty together. He had assured her in +return that he did love her, but that for her own sake as well as his he +would not marry her without maintenance or independence. She had not +believed him, and they had quarrelled--many times--and been +reconciled--many times. And now, after the last quarrel, she had refused +reconciliation, and instead had pledged herself to a man who was ready +to marry her without maintenance or independence. Whereas, if she had +waited only a few more weeks she could have had Ernley and both. + +That was the sort of trick you had played on you when you were bad. +Maybe if she had been good all this would never have happened. Good +people would say she had got what she deserved. Perhaps they were right. +After all, she ought to have understood.... Men don’t love women the way +women love men. Ernley had not wanted of her all that she wanted of him, +so he had been happy and satisfied without marriage. He had been happy +because he did not want so much. She had made too many demands on him +... she had been like the daughter of the horseleech saying, +“give--give.” She had said: “It isn’t enough that you’ve given me your +friendship and so much joy--I want everything you’ve got: your home, +your family, your daily life, your leisure. Give--give!” + +She had asked for so much that she had got nothing. She saw that she +hadn’t got even Daniel now. She could not marry Daniel now that she knew +she carried Ernley’s child. To her spirit’s long recoil had now been +added the recoil of the flesh--and the thing was impossible. She carried +Ernley himself in her body. She could not give even so much as her body +to Daniel. + +She felt neither joy nor sorrow, only a deadly fear. It seemed a long +time now that she had felt this fear, but it had been only faint, +half-realized, a vague sickness. Now it had shape and name. Kitty +Sheather’s boring eyes had given it both. She knew now what for long she +had suspected, and she knew, too, that her suspicions had been more +vigorous than she would acknowledge at the time. She had thrust them +from her with hasty reassurances, born of ignorance out of desperation. +But they, more than any bodily condition, had been responsible for her +ill-health, and now that they were no longer thrust aside, but an +admitted part of her stress, she felt curiously well. It was her bodily +health alone that enabled her to face the future. Her mind was sick. She +saw herself friendless, kicked out by her family, and bound by all the +strange contrariety of nature to refuse the only help that could come to +her, from Daniel. She saw herself exposed and forsaken ... she saw her +love for Ernley made immortal, looking up at her with undying eyes of +torment. + + +§ 5 + +She was in the midst of these thoughts, sitting on her bed, when Lucy +stuck her head in at the door, saying: + +“Daniel’s come.” + +Well, that did not really make it any worse; on the contrary, the sooner +she was through with it all the better. She rose, and without troubling +about her appearance, went downstairs. He was in the drawing-room, +comparing details of the Munk tragedy with her father. She was anxious +to get him away, but Shackford was full of the garrulity of +almost-an-eye-witness, and it was some time before he had done with the +relative positions of the White Hart and the car and the body and Mr. +Vine’s shop. Daniel seemed anxious to be off, too--she saw him try to +break away more than once--but it was nearly ten minutes before the +farmer remembered the afternoon’s milking and reluctantly went out. + +Belle did not feel secure in the drawing-room, and asked him to come out +of doors. He protested for her sake, as a light drizzle was falling, and +it ended in their going together into the big barn. They had its +vastness to themselves, and there seemed something vaguely terrible +about its size to-day, for the light of the drizzling afternoon was only +feebly spread among its shadows. Daniel had often dreamed of loving +Belle under the mighty wing of its darkness, but now he felt almost +afraid. Here was neither darkness nor light, but a grey dusk woven of +the tears of the day, and though he was alone with Belle, he could not +speak, for his intense pity for her had made him fear her, as he had +never feared her before. + +She spoke first, and her words were like a knife, cutting right down +into the wound of his fear. She had no pity for him--her one thought was +to do his business quickly, so that she could turn to her own. + +“Daniel, it’s no good. I can’t go on with it.” + +“With what, Belle?” + +“Our engagement--our marriage.” + +He began to stammer. + +“B--but, darling--that’s--that’s what I came over about. I--I wanted to +tell you it makes no difference ... even if it’s true.... I--I don’t +mind--I love you just the same.” + +“That isn’t what I mean. I mean that it’s I who--I can’t go on with it. +I’m sorry, Daniel--I know I should ought to have done this long ago--or +better still, I shouldn’t ever have let you love me. It’s my fault. But +I can’t help it. I can’t marry you now that I know ... do you guess what +I know?” + +“Yes--mum guessed ... but, Belle, it makes no difference....” + +She brushed his protest aside. + +“I’m going to have Ernley’s child. I can’t marry you when I know that.” + +“But, lovey, I don’t mind--I swear I don’t. And it only makes it the +more necessary I should marry you--quick. Then folk can’t talk so--or +anyway their talk won’t hurt you.” + +“I can’t help their talk. I’d rather they talked.... I can’t help it. I +can’t marry you now I know this.” + +He began to look scared. At first he had put her words down to her +humility, and he had thought them words of renunciation, but now he was +half-guessing their true significance. Here was something altogether +terrifying and incomprehensible. + +“Belle, sweetheart--you mustn’t talk so. You just about must marry me +now, or you’ll be done for--ruined. Oh, darling, don’t think I’ll ever +miscall you for this, or fail you--and I’ll be kind to the kiddy, I +swear I will--I’ll love it as if it was mine.” + +His generosity almost reached her pity, but pity came too late now. The +instinct which dragged her from him was stronger than any emotion which +pulled her towards him--all that she could do was to soften her words a +little. + +“Poor Daniel--I’m unaccountable sorry. I know I’m treating you badly, +but I can’t help it. I wish I could explain it all, but I can’t. Oh, +can’t you understand? If I was to marry you I’d feel I was doing +something wicked--committing adultery. Oh, I know I’ve done wicked +things before, and you’ll think I’m silly to mind now. But this is +different somehow--if I married you I’d feel I was doing worse than any +other thing I’ve done. Oh, Daniel, do try and understand.” + +Perhaps he was hardly to be blamed if he couldn’t. + +“But, Belle, didn’t you love me all those times when you said you +did?... You must have loved me when I held you in my arms, and you came +so close, and you gave me all my kisses back....” + +“I know. I loved to be in your arms and feel you taking care of me--but +things are different now--I I couldn’t bear you to kiss me....” + +His face suddenly went dark. + +“Then you can’t really have loved me, or you wouldn’t change--even now +... when things are different. Belle, I believe that you loved Ernley +all the time.” + +“Maybe I did--I must have--though I didn’t know it.” + +“Then you’ve played the harlot to me. You’ve taken me in. You’ve given +me your kisses for what you could get....” + +He stopped suddenly, for he could just see her face in the faint light, +and her eyes were pools of fear and pain. Even though he guessed that +neither was on his account, he must pity her. He realized all that she +had set before herself by this refusal of his protection, now in this +last moment of her extremity. He could not believe that Ernley, probably +engaged to another girl, would turn to her again. Without Ernley, +without Daniel, she would have to face shame, friendlessness, poverty +and pain. Something very strong, very terrible, must be driving her, +even though he couldn’t understand it. + +“Forgive me, dear. I shouldn’t ought to speak so. I’ll believe that you +were honest with me, though I can’t understand you now.” + +“Oh, Dan, I was honest, as far as I knew my heart.” + +“But what do you mean to do about it if you don’t marry me? I reckon +Ernley’s engaged to Miss Jenner, and you can’t do ... have ... go +through this without being married.” + +“I can--I must”--setting her teeth--“I will.” + +He relented absolutely. + +“Since you won’t have me, let me tell Ernley what’s happened. He’d never +let you face it without him ... reckon he’ll chuck that girl ... anyways +he should ought to provide for you.” + +“Daniel, promise me--swear to me--you won’t breathe a word to Emley. I +won’t be beholden to his pity. If you tell him I--I’ll kill myself.” + +He was more bewildered than ever. + +“Promise me, Daniel,” she repeated hoarsely, and he promised--shaken in +heart and head. + +The conversation seemed to have withered. They stood in the darkness, +staring at each other. Voices sounded in the yard, coming from the +cowhouse, and suddenly both were taken with the same fear--that they +should be found here together, and be given the teasing due to lovers in +the dark. + +“Get out, Daniel,” cried Belle--“out by the cartshed door.” + +“But you’ll let me see you again? Belle--I can’t bear this.” + +“No--don’t come again--not just now. Oh, don’t you see it’s no good? +I’ll never change my mind--I’m finished.” + +“But you can’t....” + +“Yes, I can--get out, damn you! If you don’t go now I’ll never see you +again as long as I live.” + +“If I go now, will you see me?” + +He was like a child pleading. + +“Yes--yes. Some day--next week. But get out, anyway. I’m off.” + +With a sudden swooping gesture she blundered like a white owl through +the darkness to the main door of the barn. He heard her calling her +father’s, her sister’s name--making truce with the invader, in order to +escape more easily from him, her sweetheart and servant. + + + + +CHAPTER NINE + + +§ 1 + +The rest of that day was like a bad dream, and the next, and the next. +Dan felt broken by all that had happened, and bewildered by his conflict +of pain. He did not know which he felt worst--Belle’s pain or his own. +Sometimes the worst thing in life seemed to be the thought of her alone, +disillusioned and friendless, on the eve of losing her last rags of +reputation, her last apology for a home--of having to face the supreme +ordeal of any woman’s life without help or hope. The fact that this was +due to her own deliberate choice did not make it more endurable--on the +contrary. Her isolation seemed to be all the greater because his arms +were outstretched to hold her, if only she would turn his way. At other +times he would be completely beaten down by the sense of his own loss, +of his own shame. He would also tell himself that he must have failed +her in some mysterious way--that it was impossible to believe she had +not loved him once--she had weighed him and found him wanting. Thus his +two griefs, for her and for himself, would sometimes be brought together +in an all-enveloping regret. + +He said nothing to his family about what had happened. A new shamefaced +reserve was upon him. He could not bear that they should know what had +happened to him, or what was going to happen to Belle. Also in his +heart, giving a fiery quality to his suffering, was the torment of hope, +the feeling that Belle must change, relent towards him and towards +herself. Then these days would be but a dreadful interlude, better +secret and so forgotten. + +Of course the Sheathers knew that something was amiss. Dan’s was not one +of those natures which can carry on its fundamental activities in +private, giving the neighbours a surface decoy. His travail was +noticeable in his looks, voice, behaviour and appetite. But its causes +were misjudged. His family attributed his anguish simply to his +knowledge of Belle’s condition. Apparently there were limits to his +assumption of Ernley’s cast-off property. Kitty was glad to see the boy +show so much spirit. + +“Maybe he have the spunk--you call it--not to marry her after all.” + +“I hope the boy’s got too good a heart for that,” said Tom. + +“Too good a heart!--you call it good heart to disgrace his family by +marrying rubbish!” + +“Come, come, my dear. You shouldn’t ought to speak like that of poor +Belle. Reckon it ain’t the match we’d have chosen, but then it ain’t our +part to choose, neither.” + +“Ho! that’s the way you manage these things, you English. You say to the +boys and girls: ‘You choose each other,’ and never mind what the fathers +and mothers think.” + +“Well, what about yourself, ma’am? Reckon if you’d gone by what your +family said, you’d never have married me.” + +“My father he like you very well, and as for Eugene and Philip, they are +only my brothers. I do not ask my brothers.” + +“You’re meaning that you’d never have married me if your dad hadn’t +given his consent?” + +“Certainly I never marry without his consent. But your boy he never so +much as ask yours, and he marry a girl who have no character and already +belong to a friend of his. Now she will have a child too soon after they +are married, and the neighbours will say unkind things, whoever they +think it belong to. You may think nothing of that, but I am ashamed.” + +Tom merely looked at the ceiling and whistled. His argument was clearer +to his heart than to his head, and his wife had, as usual, talked him +down. At the other side of the table, Christopher smiled as he lit a +cigarette. He felt thankful and superior because so far the love of +women had not touched him. + + +§ 2 + +Dan was a conscientious soul, and he would not break his promise to +Belle. On the other hand, he took his promise very literally. He had +promised not to see her till, the earliest, next week, therefore on +Sunday morning, immediately after breakfast, he set out for Batchelors’ +Hall. + +By this time he had settled himself into the conviction that he had only +to see Belle in order to persuade her. His mind was full of a flood of +despairing eloquence, and he hardly realized how little of that tide +would actually rise to his lips. Her reasons for refusing to marry him, +which still seemed so arbitrary and mysterious, could surely never stand +before the torrent of his love, his pity and his pride in her. Therefore +it was necessary that he should see her at the earliest possible moment, +to end his torment and hers. + +It was an altogether unexpected blow and backthrust of fate to find, +when he came to Batchelors’ Hall, that Belle was not there. She had gone +away. Such a possibility had never occurred to him. Such a thing had +never happened before. Where had she gone? + +“How is it that you didn’t know?” asked Lucy. + +Daniel shivered in the ice of her gaze. + +“Reckon she must have made up her mind unaccountable sudden.” + +“Reckon she did. But it’s queer her not having told you....” + +Her eyes still froze him--they were like the pale blue cracks in ice. + +“Is there anything the matter between you and Belle?” she inquired. + +“No--there ain’t nothing.” + +“Because,” continued Lucy, “if you back out now, reckon dad ull have +something to say to you.” + +The freezing process changed disruptively to one like burning alive. Dan +suffocated and blazed. + +“I back out! I tell you.... I dunno what you mean. I’ll marry Belle +to-morrow if she’ll have me. You haven’t got no right to speak so.” + +“Oh, very well, don’t lose your hair. Only it’s strange your not knowing +where she is.” + +He suddenly realized the need for prudence. + +“Where is she?” he pleaded. + +“Over at her cousin Loo Dengate’s at Heathfield. It’s queer your not +knowing.” + +“Three Cups Corner.” + +“That’s it--the house just beyond the throws.” + +“I’ll be up there to-morrow. Reckon it came over her sudden to go. She’s +a queer girl in some ways.” + +“Reckon she’s not the only one who’s queer.” + +Dan’s wrath re-kindled. + +“Why d’you keep on getting at me, Lucy? I tell you this ain’t my doing. +I’ll marry Belle to-morrow if----” + +“You know you can’t marry her to-morrow, so what’s the sense of talking? +But if you take my advice you’ll marry her just as soon as you can get +the banns put up. Now I haven’t any more time to spend arguing here. +We’re short in the house with Belle being away, and old Gadgett’s been +laid up this week and over, and Botolph needs more looking after than +the sheep. Oh, it’s a grand life for girls!”--and she banged the door in +his face. + + +§ 3 + +Dan was so stricken that his first thought was to tramp over at once to +Heathfield and find Belle. But his second thoughts reminded him that it +would take till night to go there and back on foot, that he could not +fail the George at its Sunday evening opening, and that if he waited +till to-morrow he could have the trap and avoid a domestic uproar. So he +set off drearily homewards, down the drive and over the flat fields of +the Dicker, across the river Cuckmere at Monkyn Pin, then on to the +chalky roots of Firle. + +He did not particularly want to go home, but there seemed nothing else +to do. His own company was intolerable, with its questions and regrets, +and there was no other company that seemed better to-day. Mr. Marchbanks +would be busy all the afternoon with his church and catechism--besides, +he was inclined to take Jess Harman’s view of Belle Shackford, and had +not been too well pleased to hear of Dan’s engagement, though he had +said very little. As for Ernley, he was even more impossible. For one +thing Dan had promised not to tell him anything, and knew that he could +not be ten minutes in his company without telling him everything. For +another, he knew now something of that strange dark attitude towards +Ernley which Belle had had towards Pearl Jenner. He knew that it was +really Ernley who had robbed him of Belle--or rather, and more +humiliating still, that he had never really had Belle so that he could +talk of robbery. Belle had always been Ernley’s--all the time that she +had clung to Daniel and given him kisses and promises, she had really +been Ernley’s, in a far more final and terrible way than any of them +knew. + +No, he had better go back home, and pour out ale and whiskies, and wash +and polish glasses, and lean over the counter and talk of ships and +horses to the Sunday loungers between Lewes and Newhaven. Then he would +help his mother clear up, and lay the tea, and perhaps she would give +him a little kindness, though she must not know what he was feeling. +Then in the evening he would go to church, and perhaps find more comfort +in the homely smells and drawling melodies of Bullockdean worship--get +back in time for the evening’s traffic--and then tumble into bed and be +tired enough to sleep. + +He was hurrying on, dragged by these urgencies, and had nearly reached +the top of the Bostal Way, when at a turn he met the district nurse +coming down towards Alciston. He wondered vaguely whom she could have +been visiting on the wilderness of the down, when he remembered Lucy’s +reference to old Gadgett’s illness--the shepherd’s cottage stood remote +in a hollow near White Lion pond. There was no housing close to +Batchelors’ Hall, and for years the old man had lived two miles from the +centre of his work. Dan had always been fond of him, and now felt +uneasily remorseful for having neglected him during the thrills of +courtship. If he had the nurse in, the poor old chap must be pretty bad. + +“Good morning, Mr. Sheather.” + +Daniel had not met the nurse, who lived at Berwick, more than once, but +it was characteristic of him that those who met him once always felt +well acquainted. + +“I’ve just been talking about you,” she continued, “to old Mr. Gadgett +at White Lion Cottage, but I never thought to meet you so far from home +on a Sunday morning.” + +Daniel, wondering how much she knew about Belle, blushed and mumbled +something about Sunday being a good day for a walk. Then: + +“How is the old fellow?” he asked. “I only heard to-day as he’s been +ill.” + +“He’s sadly, I’m afraid--not likely to leave his bed, though perhaps +he’ll stop there a month or two before he’s carried out. He gets +wandering at times--takes me for his daughter, who’s been dead thirty +years. But I hope some day you’ll go and see him. He says you promised +him long ago, and he’s got something to show you.” + +“I dunno whatever that can be. But reckon I’ll go in some morning. I +haven’t time to-day.” + +He must hurry back home, and pour out ale and whiskies, and wash and +polish glasses, and lean over the counter and talk of ships and horses +to the Sunday loungers between Lewes and Newhaven--help his mother clean +up, and lay the tea--and go to church--and carry on somehow, till at +last he was tired enough for sleep. + + +§ 4 + +Daniel was wrong in his idea that by deferring his visit till Monday he +would be able to make it comparatively without protest. It appeared that +Monday was the very day of James Munk’s funeral. + +“Go over to Heathfield! I never heard of such a thing!” cried +Kitty--“when it’s the funeral this afternoon.” + +“I can’t help that--and I don’t care for funerals.” + +“Then you are a wicked boy.” + +“Come, come, my dear,” pleaded Tom; “he never was so thick as all that +with poor Munk. If you and I go, and Chris, reckon there won’t be any +harm in Dan taking the trap over to Heathfield to see Belle.” + +“He saw her yesterday,” said Kitty, for Dan, alas! had been deceitful. +“I can’t think why he must see her again to-day, especially as she go to +Heathfield. Why can’t she stay at home?” + +Dan looked sullen. + +“I can’t help it. I must go.” + +“Must go! Hark to that--hark to the boy. And what will your dear friend +Ernley say if you ‘must’ go?” + +“I don’t care what he says. I’m going.” + +In the end, he went. When Kitty discovered that he hadn’t got a decent +suit of black clothes and not a single white handkerchief, she minded +less. So Daniel drove off soon after breakfast, Ernley’s British warm +buttoned up to his chin. The weather was cold and grey and lowering, and +clouds of dust bowled up the Lewes road, powdering the banks and hedges +till they too were as grey as the sky. + +It was a long drive to Heathfield--across the Ouse at Iford, then into +the Beddingham road at the Lay, then along the huge, dusty, motor-ridden +London to Eastbourne road as far as Firle Cross, where he had the quiet +of lanes once more, through Ripe and Chalvington, twin villages of the +plain, as far as Muddles Green. Then it was all cross-country by +Thunders Hill and Terrible Down and the unaccustomed roads round +Chiddingly. He was on the long wooded slope of country which rises from +the valley of the Cuckmere to the heights of Heathfield and Cross in +Hand--the black-country of a bygone day, when at night forge after forge +would show a crimson eye through the dense woods, when the hammers of +North Street answered the hammers of Lions Green, when Gun Hill and +Thunders Hill and Clappers and Pigstone and Burntchimney first were +given their names. + +It was the afternoon before he found himself in Heathfield’s four-mile +street, which runs dwindling from the spot where the yeoman named Iden +smote down Jack Cade, to where the little lanes of the Rushlake and +Dallington Weald flow into it like small streams at Three Cups Corner. +He had not much difficulty in finding the Dengates’ house, which was +just behind the inn, but it was altogether a tougher matter to get +speech with Belle. + +“I’m sorry, but you can’t see her,” said the Dengate cousin who opened +the door; “she came here to get away from you,” she added, with +disconcerting frankness. + +Belle, then, had not been ashamed to tell of the rupture--at least, not +to tell her cousins, though her father and sisters had had no +explanation. Daniel had not expected this--he had somehow expected her +tongue to be tied as his had been. He was now in unanticipated +difficulties, but on one thing his mind was made up--he was not going +back to Bullockdean without seeing Belle, if he had to hang round the +place all night he would see her. So finding there was nothing to hide +from the Dengate cousin, he pleaded valiantly--he begged for just five +minutes of Belle--he would shoulder the guilt of any false pretences +necessary to obtain the interview--he had come fifteen miles to see +her--if she could see him this once he promised to give up and never +bother her again--but if she wouldn’t see him, he would have to keep on +at it till she did. This last consideration may have been the one that +influenced Belle, but the Dengate cousin was honestly won by his big +dark eyes. The slightly foreign air of his emotion appealed to her Saxon +stolidity, and at last Dan was admitted into the little best parlour of +the Dengates, where the walls were adorned with stuffed ferrets and +owls, and wedding-groups of the many marriages which had taken place in +that large family--innumerable white brides stared with gentle mocking +eyes at him as he sat waiting for Belle. + +Directly she came, the whole thing suddenly appeared to him as folly. He +had been a fool to pursue her all this way--his importunity had only put +him further into her contempt. He should have let her be. She would +finish it now--the little that had not been finished in the great barn +of Batchelors’ Hall. + +“Well, Daniel, reckon you might have let me alone.” + +She was more like a white owl than ever to-day, all the colour gone from +her cheeks, all her feathers--the feathers of her golden hair and her +brave clothes--limp and draggled. She wore an outdoor coat over her +blouse and in the buttonhole was a dead jonquil. + +“You might have let me be.” + +“I couldn’t, Belle.” + +“Why not? Haven’t I suffered enough?” + +“That’s it. You’ve suffered too much. It’s time you let me comfort you.” + +“Never.” + +“But why, Belle? Why? I don’t understand.” + +“You don’t understand that I can’t have any other husband than my baby’s +father?” + +“Well, that ain’t generally what people do.” + +“What do they do generally?” + +His mind went over a series of hasty, patched-up marriages, and he +realized for the first time that what he offered Belle was not really a +very fine thing. + +“You know,” he mumbled. + +“Yes, I know--they take anyone to give them countenance and a name to +the child. But I won’t do that. Not because I’m too proud, but because I +just couldn’t ... when I think of marrying a man who isn’t Ernley I feel +sick.” + +“But, darling, I wouldn’t ask anything of you--only to be with you and +save you from being spoken of and treated bad.” + +“That ud be a fine life for you.” + +“I’d sooner have it than life without you.” + +“You say that now, but you wouldn’t say it in a year or two. I’d never +let you do a thing like that, and I couldn’t bear it myself, neither.” + +“But Belle, think what ull happen if you don’t marry me. Reckon your +father and sister ull go against you--maybe they’ll turn you out. You +won’t have a penny--how are you to manage?” + +“_I’ll_ manage well enough. I’m able to work----” + +“But when the time comes.” + +“I’ll be all right.” + +For the first time he noticed that there was something sulky about +Belle--something in the full drooping line of her mouth which hinted at +sullenness. + +“I shan’t be any worse off,” she said, “than if you’d never asked me, +and reckon it was uncommon queer of you to ask me, so soon after my +losing Ernley and all.” + +His face went red--he was turning angry. Then he realized that she was +hurting him because she’d been so terribly hurt herself, and his anger +went its usual course into pity. “Belle, maybe it ain’t too late for you +to have Ernley even now. We can’t be sure as he’s engaged to that +girl--and reckon you’ve quarrelled and made it up before this.” + +“He _is_ engaged to that girl--he loves her, anyway ... I wouldn’t touch +him. I’d sooner die than him marry me now--marry me out of pity. Since I +won’t let you marry me out of pity, d’you think I’d let him?” + +“I’m not wanting to marry you out of pity. I love you, Belle.” + +She sighed wearily as she saw the argument going back to its beginnings. + +“Oh, reckon it’s waste of time trying to make you understand. All I wish +is that you’d leave me alone. I’m sorry, Daniel--I know I’ve treated you +badly. But I can’t help it--I must do as I feel.” + +“But what _are_ you going to do?” + +“I dunno yet. Stop on here a bit, and then go back to father’s. Now, +don’t start; ‘and what ull yer do after that?’ I tell you I don’t know. +I shan’t marry you and I shan’t marry Ernley, that’s all I know.” + +She turned wearily towards the door, and he knew he could not hold her. + +“Belle,” he tried piteously, but she shook her head. + +“You asked five minutes and I’ve given you twenty--and we couldn’t say +any more if we talked all night.” + +She went stooping through the door, and suddenly he realized that it was +closed between them. He was alone with the stuffed ferrets and the white +mocking brides. + + + + +CHAPTER TEN + + +§ 1 + +Belle spent at Three Cups Corner some quiet, sullen days. Then she said +that she could not stay there any longer. She must go home and face her +fortune. She felt restored by that quiet week--the change of +surroundings, her sense of isolation in her aunt’s family, whose +attitude was casual and whose curiosity easily satisfied, the freedom +from manual work--all these things helped build up her mind into a form +of courage. She had better go home while she felt like this. + +So one afternoon she travelled Down-wards, leaving the wealden slope, +with its woods and its show of houses, for the lonely reedy places of +the Cuckmere winding at the roots of Firle. The family was at tea when +she arrived, and during the meal nothing passed but the commonplaces of +return, news of the Dengates and news of the farm; but at the end of it, +Ted Shackford hurried the younger members out rather peremptorily. + +“It’s time you were off to Gadgett’s, Nell, with those eggs. Tim will go +with you.” + +“There’s no need to start now,” grumbled Nell; “it’s the first time I’ve +sat down this afternoon.” + +“You be off,” said her father, with such unaccustomed decision that she +actually rose to go. + +“Don’t be a fool,” Belle heard Tim whisper to her as they went through +the door--“they’re going to ask Belle about the baby.” + +So she was not going to be kept long in suspense. The racket was going +to start right off this minute. She wished she could have entered into +it without the disconcertment of Tim’s words, without the blush and the +prick of tears that they had brought. Still, it was just as well for her +to realize what she was in for with her family. Lucy remained seated at +the table, blushing as red as Belle; Ted Shackford had risen and +slouched about the room. + +“When are you going to get married?” he asked suddenly. + +“Never, as far as I know.” + +“How d’you mean?” + +“I’ve broken off my engagement with Daniel Sheather.” + +“Broken it off! When?” + +“Before I went to Heathfield.” + +“_You_ broke it off--yourself?--in heaven’s name....” + +“Don’t be a fool, Belle,” said Lucy--“you can speak the truth to us. If +that man’s let you down, dad ull jolly well make him----” + +“He hasn’t let me down. He’d marry me at once if I’d have him, but I +won’t.” + +“Are you quite mad?” + +“Maybe”--Belle laughed. + +“But, look here,” continued Lucy--“we’ve a right to know why you’ve done +this. Why do you send him away directly you know that if you don’t +marry....” + +“That’s just it. I’m not going to marry Daniel Sheather just because I’m +going to have another man’s child. I don’t love him, and I couldn’t bear +it.” + +“But if you don’t love him why the hell did you get engaged to him in +the first place?” cried Shackford. + +“Because I thought I could love him some day, and I--I didn’t know +this.” + +“But are you so thick that you can’t see that it’s this what makes it +all the more necessary that you should get married at once?” + +“Not to Daniel Sheather.” + +“Oh--I see--you’re still thinking of Munk.” + +Belle winced. + +“I’m not.” + +“But you must marry one or other of ’em.” + +“I shan’t marry either.” + +“I don’t believe she’s broken it off,” said Lucy--“I believe it’s +Sheather’s cried off now he knows.” + +“Well, I’ll soon find out if it’s that,” said her father. “I’m going +over to see him to-morrow.” + +“No, dad, no! For heaven’s sake leave Daniel alone. I tell you it’s my +doing, not his--I won’t have him.” + +“Will you have Munk, then?” + +“No--I won’t. And, besides, he’s engaged to somebody else.” + +“Oh, is he? He thinks he can do that sort of thing when he’s landed you +in this mess. I’ll soon show him different.” + +“Oh, father, I’d rather die----” + +“I think you’re very selfish, Belle,” said Lucy. “Don’t you see that +it’s not only you who has to go through this; it’s all of us. If you +have a baby without being married your family will get some of the +disgrace; and me hoping soon to be married myself----” Lucy held up her +handkerchief to her eyes. + +“I can’t help that,” said Belle sullenly--“if you like, I’ll go right +away.” + +“That won’t help us much,” wailed Lucy, “people ull get to know of it +just the same. Really, Belle, I do think you might consider your family +a little. For years now we’ve put up with your goings on. I don’t want +to preach, but really I think you deserve what you’ve got--first it’s +been one man and then it’s been another, and you’ve been lucky that this +hasn’t happened long ago. Now at last you’ve got the chance of marrying +and settling down, and you won’t take it.” + +“I tell you I don’t love him.” + +“And I tell you that you ought to sacrifice yourself a little and not +insist on that. Besides, you don’t know whether you love him or whether +you don’t. You loved him two months ago.” + +“I didn’t really.” + +“Then you were a fool, and you’ve no right to ask us to take the +consequences of the silly things you done.” + +“Would you marry Munk?” asked her father. + +“No--no--not for worlds.” + +“Well, you’ve got to marry one of ’em--either the one who’s willing or +the one who ain’t. I tell you I’m going over to see ’em both to-morrow, +so you can choose which you’ll have.” + +“Dad, you’d never!” + +“By God, I will! I’ve stood enough from you, miss. Reckon I’m an +easy-going chap or I’d have learned you better ways. But now you’ve gone +too far--dragged us all into the mud and then turned obstinate. This +isn’t the time for you to chuck a good offer of marriage. You aren’t +ever likely to get another--and if your sort don’t marry it goes to the +bad. It’ll be a fine thing for us when we’ve got a daughter on the +town--prouder than ever we’ll be of our Belle. You behave yourself and +try and undo a little of the bad you’ve done. If you won’t marry Daniel +Sheather you can marry Ernley Munk, and I give you till to-morrow to +decide which.” + +Belle burst into tears. + +“I can’t be sorry for you,” said Lucy--“you’ve thought of nobody but +yourself all through. You don’t know how it stands against a girl to +have a bad lot for her sister. If you’ve got no shame on your own +account, you might have a little on ours. Besides, this time next year +you’ll be jolly glad we made you patch it up.” + +“I won’t! I won’t! I’ll die sooner than marry either of them. There’s no +good your going over to Bullockdean, dad--I won’t have either Dan or +Ernley--and they won’t have me, neither--you’ll only have disgraced me +for nothing.” + +“Disgrace! You talk as if that was something new for you. Disgrace! +You’re a walking disgrace, and if I was a man like my father I’d have +given you the rope’s end long ago and learned you morals. I tell you +what’s going to happen now. If by to-morrow morning you’ve given me your +solemn promise you’ll marry Sheather, I’ll go over and settle up with +him, and there won’t be any more trouble. But if you won’t have +Sheather, you shall have Munk. I’ll see him to-morrow, and if he’s +engaged to that Eastbourne girl he’ll have to chuck her and marry you.” + +“He can’t--he won’t--and I won’t have him, if he does.” + +“Well, I’ll have a try, anyhow. At least he shall know what’s happened +and what’s expected.” + +“Don’t!” cried Belle. + +But Shackford, furious as only an easy-going man can be, had gone out, +slamming the door. + +Belle turned wildly on Lucy. + +“You swine!--you might have stood by me! At least we’re both women.” + +She clutched Lucy’s fair crimped hair in her hands as she sat at the +table, and pulled it about her ears. Lucy screamed, and Belle, suddenly +more terrified of herself than of anything, ran out of the room. + + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN + + +§ 1 + +The next morning Daniel Sheather was serving in his father’s bar when +Ernley Munk walked in. He had not seen nor spoken to Ernley since James +Munk’s death, and he felt horribly embarrassed at the sight of him, in a +smart new suit of clerical grey with a black tie. + +“Well, Daniel, you’re a nice one.” + +Daniel could not find a suitable reply. He felt acutely that he was +indeed “a nice one.” His rupture with Belle was now public property, and +Ernley must have heard of it days ago and be waiting for the confidences +due to the event--though that same event may also have explained his +callous ignoring of his friend’s recent trouble. + +“I made sure you’d be coming over to see me,” continued Ernley--“every +night I’ve been expecting you, since the funeral--and before it, too.” + +Dan still said nothing. Since the day which was to Ernley the day of the +funeral and to him the day when he had last seen Belle, he had scarcely +left the George. The condolences of his own family, mixed as they were +with covert relief, had been hard enough to bear without the thought of +enlarging their circle in Bullockdean. Mr. Marchbanks, Jess and Maudie +Harman and Ernley himself would all be glad to know that Daniel Sheather +was not going to marry Belle Shackford after all--“Never would have +done--not a bit his sort--I told him so,” he could hear everybody +saying--“Thank heaven he’s escaped before it was too late. I wonder why +it was broken off.” ... Relief and curiosity--covered by varying +thicknesses of compassion--were all he had to expect from his friends, +so he had kept away from them, preferring the company of the strangers +who came to the George from Lewes and Newhaven. In their society he had +drunk a great many whiskies, and had even taken part in those mysterious +shufflings with the names of horses and slips of paper which it had +always been his business to detect and stop.... Now he felt ashamed. He +saw that he had behaved badly and had treated his friends badly. + +“I’m sorry, Ernley,” he mumbled. + +“So am I, old chap. Damnably sorry. You’ve been let in for a wretched +business. Look here--can’t your brother take over this bottle-washing +for a bit, and you come and have a drink with me across the road? We may +be interrupted any moment here.” + +Dan doubted very much whether Chris would be so obliging, but solved the +problem by calling his father. Tom was only too glad for his son to get +out of the place for a bit. He did not care for this solemn, +home-hugging, whisky-drinking Daniel, and was relieved to see him cross +the road once more in Ernley’s neglected company. + +The Crown was wrapped in its usual noontide peace. The bar was red with +sunshine that streamed through its bright curtains on to the clean +sawdust of the floor and the polished table at which the farmer of Burnt +Green and the farmer of Highbarn sat talking and drinking ale. From +behind the counter Maudie Harman smiled a speechless welcome. + +“We’re getting ready for Easter,” said Ernley, as they went upstairs. +“Two sets of people coming--one on the second, and one on the fourth.” + +“Shall you keep things going as they used to be?” + +“More or less. I’ve got the same ideas as dad--I want to make a decent +little country hotel out of this place. We’re getting on that way ... +next year I may run up an extra wing. People seem to care less and less +for going into ‘Apartments’ in the country--they got scared off that +during the war. What they want now is a cosy little pub--that sort like +it called a pub--which ull take ’em in at about three guineas a week. +They find that over a month’s stay it doesn’t work out at much more +than, say, three or four rooms at a quid each, and all the bother of +doing their own catering. I shall give luncheons and teas as well--I’ll +put up a sign on the high road this summer--but to private parties +only, no beanfeasts or charabanc crowds. Now, you could do that if you +liked--it would mix well with your sort of business, and wouldn’t +interfere with ours. The only way for two pubs to exist in a village +this size is for them to follow different lines and cater for different +sorts of customers--and that’s what the George and the Crown have done +up till now.” + +While he rattled on in this way he was busy fetching drinks. He +evidently did not want to talk of intimate matters till they had a +bottle between them. + +Daniel took the hint. + +“You needn’t worry about us trying to poach on your lay,” he said +bitterly; “we couldn’t manage the charabanc parties even. I reckon +you’re right in saying we ought to keep to different lines, but you +needn’t talk as if ours paid as well as yours. You can’t make much money +out of drinks these days, especially when you sell drink like ours.” + +“Well, try some of this. It’ll put a heart into you. It’s a special +malting of Truby’s I was lucky enough to get a cask of, and am bottling +myself. It’s like wine--got a bouquet instead of froth,” and Ernley +passed his nose over his glass before sipping it. + +Dan drank his in a less experienced manner, but if it did not actually +put a heart into him, it put a tongue. + +“I suppose that as a start off to this scheme of yours, you’ll get +married?” he remarked. + +“Married!--whom to?” + +“Why, Miss Jenner, of course.” + +“Miss Jenner would not be flattered to hear you say so. She has set her +hopes on something far higher than a country publican. Besides, she +isn’t at all the sort of girl I’d want for keeps.” + +Daniel stared. + +“Then why did you trot her out like that in front of us all?--said you +wouldn’t come along to supper unless you brought her. I made sure you +were engaged.” + +“I trotted her out, as you call it, because I didn’t want Belle to +think she was the only one who had got over our little affair and fallen +in love with somebody else.” + +Daniel gaped as well as stared. Ernley’s words seemed to him rather too +glaring an example of the truth to be found in strong ale. + +“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” continued Ernley. + +“About Miss Jenner?” + +“No--you fool. About Belle.” + +Daniel flushed miserably. Even Messrs. Truby’s first malting was unable +to make him face that topic in a gallant spirit. + +“I thought you’d have come over and told me about it,” reproached +Ernley. + +“I couldn’t--I felt too bad.” + +“You were afraid, I suppose, that I’d say ‘I told you so,’ or ‘it’s a +good thing you found out in time.’” + +“Found out what?” cried Dan, with a start. + +“That you weren’t suited to each other. You were afraid I’d say that, so +you kept away. I’m sorry you didn’t come, for it ud have done you good. +Your sort of chap is always the better for talking. I’m going to make +you talk about it now, and you’ve no idea how much better you’ll feel.” + +Daniel for some reason felt affronted. Ernley seemed to be patronizing +him from the vantage of his free heart. + +“I don’t want to talk about her.” + +“But I do. I want to talk about her most particularly. I want you to +tell me if the reason of her giving you up was that she’s still keen on +me.” + +Daniel was utterly taken aback, and could not answer. + +“Is Belle Shackford still keen on me?” asked Ernley, his eyes +glittering. + +Dan had by this time collected himself enough to remember that his vow +of secrecy did not necessarily cover more than Belle’s condition. He had +not promised never to divulge her feelings. + +“Well, reckon she is keen on you. But what difference does it make?” + +“A lot.” + +“You don’t mean ... you’re not telling me that you’re still sweet on +her.” + +“I am. Keen and sweet.” + +Daniel spluttered. + +“Then why the hell ... why the hell did you let me.... I tell you I’d +never have courted her if I’d known ... you told me you were shut of +her--it was all finished.” + +Ernley rose to his feet, and came and stood beside Daniel’s chair, his +hand on his shoulder. + +“Look here, old Daniel. The thing’s like this. It isn’t your fault--I +blame myself entirely. I told you I wasn’t keen on Belle because I was +too proud to let on that I was, after all that had happened. I made sure +that she’d finished with me, too, and I was afraid that if you guessed I +was still fond of her, you’d tell her somehow. Another thing I made sure +of was that she’d never have you. When I found she would, I was knocked +over. Then I simply had to get hold of Pearl and trot her out. I wasn’t +going to let Belle think I still wanted her, and I wanted her so much +that I felt everyone must know it. Then dad died, and I knew I was a +free man and could have married Belle if we’d still been lovers. That +made me pretty mad, you bet. Then I heard she’d broken with you----” + +The rapid flow of words was checked, and he stared at Daniel. + +“I reckon,” said young Sheather--“that you think I’m unaccountable +good-natured.” + +“Because I believe I can talk frankly to you about what I feel for +Belle?” + +“Because you can talk so calm about all you’ve made Belle and me suffer +through not knowing your own mind and being too proud to speak it when +you did. We’ve been in hell both of us--through you. And now there’s no +good you talking of her caring about you still, for she won’t have you, +whether she cares or not. It’s too late.” + +“How d’you mean?” + +“Well, reckon she’ll never take you on again now, for all that she won’t +have me. She told me she wouldn’t. She told me she’d rather die....” + +He rose to his feet as he spoke, and for a moment the two men stared at +each other in silence. Then they were startled by a knock at the door. + +“Who’s that?” cried Ernley. + +“A gentleman to see you, sir, downstairs. A Mr. Shackford....” + + +§ 2 + +There was a brief pause. Then Ernley said: + +“Show him up.” + +“I don’t want to see him,” cried Daniel. + +“Don’t be a fool! You’ve nothing to reproach yourself with--it isn’t you +he’s come after. I wonder what he wants out of me.” + +Daniel turned away and stood by the window. For that moment he hated +Ernley--who in the midst of all this tragedy and humiliation was happy +and confident because he knew Belle still cared for him. He did not +worry about her outraged heart or the barriers it had set up--he did not +really care about Daniel’s sorrow--he was telling himself what he had +said he would never have told Daniel--that he and Belle weren’t suited +to each other, and therefore it was all for the best that they had found +out in time ... “in time”--that was good--“in time” for Ernley still to +have her ... the Sheather worm was turning. + +Shackford walked in. + +“Hullo! Both of you here. That’s what I want. I went to the George +first, and they told me Sheather was at the Crown. I want a word with +both of you. Where’s my daughter?” + +The question was equally startling to both. Dan turned from the window +and came forward into the room. + +“Isn’t she at home?” he asked, bewildered. + +“If she was, I’d scarcely have come all this way to ask you where she’d +got to.” + +Shackford evidently meant to be unpleasant. + +“We neither of us have the faintest idea where she is,” said Ernley, +“though we were talking about her when you came in. When did she +disappear?” + +“Yesterday evening--after a row with her sister.” + +“Then why should you imagine that either Sheather or I know where she +is?” + +“Well, reckon both you men knew more about my girl than I do.” + +Dan’s memory was whirling with fears. It seemed extraordinary to him +that Ernley could still retain his calm assurance, now with an added +touch of impudence. Was the fact of Belle’s love so sustaining and +fulfilling that it would suffice even when Belle herself might be lost +in danger or even in death? + +“I believe she’s killed herself.” + +The words burst from him as he remembered her own. He saw her standing +before him pale and rigid--he heard her say “if you do, I’ll kill +myself.... I’d rather die than----” + +“Killed herself! Why should she have killed herself?” asked +Ernley--“after a row with her sister.” + +“I guess what the row was about. Reckon everybody was on to her, same as +I was, wanting her to tell you or else marry me.” + +“I said she must marry one or the other of you, and I’d come over here +this morning and settle with whoever she chose. I told her there was to +be no getting out of it, not by her or by either of you fine gentlemen. +Then I went off--and she fell upon her poor sister Lucy and hit her +about--and then ran away goodness knows where.” + +“She’s killed herself,” cried Daniel desperately--“she said she would if +Ernley knew, and you said you were going to tell him----” + +“Tell him! I reckon he don’t want much telling.” + +“What do you mean?” asked Ernley. “What’s all this about telling?” + +“I reckon you know that the reason this man here has broken off with my +daughter is that he’d no liking for all you’d let him in for.” + +“It ain’t true!” cried Daniel. “I never broke off. I’d have married her +any day, and done my best for the kid. It was she who said she couldn’t +have me....” + +His voice tailed off as he looked at Ernley. All his calm assurance was +gone now, suddenly broken, like a bubble. His face was colourless, and +he clutched the back of a chair. + +“Do you mean to tell me that Belle is going to have a child?” + +“I do, sir.” + +“Then why in God’s name....” + +“She wouldn’t have you told,” cried Daniel--“she said she’d kill herself +if I told you, and now I reckon she’s done it.” + +“How long have you known this?” + +“Maybe a week or ten days. When Belle knew for certain she said she +couldn’t marry me, or anybody but you. So you needn’t talk of my +breaking off----” turning angrily on Shackford. + +“And you knew that and never told me.” + +“She made me promise I wouldn’t. She said she’d kill herself if I did. +She said she’d rather die than marry you.” + +“You fool! You blasted, bone-headed fool! You believe everything a girl +says when she’s beside herself, and freeze on to a secret that may ruin +two lives. I’ll marry Belle the minute I find her, and you bet she won’t +make any fuss.” + +“You speak like a gentleman,” cried Shackford. “I knew you’d do the +proper thing if you was given a chance. I said the same to her. It’s a +lucky thing I came over. It’s a lucky thing I wasn’t like some people, +listening to every silly thing a silly girl says.” + +Daniel felt these censures undeserved. + +“If she didn’t mean what she said, why did she run away like that?” + +“She’d had a row with her sister, I tell you--pulled down her hair and +scratched her face--not that she hadn’t good reason”--remembering that +Ernley was now a man of intentions--“Lucy’s got a tongue like a wasp’s +sting, and reckon Belle was getting terrible worked up at everything. +She’s the best-tempered girl in the world as a rule. That’s why she’s +run away--she’s ashamed of herself. But I bet she hasn’t gone far--back +to her cousins at Heathfield, most like, where she’d just come from.” + +“Well, you’d better go and look for her there,” said Daniel, almost +crying--“and then come back and drag the pond.” + +“I’ll go over at once on my ’bus,’” said Ernley. “How did you come +here?” he asked Shackford. + +“I came on horseback, and if you’re going to Three Cups, I’ll just ride +quietly home again. You’ll do your job better without me.” + +“You’re just pretending you think she’s at Three Cups,” broke in +Daniel--“you know she ain’t there really. You know she’s drowned +herself.” + +But Ernley had recovered his old assurance. + +“Don’t be a fool, Daniel,” he said--quite good-humouredly--as he went +out of the room. + + +§ 3 + +But when the afternoon came, Daniel, too, had his legitimate +reproaches, which he was too human not to make. Ernley had returned from +the weald--so much faster the miles flew under the tyres of his +motor-bicycle than under the wheels of the George trap--and his quest +had been in vain. Through his cocksureness he had lost valuable hours +that might have been spent in search. He and Shackford had yielded to +the fatal optimism of men who know themselves to be in the wrong and try +to recover their self-respect through hope. + +He was chastened by his failure. He no longer swaggered before Daniel, +he no longer abused him. Indeed, he listened to his advice, and together +they set off, in saddle and side-car, to make inquiries and notify the +police. The evening passed fruitlessly. The police had no light to shed +on the affair, and Belle’s friends, either in Lewes or Newhaven, had +heard nothing of her. Perhaps she had gone off somewhere by rail, but +once again inquiries, whether at Lewes Junction or the wayside stations, +brought no result. Daniel no longer said, “She’s killed herself”--he sat +dumb beside Ernley in the side-car, or followed dumb behind him up and +down stairs and along passages. It was Ernley at last who said: + +“We’d better get over to Batchelors’ and drag the pond.” + +The spring night had fallen as they bowled up towards Lewes from the +coast. A faint greenish light hung over the downs, and the summit of the +sky was full of stars. A keen wind blew in their faces, bringing +dampness and chill. Dan shuddered and still was dumb. + +Ernley’s headlight rushed before them over the surface of the road, with +a flying gleam on the hedges. It lit up the wheels and sides of passing +wagons, leaving their loads in darkness--it lit up the doors and steps +of houses as they ran through Beddingham and Firle--and always it showed +them half a dozen orange yards of road ahead. As they rushed on Daniel +had the absurd dream that if only they could reach the end of that +glowing road before them they would find Belle. But the orange road was +like the moon’s path on the sea, it had no ending. + +Neither of them spoke as the motor-cycle ate up the road and the +darkness. At last it bumped into the drive of Batchelors’ Hall, lurching +and creaking in the ruts, the engine labouring with the drag of mud on +the wheels. The orange light flashed over the puddles and the long +canals in the ruts--it ran ahead of them into the yard and lay on the +stones as Ernley brought the machine to a standstill. + +Shackford stood on the doorstep. He, too, had lost his compensating +hope, and looked like Ernley, hangdog and desperate. + +“Any good?” he asked. + +Munk shook his head. + +“I’ll get the men,” said Belle’s father, “and drag the pond--and if +that’s no good we’ll try the Cuckmere.” + +That night, it seemed to Daniel, was full of water--the sight of it, +ruddy with the lanterns held over it, the sound of it, lapping against +the shore, and against the sides of the boat in which Bream the cowman +put out with a long pole, the feel of it oozing through the mud over +the tops of his shoes.... The pond yielded a load of weeds, a stock of +old iron-ware, and three little drowned kittens in a bag with a stone. + +Between dragging the pond and dragging the river they had drinks in the +house. Dan and the farm men had cocoa, but Ernley and Shackford had +whiskies without much water. Lucy served them, fully dressed though it +was one o’clock in the morning, and with the pretty hair that Belle had +torn down piled high and curled anew. The tears ran down her cheeks, and +she spoke forgivingly of Belle. + +“Of course I forgive her,” she said. “She didn’t know what she was +doing.” + +Nobody else spoke much--even the whiskies did not seem to help Shackford +and Ernley--and soon they all went out again. They dragged the place +where the Cuckmere in its windings makes a bay, eating into the meadows +by Hayreed. But here again there was no finding. After all, they did not +really expect to find. As Shackford said, Belle might have chucked +herself in anywhere between Monkyn Pin and the Dicker. They had no +special reason to think she would inevitably have drowned herself near +home. + +Daniel thought of White Lion Pond and Red Lion Pond and Jerry’s Pond, +all the dew ponds between the valley of the Cuckmere and the valley of +the Ouse. + +“She may have gone up on the down,” he said. + +Both Shackford and Ernley thought it probable that she had. They had +searched the Ouse and Cuckmere valleys, the two big towns and the +railway line. Also, during the afternoon, when Ernley and Dan were +rushing about on the motor-cycle, Shackford had made inquiries at the +two Dickers and the two Horsebridges, also at Hailsham, where he had +interviewed a couple of conductors on the Eastbourne bus route. The down +seemed the only hiding-place left unchallenged. It was decided to make +up a search-party. + + +§ 4 + +“Let me walk with you, Daniel,” said Ernley, when everyone scattered. + +The dawn was white, and only a few stars still hung in the north, above +the Gate of Lewes. It was bitterly cold, and the men shivered. They all +carried lanterns, for it had been dark when they left Batchelors’ Hall, +and the moving spots of light were like stars, making the down look like +a fallen sky. + +If Belle were hiding--if she had sought only a temporary and not a final +refuge from her oppressors--she might see those stars and go out towards +them. She surely would be tired of hiding now--now that the down’s back +was hoar with half-frozen dew and the dawn-wind searched the hollows. +Ernley’s face was pinched and his teeth chattered. He was almost failing +physically. A day spent in the saddle of his machine, a night spent in +dragging a pond and a river, all under the strain of sickening remorse +and anxiety--and to finish all, too many whiskies ... no wonder he was +done for. Daniel, whose physical labours had been less, whose physical +strength was greater, and who was not suffering from a reaction after +too much alcohol, was still comparatively able-bodied, though--dreadful +and humiliating to realize--most unconscionably sleepy. He waited for +Ernley while he puffed on the steep slope, he slackened his pace to +match Ernley’s tottering progress. + +“Don’t you think you’d better get home?” he suggested at last. + +“I couldn’t. I couldn’t rest till she’s found--alive or dead.” + +They walked on a couple of furlongs. Then Ernley said: + +“Do you think there’s any chance of her being alive, Dan?” + +“Maybe there’s a chance--maybe we’d think there was more than a chance +if we weren’t so terrible scared. She’s been gone only a day and two +nights. Reckon she could have hid herself for that.” + +“If I find her,” said Ernley--and in the grey light Dan could see that +he was crying--“if I find her, there’s going to be nothing good enough +for her. Oh, Dan, how am I ever to pay her back for what I’ve made her +suffer?” His voice, though hoarse, was quite calm, in spite of the tears +that ran down his cheeks. It was only physical weakness that made him +cry. The grief of his heart was beyond tears. + +“Don’t think I fail to realize what you suffer, Daniel. But it’s nothing +to what I do. It can’t be. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself with. +You’ve been kind and manly and decent all through. I haven’t. I’ve been +a swine--a proud swine and a cruel swine. All the quarrels we ever had +were my doing, and I blamed her for them all. I was angry with her +because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I could have given it to +her if I’d wanted it as much as she did--but I didn’t--so I was angry +with her for wanting it. I took advantage of her, Dan--because she +wasn’t wise, like most women. If she’d said, ‘You must wait till we’re +married,’ I’d have married her rather than wait. But she didn’t, and I +took advantage of her and made her wait till I thought things ud be more +convenient. If we’d been married we shouldn’t have had any of those +rows, for they all came of her not really belonging to me. If we’d +belonged to each other we shouldn’t have mistrusted each other so, and +been jealous, and imagined all sorts of things about each other. Then +this last time we quarrelled, I was furious with her because of the way +I’d hurt her, and I swore I’d never make it up again. I couldn’t stand +being made ashamed of myself time after time like that, so I swore I’d +stop it, and started off with Pearl Jenner at once just to show Belle it +was good-bye for ever this time.... I said to myself she was getting to +count on my coming round.... Oh, and she’d humbled me too--she didn’t +let me off easy.... I paid for every quarrel we had by the way I was +obliged to make it up.... But I couldn’t live without her, so I always +came back, and I said, ‘She knows it. She expects it this time, so I’ll +teach her she don’t always get what she expects.’ That’s why I took up +with Pearl--though she was only trash--only draper’s stuff. I must say +it was a blow to me when Belle got engaged to you. It made me swank more +than ever--Belle wasn’t to know I cared. She wasn’t going to marry you +knowing that I still loved her, and get the last laugh. I never +thought.... It’s my blasted pride that’s driven her to this. She +couldn’t even turn to me when she wanted to--I’ve cut her off. +Think--all that time I was so mad against her, she was carrying my +child. Oh, there’s fate in that--the fate of my own bad will. I’ve done +her in--poor Belle!” + +Dan tried not to listen while Ernley spoke. He blushed to hear his +friend’s confession, he was horrified at this stripping of his mind. If +this was love--the genuine passion as apart from the jog-trot emotion he +was supposed to feel--he was glad he had never experienced it. + +“Reckon you’re tired out,” was all he could say; “you’ll be ill if we go +any farther--you’d better get home.” + +The day was quite clear now, though the sun had not yet risen. Their +lanterns were no longer stars, merely opaque orange splashes on the +whiteness of the morning. + +“I can’t go as far as Bullockdean,” said Ernley. + +“Then we’d better turn back for Batchelors’. Besides, your bike’s there, +and Lucy can give you some breakfast before you start.” + +He was relieved to find that Munk had given way, for he was obviously +unfit to go searching much farther. By daylight his face looked far more +ravaged than it had looked in the glow of the lanterns. His body, gassed +and wounded, bore the stigmata of war, and was always liable to sudden +collapses. Dan gave him an arm as they turned backwards, and his friend +seemed glad of it. Sheather was glad too. He loved to expend physical +care and protection, though he shrank from the sick-nursing of souls. +With Ernley’s body he was tender. + +“There--hang on to me. I’m strong as a horse--you can put all your +weight.” + +They went on half a mile, Munk occasionally stumbling but always held up +by Dan’s sturdiness. When they came to the dip of the down, where the +slope ran swiftly towards Alciston, he stopped and shuddered. + +“I can’t go down there. I feel giddy.” + +With memories of the same symptoms in earlier “attacks,” Dan was +practical. + +“There, there--don’t worry--don’t try. Sit down.” + +Ernley collapsed in a huddled heap upon the hoar dew. Dan sat down +beside him with supporting arm, and was immediately conscious, as the +other in his nervous straits was not, of the wet striking up into his +limbs. + +“Reckon you shouldn’t ought to sit here. You’ll get rheumatics.” + +“I can’t help it--I’m done.” + +Dan looked round him for an unlikely stone. Nothing broke the whiteness +of the half-frozen dew, but he suddenly realized the turning to old +Gadgett’s cottage at the top of Bostal Way. + +“Look here, if you can walk just a hundred yards, there’s Gadgett’s +cottage we could go to. Then you could sit by the fire and I’d get you a +cup of tea.” + +Ernley groaned. His devil was upon him--the devil that had risen in a +hideous cloud behind the headless trees of Waertsel Wood, and crawling +and stinking over the shell-holes had found him where he lay helpless, +and taken possession. Nevertheless the picture that Dan painted was a +fair one. + +“Couldn’t you bring the tea to me here?” he asked idiotically. + +“Of course I couldn’t--it ud be stone cold. And even if it wasn’t, it +wouldn’t do you any good sitting here on the wet grass. You’ll get +rheumatics and lumbago and sciatica and belly-ache and chills and +pneumonia and I dunno wot else if you don’t stand up quick.” + +He stood up himself, and seized Ernley under the arm-pits. + +“Now then--up you get.” + +Ernley groaned, and Dan brought his knee in ungentle contact with his +spine. + +“Get up, Ernley.” + +This wasn’t his first encounter with his friend’s devil, and he knew +that Ernley possessed must be treated in direct contrast to Ernley +unpossessed. He must be bullied and ordered about, just as on ordinary +occasions he must be looked up to and treated respectfully. It was +characteristic of Dan that he slipped quite naturally into the latter +mood when the need for the former had passed. + +He soon had Munk on his feet, and part threatening, part coaxing, part +hauling, guided him over the down to the head of the Bostal Way--then +along the little chalk path that winds among the blackberry bushes, till +at last they were on the step of Gadgett’s cottage. + + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE + + +§ 1 + +The morning was still colourless, for though the sun had risen, there +was no pomp in the east, which was iron-grey with clouds. The down’s +back, under its coat of rime, was grey too, like the hull of a +man-o’-war--even the cottage had assumed the prevailing tones of grey +and white, with pits and streaks of blackness where the shadows fell. +White Lion cottage and a couple of disused barns stood about a hundred +yards from the pond at the top of the Bostal Way. On either side of the +doorstep daffodils were a-bloom, but as dredged of colour as the +lanterns which Daniel and Ernley still foolishly carried were dredged of +light. + +“The place ull be shut up,” said Munk. + +“No it won’t. Reckon he’s got to leave the door open for the nurse. +Anyways, I don’t suppose he’d lock up--that’s a high-class custom.” + +He proved to be right. The door was on the latch, so he pushed Ernley +in, and through into the kitchen. The fire was laid, and Daniel soon had +a light in it, with the kettle on to boil. He propped up Ernley in the +wicker arm-chair, with his feet on the grate, and the hearthrug over his +knees. + +“And now while the kettle’s boiling I’ll go upstairs and have a look at +the old man. Maybe he’s heard us come in, and is wondering what it’s all +about.” + +He ran up the ladder-like little flight, and listened for a moment +outside the bedroom door. Not a sound was to be heard. He pushed the +door open and looked in. The curtains were only half-drawn, so the +daylight was in the room, smiting the light of a small fire burning +smokily in the grate, and the flame of a single candle on the dresser +beside the bed. In the mixture of daylight, firelight and candlelight he +could see the old man lying asleep in the bed; and in a chair beside +him, an open Bible on her knee, her head fallen sideways on her +shoulder, her legs stretched out forlornly in tattered stockings, slept +Belle Shackford. + +Daniel stood and gaped--shut his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, +then opened them and gaped again. It would be hard to say when he would +have recovered the use of his faculties if Belle had not woken up. + +“Hullo,” she said dreamily. + +“Belle!” gasped Daniel. + +She woke up fully, and sprang to her feet. + +“How did you get here?” + +“How did you get here?” + +They faced each other, almost terrified. He did not dare tell her Ernley +was in the house. + +“Oh, Belle! I’ve been nearly dead because of you. What in the Lord’s +name are you doing here? Reckon your dad’s out searching the whole down +after you.” + +There was a slight stir of the forgotten figure in the bed. + +“My dear----” + +“It’s all right, father--I’m here.” + +She went to the old man’s side and stooped over him. + +“I’ll get you your tea in a minute.” + +“That’s right, dearie--that’s right. ’Tis only I had a dream about your +mother and your Aunt Hetty.” + +“I’ll put on the kettle straight away.” + +She moved across to the fireplace. + +“I’ve a kettle on downstairs,” said Daniel. + +“What made you come? How on earth did you know I was here?” + +“I didn’t know--leastways--anyways, I’ve put the kettle on.” + +“Who’s the young chap?” came from the bed. + +“He’s Daniel Sheather, father.” + +Daniel was growing more and more confused. + +“Has he coming a-courting you?” + +“No, dear, not he!” + +“Well, I’m glad of it, for I’d be sorry to lose you yet awhile. I’ve had +a bit of a cold, Ma’as Sheather--a bit of a cold, and just a touch of +rheumatics in my boans, so as I can’t get out on the hill just now. +Howsumdever, my young darter has been looking after me fine, and I +reckon to be out in a day or two.” + +Dan did not know what to say. The situation was beyond him. However, he +was spared the burden of carrying on the conversation, for at that +moment a loud fretful voice shouted from downstairs. + +“Where the hell have you got to, Daniel? The kettle’s boiling over.” + +Belle jerked herself upright on her knees beside the fire. + +“Who’s that?” + +Daniel stuttered. + +“It’s Ernley,” cried Belle. + +She looked towards the door, then out of the window. She was like a hare +when the pack has cornered her. + +“Let me go!” she cried frantically--“let me go!” Then: “Daniel, don’t +let him find me.” + +But her panic had betrayed her, and her voice had reached Ernley in the +kitchen below. + +“Daniel--who’s that upstairs?” + +For a moment Daniel thought Belle would climb out of the window. She +made a movement towards it, then suddenly seemed to turn to wood. A +footstep mounted on the stairs, and she stood like a wooden woman in the +middle of the floor, staring over Daniel’s shoulder through the open +door behind him. Then, also quite silent, Ernley came into the room, and +took her in his arms, still made of wood. + + +§ 2 + +Daniel did not see her return to flesh and blood. After he had held her +stiffly and silently in his arms for a few moments, Ernley led her away, +and the next thing Sheather became conscious of was the kitchen door +shutting behind them. + +“Who’s the young chap?” asked Gadgett. + +“Ernley Munk--from the Crown at Bullockdean.” + +“Munk ... Munk.... It’s Pepper at the Crown. I hope Pepper ain’t +courting my young Ellen. He ain’t a straight chap. He chalked me up a +quart pot when I’d only had a pint. I won’t have my Ellen courted by a +chap who can’t measure his ale.... Say, young feller, she’s gone out +wudout making my tea. Reckon I’m parched fur a cup o’ tea.” + +It was Dan’s lot, somehow, to be making tea while the skies were +falling. Evidently fate refused to take him seriously in a tragic part. +While Ernley and Belle fought for the life of their wounded love +downstairs, he pottered about the bedroom with the kettle and +tea-cups--shook up old Gadgett’s pillows and made him comfortable--gave +him his medicine and answered obligingly to the name of Jack. + +Once he crept down and listened at the kitchen door. A curious silence +brooded within--then he heard a faint movement and a still fainter voice +... evidently love was not being healed with words. As he went upstairs +again there was a stir in the house behind him, and he saw that the +nurse had come in. + +“Hullo, Mr. Sheather!” she called--“I never expected to find anyone here +so early.” + +“Don’t go into the kitchen,” pleaded Daniel. + +“And why not?” + +“Because Miss Belle Shackford’s in there.” + +“Miss Belle Shackford! You don’t mean to say she’s found?” + +“It’s odd as she ain’t been found before seeing as she’s seemingly been +here all the time.” + +“She can’t have been. I was here at six o’clock last night.” + +“Reckon she went and hid when she saw you coming. I brought Ernley Munk +in here to make him a cup of tea as he was feeling a bit ordinary--and +there was Belle sitting beside the old man, and him thinking she was his +daughter who’s been dead ten years.” + +“He takes every female he sees for his daughter. Many’s the time he’s +called me Ellen and told me not to start walking out with their shepherd +at Place. We must see about getting him into the infirmary some day +soon. I’ve let him stop on here, as he seemed so set on it, but most +days he doesn’t know or care where he is.” + +She had come into the room and went bustling over to the bedside. + +“Well--what’s this I hear about you? You’ve been sheltering a lady.” + +But old Gadgett was unequal to raillery, and confused by these flitting +females. Dan thought it best to rescue him from the nurse’s +ministrations. + +“I’ve given him his medicine--and his tea along of it. Reckon he won’t +want much doing for him. If you’re going back to Alciston it ud be +Christian charity for you to call over to Batchelors’ and tell ’em there +she’s found.” + +“It ud be better still if I took her back with me. What’s she doing down +in the kitchen all by herself?” + +“She ain’t by herself.” + +“Oh!” + +The nurse looked wise, and at the same time as if she expected further +enlightenment. But Dan said nothing. He stood with his back to her, +drumming at the window. + +“Is Mr. Ernley Munk with her?” + +The rumour of Belle’s troubles was now up and down the two valleys of +the Ouse and the Cuckmere. + +“No, he ain’t,” snapped Daniel. Which was a pity, as the nurse ran into +him and Belle at the bottom of the stairs, and thenceforward had no high +opinion of young Sheather’s truthfulness. + + +§ 3 + +They came into the bedroom together, and found Daniel sitting on the low +chair beside the bed, where the old man was dozing off again. + +Seeing them standing together, he knew instinctively that they were +reconciled. But there was nothing triumphant, nothing passionate about +their reconciliation. They stood stiffly side by side, without word or +caress. Evidently they had come by stormy paths to peace. + +“Hullo,” he said awkwardly. + +“It’s all right, Dan,” said Ernley, in a quiet, rather flat voice. +“Belle and I are friends again, and we’re going to be married as soon as +ever it’s possible.” + +There was no display of rapture to make him jealous--scarcely, indeed, +the appearance of ordinary happiness. None the less, Daniel felt sore +right through. He had not realized till then that up to that very +moment, in the face of the impossible, he had been hoping that Belle +might change, and turn to him again. + +“It really is for ever this time,” Munk continued, with a faint smile. +“We’re not going to quarrel any more. It hurts too much, doesn’t it, +Belle?” + +“Yes, it hurts,” she nodded. + +“And we’re both ever so grateful to you, Dan, for being such a good +friend to us both.” + +Dan coloured. He did not feel specially a friend of either at the +present moment. If they had been richly and aggressively happy he would +have felt less alienated than he was now by their queer exhaustion. He +saw mysteries, depths in their being which had always hitherto been +veiled from him, the outsider, but which were not strange to either of +those two. + +“How are you, Ernley?” he asked, deliberately breaking the situation. + +“I’m well enough. Don’t you bother about me. I’m going to take Belle +home now.” + +“The nurse has gone there.” + +“Yes, we saw her, and told her we’d follow.” + +Belle looked regretfully over to the bed. + +“He’ll be sorry when I’m gone.” + +“How long have you been here?” asked Daniel. + +“Since the day before yesterday. I came up straight from Batchelors’.” + +“No--not straight,” broke in Ernley. “Dan, she went up to the pond, and +she walked in--my Belle--and then when the water was all up round her, +she couldn’t ... so she came out, all dripping wet, and crawled in here, +thinking she might dry herself at the fire.... And the old chap thought +she was his daughter, and she felt so glad of a little kindness that she +stayed, and tried to make herself think it was true. You did, didn’t +you, Belle?” + +“I was silly,” she murmured. + +“No, not silly--it was I who was ... who’d driven you to this--so hard +that you wished you were Ellen Gadgett, nursing your old sick father.” + +“When the nurse came I went and hid in the lean-to. She came twice a +day.” + +“And how long ud you have stayed,” asked Daniel, “if we hadn’t found +you?” + +“I dunno--I didn’t think. Reckon I was cruel, but I thought nobody cared +about me.” + +“You knew I cared.” + +For the first time he had called their attention to his tragedy. Her +eyes suffused. + +“I’m sorry, Daniel.” + +“We’ve treated you badly,” said Ernley. “But, Dan, if you’ll let +us--we’ll try and make it up to you.” + +“We can’t,” said Belle, more wisely. + +Daniel said nothing. He turned away from them and hid his face in the +coverlet of the old shepherd’s bed. When he looked up they had gone out +together. + + +§ 4 + +He spent the rest of the day with Gadgett. He had not the courage to go +home and tell his family that he had found Belle and lost her for ever. +He would wait and let the story reach them first, as it would by +inevitable conduits before night. Also he was sorry for the poor old man +waking to find himself deprived of his daughter. But in this respect he +need not have troubled, for Gadgett woke up forty years later than he +had fallen asleep. + +“That you, Ma’as Sheather?” + +“It’s me, Mr. Gadgett.” + +“Well, I call it more’n uncommon kind for you to have called around to +see me, and if you’ll go over there to the fireplace and turn your back +on me for a minnut I’ll show you what only a few has seen.” + +Dan, in obliging apathy, turned his back. A few moments later an +inarticulate sound came from the bed. + +“Are you ready, Mr. Gadgett?” + +There was no reply, but a kind of summoning croak--and when Daniel +turned round he knew the reason. Mr. Gadgett was wearing his teeth. + +For a moment Dan, too, was speechless. He had forgotten all about the +teeth, and even if he had remembered them and the shepherd’s promise to +show them to a good boy, he would have been surprised. The sight before +him was truly an astounding one. Mr. Gadgett had set out not only to +supply nature’s deficiency, but to improve on her perfect work. Instead +of thirty-two teeth he had fifty, twenty-five in each row. The result +was a grin of terrible magnitude.... Daniel gaped--it was lucky that he +was feeling so miserable, or he might have laughed. When he considered +that the wonder had been given its proper due of amazement the old man’s +jaws worked convulsively as he freed them to express his satisfaction. + +“Wunnerful, ain’t it?” + +“Surelye, Mr. Gadgett.” + +“You never thought to see such a set of teeth. A dentist couldn’t do it +more fine.” + +“That he couldn’t.” + +“It’s took me nigh on ten year, getting ’em all together and fixing ’em +proper. And now I mun be thinking of having my likeness took; but I’m +that stiff in my boans maybe it’ll be some days before I’m upon the +hill--let alone I get into the town.” + +“How are you feeling to-day?” + +“I feel valiant, save as there’s aches in all my boans, and the power is +agone from my legs. I ask the Lord how I am to follow the sheep on the +hill if He takes the power out of my legs like this?” + +“Reckon you’ll be all the better for a good long rest.” + +“I’m not so set on that. I’d sooner be out wud the sheep on the hill. +But it ain’t reasonable to expect it of me, and I’ve always understood +as the Lord is praaperly reasonable.” + +Dan said nothing, feeling uncertain of the matter. + +“There’s that nurse is an unreasonable woman,” continued the old +man--“to think of me come down to having a nurse, and I done for myself +this last twenty year. She’s all for putting things where they don’t +belong, and the trouble I’ve had wud her notions you’d never believe: +‘I’m biling kettle for your hot water, Mr. Gadgett, to give you a bit of +a wash.’ A bit of a wash! And she washes my chest and my back, which no +mortal Christian ud wash between October and May--and she calls that a +bit of a wash.... I’m like to take my death of cold wud her bits and +tricks.... She’s an unreasonable woman, wot shall never see my teeth.” + +Daniel was beginning to feel drowsy in the little room, full of thick +green sunshine and crowded furniture. A fly was buzzing against the +window pane, and seemed to be the voice of the stuffy afternoon. + +“If I cud only get out to my sheep.... Mus’ Shackford ull be +unaccountable put about wud me laid up here. There’s that fool Botolph’s +got ’em now.... Reckon he’ll have ’em all straggled--and the lambing +just upon us.... I mun be up for the lambing.” + +“You’ll be up, sure enough, Mr. Gadgett.” + +“I mun be up, surelye; or ... this is a tarble thing to have happened to +a poor old man past seventy year. I’m fretted after my sheep.... Have +you seen my gal, Ellen? She was here just now ... the one who’s in +service at Place ... but maybe it wasn’t her--I disremember. Not an +illness had I as boy or man, and now in my old age it comes upon me. +Howsumdever, I’ll always say as the Lord ain’t unreasonable, and I’d +have naught against Him if I cud get out to my sheep ... before that +fool Botolph spiles their fleeces.... He’ll get ’em all straggled.... I +wish you had ’em.” + +“I’ve never had anything to do with sheep. I’d be worse than Botolph.” + +“Wot? Ain’t you their shepherd-boy at Place?... No, now I see as you +ain’t. But I know who you are, and I know you’re good wud all beastses +... beastses and children ... I seen you.” + +Dan’s heart suddenly tightened--he thought of Leslie and Ivy at Brakey +Bottom, and he could not bear the thought. He would never be anybody’s +father now.... He leaned his head against the bedpost, not troubling any +longer to hide his misery. After all, Mr. Gadgett was scarcely there--he +had gone back to live in yesterday. + +But the old man seemed to have noticed that something was wrong. + +“What ails you, lad? Do your boans ache?” + +“It’s my heart that aches, Mr. Gadgett. I’ve had trouble.” + +“Trouble ... trouble ... so have we all.” + +“Have you had trouble, Mr. Gadgett?” + +“Surelye--trouble on trouble.... Howsumever, I’ll always say as the Lord +is reasonable.” + + +§5 + +When the time came Dan was both sorry and afraid to go. He had enjoyed a +certain amount of peace, pottering about the house and looking after the +old man. At the George there would be nobody to look after--on the +contrary, everyone would be looking at him ... who had helped find Belle +for Ernley. + +He dragged out the walk over the down as late as possible. The day was +out, and the sky was a-swim with stars. From the back of Firle he looked +down on two valleys full of mist. Already some of the richness of spring +was in the night, and he felt some of it mocking him in his blood. He +knew how all these scents of earth and grass and growth, this softness +in the air, might have flowed like sap through his love for Belle, +quickening it towards flower and fruit. And now instead it was in him as +a thirst, stirring up desire towards a void.... As he walked through the +mocking, urging, sweet spring night, Dan understood a little more about +his fellow men, about those stumblings, those sinkings, those reactions +which before had perplexed and sometimes disgusted him. + +When he came to the George, there was only one old man in the bar +besides his father and Chris. He had rather hoped for a crowd in which +he could be lost. + +Tom Sheather beckoned him, and held him out a glass. Dan gulped it. It +was seventy-five per cent. whisky. His father must know. + +“Still, it’s better than if she’d drowned herself, poor creature!” he +whispered to his son. + +“Of course it’s better. I’d lost her anyway, so I’m glad she’s found +someone.... Have you seen Ernley?” + +“No--but Chris saw Maudie Harman. She told him she reckoned they’d be +married in a week.” + +Chris walked out of the bar, whistling “Whose baby are you?” + +“I’m glad,” muttered Daniel into his glass, “I’m glad.” + +But the deadly thing which had been growing in his heart during the walk +home was life-size now. He felt more mad than glad--mad, desperate, as +if he must die rather than endure any more of this pain. The future was +like a furious face pressed against the window. He saw himself living +for the rest of his life with Belle only across the way, unable to find +rest for his pain, continually devoured by the spring in his heart.... +Oh, God, help me! I’m done! + +His eye fell on the open page of a novelette, lying on the counter, left +there by a customer and forgotten. + +“The two fellows went single-file through the darkness towards the +house. + +“‘Keep quiet,’ hissed Lorimer, as Jack’s foot struck an object on the +gravel. + +“Young O’Connor stooped and picked up whatever it was. It felt warm and +sticky. He still grasped it as they came to the house and crouched under +the window. A faint ray of light came from under the blind, and he saw +that he was holding a severed human finger. + +“Lorimer was taking off his shoes....” + +It seemed hours later that his father’s voice reached him. + +“What’s that you’ve got, Daniel? You ain’t listening to me.” + +“A book.” + +“Well, you never was the one for books. What’s this one called?” + +Dan reluctantly tore his eyes off the page to inspect the title--“‘Crook +O’Connor, the Public School Boy.’ May I take it up to bed with me, dad?” + +“Reckon you may. I don’t know who it belongs to. And you’d better be +turning in, son. You look finished, somehow.” + +Dan walked out of the room, still reading. Upstairs in his bedroom he +shuffled off his clothes and left them in a heap on the floor; then lit +his candle and crept between the blankets, the precious volume in his +hand. With licked forefinger he “found the place,” and once more the +returning horror was beaten from his mind. He forgot Belle, her loss and +his loss, he forgot the anxieties of the last two days, his final +disillusion, the face of the future pressed against the window. He was +in the glorious world of Unreality--peopled by ink-black villains and +Gentlemen Crooks, noisy with revolvers and crimson with blood--a world +remote from the humdrum sorrows of work and loss, of love for human +woman as distinct from the sweet wraiths of print.... + +Dan was making his first acquaintance with literature. Hitherto he had +never read much--the daily paper and occasionally the Bible had been the +only exercise-ground of the talent so laboriously acquired at school. +But now he was really reading, for his own profit and pleasure. He was +not reading as the cultured read--to enlarge his holding in life and +art; he was reading as the humble read--to escape and forget. The author +of “Crook O’Connor” did not know the rules about split infinitives and +mixed relatives, he had no regard for the probabilities or even for the +consistencies, the veins of his characters ran sawdust, the life he +portrayed had no connexion with any actualities on this planet ... but +he had provided an anodyne for the pain of at least one human creature, +and when the last page was turned and the candle had guttered out, the +ultimate blessing of sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN + + +Daniel did not wake up till late the next morning. He felt heavy and +stupid, as if he had a cold. He rose and dressed himself, and went +downstairs, but though the remains of breakfast still lay on the kitchen +table, he could not eat, though he poured himself out a cup of lukewarm, +bitter tea. He went over and sat by the fire, shivering. His body was +definitely afflicted by the stress of his mind, seeking the easy way +out through sickness ... bed, sleep, forgetting ... but Daniel was still +alert enough to know that would not do--that however high he pulled the +bedclothes over his head, the Crown would still stand across the road. + +His mother came in to clear away the breakfast. He heard her bustling +about, rattling plates and opening and shutting drawers. + +“Well, you’re a nice lazy boy,” she said to him--“not down till ten +o’clock, and then sitting over the fire and never offering to help your +mother--no!” + +He did not answer her. + +“Sulky!” she cried to him over her shoulder. She had accused him of +sulking more than once during the past fortnight. + +But she could not goad him into action; he could not even trouble to +hide his grief from her, nor the travail of his soul over its new +problem--how he was to get away. Belle was lost to him for ever--he had +never known till then how much of hope had filled the last two weeks. +She was lost, and yet in a very short time he would have to endure her +daily presence--if he did not get away ... somewhere ... far--farther +than he could ever go ... away from himself as well as her. + +“What’s the matter with the boy?” + +She had come to the fireside, to lift the lid off a saucepan, and she +saw him huddled and smitten. + +“What’s the matter with the great boy?” + +His whole being turned towards her, longed for her, cried to her.... + +“Mum!” ... + +She looked startled--his thick voice and working face made her lose her +usual critical manner. He saw her change and soften, and the last of his +control was gone--he threw his arms round her as she knelt by the fire, +and hid his face on her shoulder. + +“Danny--what is it?--what’s the matter?” + +She held him to her, rocking him gently--it was years since she had held +him so. “What is it--tell mother, Dan.” + +“Oh, mum ... you know.” + +“It’s that Belle Shackford.” + +“You’ve heard?” + +“That she will marry Ernley Munk--yes. But it does not matter.” + +“Oh, mother--my heart’s broken.” + +“Nonsense--a fine boy like you--you’ll soon get another girl.” + +She had him close in her arms, and she could feel how strong and plump +he was--well made, his bones well covered, a fine man for any girl. + +“But I don’t want anybody but my Belle.” + +“You’ll forget her, child.” + +“Oh, never. Oh, mother--I loved her ... and I thought she loved me.” + +“Well, you’re well rid--she is _vagabond_. It never please me you not +marry a good girl.” + +“Mother, you mustn’t say that--don’t you miscall her.” + +“Now don’t you speak rough to me.” + +She was angry--she pushed him off her shoulder. They both stood up. + +But he could not bear that she should lose her gentleness--he would +humble himself to keep her tender. He came towards her and offered her a +kiss. + +“I wasn’t speaking rough--leastways, I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry, +mother.” + +She let him kiss her, and patted his hand, softening again. They sat +down together on the horsehair sofa. + +“Mother, I want to go away.” + +“Away, boy--where? Why?” + +“I can’t live here ... with Belle so close ... and with Ernley....” + +“But where would you go?--and what shall I do without your week’s +money?” + +“You won’t have me to keep, and I’ll have to work wherever I go--so I +can send you money.” + +“You’re a great silly boy. Why should you go away?” + +“I can’t bear to go on living here and seeing Belle married to Ernley.” + +“You need not see her.” + +“How can I help it, with her only across the road? ... Oh, mother, I +must go away till I’ve got over this--I can’t stay--I must go ... I +must, I must.” + +He was getting almost hysterical, and, growing angry again, she forgot +he was her grown-up son, and took him by the shoulders, shaking him till +his sleek lick of hair fell into his eyes. + +“You be quiet--you’re like a little boy--you deserve me to whip you.” + +“I want to go away--I can’t bear Chris....” + +“Chris--you shall not speak rough of Chris!--well, I tell you--you shall +go away--for a bit of time. I will write to my brother Philip and ask +him to have my silly boy to live with him a while.” + +“In Sark?” + +“That will be far enough--no?” + +Sark--and he had thought of Brakey Bottom. For a moment dim memories +stirred ... he saw himself playing with a lobster’s claw ... then came a +swell of solemn seas.... + +“You were four years old when you came from Sark. Do you remember?” + +“Not much.” + +“It is my country--your country. It do you good to go back there for a +bit. I write to my brother Philip. I have not written for ten year.” + +“Perhaps he won’t have me.” + +“Then you can’t go. But I will write--and he will have you. It is a good +plan--perhaps if you go, you marry a Sark girl and no more be English. I +am not English and wish my children were not.” + +“I’ll never marry anybody but Belle.” + +“Then you’ll marry nobody, since she’s to marry Ernley. There, there ... +you shall go away across the sea and forget your trouble.” + +He sat beside her on the sofa, stupid and bewildered. The saucepan on +the fire boiled over and she sprang up to save it. He watched her little +darting figure--yes, she was foreign, his little mother ... and so in a +way was he, though he loved the valleys of the Ouse and the Cuckmere ... +there was a queer, faint stirring in his heart for the land where he was +born. + + + + +_PART II_ + +THE ISLAND + + + + +CHAPTER ONE + + +§ 1 + +St. Malo guards those seas which lie on the west of Cape de la Hague, in +the gulf which Normandy and Brittany make together. They were part of +his bishopric of wild waves, their islets are crowned with the ruins of +his monasteries and in legend he himself sits upon the Ortac Rock, +watching the fisher-craft go by, lifting for them his intercessions +against the storms. His name wanders through many an uncouth speech--in +Sark he is Magliore, farther down his own coast he is Maclou, and far +away across the sea, where West Barbary sinks into drowned Lyonesse, he +claims St. Meliarne’s banner as it hangs in Mullion Church. And as his +name and legend wander he becomes many strange things--giant and monster +as well as monk and bishop. Nevertheless, we will claim his merits and +intercessions, for those are treacherous seas, and the fanged rocks +devour the little craft on which man goes out to seek his bread. Holy +Malo--Magliore, Maclou, Meliarne, Mullion--pray for us. + +On a May morning the colourless sky hung low over St. Malo’s sea, and a +great stillness and cold held everything. There was no life upon the +water, no wind, only a great stillness and cold. + +Far away in the south-west, where sky and sea were woven together in +mist, an eye shone--flashed--and disappeared. It might have been the eye +of great Malo himself, looking out on his domains. Once more it broke +out of the mist--beamed, and was gone. It was the only light in all that +dullness, the only colour in all that grey. Again and again it +flashed--departed--came and went.... Daniel, sitting on his bag on the +second-class deck, asked a sailor what it was. + +“That?” said the sailor--“that’s the Casquet light.” + +“A lighthouse?” + +The sailor looked at him commiseratingly. + +“Never heard of the Casquets?” + +Yes--he had heard his mother speak of them. + +“That’s where the boats go down,” said the sailor--“there’s a current +pulls from them rocks, and in a storm the craft goes into them like +moths into a candle.” + +“Have there been many wrecks?” + +“Many!” the sailor laughed. “Never heard how the _Stella_ went +down?--and she was only the big noise; there was all the little ones +that never got into the papers--all the French trawlers and the island +boats that don’t get written about.” + +He went off about his work, leaving Dan staring into the fogs with their +golden eye. Now he could distinguish a tall purplish column--that must +be the lighthouse ... it was like the disused lighthouse at home, on the +cliffs above Birling Gap, but taller--more graceful, more sinister.... +He could see the rocks beneath it now, the rocks on which it +stood--huge, smooth, helmet-shaped rocks, like the heads of some monster +coiled under the sea.... The Casquets were falling away into the east, +as the _Cesarea_ throbbed past them through the calm sea ... the sky was +turning red behind them, and they and the column of the lighthouse were +purple against the glow. The orange light winked in a crimson and purple +sky. Colour had suddenly taken possession of the sky, and ran out over +the sea ... the sea was blood-red--the Casquet rocks were black. The +orange light became smoky, furious ... it seemed to fight the kindling +sea and sky ... it gave one last flash upon its pedestal, and went out. + +It was sunrise, but the moon had not yet set. Her papery, waning +crescent hung over some new islands which had sprung out of the West. +The _Cesarea_ was ploughing her way towards them--behind her dragged +the white furrows of the sea, and the great stream of the smoke from her +smoke-stack, fuming along the sky among the last stars. + + +§2 + +A town lay asleep between two horns. On the end of each horn was a +castle, which also seemed asleep, and behind the town rose a wooded +land, with one high tower above the trees. The decks were crowded all +round Daniel--people pushed about him, swinging bags and cases against +his knees. Bells rang--sailors cried, “By y’r leave”--great coils of +rope ran out into the sea ... voices shouted from the harbour side and +from a little boat riding beside the buoy. Grasping his ticket in one +hand, his bag in the other, he slowly pushed and jostled his way ashore. + +This was Guernsey, and a fine place it looked--houses, churches, +streets, and castles, too. But in the cold morning hour of sunrise and +moonset, it seemed foreign and unfriendly. The tall houses with their +steep, French roofs, were not the houses of home ... and yet it was here +his father had met his mother--in a little house in Bordage, she had +told him.... + +He was on the quay, following the stream of people towards the +turnstiles. A great crane was hoisting luggage from the hold of the +_Cesarea_--he must wait here for his box. He felt a sudden warm +attachment to his box, for it was all that he had of home with him. It +held everything he had in the world, except a few clothes in his bag--it +was a part of Daniel Sheather in a strange land.... Suppose it was +lost--suppose it had not come over with him, but lay behind at +Southampton? He could not bear the thought--his photographs of the +George, of his father and mother, of Chris and Len and Len’s children +... his one or two books--his handkerchiefs and shirts that his mother +had hemmed and marked for him ... he could not start here without them +all--he must have the old things.... + +Ah, there it was--he sprang forward to claim it, then did not know what +to do. He asked a porter how he was to cross to Sark--where was the Sark +boat? Confusion started--the porter said there was no boat to Sark that +day, another porter said there was--nobody seemed to know. A little +paddle-steamer was pointed out to him as the Sark boat, and one of the +porters was for carrying his box on board, but in the end the noes had +it, for her old man was reported to be over at Pleinmont at his sister’s +wedding. + +“But there will be a motor-boat crossing to-night, for visitors have +arrived for the Bel-Air and are to be fetched,” said another porter. + +It seemed as if Daniel would eventually reach Sark, though it was just +as well he was not in a hurry. His box and bag were left on the quay, +and he set off into the town to find a meal. + +He thought he would like to go to the eating-house in Bordage, where his +father had first met his mother, but though he managed to find the +street and walk the length of it, no eating-house was to be seen. He +felt as if his mother’s romance--his only link with Guernsey--had gone +with it. + +He ate his breakfast in a little shop in Hauteville Street, and then set +out to see the town. It did not interest him much. He saw that it was +beautiful and restful and sunny, but his heart was sick for Newhaven +Bridge and the weedy, mussel-smelling mouth of the Ouse--for the little +tilted rows of slate-roofed houses that swarmed over the lower slopes of +the downs--for the street-start of the great white road that led up the +valley towards home.... + +He went into the Town Church and sat there for a while--but even the +church was foreign. Cold and unworshipful, it had none of the homeliness +of Bullockdean; even in the last dead weeks he had known that +Bullockdean church held warmth and friendship for those who were not too +bruised to seek them--for the old women with their prayer-books and the +young boys and girls who made sheep’s-eyes at each other. But here one +was all among the dead--or rather the dead trappings of the dead, the +coats of arms they would no longer bear, the swords they would no longer +wear.... Memorial after memorial to Le Page and Le Pelley and Le +Marchant and De la Condamine and De Jersey ... griffins, gules, +mullets, bends d’or, and bends d’azur ... this was the Cloud of +Witnesses--the Writing on the Wall of the Town Church. + +He was tired after his long journey and dozing night on the second-class +deck, and uncomfortable as he was in his hard pew, he fell asleep--to +dream that he was rowing Belle in a little boat round the Casquets, +which were plastered with the arms of the best Guernsey families. He +woke to find himself being shaken by the verger, who told him that +church was not the proper place to go to sleep in. + +Well, where else was he to go?--what could he do till four o’clock, when +the motor-boat started? He wished he had never come to this unfriendly +place, where even the church refused him a lap to sleep in ... where no +one might sleep but the well-born dead. He would be happier at home, +even with Belle living just across the road as Mrs. Munk and the +mistress of the Crown. At least he would have his family at home--here +no one seemed to care. Uncle Philip had not even answered his mother’s +second letter, saying that her son was crossing by Wednesday’s +boat--someone might have come over to meet him in Guernsey, to tell him +how to get to Sark. There lay Sark, a dim, distant land, beyond the +nearer coasts of Herm and Jethou. What should he find in Sark?--a +family, friends, home, love? No, he had left them all on the other side +of the water. + + +§ 3 + +The day had grown very hot at noon, and at four o’clock the stones of +the Albert Pier were warm with the sun. A white motor-boat bobbed on the +tide, and the men within her shouted to one another in an outlandish +tongue. They were loading her with crates and packing-cases and some +luggage which had been brought down to the end of the pier. She must be +the Sark boat, and Daniel asked if he could cross in her. + +He was told that he could do so for ten shillings. This made him very +angry, for he had only twelve-and-sixpence in the world, and did not +much relish the prospect of starting a new life on a capital of half a +crown. He felt that his cousins, who he understood had a boat of their +own, might have come over and fetched him and spared him this expense. +However, there was no help for it, so he took his seat in the little +boat among the well-to-do visitors who had chartered it, and in a few +minutes she was chug-chugging out of the harbour, past the lighthouse +and Castle Cornet into the Little Russell. + +The sea was heavily calm, and the waters had a thick, oily quality--they +went in heavy, dull blue rolls across the Russell, as some force passed +deep under them, never breaking their blue, oily surface. The tide was +low, and the great buoys stood out of it, dripping with seaweed, and the +foundations of rocks, tide-stained and seaweed hung. Used to the Sussex +cliffs, the misty whiteness of Birling Gap, Dan watched in astonishment +those rocks as the little _Rose Carré_ flew past them. The sea was full +of rocks, great rocks like castles, raising their turrets on pillared +bases, pillars that the sea had carved. In colour they were pink and +brown, against the oily blue of the sea and the clearer blue of the sky +that rested on the sea. + +He sat there tired and silent on his box, watching the calm beauty of +the sea roll past him and the castles of the rocks. They ran by Jethou, +steering on l’Etac. Sark was coming out of the sea; it looked like a +sea-monster, sleeping on the tide. They drew nearer, and its flanks +broke into bays; passing under l’Etac, the bays broke into caves and +creaks and pinnacles--the island of Brenière stood out, fierce and eaten +with caverns.... + +“You never been to Sark before?” asked the boatman in charge of the +engine. + +Daniel shook his head. + +“You go to see friends?” + +“I’m going to stay with my uncle, Philip le Couteur. Do you know him?” + +“I know him? Oh, my Gar! Yes.” + +“Do you know if he’s expecting me?” + +“Oh, yes, he is expecting you. He say you come along some day.” + +This sounded unnecessarily vague after his mother’s letter--but Daniel +still hoped there would be someone to meet him at the harbour. + +“Where is the Pêche à Agneau?” he asked. “Can we see it from here?” + +“No--it is on the other side. Now we go past La Coupée.” + +Young Sheather looked up at the towering cliffs--carrying their seamed +brownness up against the glitter of the dustless sky. Could anyone live +on this desert place, hard, fierce, scored and scaly as the hide of a +dragon? + +“Are there houses on the top?” + +“Oh, my Gar, yes! Plenty houses,” and the boatman laughed. + +The _Rose Carré_ was running only a few yards from the coast--the Point +du Derrible fell away straight into deep water. Close to Daniel’s +staring eyes was a mass and terror of rocks, columns, caverns, points, +blocks, walls, crags, gullies, every possible formation, heaping itself +round the point, with the water lapping against it, oozing and plopping +in its crannies with a faint glug-glug, rolling in and out of its +caverns with a hollower, booming sound. As the boat ran by, the echoes +of the engine sent up clouds of herring-gulls from the rocks, while on +the smaller rocks beyond the point little parliaments of cormorants sat +solemn and undisturbed. + +“Very dangerous here,” said the boatman, laughing again, but Daniel was +not frightened. He did not know enough about seafaring and this +particular coast to be frightened. Later, knowledge would teach him +fear. + +The boat dodged her way through the deep channels into the harbour. The +tide just allowed her to creep in. Daniel climbed up the green, oozy +steps on to the quay. The little harbour was ringed all round with +cliffs of that brownish pink with which he was now growing familiar; +there was no way out of it save by a tunnel cut through them. + +He looked round in vain for some signs of a greeting. A few boatmen and +fishermen were leaning against the harbour walls, and a cart had come +down from the hotel to fetch the visitors’ luggage, but no one seemed to +have come to meet Daniel Sheather. He felt chilled and lonely; the rich, +rather terrible beauty of the place, so foreign to his Saxon eyes--used +to the tame, sweet landscape of the South Downs, with their gentle +curves and misty colours--added to his feeling of strangeness. This +island was unfriendly--a strange land, though the land of his birth. + +He went up to an old man, and asked him if he could tell him the way to +Philip le Couteur’s house, but this led only to a fresh baulk. The old +fisherman could speak no language but his own, the harsh, disfigured +remnant of the speech his Norman ancestors had left him--as they had +left him their red hair and sea-blue eyes. It was a foreign language to +Daniel, though he must have often heard it, indeed must have spoken it +as a child. Luckily a younger man came to help him, and he gathered that +the Pêche à Agneau was at the remotest end of the island, across the +Coupée in Little Sark. + +“How am I to get my box there?” + +Nobody seemed to know. But everybody seemed very much amused--they +seemed to relish the prospect of Dan being left in the Creux Harbour +with the big, corded box he wanted to carry to the Pêche à Agneau. It +was not a cruel or malicious amusement, merely the delight of primitive +man in another’s misfortune--but it did not help Daniel to feel at home. + +At last it was discovered that La Belle Hautgarde had sent their mule +cart to fetch stores which the _Rose Carré_ had brought over. The great +lurching mules came through the tunnel in the midst of the discussion, +and after a good deal of argument with the driver, it was arranged that +Daniel should be taken in the mule cart as far as La Belle Hautgarde, +from which it would not be difficult for the Le Couteurs to fetch his +box. + +He accordingly drove off. With a great clatter and clank of hoofs and +wheels the cart went through the tunnel--and then suddenly the landscape +melted ... fierce brown cliffs, rocks, columns and caves gave place to +gentle banks smothered in cow-parsley, campion and bluebells. Trees +bowered over head, their leaves spattered with filtering sunlight. A +soft air blew, thick with the scent of flowers. He had broken through +the frowning walls of Sark and found a flower-garden. It was as if a +fierce, terrible face had suddenly and beautifully smiled. + +Then he began to remember ... scents became familiar, that scent of +evening and flowers and warm, sweet grass ... he remembered thatched +roofs with queer crinkled edgings of tiles ... cows with sleek, +mouse-coloured skins ... an avenue of trees ... a windmill.... He had +forgotten the cliffs of Sark, the barriers which, as a child, he could +have seldom or never seen, but he had remembered the heart--the deep +lanes, the trees, the flowers, the daily sights of the child who had +played with the lobster’s claw.... + +The road narrowed. The island narrowed. Sark was only six feet wide. On +either side the cliffs fell away, down into sinister bays, hundreds of +feet below. Dan was frightened at last--he grasped the sides of the +cart, as it lurched over La Coupée, and then up the steep hill beyond it +into Little Sark. + +Once more the island spread, and the fields were full of trefoil, +cropped by cows. Thatched roofs ran long-side the lane. They had come to +La Belle Hautgarde, and Dan must dismount, and go on his own legs to the +Pêche à Agneau. + +“What about my box? Where can I leave it?” + +“Leave it--where should you leave it, if not here?” asked the driver, +who had deposited the box in the lane. “The sons of Philip Le Couteur +will come and fetch it some time.” + +“But is it safe?” + +“Yes, it is safe. We are honest in Sark--we are not English.” + +Dan did not know whether he ought to take offence at this last remark, +but he had not much spirit left, and risky and grotesque as it seemed to +leave his box lying in the road, he submitted to the inevitable, and +walked off, to find as best he could his way to his uncle’s house. + + +§ 4 + +Perhaps the driver was right in his distinctions between Sark and +England, for the box was still lying unharmed and apparently unnoticed +in the lane when Daniel and two of his cousins called for it after +supper. Dan and they were still in the stage of suspicious +investigation--Peter was not unlike his English cousin, with his black +hair and eyes, though instead of Dan’s flat Saxon features he had the +sharp nose and chin of the Guernsey-diluted Le Couteurs; but Helier +belonged to the Norman type of his Hamon mother, and had thick curly red +hair and blue eyes and a ruddy freckled skin. Luckily both boys could +speak English fluently, though the Saxon drawl and the French clip +nearly built Babel out of the conversation. + +“There your box--it is safe,” said Peter. He seized one end and swung it +up--Dan laid hold of the other and could scarcely lift it. This was +humiliating. + +“Let me,” said Helier, and swung up the other end. They both swung the +box to their shoulders, and signalled to Dan to come round to the side +and take his lesser share of the burden. + +“We carry it like a coffin,” said Peter, and they both laughed. + +The Pêche à Agneau was only a couple of furlongs from La Belle +Hautgarde, below the brow of the hill, looking out nearly west towards +the Moie de la Bretagne. Like most dwellings in Sark, it was a +collection of small, separate cottages gathered round a well. Philip Le +Couteur and his family lived in one cottage, Eugene Le Couteur and his +family in another, and the third cottage was inhabited by a daughter who +had married back into the Hamons, and whose husband was in partnership +with Philip and Eugene. There must have been more than twenty souls in +that little desolate group of houses on the cliff edge, and it was not +surprising that accommodation was scarce and Daniel had to sleep in the +same room as his cousin Peter. + +He found the mass of his cousins exceedingly confusing; they were so +numerous that they seemed to have exhausted the supply of Christian +names on the island--Eugene and Philip Le Couteur each had a son called +Philip, and the community also contained three Eugenes and two Peters. +Add to this a strong family likeness, born of generations of +intermarriage (which had not seemed, however, to affect the hardiness of +the stock), an incomprehensible speech and the complete promiscuity of +all three families, and the result was utter bewilderment for poor +Daniel. + +However, they had given him an excellent supper of fish, bread and +butter, and gâche--a soft, sweet cake full of currants, which he liked +very much. When supper was over and the box had been fetched home, they +left him to himself and the welcome freedom to go straight to bed. + +He felt tired and strained, not only with the journey, but with the +effort of adapting himself to such entirely new surroundings, though +doubtless memory and hereditary both helped him a little. He was too +tired for satisfying sleep--also he had been given what his Uncle Philip +called an English bed, which meant a bed with broken springs, uneven +legs, and mattress stuffed with what felt like lumps of wood. His cousin +slept in a Sark bed, which was like a large flat box without a lid, full +of gaily-coloured bedding. Dan realized that, though his uncles were +exceedingly well-to-do, the discomfort of this new life would probably +be much greater than that of the poverty-stricken George. However, he +was of an adaptable nature, and shrugged down into the misery of the +English bed, pulling the ends of the pillow over his ears and the +blanket over his eyes, to shut out the strange world which moonlight was +now making stranger. + + + + +CHAPTER TWO + + +§ I + +He woke early, to find the room full of sunshine and stir. The stir came +from the sea, which moved in a solemn roar over the rocks below. He sat +up and listened to it--how the murmur swung!--as the wind drove it +landwards, and then let it fall back into a sigh. His heart quickened +with a love of the sea ... after all, had not his fathers sought their +bread upon the waters for many generations?... He slipped out of bed and +looked out of the window. There lay the sea, a soft sun-dazzled blue, +calm enough far from the shore, but all laced with foam round the coasts +and rocks.... Its deep tides swelled over its bed, moving solemnly--only +the edges were in commotion. + +He moved to the chair where his clothes were piled, and began to dress +quickly and noiselessly. The sea was drawing him out to it--he must go +down to it, close enough to smell it, to feel its spindrift on his face. +It was queer that the sea had never stirred this emotion in him +before--not at Birling Gap, where the little wavelets rippled on the wet +mirror of the sand--not in the haunted desolation of the Casquets--nor +even in St. Peter Port, with the fishing-boats at anchor under the White +Rock.... It was not till he had come here that the deep had called to +him, not till he had heard its voice from the house where he was born. + +He ran out of the house as soon as he was dressed. Either somebody was +up before him, or the door had never been shut, for he found it open. +His footsteps rang on the cobbled stones of the courtyard, in the midst +of which the well was wreathed in climbing roses. Round it the little +houses and barns, their thatched roofs sprouting with stone-crop and +scabias and coloured mosses, had a charming look of Arcady asleep--but +Daniel had ceased to rest in the rustic beauty of the island’s heart, he +wanted the edges, salt and rough, seamed, worn, cavernous, spiked and +deadly, the workshop of the sea. + +He found a path that wound over the brow of the cliff, and then stopped +short above a slide of rock. The descent looked easy--the rocks were +granite, rough and sure of foothold, and were moreover broken up into +blocks and ledges. He let himself down, and as he had a strong head, +found little difficulty in the scramble. He was soon only a few feet +above some flat rocks full of pools into which the sea was breaking. + +Looking down from above he could see the rich sea life of the pools, +their purple fringes of seaweed, and their great red and green jewels, +which he supposed must be sea-anemones. Below the slabs the tide was +roaring, sending up lashings of foam. He would swing from his hands and +let himself down--it wasn’t much of a drop. + +It was more than he thought--a matter of seven feet. He was now well +below the level of high tide, and the rocks were covered with thick +greasy seaweed--the _vraic_ which makes a livelihood for the lonely men +of Pleinmont.... His feet slithered on it, and he found it best to crawl +about from pool to pool. His throat tightened as he looked down into +those little gardens of the sea--their rocks, their trees, their +flowers, their tiny inhabitants swimming in their alleys. He had never +seen anything so lovely, so complete--he forgot that he had come out to +watch the splendour and fury of the waves below. This was fine--he +could mess about here all the morning, but he supposed his uncles would +want him to do some job or other with the boats. My! but they’d have to +teach him a few things ... he to work in a boat, who had always worked +in a bar! + +The waters of the little pools swirled suddenly as the sea poured into +them. It was a pity the tide was coming in.... Losh! but it had come in +a good way since he’d been on the slabs ... things moved quicker here +than at Birling Gap.... He’d better.... But he couldn’t. He had dropped +off the rock, which now curved outwards above him, shutting off his +escape that way. + +He looked round for other ways, but could see none. The sea was all +round the slabs, breaking over them--there was only the way he had come, +and that was impossible from below. What a fool he had been--he might +have realized that the rock curved inwards at the root.... Perhaps the +tide would fall back before it reached him. No--for the seaweed was +above his head, hanging from the eaves of the rock seven feet above the +slabs. + +He felt his skin go rough, and then cold and sweaty. He found himself +shouting for help, but the sea was drowning his voice in a great roar. +He was afraid, mysteriously, of more than death. There was something +horrible and malevolent in this submerging coast--the very smell of +brine and seaweed was sinister with its hint of corruption.... +“Help!--Help!”--he could not die here--he would die anywhere but in this +place. + +He had faced death before--he had lain sick but disciplined under +shell-fire in France. This was worse--infinitely worse. Shell-fire was +nothing--it was only death. This was worse than death, for he was afraid +not only of death but of the forces that were dealing death to him. “Oh, +deliver us from evil....” He must not die in the slime.... + +A loud laugh sounded from the rock above. + +“Peter!” + +“You cry ‘help’?” + +“For God’s sake get me out of this.” + +“Idiot!” Peter laughed again. “You be drowned if you stay there.” + +“I can’t get up.” + +“I cannot get down--I go--I fetch a rope.” + +“But won’t the tide be up before you’re back?” + +“Oh, my Gar, no!” + +He walked off with maddening deliberation. + +“Peter, don’t leave me here!” Dan called after him foolishly, but Peter +did not stop to listen. + +Once more he was alone, and once more the horror was like a hand upon +his throat, choking the breath out of it. His tongue parched and his +eyes swam. He tried to think of other things--far-off homely things of +the Ouse Valley, of nature cloaked and veiled and decent--but they were +as shadows on glass, and could not hold his mind’s eye from its terror, +from the dreadful strange things all round him, from nature indecent and +exposed, shocking and horrifying him as he crouched there on his rock. +He tried even to think of Belle, whom he had tried so hard not to think +of for a month or more; the thought of her might give him a more +wholesome sickness. But even Belle to-day was as a shadow on glass--his +most poignant thought of her could not draw him away into the dignities +of human sorrow. He could only cower and grovel before the horror of the +sea, and those things which the sea exposes on some evil coasts. He now +knew that he was not afraid of death--that death itself was only a +shadow on glass. + +Peter returned just as the slabs were coming awash. He brought with him +a rope and two Philips, and they soon had Daniel up beside them among +the pink stars of the thrift. He was trembling all over, which amused +them very much, and the next moment was violently sick, which amused +them more than ever. Their English cousin was very funny--oh, my Gar, +yes! + + +§ 2 + +Daniel was rather ashamed of himself and of the terror he had shown. He +did not like the way his cousins laughed at him--the way they had of +saying for days and weeks afterwards: “You go down to-day to Rouge +Caneau? You like it down there on the rocks.” But he never could bring +himself to look upon his terror as quite unreasonable; during the next +few weeks he felt it again more than once--down in the bays, below the +high-tide level, among the hanging seaweed and cold slipperiness of the +rocks. He felt as he sometimes used to feel at home in the churchyard--a +feeling of “run away or the ghosts will get you” ... though here it was +not ghosts, but something which prowled in that wet place between the +tides, and lived in the caves that for half the day were full of water +and for the other half were full of wind. + +But he was not always afraid, for there was also the warm, flowery heart +of the island, with its farms and its windmill, and its ilex-sheltered +lanes. There was the loveliness of the Dixcart valley, where the ferns +stand four feet high beside the stream--there were the marguerites +pouring over the edge of the cliffs, and the foxgloves making purple +flame at Les Orgeries and on the headland which the English call the +Hog’s Back and the islanders call Château des Quenévés. The coasts were +lovely, too--as long as you kept away from their roots--with their +columns of rosy rock, their promontories like horned beasts, and above +all with their distant view of islands and the golden coast of France. + +Daniel soon learned to know this new complete little country--to know +with thoroughness its five or six miles of road, with less assurance its +twenty-five miles of coast. He was right in thinking that his cousins +would want him to help them in their boats, and he learned to be useful +quicker than either he or they had expected. Fundamentally adaptable and +with sea-going blood in his veins, he soon learned, in spite of his +initial terror, to handle a boat whether propelled by oars or engine. +His uncles owned quite a little fleet--a cutter, two large motor-boats, +a small motor-boat, and several rowing-boats. They used these for +fishing, taking goods and passengers to and from Guernsey and even +Jersey, and also for taking visitors on pleasure-trips round the island +and to visit those caves which could be reached only from the sea. + +Daniel was happy enough on the sea--for those were the days of summer +calm, when the teeth of the coast were harmless as the teeth in the jaws +of a sleeping animal. He loved the soft, wind-driven glide of the boat +over the still waters of Havre Gosselin, he loved the gentle rocking +beyond La Pêcheresse, or those moments at anchor off La Genetière, when +he and his cousins let down the lobster-pots to the bed of the sea, or +drew them up after old-man lobster had had time to fulfil his certain +folly, and would be found sitting grey and disconsolate in his wicker +prison. + +His uncles never went a-fishing. Philip had charge of the Guernsey +trade, and went to and fro about five days out of seven, either with +goods or passengers; and Eugene, who was about ten years older, and had +been beaten by the winds into still older looks, nowadays spent most of +his time on land, attending to the farm with his son-in-law Hamon, +though he was fond of boasting the exploits of his seafaring days. + +Eugene Le Couteur was the most uncivilized member of all that household, +whose civilization ranged from the two old uncles, unable to read or +write and with English limited to a few guide-book phrases for the +visitors--to cousin Thomas, Philip’s son, who had once been to England, +and ever since had worn a bowler hat on Sundays. Uncle Eugene hated +England and the English; the only place he hated more than England was +Guernsey, and he never wearied of complaining of the opportunity which +had been missed during the Great War, when the Royal Navy could have +smashed Guernsey as easy as a crab’s back. + +“We could have smashed Guernsey, but Germany we could not smash--it was +a waste.” + +“We did smash Germany, uncle,” said Dan--who had come to pick up enough +of the island speech to help him through a conversation. + +“We did not smash Germany quite small--they are still there, and owe us +a lot of money. We should have smashed Guernsey quite small, so that +they could not owe us any money.” + +“Well, we smashed Germany quite small enough,” grumbled Daniel, annoyed +at this reflection upon him as a soldier. He was the only one of the +household who had seen service in France, though Helier and young Eugene +had both been on a mine-sweeper, “and each time we blow up they give us +a new pair of trousers.” + +“But what do we want to smash Germany for at all?” continued Uncle +Eugene, in waxing indignation--“Germany has never done us any harm. I +have never seen a German. When the war start, a silly, vagabond man come +along to me and want to take my big boys to fight the Germans. I say: ‘I +do not want to fight the Germans. They never done me any harm. They +never put their lobster-pots on the Minquier Rocks. I am ready to fight +the French whenever they put their lobster-pots on the Minquier Rocks, +and I am ready to fight Guernsey always. But I have never seen a German, +so why should I fight them?’ He say: ‘Then they will come and kill you.’ +I say: ‘They will not. If they come to Sark they come to the north side, +to the Eperqueries. If they should try to cross the Coupée into Little +Sark--oh, my Gar! let them try, and they will see!’” + + + + +CHAPTER THREE + + +§ 1 + +The summer rose to the solstice, and all the island smelled of hay and +flowers, with heavy smells of brine upon the coast. Daniel was not +unhappy. His transplantation had been in some degree effective, and his +old sorrows no longer seemed so actual to him--they belonged to another +life, to another landscape. Besides, his work in the boats absorbed him, +drawing his thoughts away from the past and fixing them in the present +moment with its demands and preoccupations. If you have twenty-two +land-going years behind you it takes some striving to learn the way of +the sea. + +His English correspondence was not of a kind to hinder much the good +work of forgetting. His family were not letter-writers, and nor, for +that matter, was he. He heard once from his mother and once from Len, +with scrawls and scratches enclosed to Uncle Dan from Leslie and Ivy. +His father did not write at all, nor did Ernley, nor did Belle. The +country of the Ouse Valley soon began to live for him only in a few +stilted phrases in stiff handwriting on cheap notepaper. By this means +he heard that Belle and Ernley had come back from the long honeymoon +which had followed their marriage in London--a marriage that had taken +place before Dan left England and only a few days after their +reconciliation. He could now, if he liked, picture Belle at the +Crown--but the picture was again only a shadow on glass. He was like a +man standing with his back to a firelit room and staring out of a window +through which he sees sea, sky and islands bright in sunshine; only now +and then the movements of those behind in the room become reflected like +ghosts in the pane--what he really sees are the sea, sky and islands +outside in the sun. This did not mean that he never suffered for Belle, +for the thought of her often troubled him very much. After all he was +still inside the room of his love for Belle, and only looked outside, +through the window, at the sea, sky and islands of Sark. None the less, +he had turned his back on her, and saw only her shadow reflected dimly +in the new landscape that filled his horizon. + +Other events in the Ouse Valley troubled him still less, though they +were events which would have disturbed him considerably if they had +not, as it were, happened behind him. Apparently, under his father’s +unguided rule--for Chris only lounged and scoffed and Kitty only +scolded--the George was going quickly along those evil ways Daniel had +so often preached against in the old times. “He have those wicked men +from Lewes giving horses’ names to the sailors,” wrote his mother, “and +the sailors such fools. We shall have the police upon us.” He searched +her letters in vain for any of the tenderness which had been his first +comfort in his sorrow, and which had flickered intermittently through +the month that had gone by before his leaving for Sark. But even this +lack did not trouble him much. + +Strangely enough, the only occasions when he felt really and acutely +homesick, not only for his mother and for Belle, but for the whole of +his life in Bullockdean, were the Sunday evenings when he went to +church. None of the islanders went to church in the morning, the morning +services being considered English and shunned accordingly; but every +Sunday evening farmers and fishermen would assemble together in the +ilex-shaded churchyard, dressed in their best blue jerseys and trousers +and peaked boating-caps, and wait outside till the little sharp bell had +stopped ringing, when they all marched in together and filled the back +seats, ready for a quick corporate exit directly the service was over. + +“_Bien-aimés frères_,” the clergyman would begin, which Daniel knew was +“dearly beloved brethren” in French. Then would follow the whole of +Evening Prayer that had become Prières du Soir by the same token. It was +a queer, stiff, superstitious rite, in which strong men found comfort as +they bawled French psalms to Anglican chants, and droned together: “_Je +crois en Dieu, le Père tout-puissant, Créateur du ciel et de la +terre_....” To Dan it sometimes brought a strange feeling of loss and +pathos, as if he were indeed singing the Lord’s song in a strange land. +He would shut his eyes during the sermon, which he was far too inexpert +at the language to understand, and try to imagine himself back in +Bullockdean Church, with the soft scent of its old stones in his +nostrils, mixed with the moth-killer in Auntie Harman’s cape and the +general tobacco-and-camphor reek of the Sunday evening congregation. He +tried to think that if he opened his eyes he would see a dozen familiar +backs before him--Auntie Harman’s, Maudie’s, Jess’s, Willie Pont’s, old +Pilbeam’s--and beyond them Mr. Marchbanks in the pulpit, preaching an +English sermon on keeping good company, helping the poor, reading the +Bible, giving honest measure and other religious practices of an English +village. He felt rather guilty with regard to Mr. Marchbanks, for he had +promised to write to him, but had not done so. Also he was uncomfortably +aware that in religious matters he had changed his custom too easily, +and had given up doing many of the good things his friend had taught +him. + +Nevertheless, though it made him homesick and regretful, he could not +help finding in the hideous little church, with its pitch-pine pews and +flat, whitewashed ceiling, a friendliness which he had never found at +the Pêche à Agneau. It was here that his mother had married his father, +it was here that he had been baptized; and this unfamiliar language was +the language of his parents’ vows and of the promises his godfathers and +godmothers had made in his name. Also the place was somehow made homely +by the memorials of the drowned with which its walls were +covered--memorials of De Carterets and Carrés and Falles, who had gone +out in their boats and never returned. Unlike the memorials in the Town +Church over in Guernsey they did not bear in high funereal pride the +arms or crests or mottoes of the dead, but only in reproachful +repetition all round the wall, the plaintive cry of the living: “_Ta +voie a été par la mer et tes sentiers dans les grosses eaux_--_Néanmoins +tes traces n’ont pas été connues_....” + + +§ 2 + +Later in the summer Daniel was promoted to going out with the visitors. +He would take charge of the engine, while one of his cousins steered, +for though he was growing daily more expert and familiar with the coast, +his sea-lore did not extend to the navigation of those crooked channels +which were the avenues of the caves--with their treacherous stud of +rocks, the _grunes_ and _demies_ of stealthy disaster. + +Daniel liked the visitors. They were a relief after the Le Couteurs’ +rather primitive companionship. He and his cousins were friendly enough, +for he accepted, being gentle, their rough teasing and laughter and +queer remoteness from all he was accustomed to; nevertheless, it was +good to meet these people with their English talk and their English +ways--to listen to them talking ordinary British politics, instead of +the parish politics of Sark, to realize that there were other foreign +complications besides those caused by the treachery and avarice of +Guernsey. He often heard the sort of talk that he used to hear in his +father’s bar, or in Ernley Munk’s room, when he grew dictatorial over +the port.... Besides, some of the visitors came from places near +home--he once took out a family from Eastbourne and heard them speak of +Alciston. + +The visitors liked him too, for his adaptable humility and pleasant +manners--they gave him tips, sometimes very handsome ones, so that +during August he was able to send a pound home every week. His cousins +were inclined to be annoyed, for they themselves did not think much of +Daniel’s manners. + +“You only touch your cap--you do not take it off,” said Helier +reproachfully. + +“When a lady says she want the boat,” rebuked Uncle Philip, “you should +not say ‘Yes, ma’am,’ as you do--it is not polite, though it may do very +well in England or in Guernsey. You should say: ‘Madame, the boat is +yours,’ and if she asks what time is best to start, you should say: +‘When it pleases madame.’” + +In spite of this ornate politeness, on which all the Sark fishermen +prided themselves, the Le Couteurs did not, like Dan, approve of the +visitors in their hearts. They feared lest any of them should want to +settle down on the island--“and we have more English.” Already several +of the farms handed down from the original Forty Tenants were in English +hands, and the local families were being driven more and more to the +edges, into the second estate of the fishermen, who were unrepresented +in the Chef Plès and therefore powerless to withstand the invader. + +Perhaps this attitude was partly responsible for the fact that, in spite +of his acceptance of their life and customs, the Le Couteur family did +not really absorb Daniel--he was never quite one of themselves, but +remained English and outside them. His father would always be to them +the stranger who had taken away his mother from her kin, and his mother +would always be the woman who had forsaken her kin for the stranger. He +had been born in their land, but he had been bred far away. Though he +had adopted their customs, they were not really his. Though he no longer +wore his English clothes, and though his colouring was the colouring of +their race, where it touched Brittany rather than Normandy, he had the +broad, flat Saxon features of his fathers, of the men of the Saxon +fleets who had driven out first the monks and then the pirates from +their land. + + +§ 3 + +Autumn came, and the visitors went. The seas and caves were a playground +no longer but a business of storms and fogs. First came the equinoctial +gales--a smashing of wind against the cliffs, with rain like knives. The +sea no longer foamed only at the edges where the great _baveuses_ +slobbered the tides. It was a boiling whiteness as far as l’Etac. On the +coast all was thunder; the caves roared with water and wind--the boom of +the Gorey Souffleur could be heard far out in the Russell, and the +screams of the Caverne des Lamentes foretold the winter’s wrecks to +superstition loitering with stiff hair on the Coupée. + +The Le Couteurs pulled up their boats. There might be some occasional +fishing in calm intervals, but no real business. The Guernsey steamer +came only twice a week, and sometimes she was unable to land her cargo +and mails. The outer world seemed to recede immeasurably far. + +Then, at the passing of the equinox came the fogs. These were more +terrible than the storms. The storms were at least a spectacle, but the +fogs were one continual white blindness on the land. Those were days in +which sight, touch and smell were sunk in one clammy, salt whiteness, +and the only sense which lived was sound. The air was torn with sound, +as the fog-horns hummed from a score of rocks. There was the eternal +moan of Blanchard, out beyond Les Abîmes, there was the thunder of +Platte Fougère--slower, fiercer, seeming to shake the sea; and there was +Sark’s own voice at Point Robert, which inland was like the drone of a +mosquito, but on the coast was like the voice of a trumpet braying +judgment--the judgment of the east coast of Sark. Daniel would sit on +the cliffs, listening while it swelled with the echoes that poured into +it, till at last every cave and rock and cliff-face roared with it, and +out in the fogs upon the water the Grande Moie shook it out of his +castles. + +There was not much for him to do in those days--no work in the boats, +and very little on the farm, and all the crowd of them to do it. His +uncles and cousins smoked and snored beside the fire, and Dan sat with +them, bored and lonely. Sometimes he played with Alice Hamon’s +children--funny little things, with their queer French talk; they amused +him, and when he played with them he felt at home. But you could not be +always playing with children. + +What else could you do? You could go to the Bel-Air and get drunk. It +was not a very good thing to do, but you did it sometimes, because there +was nothing else. Everyone did it--Uncle Eugene and Uncle Philip, +Helier, Peter, William, the young Eugenes and Philips, all the lot of +them. They sat with the other fishermen and farmers and drank +armagnac--a rather unpleasant brandy, and ampurdan, a kind of heady +port--and told each other long stories about themselves and their +fishing exploits out beyond the _demies_ of Baleine. Dan was not really +fond of drinking, but it was easy to drink too much armagnac--it soon +made his head heavy and then light. Then a strange thing would +happen--he would change. He would cease to be Daniel Sheather of the +George at Bullockdean, and would become Daniel Le Couteur of the Pêche à +Agneau, yarning and quarrelling in debased Norman French, discussing +Sark politics, “_le seigneur_,” “_le ministre_,” and disparaging England +and Guernsey. Some buried local instinct would revive, stripping him of +all his years in the Ouse Valley, of all his line of Saxon forefathers, +leaving him only his inheritance in the Norman Isle. His very face would +change--his features would appear sharper, his eyes brighter, as his +mother’s blood quickened with the drink that had fired his mother’s +father.... He was good company then, was Cousin Daniel. Oh, my Gar, yes! + +When he had slept off his excitement and awoke a Sussex man again, he +would feel ashamed. He would reproach himself not only for these +transient disloyalties but for the whole slow system of his forgetting. +There was no good pretending that he felt either for his home or for his +people the same as he had felt when he first came out to Sark. Even the +homesickness of Sunday nights was growing fainter, and “_frères +bien-aimés_” showed signs of becoming the reality of which “dearly +beloved brethren” was only a remembered translation. “The Prayer Book +was written in French. Helier de Cartaret brought it from Jersey, and +then it cross the sea and Queen Victoria say it very good and turn it +into English.” So Uncle Eugene used to babble in his ignorance, and Dan +had secretly scoffed at him. Hadn’t he always known that King Henry the +Eighth had written the Prayer Book to serve out the Pope for wanting to +marry Katharine of Aragon? But now he almost believed in Uncle Eugene’s +version. His very mind was being swallowed up by Sark and his Sark +relations. There were no visitors now to remind him of his own speech +and country ... and after all, he was as much a Sarkie as he was an +Englishman--why should he kick against the pricks? When he was in +England he had never troubled about Sark, so now that he was in Sark, +why should he trouble about England? Thus he ultimately surrendered. + +At Christmas he had some letters which brought him back to Bullockdean +for a day or two. His mother sent rather spiteful good wishes to her +brothers at the Pêche à Agneau, but no present to her son, for she had +reason to believe, she said, that “good things sent to Sark never arrive +there.” His father, on the other hand, came out of his retirement to the +extent of a gorgeous Christmas card of painted talc, adorned with two +clasped hands and verses about “the heart which yearns for thee at this +glad tide.” Len and Emmie sent cards too, and the ghastly fruit of Ivy’s +first brush-painting lessons at school. His family was prolific in its +seasonable wishes, yearning hearts, and mem’ries of his bright eyes, but +it withheld the more satisfying gift of news. This was unexpectedly +supplied by Jess Harman. She had not written to him since he left home, +and he had seen very little of her during the weeks before he came away. +But now on this first Christmas of his exile she wrote him a long +letter, full of news. That letter nearly stopped his Norman drift. Not +that Jess’s pen was agile enough to bring before him all the life of the +Ouse Valley, coloured and lit up to dazzle his eyes. She revived his +ardour by the simple process of feeding it with facts--long strings of +facts. Each sentence contained a separate and independent fact. Since he +had left England Dan had never had such a string of news. + +“Old Gadgett is dead. Maudie gets twenty-five shillings a week now. +Auntie has bought a new bonnet. She has given her old one to the old +gyppo woman that sells clothes-pegs. Mrs. Penny has sent Susie to school +and looks after Miles herself, so I do for the Rector now. I get twelve +shillings a week. I have bought a silk jumper. Mrs. Pont has had the +face-ache. Mrs. Ernley Munk has a dear little baby girl. I should like +to be her nurse, but she has a proper one. It was born in Brighton in a +nursing home. They have visitors at the Crown for Christmas. They are +going to make their own electric light. We are having White-Wilcox in C +for Christmas. The ladies’ choir will help them out.” + +So Belle was a baby’s mother now ... that was the picture that stood out +most clearly among all the other pictures--of Maudie behind the bar of +the Crown, of Jess in her new silk jumper, of Mrs. Pont with her +face-ache, of the old gyppo woman in Auntie Harman’s bonnet, of the +choir rehearsing White-Wilcox in C with ladies to help them.... He could +see Belle sitting with her baby in her arms, its little head almost lost +in the hollow of her big breast, her hair hanging on her cheeks as she +stooped over it, busy with the comfortable business of motherhood. He +wondered if she was happy--why of course she was. She was a baby’s +mother and a man’s wife. She was no longer poor distraught, dishevelled +Belle Shackford, with her sorrows and gallantries, but well-protected, +well-to-do Mrs. Ernley Munk of the Crown Inn, where they had visitors +for Christmas and were going to make their own electric light.... + +It was strange that no one had written before now to tell him of the +baby’s arrival. He supposed that it had not been so scandalously early +as to please his mother--or perhaps she was still jealous of Belle, and +did not want to remind her son of her existence. Ernley might have +written, he reflected bitterly, but perhaps Ernley still felt their +parting awkwardness.... Anyhow, it showed how far he was from +Bullockdean, that the woman he loved should have borne a child without +his having word of it. + +That night he dreamed of Belle sitting in a stable with her baby on her +knees, while all round her from invisible throats rose the strains of +White-Wilcox in C, given by the particular magic of dreams an appeal so +haunting and so wild that Daniel awoke with the tears streaming from his +eyes. It was not till some minutes later that he saw anything +incongruous in the fact that the words which had been sung to the +familiar music were not the words of his Anglican memories, but the +writing on the wall of Sark church: “_Ta voie a été par la mer et tes +sentiers dans les grosses eaux. Néanmoins tes traces n’ont pas été +connues._” + + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + + +§ 1 + +The winter passed, vanishing slowly through a succession of fogs, and +once more the seas began to sleep and men to work. There was only what +might be called one winter casualty--an Englishman who had taken a house +near the Clos Jaon in May, and had so loved October, with the pale +lights on Derrible and the yellow calms of the sea, that he had vowed +Sark to be a heaven one could be happy in all the year round. The result +was that early in February he had been thrown aboard the Guernsey +steamer, rolling on her paddle-boxes beside Les Burons--accompanied by +such of his personal belongings as did not miss the deck and fall into +the sea--and in April had sent for his furniture to be brought to the +Gallic civilization of Jersey. + +The Le Couteurs had the contract for the removal, as he preferred to +take the bigger risks of the quicker way rather than the involved and +age-long process of sending by Guernsey and the English mail. All three +motor-boats were required--the big _Allouette_ and the new two-cylinder +_Kitty Hamon_, as well as the little _Baleine_. Uncle Philip was to have +been in charge of the party, but he had a bad attack of rheumatism +shortly before the day fixed for sailing and delegated his command to +his eldest son, Philip Junior. This very much pleased the cousins--“We +have a good time in St. Helier,” said Peter to Daniel--“Oh, my Gar, +yes!” + +On a fine, soft morning of late March the run was made. The wild +hyacinths on the cliffs were as blue as the sea, and the gorse in the +Dixcart valley was like a mirror of the rising sun. Daniel was in the +small boat with his cousins Peter and Eugene, carrying packages and +crates of china and soft goods. He had been eagerly looking forward to +the run. After the long imprisonment of winter, with all its dullness +and introspection, it was good to feel the wind in his hair, and blowing +through his jersey, drying the sweat of his lading. It was good to feel +the motion of the boat, running out like a hare into the Déroute. He was +looking forward to seeing Jersey, too. For nearly a year he had seen her +dim, whale-like shape lying in the south; and he felt that it was high +time that he set foot on her shores. The adventure of spring was upon +him--he was sick of his confinement in Sark’s three by one-and-a-half. + +They were to land at Gorey, for Mr. Cleeves’s new house was at La +Rigondaine, so the little merchant fleet of the Le Couteurs steered +straight on the Dirouilles, and then on La Coupe by Rozel Bay. They left +the Paternosters to the north-west--Dan saw them standing out of the +sea, all knotty and dark with vraic--that rosary of death, of which Our +Fathers stand up above the water, while the Hail Marys lie coiled +beneath. The Jersey coast spread out before them in a panorama of sands +and cliffs and woods, while inland the sun was glittering on the +glasshouses. + +The crossing had taken six hours, and there followed three more hours of +unloading and packing the stuff into the vans waiting to take it to La +Rigondaine. By the time their work was over all the Le Couteurs were +tired, and stretched themselves on the warm stones of Gorey Pier. There +they lay in a row--big men with red hair and little men with black, all +in their blue jerseys and bell-shaped trousers, with their peaked caps +over their eyes to keep out the sun. The stones were cold when they +awoke, and the sun had blurred into a fiery crimson scar which streaked +the black clouds behind Mont Orgueil. + +“Too late to go home,” said Cousin Philip cheerfully, sitting up. + +“There will be a moon to-night,” said Ernest Hamon. + +“We go back to-morrow,” said Philip--“I have not been in Jersey for +twenty months. I want to see the place.” + +“I want to see St. Helier,” said young Eugene. + +“We go and have a drink first,” said Philip. + + +§ 2 + +They went and had some drinks at the Rozel Inn. Dan was beginning to +feel excited at finding himself in a town with inns and shops, though in +point of size Gorey was not much more than twice as big as Bullockdean. +His cousins began to talk about St. Helier, which sounded almost +metropolitan. + +“Let us go there,” said Eugene and William. Ernest Hamon thought it +better not. “He has a wife,” said William. They all laughed. In the end +Ernest went with them, and Daniel found himself in a railway train for +the first time for a year. + +It stood in relation to other trains very much as Gorey stood to other +towns, nevertheless the experience was exhilarating after so long an +abstinence. He had drunk a couple of brandies at the inn, and brandy was +stronger than armagnac. He sat in the little jogging train watching the +first stars appear in the grey sky, through the smoke of his cousins’ +pipes. The coast was beginning to light up--the lighthouses were +kindled, and great eyes shone solemnly across the narrow tides of +Grouville Bay from the Ecureuil and the Azicot. There were other lights, +too, out at sea, and the coast of France twinkled afar off, with +lighthouses and beacons, and the dazzles of towns. + +On through the solemn dusk ran the little train, past the martello +towers standing dark against the still, white sweep of the bay, over +Gorey Common and the sophistication of the golf-course, over La Roque +Point to the teased shoals of St. Clement’s Bay. Then at last they were +in St. Helier, with the harbour and the pier and the castle and the +streets and the lamps all alight and joyful. + +They went first of all to an eating-house and had supper--a wonderful +supper of steak and kidney pudding, such as never was seen at the Pêche +à Agneau, where in winter one lived continuously on the ormers picked up +under Saignie and Tintageu, with a little tough mutton on Sundays. There +were some Breton sailors who knew Philip and Helier, and they came and +sat at the Le Couteurs’ table. It was they who suggested that afterwards +they should all go and dance. + +Ha! ha! and Oh, my Gar!--it was a good idea, though nobody could dance. +That only made it all the funnier. Ernest Hamon began to talk once more +about going home by moonlight; but nobody would listen to him--they had +drunk a good deal of the sour claret stood them by the Breton +sailors--and Hamon had never been able to stand up to any of the Le +Couteurs, including his own wife, so they all went off together in a +string, laughing and singing along the Pier Road towards La Folle. + +Daniel had only a dim idea as to where they actually went. The Bretons +knew the way and led them in and out of a multitude of little alleys, by +wharves and warehouses and marine taverns, till they came to a kind of +hall where a great many people were dancing to a mechanical orchestra. +There were sailors of all kinds from the ships in the harbour, +fishermen, a few townsmen, a soldier or two from the barracks, who +vanished soon and suddenly at a rumour of the military police, and an +inadequate number of women and girls. + +These were in great demand, as the male dancers were so much in excess +of the female. Some of the men were dancing together--Daniel noticed a +big, dark, solemn-faced Breton dancing with a sailor off one of the +Great Western Railway Company’s boats. His cousins at once deserted him +in pursuit of partners, and he sat down on a bench against the wall, +feeling rather forlorn and shy. + +He had danced sometimes as a soldier, and on one or two occasions when +Mr. Marchbanks had tried to rouse a little gaiety in his parish by +giving a dance at the parish room. But he had forgotten his steps--and +the present assembly was very different from the decorous “hops” of his +military and parochial experience. The air was full of dust and noise, +the scraping of feet, the clack of tongues in French and English and the +four various _patois_ of the four largest islands. There was a bar at +the end of the room, and most of the partnerless men were drinking +there. One of the Breton sailors who had come with the Le Couteurs +signalled to Daniel and offered him a drink. He could speak no English, +and Daniel’s nearest approach to French was a lame following of his +cousin’s bastard Norman, so there was not much conversation; but Dan had +his first glass of absinthe, which had the effect of making him think he +could dance. + +Evidently the other understood the language of a tapping foot and a dark +eye roving in the direction of the dancers. Two girls had come up by +then, pretty pale creatures, arm in arm. The Breton stood them both +drinks, and in a few minutes had paired off with one of them, leaving +the other with Daniel’s arm round her waist. + +“You want to dance?” + +“Eh?” + +He stared at her stupidly. He could hardly realize that he had been +spoken to in English. + +“You want to dance?” + +“Yes--I should like to.” + +“You come on then.” + +She was a little soft thing--soft and light--and it was quite easy to +swing her round in spite of his not knowing the steps. But he had an +uneasy consciousness of bumping her about rather badly, owing to his +defective steering. When the music stopped they were both breathless and +glad to sit down. + +“How did you know I was English?” he asked. + +“I guess.” + +“Do I look English?” + +“No--but I hear you speaking to your friends and you speak different.” + +“How do you know I speak different?” + +He had spoken only the Sark patois, which she, being a Jerseywoman, +would scarcely understand. + +“Because I know how they speak in Sark. My father came from Sark. I am +a Falle--though here we call it Falla.” + +“Oh, you know Sark?” + +She shook her head. + +“I was never there, but my father was there. I was born in Jersey--in +the parish of St. André. My name is Rose, after my mother, who die when +I was a baby.” + +“Do you live with your father?” + +She shook her head again. + +“No, my father is dead--he die last summer.” + +There were tears in her eyes and Daniel felt sorry he had asked the +question. It was a relief when the sudden bray of the mechanical +orchestra drowned all possibility of further talk. He suggested that +they should take the floor again, and she consented, though she must +have been feeling tired and bruised after their first performance. + +They danced together the whole evening. He had no one else to dance +with, nor apparently had she, and rather than be alone she submitted to +his clumsiness. His cousins had found partners and were lost. He gave +her two more drinks at the bar, but they did not seem to affect her as +they affected him, perhaps because she had not had so many already. He +felt bemused and unsteady. After a time it made him giddy to dance, and +they sat down together hand in hand. His cousin Eugene came up to him. + +“We meet to-morrow at Gorey Pier--eight o’clock--see?” + +“Where are we going to spend the night?” asked Daniel, making a feeble +snatch at reality. + +Eugene laughed. + +“I leave that to you.” + +Daniel half understood. He looked at Rose Falla, and then angrily at his +cousin, but Eugene stepped back among the dancers and was lost. Dan was +furious. How dare that Sarkie swine insult him and his girl? He must +have seen that she wasn’t that sort ... then suddenly he realized that +after all Eugene had a certain justification. After all, only one sort +of girl was likely to come to a low-down sailors’ joint like this. This +girl looked young and gentle, but she could not be so ignorant as to +imagine she was in a respectable place. She must have come deliberately, +knowing what it was. In fact, she must have come for the same purpose as +the other girls--to pick up a man, that was it--and he was the man she +had picked up. He was a fool not to have realized it. After all, it was +only kids who imagined that tarts were always flashy--he’d seen some +pretty quiet ones when he was in the army and they always got off +easiest ... think--he’d been two years in the army and yet he’d never +let himself in for anything like this. It was all part and parcel of his +forgetting his good English ways.... Well, he wasn’t really in for it +even now. He could still get out--and he would. It wasn’t at all the +sort of thing he wanted. He wanted something different.... Belle sitting +in a stable with her baby on her knees.... He rose unsteadily to his +feet. + +“I’m going out--I’m going home.” + +She stared at him, and at his rough words he saw the tears come back +into her eyes. At once he grew more gentle. + +“Don’t be angry. I’m not saying anything against you--but you must let +me go. I--I’ve never been with a girl.” + +“Nor I with a boy.” + +For a moment they stood facing each other in a corner of the noisy, +crowded room. Then he exclaimed: + +“But why are you here?” + +She began to cry in earnest. No one took any notice. Tears and kisses, +all the private bitter-sweet of love, were common and public already in +that hall, where there was no shade to the glaring arc-lights but the +dust kicked up by the dancers’ feet. + +“Why are you here?” he repeated, raising his voice so that she could +hear him above the jangling din of the orchestra. + +“I come with my friend Simone.” + +“But why?” + +“Because I must live.” + +His indignation nearly sobered him. But the fire of his absinthes and +cognacs was still in his head, driving thought and action together. He +took her by the arm and pulled her towards the door. + +“Where are you taking me?” + +“Outside. I can’t talk to you properly in here.” + +“You aren’t angry with me? You won’t leave me?” + +“Don’t you want me to leave you? I should have thought you did.” + +She wept--“No.” + + + +§ 3 + +He had shepherded her out into the road, which ran by the sea. He could +hear the lap and glug of water against piles, and all the great dark +emptiness before him was studded with the eyes of the rocks, winking and +turning in the blackness below the stars. He put his arm round his +companion and guided her to a seat against the wall of some marine +stores. Here they sat down again, he still holding her close to him for +warmth, for the air blew keenly. + +“Now tell me why you’ve come here--you aren’t that sort--and why don’t +you want me to go?” + +“You mustn’t go. If you go I’ve no one.” + +“But your friend?” + +“She’s found a boy--she doesn’t want me.” + +“But where’s your home?--where do you live?” + +“I live with Simone--the last two days. They turn me out of my room in +La Blanche, because I have no money. Simone still work where I used to +work.” + +“You poor little thing--are you out of a job? Have you no one to take +care of you?” + +“My father die after a long illness that take all our money, and we not +able to pay the insurance, so I get nothing. Then I work for Madame +Etienne, in the bodices, but trade is bad, and she have to send away +many girls. I go and Simone stay. I can get nothing. I have to go out of +my room. For two days I have nothing but bread and tea. Then Simone say +I come to her, but she have not enough money for both, as she get only +half-time at Madame’s. So she say I get a boy to take care of me. That +is the only way. She say I come with her here to-night and find a nice +boy. She say she will find me a nice boy. She say some boys very nice +and gentle and kind and not like the others.” + +Tears choked her breathless flow of words, and he melted into a furious +pity. + +“You poor little soul! What a life for you to start on! What a shame!” + +“I always been good till now.” + +“Why, you’d never stand the racket! Simone’s a bad lot. You must promise +me never, never to go back to that place.” + +“How can I promise? If you leave me I must go back and find another +boy--a rough boy, not like you. When I see you so quiet I felt so glad +and I thought I not mind so much. But now you will not have me, and I +must go back.” + +“Go back? By God, you shan’t!” + +His brain was still fiery with drink, and he saw himself as this poor +little thing’s protector, rescuing her from an evil life, establishing +her in ease and virtue. He would save her. There was only one thing to +do--take her right away--take her back with him to Sark, to the Pêche à +Agneau. Alice Hamon would look after her--she could help in the house +and on the farm. So cognac and excitement smoothed out his plan. He saw +no difficulties in the way--beyond a sudden vision of his six cousins +standing between him and the boat, saying: “You no bring her--oh, my +Gar, no.” He would have to get her across without his cousins knowing +it--that was all.... He could take her over himself in the little +_Baleine_. He could manage the _Baleine_ by himself--she was such a +small affair. Besides, this girl was island bred, and could probably +give him a hand if he wanted it. Anyway, it was the only thing to do. +He couldn’t let her go back to that hell--and he couldn’t take her +anywhere in Jersey. He must face the dangers of the Sark crossing for +her sake, and no doubt a Providence, which approved of pure women and +brave men, would take care of them both.... He stood up, dragging his +companion to her feet. + +“You’re to come with me.” + +“Where?” + +“Home--I’ll take you over to Sark.” + +“But--but----” + +“I tell you it’s the only thing to do. I can’t leave you here by +yourself, or with a girl like Simone. If you come to Sark, there’ll be +plenty of work for you to do in my uncle’s house. You can help my +cousin, Alice Hamon, look after the children--anyways, you can’t stop +here.” + +“But we can’t start now.” + +“Yes, we can--we must, or maybe that swine Eugene ull stop us. The moon +ull be up in half an hour, and the sea’s as calm as a lake. I’ve got a +little boat we can easily manage ourselves. Come along at once.” + +She was evidently of a yielding disposition. That dependence which had +made her submit to Simone’s judgment and attempt escape by way of +prostitution, now made her submit to Daniel’s and attempt her escape by +way of an unknown sea. She seemed equally willing to risk either her +soul or her body at another’s behest. Dan hurried her along the sea road +out of the town, too fuddled and elated either to feel fatigue himself +or be conscious of hers. They would have to reach the harbour before it +was light, and they would have to do the whole distance on foot, as the +trains had long ceased running. Nevertheless, he was not dismayed. + +Rose clung to Daniel’s arm, her feet dragging. She had danced most of +the evening with a clumsy partner, and her shoes were cheap high-heeled +affairs, absolutely unsuited to the road; but as long as he led, she +would follow. Already he was princely in her sight; and when either +fatigue or fear or bewilderment seemed likely to overwhelm her, she +would lift her swimming eyes to his face and love his short defiant nose +and English mouth, and his eyes which were wild with drink and +moonlight. The moon had risen as they came to Roque Lavrons, huge and +primrose-coloured, gleaming on the wet surfaces of sand in Azette Bay. + +They crossed the desolation of Samarès Marsh, and came to Grouville and +the golf course, from which they could see the lights of Gorey Harbour +and Mont Orgueil. Daniel wondered if he should have much difficulty in +getting hold of the _Baleine_. There would, of course, be a watchman on +the harbour. Perhaps he would not acknowledge Daniel’s right to her. He +must not let him know he was going to sea ... he would pretend he was +hungry and that he and his companion had come for a feast ... he knew +there was food on board, some biscuits and tinned beef. + + +§ 4 + +“Hullo! _Qui va là?_” + +“Le Couteur--_pour la Baleine_.” + +“What do you want her for now?” + +“We’re hungry, and she’s got food on board.” + +The watchman came out of his hut, sleepy and grumbling, to undo the gate +for the English Le Couteur and his girl. Daniel wondered a little at the +ease with which he was allowed to pass--it was not until some time +afterwards that he realized that the watchman would never imagine that +even an Englishman could be such a fool as to put out to sea at one +o’clock in the morning. + +The sea was plopping against the quay, and out beyond the bar Daniel +could see the little white horses galloping from France. He found the +three Le Couteur boats beside the steps, and helping Rose Falla through +the big _Allouette_ and the _Kitty Hamon_, he reached at last the little +_Baleine_. Here they found a tin of beef and biscuits under a bit of +sacking, and crouching together in the bottom of the boat, they ate +their meal with a hunger that surprised him, for hitherto he had not +thought of food except as a pretext for getting on board. Rose’s thin +shoes were now in pieces, rags of kid held together by mud. Her little +face was dabbled with sweat and her clothes were sticking to her. She +was worn out after the dancing and her tramp from St. Helier, and though +the food revived her a little she still lay huddled at his feet, while +Dan prepared for their stealthy putting to sea. In the heat of his +knight errantry he did not notice that his lady had already had enough. + +He unknotted the salt, sticky rope that held the _Baleine_ to the _Kitty +Hamon_. Gosh! But his cousins would be mad when they found out what had +happened. Never mind--he would be over in Sark before they could make +any fuss. He took the paddle and silently manœuvred his craft under the +quay walls. He would not start his engine till he was well away. + +The moonlight, gleaming between the piles, fell on Rose Falla’s face, +showing him for a moment its dreadful whiteness. + +“Are you afraid?” he asked. + +“Oh, no--not afraid. I often go to sea with my father.” + +That was good--she would be able to help him. He ought to make Sark +easily. The sea was calm, and both wind and tide were in his favour. He +had passed the green light at the harbour’s end, steering by the +spar-buoy at the Azicot. The moonlight was almost dazzling on the water, +and he could see all the rocks standing up out of it, and the spar-buoys +at Les Arches and Les Guillemots. For the first time he began to feel a +little afraid, as the sea-wind cleared the fogs from his brain. But he +reassured himself--they were quite safe in a boat like this, nothing but +a converted row-boat, of the shallowest draught. He needn’t start her +engine till they were out past the five-fathom line. + +The lights of Gorey Harbour now seemed far away--he was able to see the +north side of Mont Orgueil, with the red light of the Archirondel Tower +shining on Havre de Fer. He was surrounded by _demies_ and _grunes_ and +the roar of water. The _Baleine_ drifted between two rocks, and he saw +the points of another beneath her. This both terrified and reassured +him, for he knew that though her course was dangerous yet her draught +was shallow. He would be all right in another ten minutes and could +start the engine. What was that red light which had appeared round the +point?--it might be Le Fara, which they had passed on their way to +Jersey. + +He had started his engine and drew a tiny ribbon of foam with him out to +sea. Almost impudently the little _Baleine_ ran out into the mightiness +of La Déroute. The wind blew keenly, and there was a big movement under +the surface of the waves, which gleamed with phosphorescent patches. But +the rocks had been left behind, and Daniel had lost his fear--or, +rather, it had been changed. He no longer felt uneasy about the physical +risks of his adventure, but for the first time he saw that it bristled +with dangers of another kind. The sea-wind had blown him sober, and he +began to see his madness soberly. + +He looked at Rose Falla crouching for warmth beside the engine, and he +wondered what had made him so mad as to bring this girl away. The folly +of the voyage was nothing to the folly of bringing her with him.... The +Paternosters waiting in the north-west were not to be dreaded half so +much as the future he had built for himself in that drunken hour. What +should he do with Rose Falla? Would his cousins take her? And if they +wouldn’t, what could he do? He had only a very little money, having sent +nearly all his summer’s earnings home. He couldn’t keep her in Sark if +his cousins would not take her in--and was there anything in his whole +experience of them to give him even a reasonable hope of their doing +so? Moreover, how did he know she had told him the truth? She might be +only a bad lot. Or she might have friends, relations in Jersey, who +would have the law on him for taking her away like this. Oh, Gosh! he +was properly in for it!... that was the sort of thing you got for +drinking too much and going to bad places. It served him right. He’d +been well brought up, so there was no excuse. Neither was there any way +of getting out of it as far as he could see. He could not put back for +Gorey now. He must go on and hope for the best--and in that hour of +sober disillusion the best he could hope for seemed that they should hit +something and go, the pair of them, to the bottom of the sea. + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + + +§ 1 + +Daniel and Rose did not go to the bottom, but, not very surprisingly, +the _Baleine_ did. She went aground long before it was light, on some +outlying rocks half a mile from the Paternosters, and for three hours he +and his companion sat drenched and silent watching the dawn break behind +the eastward mystery of France. Rose saw that her deliverer’s mood had +changed, that he no longer gloried in his championship, that +apprehension and regret had taken the place of daring and indignation. +But she would not complain. She crouched beside him on the inhospitable +seaweed, her arms thrown over his knees--a drenched, draggled, exhausted +Andromeda still unreproachful of her Perseus. He did not speak to her or +look at her, but sat gazing down the violet paths of the sea towards the +Ecrehos as their cliffs came slowly out of the webs that trailed +between water and sky. + +At about eight o’clock they were taken off by a steam yacht on her way +to Guernsey. The yacht gave them breakfast and the almost terrifying +luxury of a hot bath. It dried their clothes and overwhelmed them with +amiable inquiries. It was apologetic for its ruthlessness in taking them +on to Guernsey when they wanted to go to Sark, and paid their fare home +by the steamer from St Peter Port. + +Rose was delighted with the yacht and its motherly behaviour. Her native +hardiness recovered quickly from endurances that would have smashed an +English girl--on the voyage across to Sark in the little paddle-steamer, +she laughed and chattered gaily. She was no longer the terrified victim +of the dancing hall or the collapsed heroine of the wreck of the +_Baleine_. She was a joyful and prattling child with queer little +adorable gleams of womanliness. He saw that she must be even younger +than he had first imagined, probably not more than eighteen. Her skin +had the living freshness of youth, her eyes its emptiness, her mouth its +expectation. As he realized her youth, he lost the consciousness of his +own and began to feel himself old. He was clear-headed and he saw that +for better or for worse he had appointed himself this girl’s protector, +and from the decision made when he was drunk there was no appeal now +that he was sober. He would have to see her through.... Whatever +happened she must not go back to Jersey and to the inevitable life that +awaited her there. Somehow he would have to persuade his uncles to keep +her, though his chances, already poor enough had been almost finally +ruined by the loss of the _Baleine_, a catastrophe which he knew the +families at the Pêche à Agneau would not accept in the spirit of +resignation. There was no good asking himself how he should manage to +stand up to Uncle Eugene and Uncle Philip. He must just make up his mind +to do so. + +No wonder that Rose Falla found him a glum companion; but she was still +undismayed. Restored in mind and body, it did not occur to her to fret +or even wonder about the future. She did not imagine that this masterful +being who had torn her from the dance room at La Folle, swept her out to +sea, and had been at least instrumental in bringing about her two hours +of fairyland on the yacht, should not be omnipotent in his own domain. + +“I love to go to Sark. I love to see Sark. It is my father’s place. You +know where he was born? It is called La Moinerie.” + +They were sailing close under the red cliffs of Saignie, and he showed +her the jut of Tintageu between Port du Moulin and Pégâne Bay, and +beyond it he told her was the Pêche à Agneau where he lived. + +“Oh, how lovely--you look out over the sea. Oh, I shall be happy, and I +shall learn to talk in my father’s way. We will talk together.” + +He wondered if his cousins would already be home. Probably they would, +if they had not wasted too much time at Gorey looking about for him and +the _Baleine_. As the _Helper_ chugged into the Creux Harbour, he saw +the _Allouette_ and the _Kitty Hamon_ anchored under Les Lâches. So they +were back.... He looked anxiously round on landing, but saw only two De +Cartarets who had come down to fetch stores for La Fregondée. He felt +inclined to ask them about his cousins, but on consideration refrained. +They stared after him and his companion, and their merriment told him +that they foresaw his discomfiture. + +Rose was no longer tired on this second walk together. She was delighted +with the flowery heart of the island, richer and wilder than the heart +of Jersey. She pulled handfuls of bluebells from the banks, laughing and +singing to herself in the spring warmth of the afternoon. As they +walked over the Coupée into Little Sark, Dan found himself wondering if +even his cousins could be harsh to this beautiful singing thing with her +hands full of flowers. + + +§ 2 + +He need not have worried. There was but one thought in the Le Couteur +mind, one reproach on the Le Couteur tongue--for the loss of the +_Baleine_. Dan might have brought the whole female population of St. +Helier in his train without causing half the uproar they considered due +to the disappearance of their smallest motor-boat. The _Baleine_ had +been only an ancient row-boat fitted with a second-hand engine, but the +Le Couteurs talked as if she had been a liner. No more swift, seaworthy, +or luxurious craft had ever sailed the Russell or the Déroute. +Unfortunately they did not realize their blessing while they had it, and +had failed to insure this paragon, considering the premiums they paid on +the _Allouette_ and the _Kitty Hamon_ already over large. + +“Vagabond!” shouted Uncle Eugene into the tangle of his beard. + +“Vagabond!” shouted Uncle Philip. + +“Oh my Gar!--you make all the Carrés laugh at us,” shouted his cousin +Helier. + +“You were drunk--vagabond!” shouted Uncle Philip. + +In the midst of all this commotion, Rose Falla’s presence passed almost +unnoticed. Alice Hamon gave her some tea and gâche, and she had slunk +away to bed in the children’s room before Dan had had to do more than +give a perfunctory explanation of her. + +But the next day the storm had in a measure subsided, and in a clearer +atmosphere the Le Couteurs were able to fix their attention on this +secondary point of folly. + +Rose had been very bright and smiling at breakfast, which she had helped +prepare, though she was unable to talk except in English--which Dan knew +would be counted to her for unrighteousness. Afterwards, she had cleared +the cups and plates away, and finally gone off with Alice Hamon to help +her make the beds. Then Uncle Philip turned slowly to Daniel and asked: + +“What you bring her here for?” + +Young Sheather did his best to explain, glozing the fact that he would +never have brought her at all if he had been sober. At the end of his +harangue, Uncle Philip merely shrugged his shoulders. + +“I thought you bring her for a wife.” + +“A wife! Good Lord! But I hardly know her.” + +“There is no need to know a wife. You get more than enough time to know +her afterwards.” + +“But anyhow I’m not in a position to marry. Besides, I don’t want +to--that’s not the way I’d----” + +“Then what are you going to do with her?” + +“Can’t she stay here? She could help Alice--make herself useful in the +house or on the farm.” + +“She cannot stay here.” + +“But why not? There’s plenty of room for her.” + +“There is no room. We do not want her.” + +“But she can’t go back to Jersey. She’s absolutely alone, I tell +you--not got a relation or a friend worth anything. She’d have gone to +the bad if I hadn’t taken her. It would simply mean her ruin if we sent +her back.” + +“Then why do you not marry her? I thought you had found a wife in +Jersey.” + +Daniel lost his temper. + +“That’s not the way we do things where I come from.” + +“I’m damned if I’ll marry a woman I picked up at a dance hall--whom I +know nothing about.” + +“You say she is a Falle.” + +“She says she is the daughter of Helier Falle who used to be at the +Moinerie,” broke in Uncle Eugene. “I remember him going to Jersey in the +year they put the light on Platte Fougère. He married an Ozanne.” + +“But, even if--I mean I want to know more about my wife than who her +parents were.” + +“You want a lot, as Englishmen always do. You are lucky to have the +chance of marrying a Sark girl. Most girls would say they do not want to +marry an Englishman.” + +“She may say so.” + +“Oh my Gar! She will not.” + +“But I couldn’t keep her anyhow. I’m not in a position to marry.” + +“You earned sometimes thirty shillings a week last summer.” + +“I sent a pound a week to my mother.” + +“Then you must give up sending a pound a week to your mother, who has +her own husband.” + +Daniel was exasperated. + +“Damn it all! What makes you so anxious for me to get married? It won’t +do you any good.” + +“Yes it will,” said Uncle Eugene. “If you marry you will not be an +Englishman any more--you will live here all your life and become one of +us. _So we get your mother back again._” + +“The devil you do! Well, I tell you I’m certainly not going to marry if +it means chaining myself down to this damned island. Not that it means +anything of the kind--I could take my wife over to England to-morrow if +I wanted.” + +“In the _Baleine_,” said Uncle Philip, and everybody laughed. + +“Well, I don’t choose to get married. I brought this girl over here +because I thought you’d be humane enough to take her in and let her have +a chance of a decent life. I never dreamed of marrying her, or dreamed +that you’d want me to.” + +“We don’t want you to,” said a young Philip--“but we cannot have her +here. We are already too many in the house.” + +“And how many less should we be if I married her?” + +“We should be two less. You would go and live at La Colinette, or at La +Ville.” + +“Or there is the empty house near Moie Fano,” said a young Peter. + +Daniel absolutely failed to understand his uncles’ and cousins’ train of +reasoning. They imagined, no doubt, that if he married they would get +rid of his uncongenial presence in their house and at the same time bind +him irrevocably to their island. He guessed that they were pleased that +he should have found a woman in Jersey instead of Guernsey, and +especially pleased that she had Sark connexions. There were still Falles +at La Moinerie, who would probably acknowledge her as a kinswoman. At +the same time he was lost in the cross-currents of minds so different +from his own. He could not understand whether they really wanted him to +marry, and, in some way patent to their reasoning, bring back his +mother’s family to Sark, or whether they were merely terrifying him with +marriage as an alternative to sending Rose Falla back to Jersey, hoping +thus to get rid of her swiftly and creditably. + +But though he failed to understand theirs, his own mind was made up. He +could not marry this girl whom he scarcely knew, who had attracted him +only by her helplessness. His heart was still loyal to Belle, or rather +to the shadow of Belle. Besides, anyhow, he did not want to marry--not +unless he fell in love again ... which was unthinkable. + + +§ 3 + +He rose moodily and went out. He was sick of his mother’s family. They +seemed equally immune from ordinary human decency and ordinary human +motives. Bah! they were savages--a thousand years behind the inhabitants +of the Ouse Valley. He’d half a mind not to stick ’em any longer, but +clear out and go home. His father would be glad to have him back at the +George, and he felt that now he could face Belle at the Crown ... every +day and all day just across the road ... a shadow come to life.... No, +perhaps he was still unready to face Belle; but there were other places +he could go to besides Bullockdean--anything would be better than living +at the Pêche à Agneau. + +He strolled across the back of Little Sark, down to the granite +fierceness of its south-west coast, where the old mines stick their +broken chimneys through the bushes above Rouge Terrier. For two or three +hours he lounged among the buttercups, sucking an empty pipe, staring +from the golden ground into the fiery blue of the sea, with its white +slobber at the _baveuses_ and the foot of Bretagne Uset. His eyes were +full of blue and gold and white, and his ears of the groan of the sea, +and his mouth of the acrid taste of stale tobacco, but his mind +registered none of these things, for it was full of its own colours and +tastes and sounds. He was angry with his cousins, angry with Rose Falla, +angry with himself. In the last lay the sting of it all--he knew that +everything was his own fault. Because he had forgotten his good English +ways, he had landed himself and this poor little girl in a proper +muddle. Not that she would have been much better off if he had left her +where she was or if he’d never met her at all, but at least she wouldn’t +have been hurt so badly as she must be hurt now when he told her she +would have to go back to all he had made her flee from. He could see +that she liked him, was a bit gone on him, in fact--also that she liked +being at the Pêche à Agneau, with the children and the big cousins. It +would be dreadful to have to tell her that she must leave it all.... +What a fool he had been! He might have realized that the last thing in +the world his cousins would understand was an act of disinterested +kindness.... No, no--hang it all! He must be honest with himself, and +confess that he would never have brought her over if his head had not +been full of their horrible French drinks. He had acted foolishly rather +than disinterestedly, and now, like so many foolish men, he would have +to pay when he was sober the bill he had charged against himself when he +was drunk. So help him, he would never drink again! But that good +resolution wouldn’t do much for him now--nor for poor little Rose, +either. + +For one dreadful moment it struck him that it was his plain duty to +marry her in order to save her from a wicked life. But immediately he +remembered that her situation in this respect was not of his making, +but of her own. After all, he could not forget that she had deliberately +consented to go with her friend to the dance and “find a boy.” She had +not had the moral strength to stand up to so monstrous a suggestion. +That wasn’t the sort of woman he should care for as a wife. Then he +remembered Belle, with all her passions and follies. Many men would not +have cared for Belle as a wife. But Belle was Belle--he loved her, so +could forgive all. He did not love Rose Falla. He could not contemplate +the idea of marrying without love. Therefore it was not likely that he +would ever marry, for he would never be in love again. He was not sure +that he wanted to, either--it had hurt him too much, that love which +Belle and Ernley had considered so quiet and comfortable and easy-going. +After all, even the kitchen fire can burn you, for all it boils a +pot.... + +It suddenly struck him as a possible solution of his difficulty that +the Falles at the Moinerie might consent to treat Rose as a relation and +take her in. The family consisted of a young husband and wife, a +grandfather and a baby, some sort of cousins, he understood, of Rose’s +father. He did not think they had much to live on, but he found it hard +to realize that here he could not expect the tender liberality of the +English poor. He resolved to ask them, anyhow, and tramped over to the +Moinerie before going home. Another thing that had struck him was that +the Le Couteurs might actually put poor Rose on the Guernsey boat if he +wasn’t back in time to stop them. + +The Moinerie proved as inhospitable as the Pêche à Agneau. Helier Falle +was nothing but a name to the present occupiers, as the old man was the +wife’s father, and came from Alderney. After all, it was rather a lot to +ask of them--to receive a wholly unknown young woman into their house at +the request of a half-unknown young man. Only his desperation could have +made the idea seem possible, he realized as he walked away. + +The afternoon was now well advanced, and Dan knew that he must walk +quickly if he was to be home in time to counter any plot of his cousins +with regard to the Guernsey boat. Leaving the Moinerie lane he plunged +cross-country to the mill, and soon found himself on the Coupée road, +facing the dipping sun. He had come nearly as far as La Belle Hautgarde, +when he noticed a dark figure swimming in the sun’s rays. It swam +towards him up the golden river of the road, and then suddenly was +clinging to him with little panting sobs of relief and fear. + + + +§ 4 + +“Oh, at last you come! At last you come!” + +The flower of her face was wilted with crying, and the little hands that +clung to him clutched and trembled, the fingers digging into his flesh +like thorns. + +“Oh, at last you come and save me! You won’t let them send me away.” + +“Rose, my dear, don’t cry so--tell me what’s happened.” + +Fearing either interruption or observation from La Belle Hautgarde, he +led her into a field, down towards Les Petites Côtes. She poured out her +tale, but he scarcely listened, for he knew what it must be. His cousins +had told her she could not stay, that she must go back to Jersey ... +then he suddenly wondered if they had told her of the alternative he had +refused. At the same moment he heard her say: + +“They say you will not marry me. But you will marry me if it is to let +me stay. I will not believe that you bring me over here and then let me +go back again. Oh, I will make you a good wife. I will keep your house +clean, and I will cook and sew. I will never ask you for anything. You +cannot bring me here and then let me go back. For I love you! I love +you!” + +She threw her arms round him as they stood in the tall buttercups above +Les Petites Côtes, and he felt her warmth and sweetness, like the sun on +grass. Her face was hidden in his neck and her hair flowered golden +round his lips--he knew that his arms were holding her and that he was +hugging her close in protective pity. How in God’s name was he to send +this poor little soul back to the hideous life that awaited her in +Jersey? In spite of the slackness, or rather helplessness, which had +made her drift towards evil, she was as innocent as a baby. If she went +to the bad, her guilt would be on his head. He had a hateful vision of +her on the streets of St. Helier, down at the port with the sailors.... +Oh, it was horrible! It was unthinkable--and the guilt would be his. +There was no use kidding himself with the argument that she had made the +first bad choice. The only fact that concerned him now was that he had +the power to help her and would not use it. No! No! He could not. He +could not marry a woman who was not Belle--he could not bind himself to +the Norman island, as he inevitably must bind himself if he married +under such conditions. And yet ... the quivering of her heart against +his made him almost sick with tenderness, and his flesh had not so long +lost its memory of Belle that he could remain unmoved by the softness of +her face against his throat, the softness of her hair against his mouth. + +“Oh, you won’t let them send me away. I love you so! You are so kind to +me! I will make you so happy--you cannot imagine.” + +No, he couldn’t. Yet was his happiness anything that mattered very much +now? If he sent her away he would not be happy either--and she, she +would be in the double hell of destitution and disappointment. Over his +own happiness or unhappiness he had not much power either way--only +Belle had that--or rather, even Belle had not that now. Only God had +that.... Dan thought of God. He felt ashamed. Since he had come to Sark +he had left undone so many things that he ought to have done and done so +many things he ought not to have done--“_Nous n’avons pas fait les +choses que nous aurions dû faire; et nous avons fait celles que nous +n’aurions pas dû faire_”--that was how it went, really--in Helier de +Cartaret’s Prayer Book--and how it would always go from this day forward +and for ever and ever if he married Rose.... But perhaps God wanted it +to go that way for him--perhaps God was giving him a chance to make up +for his neglect of the good ways he had learned at Bullockdean, and at +the same time was punishing him for it by depriving him of them for +ever. Standing there among the buttercups, with Rose in his arms, Dan +felt an almost passionate desire to do the right thing as he had been +taught. After all, to put himself first and let everyone else go to pot +was just being like his cousins--“duty” was a word he had learned in the +army. He would be more of an Englishman in binding himself to Sark by +marrying Rose than if he had refused to bind himself and let her suffer +for his freedom. And they would not be bound for ever--when he had put +by a little money, they could go home.... After all, it was a poor +prospect, never to marry. All men should marry, and if they can’t get +the girl they want they must marry the girl they can get--that’s all. + +Meanwhile Rose stood motionless in his embrace, waiting for her lord’s +word, while his thoughts wandered from Sark to Bullockdean, from earth +to heaven, from heaven to the British army, from duty to comfort, from +the abstract to the practical, and finally back to her straits. He +looked down at her, but could see nothing beyond the flying anthers of +her hair and the curve of her ear as she hid her face. Dragged by an +uncontrollable impulse in which pity, though dominant, was not alone, he +stooped and put his lips to her ear, just under the teasing hair. + +With a little shudder she drew herself upright, and he saw her face, +tear-stained and full of joy. + +“Oh,” she murmured--“_tu m’aimes_.” + +Then suddenly at those words his mother’s tongue was in his mouth, and +he was gabbling words of love in his mother’s language--rough, +salt-sounding words between which his kisses flowed like the tide +between rocks. + + + + +CHAPTER SIX + + +§ 1 + +After that there remained only his humiliation when he had to tell his +cousins he had changed his mind. But this was less painful than he would +have thought. He felt a new, changed Daniel, facing life from a +different angle. It was as if up till then he had faced life from +Bullockdean in spite of his being in Sark, whereas now definitely he +faced it from Sark, and the Bullockdean angle seemed distant and unreal. + + +He wrote to his mother and told her he was going to be married, though +he did not tell her the circumstances of his meeting his bride. His +mother, of course, would tell Belle and Ernley--he need not worry about +that. Not that he felt inclined to worry--even the shadow of Belle was +gone now, for he had stepped outside the room of memory, and stood +facing the islands and the sea without a glass between. + +The days that followed were so full of preparations that he had little +time for thought. The Le Couteurs were anxious both to bind their cousin +and get rid of the stranger as quickly as possible, so it was decided +that the marriage should take place as soon as the necessary formalities +would allow. There was some difficulty about finding a house, either at +La Colinette or at La Ville Roussel. Dan inspected one or two cottages +at the Dos d’Ane, the Jaspellerie and Moie Fano, and finally decided on +the last, in spite of its lonely position on the cliff-top, looking down +on the teeth of Brenière. It was larger than the other two, though it +contained but three rooms, and seemed firmly built for the weather, with +a roof of thatch and tiles instead of the usual corrugated iron. The +rent was only four livres tournois a week, under four shillings, and +during the season he would probably earn from thirty shillings to two +pounds. At least ten shillings a week would have to be put by for the +unprofitable winter, but even then he might be able to earn something by +helping his uncles on the farm--a service they would no longer expect +for nothing. He felt rather disconsolate at the thought of being unable +to help his mother, but, he reflected practically, a mother has no right +to keep a man from his wife, and his mother had her own husband to +support her, and two other sons. + +On the whole he was not unhappy; he now had roots again, though in +strange earth. At first he had half thought of taking Rose over to +England and trying to find a job there, but he shrank from facing the +struggle of the employment market with her dependent on him, and he saw +more clearly the consequences of bringing her to the George than he had +seen them in the case of Belle. With Belle such dependence had been his +only chance of speedy marriage, and his craving for her had blinded him +to its inevitable miseries, but now that he had the alternative of an +independent and self-supporting home, he would be a fool to give it up +merely to escape from Sark. Since it was his only hope of married +comfort, the Le Couteurs must have their wish and get his mother back +again. + +Sometimes there were moments--generally in the middle of the night--when +he wondered if he wasn’t mad to be acting so--to be marrying this +unknown girl without loving her, indeed while he loved another woman, +and settling down in this unfriendly island, where in spite of his blood +he was still a stranger. But he ended his qualms invariably with the +question: “What does it matter, anyway?”--also the old army spirit of +fatalism was still upon him, the kismet of the trenches. He watched his +approaching marriage as he used to watch the German shell-fire. If it +was due to smash him it would, and if it wasn’t it wouldn’t. There was +nothing he could do about it. + +The day before the May day fixed for the wedding he had three letters +from England, one from his mother, one from Jess Harman, and one--at +last--from Ernley Munk. His mother was a little inclined to reproach; +she saw her son and her son’s money alienated together. “But then you +never really care for me like Christopher”--Christopher who, Dan +reflected angrily, had never earned a shilling for her in his life. “No +doubt my brothers Eugene and Philip are glad, for so they get us +back”--evidently his mother’s mind worked that way too. “Your father +send his love and kind regards and best wishes for a bright and +prosperous wedding.” + +Jess Harman had her expected string of news, a little shorter than usual +to allow room for congratulations. “I’m sure I wish you happy, Daniel, +as this leaves me at present. You deserve to be happy if anyone did, and +I reckon you could make a girl happy easier than most. I always say most +men don’t know how to treat a girl, and when I have boy babies to take +out I smack them harder than I smack the girls, for I say if maybe they +don’t deserve it now they will when they grow up, and then there will be +no one to do it. Maudie talks of leaving the Crown, for she says young +Mr. Munk is not so pleasant to work under as his father.” + +Daniel wondered if these two sentences had anything more than a +haphazard connexion. The thought made him tear open Ernley’s letter +without waiting to finish Jess’s. It ran: + +“DEAR DANIEL,--I expect you’re thinking all sorts of bad things about me +for not having written for so long--or I might even say for not having +written at all. But it was difficult to write at first, wasn’t it? And +afterwards it wasn’t much easier, as there didn’t seem to be any reason +for starting suddenly. Now I’ve got a reason and I’m glad, for I want to +hear more of you except just that you’re going to get married, which +isn’t very original. I hope she’s worthy of you--you’re rather a damn +fool about women, you know, and yet you deserve the best, so I hope +you’ve got her. Now I suppose you will settle down in Sark for good. +Well, you might do worse. I’m getting a bit sick myself of the land fit +for heroes to live in. You’d think my job was to sell poison, to judge +by the fuss they make and the restrictions they put on. But I’m better +off than your dad, who does sell poison, if I may say so. Still, I think +he’s a fool to try on all the games he does--I was sorry about his being +so heavily fined last sessions, but I’d warned him, and being a racing +neighbourhood, I suppose they’re extra strict. If I were you I’d write +and tell him to be careful, but I expect you have. + +“I’ve built an extra wing on to the Crown, in spite of all, so I’ve +nothing to complain about really. However, I can’t help thinking our +best times were in the army, in spite of all the noise and blood. Life +wasn’t so deuced complicated, somehow; one knew what one wanted and +wanted the sort of things one could get. I’m to be a proud father again +next autumn; the other kid’s a regular Shackford; I hope this will be a +Munk--to look at, I mean, for I don’t wish him so ill as to hope he’ll +inherit my devil. Do write soon and tell me about Miss Falla--rollicking +sound to the name, somehow.--Ever yours, + +ERNLEY.” + + +Daniel paused. Ernley sounded bad. How well he knew his devil--that +queer, bitter, angry, unhappy, rather common devil, who at times made +Ernley so difficult to love. He wondered what Belle was feeling--not a +single reference to her, except indirectly. It might be caution, but it +didn’t sound like that. He wished Ernley hadn’t written--worrying him +like this just before his wedding day. And about his father, too. He was +worried about his father. “Heavily fined last sessions”--he’d never +heard of that--they’d kept that from him. The old life was suddenly and +painfully reasserting itself, just as he was going to cut it off for +ever. Well, he mustn’t think of it any more--he could do nothing about +it. His responsibilities were no longer the old ones of Ernley and Belle +and the George, but the new ones of marriage, home, and children. Yes, +he supposed the day would come when he, too, would be a “proud father.” +Well, he wouldn’t sneer about it like Ernley--he’d be glad--and he knew +that already his allegiance belonged to the unborn. + + +§ 2 + +The wedding of Daniel Sheather and Rose Falla took place in the +afternoon, in the midst of a high wind stroking the back of Sark, and +rippling the buttercup-thickened hay. The sun shone gaily in spite of +the small white clouds that blew over the sky, and the general air was +one of brightness and freshness and laughter, a rollicking sort of air, +like the bride’s name. + +Bride and bridegroom drove together to church with their relations. Into +the big mule-cart were packed, besides themselves, Uncle Eugene and +Uncle Philip, one or two cousin Eugenes and cousin Philips, Helier, +William and Alice. The rest, including the children, came on foot, and +as it was impossible for the mules to go at more than a foot pace most +of the way, they trod round the wheels, talking and staring. + +Rose wore a new blue dress, for which her measurements had been sent to +Guernsey. Without her sophisticated work-girl’s clothes she looked more +of a child than ever and more of an islander. Stealing a secret glance +at her now and then, Dan found her sweet and appealing in her laughter +and her shyness. He was glad that she was fair and round-faced, and +would never look like Alice Hamon, who had already a witchy air about +her, with her sharp nose and black locks. She was facing her future +without a qualm, without a thought of the life and friends she had left +in Jersey, accepting trustfully the life and friends she had found in +Sark. She trusted Dan as absolutely as she had trusted him when at his +word she had faced without question the perils of La Déroute. Well, he +hoped her trust would be better justified this time, that her +matrimonial craft would not go to the bottom like the _Baleine_ ... he +clenched his hands upon his knees as he vowed to himself that, come what +might, this little thing should not suffer for the risks he had taken +... he would strive for her happiness as he would have striven for Belle +Shackford’s--she should be given no less than he would have given Belle. + +They walked into the church on either side of old Eugene Le +Couteur--Rose in her blue dress, Daniel in his blue jersey and +wide-bottomed trousers. The church was packed, for weddings were a rare +excitement, and at the end of the aisle by the little bare altar, le +ministre stood already waiting, holding open in his hand the Prayer Book +of Helier de Cartaret, which was Dan’s Prayer Book now. + +“_Bien-aimes, nous sommes réunis ici sous le regard de Dieu...._” + +The service had begun. Daniel and Rose stood alone together, hand in +hand before the minister, for Uncle Eugene had withdrawn from publicity +into a pew, from which he did not emerge till the question “_Qui est-ce +qui donne cette femme en mariage à cet homme?_” when he shouted “_C’est +moi!_” as if across seven miles of sea. Then Daniel found himself saying +after the priest: + +“_Moi Daniel, je te prends Rose, pour ma femme et mon épouse, afin de +t’avoir et de te garder, dès ce jour à l’avenir que tu sois meilleure ou +pire, plus riche ou plus pauvre, en maladie et en santé, pour t’aimer et +te chérir, jusqu’à ce que la mort nous sépare, selon la sainte +institution de Dieu, et sur cela je t’engage ma foi._” + +Well, he meant it all, anyway. The strange language didn’t make any +difference. He knew that he’d promised just the same as he would have +promised in English to Belle, and having promised no less he could give +no less. Standing there with all the brown and blue eyes of the island +fixed upon him, he knew that his mind was clear of its last doubt. This +second part of his adventure with Rose would not end in shipwreck like +the first. If he only did what he had promised ... and he would. Now he +was putting the ring on her finger, and was worshipping her with his +body--now their hands were joined and le ministre was saying: + +“_Puisque Daniel et Rose ont consenti à s’unir en saint mariage. Je +declare qu’ils sont entre eux mari et femme, au nom du Père et du Fils +et du Saint Esprit._” + +The harmonium gave a sigh, preliminary to shaking the marriage psalm out +of its heart. Dan and Rose scrambled to their feet and followed the +clergyman into the chancel. They held hands almost convulsively during +the rest of the service, which they scarcely felt concerned them, their +own personal part being now over. They were married. They were husband +and wife, whom man could not put asunder. They who had not known each +other a month ago would from henceforward know only each other. Daniel +would belong to Rose and Rose would belong to Daniel till their eyes +were dim and their hair was grey--they would build up a new life +together in a new home--they would love beings as yet unborn, whose very +names they did not know as yet. Passionate love was waiting in their +hearts for those who were not yet alive. All the years that they had +lived before, he with his parents at Bullockdean, and she with her +father in Jersey, were only a sort of preparation to the main business +of life. His love for Belle was only an episode. This was the centre and +heart and reality of his life. This was marriage. Daniel felt almost +afraid, when he saw what marriage meant--when he saw how it could brush +aside all the fire and glory and anguish of love, and murmur its +blessing over a few stones which forthwith became bread ... water which +became wine.... “And there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee”.... A poor +little affair of stones and water, which had somehow become bread and +wine. That was his marriage with Rose. + +They had turned from the altar and were writing their names in the +vestry. Uncle Eugene made his mark as a witness after he had been +satisfied that he was not committing himself in any way. The cousins +signed, but no one offered to kiss Rose--kissing at weddings was an +English custom, Daniel supposed, like wedding-cake and bridesmaids and +flowers and confetti and all the other things that would have been so +important at Bullockdean. All that was English on this occasion was the +music. There had been an Anglican chant for the psalm, and now +Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” burst forth, as Dan and Rose walked down +the aisle of the empty church and out into the churchyard, whither all +the congregation had rushed in a body before them. + + +§ 3 + +There was a feast at the Pêche à Agneau--a feast of lobsters and gâche +and armagniac, to which came Hamons and Carrés and Falles and de +Cartarets from all parts of the island. Somehow Daniel and Rose seemed +almost a minor part of the occasion. They sat silently side by side, +while round them flowed the island French, which is to the French of +Paris what cider is to wine. As yet it was not quite the language of +either, since Rose had not spoken it for a year and Daniel had spoken +it only for a year. If they did not listen the words came only in +scattered drops, without meaning. Dan could take for granted that his +relations and friends were not discussing the marriage, but the +prospects of next season, or the politics of Sark’s most parochial pump. + +He was free to look at Rose, and think how pretty she was with her +golden hair and her blue dress, like buttercups by the sea. The line of +her chin and neck was somehow helpless and innocent, like a child’s, yet +her little mouth and nose had a funny, decided air about them, as if, +though she would rely on him in all big matters of life, in the small +she would know her business, what to eat and drink and wear. In the blue +pools of her eyes swam a queer flame, which he had not noticed till +to-day. When her eyes met his, the flame brightened, and when she turned +them away he could see it shining, as one can see the sunshine in hidden +water reflected on a rock. + +They seldom spoke to each other. Once--“Are you tired?” he whispered, +and she answered “Yes.” + +“I must take you home.” + +Under the table her hand crept out on his knee and lay over it. He +looked round at all the Hamons and Carrés and Falles and De Cartarets +and Le Couteurs, eating and drinking and arguing, entirely forgetting +the little married pair in whose honour the feast was given. + +“Uncle Philip,” said Dan. + +“Yes,” Uncle Philip roared down the table to Ernest Hamon--“the King of +England will think it a fine thing when he comes to Guernsey, and the +Forty Tenants are not there to receive him.” + +“Uncle Philip, would you mind----” + +“He will see nothing but Le Marchants and De Jerseys, and he will +say--where is the aristocracy?” + +“Would you mind if Rose and I went home now?” + +“Of course I do not mind. Go. We are the aristocracy of this island, I +say, and the parish will not allow us ten shillings to go over to +Guernsey to see the King and Queen.” + +“Ha! Ha! It is a fine thing if the aristocracy of this island cannot go +to see the King without ten shillings from the parish.” + +“Who should pay but the parish? I will not pay ten shillings to go to +Guernsey, even to see the King. None of the Forty Tenants will go over +unless the parish pay. You are a fool, Ernest Hamon.” + +Dan and Rose crept out under cover of Ernest Hamon’s retort, and the +next minute stood in the sunshine of the May evening, which trailed +golden banners over the sea. Their belongings had already been taken to +Moie Fano, so all they had to do was to walk there themselves, through +the buttercups and the long grass, with their shadows moving before +them. + +“Look at us,” said Rose--“how big we are.” + +Daniel put his arm round her. + +“There aren’t two of us any more,” said Rose. + +He stopped her with a sudden check of his arm and drew her up against +him, kissing her darling face on which he seemed to taste the sunshine. + +“Oh, Rose, my little Rose--you are so sweet! And it’s so wonderful! I +never thought it would be like this.” + +She did not trouble about his words, but eagerly returned his kisses. + +“Oh, my beautiful boy--my beautiful boy,” she murmured, holding his face +to hers. “Daniel--your eyes are so dark and big--I see myself in them. +Can you see yourself in mine?” + +“No--not quite. Yes--now I can.” + +“That means you live in my heart.” + +“And you in mine.” + +They walked on, across the road, past La Belle Hautgarde, out on to the +wildness of Rouge Terrier. Under their feet were the first little wild +dwarf roses, and before them lay spread the dazzled blue of Baleine Bay, +with all the rocks standing out of it, pink in the sunset, like castles. +The tide was low, and the _demies_ of l’Etac showed above the water and +all the rocks round Sercul. The bay was streaked with currents, strange, +smooth paths of rose and violet and grey winding amidst the chopped blue +water. They walked farther down the hill to the cliff edge, and the sun +was lost, while a cool air ruffled up from the sea. They were above the +terrible cliffs of Brenière, and though there was scarcely any tide, the +eastern wall of Sark was dreadful in the dusk, like a dead face with its +white gleam, the gleam of the blind white rock above Pot Bay. Towards +the north the Point du Derrible was like some horned beast kneeling down +to drink in the water. Daniel felt the strangeness and terror of Sark +very near him, and the dreadfulness of those secrets below him in the +bays, in that strange no-man’s land between the tides. His arm drew Rose +a little closer as he led her along the cliff-top, through the dusk, to +where he could see the jut of Moie Fano. + +“Look! Our home!” + +She pointed through the twilight, and he could just see the thatched +roof grey against the hillside and the faint gleam of the walls. + +“You won’t be afraid with me alone out here?” + +“Oh, no, I shan’t be alone, with you.” + +They came to the little house, sheltering with its strip of garden in a +fold of the hillside. The door was unlocked, and he led her into the +dark kitchen. + +“The lamp’s on the table,” said Rose. “I left out some matches. Can you +find them?” + +But instead of finding them he shut the door on the last gleam of light, +and drawing her close to him in the darkness, lifted her from her feet. +The darkness was round them like a caress and a welcome as he held her +there, high against his breast. Outside the dead light lay on the sea, +and in the light lay all the empty islands and lonely rocks. The light +seemed to hold the strange unfriendly spirit of the island, the enmity +of sea and rocks, and the ghosts of their deeds; while the darkness held +the spirit of the home built in the midst of all that strangeness, and +the spirit of man loving and pitying in the midst of the pitiless sea. + + +§ 4 + +In the middle of the night Daniel woke out of a deep sleep into a +half-dreaming state, in which he lay mysteriously cut off, very quiet of +mind and body, and very happy, without quite knowing the causes of his +happiness. The darkness lay all round him so heavily that it seemed a +tangible thing; it almost seemed to be a body to him, now that he did +not feel his own. It was also a friendly, personal thing, for he knew +dimly that it was a part of home and that memory already dwelt in it. + +He was waking, and two sounds mingled with the darkness, rousing him +still more. They were strange, soft, sighing sounds, like each other, +and yet astonishingly different. One he knew was a sound of terror, and +the other a sound of love, and yet in that half-dreaming moment he could +not distinguish them. Then he woke a little more and knew that one was +the sound of the sea, sighing round the rocks at the foot of Moie Fano, +and that the other was the sound of Rose’s breathing as she lay in the +crook of his arm. The two sighs mingled and wove themselves together +into a single sweetness and terror which woke him. He was awake now--he +knew where he was and all that had happened, he knew that his arm and +shoulder were stiff under the weight of little Rose, whom he could hear +and feel but could not see in the darkness. He lay motionless, holding +her, his heart full of sweetness and terror, which were now both hers. +The voice of the sea seemed to have died away--he heard only her +breathing. + +Then his own breath came short with a new, strange ecstasy. He knew +that, all unexpected, all undeserving, he had stumbled upon happiness. +This was what life gave you--was meant to give. He was happy--he would +always be happy with Rose--he would always feel like this, full of love +and joy and pity, when she was near him. She was very near--part of +himself, it seemed ... part of his body, of his own flesh and blood. A +picture drew itself in the darkness before his eyes--the picture of two +country inns facing each other across a village street--it was a very +small, far-off picture, such as one sees through the wrong end of a +telescope. That was his life at Bullockdean, his love for Belle, set far +off and far behind at last. It faded, and the darkness was upon his +eyes, kinder than any light. The sea, far below at the foot of the +cliffs, drawled another long sigh. He turned his head on his shoulder, +till his cheek touched Rose’s hair; then he slept again. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN + + +§ 1 + +The months which followed were summer indeed. To the end of his life +Daniel would always see summer as a blue sky vaulting a blue sea, in +which pink and purple islands swam under the sun. It was a summer of +drought, of the burning of the hayfields, the powdering of the roads, of +the kindling of a purple fire of foxgloves at the Orgeries and at +Château des Quénévés. The wells dried up, including the shallow well at +Moie Fano, and every evening and every morning Dan toiled with buckets +on a wooden yoke to the Pêche à Agneau, where the water supply was good +and lasted through the summer. It was an irksome task, but he did it +gladly as his only domestic duty. Rose proved herself rather +unexpectedly a good housewife. After all, she had cooked and kept house +for her father at St. André, which meant not only household experience, +but experience of a fisherman’s household. She knew how to cook every +kind of fish and shellfish, how to bake bread of a heavy sort, how to +support the small, island dearths of salt or yeast, and she never +expected meat except on Sundays. + +Both she and Daniel worked hard enough. She had the three rooms of the +little house to care for and keep clean, she had the meals to cook, all +the washing to do, and also the husbandry of the tiny garden with its +supply of herbs and vegetables. Dan bought her a few hens from La Belle +Hautgarde, and taught her how to look after them, which she did very +proudly, the eggs being a luxury which few Sark homes of that size could +boast. + +His own time was spent almost entirely in the boats. The season was a +good one, and from the middle of May onwards there were visitors to be +taken fishing and rowing and sailing, as well as the care of many +lobster pots. The Le Couteurs had forgiven him for the loss of the +_Baleine_, though their sense of humour had flourished embarrassingly on +his misadventure long after their sense of outrage had died away. His +marriage and establishment had paid off their grudge against his +strangerhood, and they were glad of his help in the summer business of +making money. They found him generally efficient, always willing, and +his English speech and custom, though obnoxious to themselves, were +useful when dealing with the visitors. + +His duties did not allow him much time with Rose, but he had all the +winter to look forward to, and meanwhile he had his Sundays free, for +the laws of the island forbade boating and fishing on Sundays. Touched +into humility and gratitude by a happiness which he felt to be as +undeserved as it was unexpected, he had, on leaving the Pêche à Agneau, +gone back to some of the “good ways” he had learned in the Ouse Valley. +On early Sunday mornings he would be the island of Sark at the altar, as +long months ago he used to be the village of Bullockdean. He knew that +by so doing he took away some of the good impression he had made on the +Le Couteurs. But in spite of Helier de Cartaret’s Prayer Book he could +not quite rid his mind of the idea that English was the proper language +for devotion. He taught Rose to say Our Father in English, and they +said it together every night, kneeling beside the bed. + +Daniel’s happiness in Rose was still as fresh and rich as when he had +first met it in the darkness at Moie Fano. Indeed, as familiarity and +companionship deepened, if they could not widen, his knowledge of her, +his love and joy and satisfaction grew. Her most noticeable quality was +her yielding gentleness, which he had saved her from making the +instrument of her misfortune, and now under the guiding of his hands was +being made the instrument of happiness and goodness for them both. She +adapted herself to her new life apparently without effort. She shed from +her the life of the town work-girl with its crowds and excitements as +easily as she had shed her town clothes--she seemed to have no regrets +or even memories. Dan was her whole guidance and concern, and just as +she had followed him without a qualm into the dangers of an unknown sea, +so without qualm she followed him into an unknown life, as devoid of +doubts as she would be devoid of reproaches if he failed her. + +He sometimes wondered how he had ever feared that her mind was tainted +by her experiences in St. Helier. She had merely been under a bad +influence, that was all, yielding herself to the guidance of a stronger +mind as she would always do. No doubt his darling little Rose lacked +what was called “moral courage,” but that only doubled the sweetness of +his protection, since it must be not only of her body but of her soul. +She was his in a dependence which few women can have on a man, and that +dependence called out of him all that was strongest in love and +cherishing. + +Nevertheless, as day by day he came to know her better, he discovered +that at the bottom of her heart she carried a tiny life of her own--a +little seed of personality, the essential Rose. She would make him +confidences as to her likes and dislikes and ideas--they would talk +together about the big strange things that inwardly perplexed them both, +though outwardly they took them for granted. Perhaps they neither of +them had much wisdom, nor enough curiosity, but this occasional glimpse +of the “separateness” in her served to make the sense of “togetherness” +more complete--the more he saw his little Rose standing apart from him +in her own soul and life, the more she seemed a part of him, of his +being. The more she was herself, the more completely she seemed his, +rather than in her gentleness and yielding. So he loved her seed of +separate life, and, like the rest of her, it flourished under his care. + + +§ 2 + +When winter came it was very unlike the winter that had been last year. +Or rather its essence was the same, but its effect and influence were +altogether different. The storms that battered the cliffs were no longer +a distress and a terror, but a mere noise outside, that made the quiet +and warmth at home stand out more comfortably by contrast. The fogs, +too, were no sad pall weighing upon the island, but a soft white blanket +wrapping Daniel and Rose into a loving loneliness. It was just as on the +evening after their marriage, when outside had been the dead, blind face +of Sark, cold in the haunted twilight, in the light more dreadful than +darkness, and inside had been warmth and tenderness and love and the +kind spirit of man. During those nights of storm and fog, when the fire +burned brightly in the kitchen, and the supper was laid under the lamp, +Dan would see the cottage at Moie Fano as a lighthouse on a rock, as the +Corbière or the Casquets or Platte Fougère, a house of light set in the +midst of darkness. + +There were days on which they did not even go so far as the Pêche à +Agneau, but they never felt dull in each other’s company, or alone when +they were together. Daniel helped Rose with the work of the house, even +now and then with the cooking, for he took an unmanly pleasure in +messing about with pots and pans. He became cobbler and mended their +shoes, he became tinker and mended their kettle, he became plumber and +fixed a pipe to drain off the rain-water from the roof into a butt, so +that they should be better watered next summer, he became carpenter and +delighted Rose’s heart with shelves and brackets. + +Sometimes of an evening a Helier or a Philip or a Eugene Le Couteur +would call round for him on his way to the Bel-Air. But Daniel no longer +cared for the Bel-Air, or for drinks English or Norman. He wanted to +stop at home with his wife, to help her lay and clear the supper, and +afterwards to sit and watch her while she sewed--garments for her own +little Helier who was to be born in the spring. + +“We will certainly call him Helier,” she said, “after my father.” + +“Helier Sheather doesn’t sound right, somehow.” + +“Helier Le Couteur sounds very well,” said Rose. + +And Daniel knew that he was not called Sheather any more. Indeed he had +never really been Sheather in Sark. Before he married he had just been +“the English Le Couteur,” and now he was Le Couteur un-Englished.... +Well, it was what he had been prepared for, and when his child was born +the Le Couteurs would indeed have his mother back again. + +He looked eagerly forward to that day in the spring which would make him +a father. Rose was determined that she must have a son, but Daniel would +have been equally glad of a daughter--he would have been free to give +his daughter an English name, but a son must inevitably add to the mass +of Heliers or Philips or Peters in the island. Not that there was any +particular reason why he should want an English name. He and Rose no +longer spoke English together--it had always been difficult for her, and +she soon picked up the native French, which was not so different from +the French of Jersey, and which by this time he spoke quite readily. +After all, it had been his language as a child, and its sweet roughness +seemed the right expression of his love and the concerns of his +household. + +All that he had of English was his prayers and his books. Daniel had +brought Rose to share his taste for reading, and in those long evenings +they read together--mild stuff which the vicar lent them. Rose loved the +mild stuff, and would weep over what she understood of “Cometh up as a +Flower,” or “The Silence of Dean Maitland”; to both of them whatever +they read was intensely real, and they took their fiction with a +seriousness that would have amazed its authors. + +They would read sitting at the table side by side, the book spread under +the lamp, while first Daniel would read in the slow plodding English of +his custom, and then Rose would read, more quickly and eagerly, but +getting herself into sorry tangles over some of the words, and +occasionally having to apply to him for the sense. Afterwards, while +they were undressing, they would talk over what they had read and +pre-cast the next day’s portion. If the story turned out badly Rose +would cry, the luxurious tears of the happy, while Dan would comfort and +even, on emergency, supply a new end to the tale, in which “they all +lived happy ever after” in defiance of the author. + +His happiness was beginning to assume an added sweetness of +sobriety--the slightly restless quality of the first months was gone, +and in its place was a quality of warm stillness, which steeped his +whole being. The disquiets of the outer world and of his old life could +not reach him. At Christmas he had not been hurt by the neglect of his +family, represented only by a card, nor by another of Ernley’s cynical +letters, hinting at more indiscretions at the George and disillusions at +the Crown. He had all the natural selfishness of the happy man--even the +thought of Belle could not stir in him any real anxiety. He had told +Rose about Belle and of the earthquake of his love for her--he told Rose +everything, dropping the secrets of his heart into the warm shallow pool +of her confidence which scarcely eddied round them. She had no jealousy +of Belle, and not much interest in her. Daniel, for her, existed almost +entirely in the present moment, and unlike so many women she scarcely +thought of the years that had been before he met her, nor looked for +their scars. + +He did not see this attitude as a defect--indeed, coming so simply and +naturally as it did, he came to judge it as the only natural attitude. +After all, what did it matter, what he had done and suffered before he +met her? That part of his life was over, a mere prelude to this. Let him +put it out of his mind since he could never put it into hers. + +He loved her utterly now, with body and soul. It seemed as if he had +always known and loved her--this little stranger whom he had not met a +year ago. As she drew near her time, an unexpected weakness developed in +her, and the doctor, anxiously summoned, said that she must rest. Still +free from the boats, Daniel did all the work of the little +house--sweeping, dusting and cooking. In the evenings he made her go to +bed early, and brought the lamp to her bedside, to read to her till she +slept. When March came with the first mild days of spring, he carried +her down the cliff slope into a little sheltered hollow among the rocks +of Mont Razeur, and she lay there beside him in the basking warmth, +holding his hand among the sweetness of the spring grass, gazing +idolatrously at his seaward-turned face, dark between her and the dazzle +of the water. One day she waved an arm towards the dim whale-shape of +Jersey. + +“We come from there together, you and I.” + +“You are not sorry you came?” + +“No, I never was sorry, except when I thought you would send me back.” + +“Perhaps I will send you back some day,” he teased. + +“Oh no, you would never send me back. You love me too much.” + +“I love you! What an idea!” + +“I think you love me very much--I think you would be very unhappy if I +die.” + +“Die!--Rose! Darling Rose--don’t talk of dying.” + +“One must talk of it sometimes.” + +“But not to-day--when everything is warm and lovely because spring is +here. You are not afraid of dying when the baby comes--are you, little +Rose?” he cried anxiously. + +“Oh, no--I only talk of it. But I like to think that when I die you will +come with me, and we will go out together, as we did in the little boat, +and I shall watch your face and know I cannot be afraid.” + +“When you die it will not only be me whom you will want in the little +boat. There will be others--our children.” + +“Yes, there will be Helier--and Helier’s sister--and perhaps others. But +I shall always love you best.” + +“I wish I felt so sure.” + +“You can be sure. I could never love a son or a daughter as I love you.” + +“Why?” + +“Don’t ask me that. If I should try to tell you I should feel afraid.” + +“But why?” + +She would not answer, and thinking that perhaps the conversation was +growing too tense and disturbing, he began to talk of the coming season +and of the things they would do in the boats. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT + + +§ 1 + +It was on an evening towards the end of April that Rose’s time came, and +Daniel went out to La Vermandée to fetch the woman who had promised to +be with her. That night he slept on the sofa in the kitchen and saw +through the uncurtained window a big yellow moon bright above Balmée. +The sea was like a golden floor, or a meadow of buttercups, with the +dark shapes of the rocks standing out of it--_grunes_ and _baveuses_ and +_demies_, uncovered at the half-tide. There was an utter calm, and the +unusual stillness kept him awake and somehow made him afraid. It was +months since he had known a quiet like this, for the stillness of the +fogs had been pierced by the moan of the sirens--Blanchard, Point Robert +and Platte Fougère moaning to each other across the deeps. But to-night +there was neither moan nor sigh, without or within. Sometimes through +the closed door he heard the sound of voices, but for most of the time +there was silence, a silence that oppressed him as the silence of the +sea. + +He went out early, for the calm would allow him mercifully to spend a +day in the boats. Mrs. de Cartaret made him some breakfast, and before +he left he had one look at Rose. He was surprised to find her sitting up +in an armchair beside the bed, pale but smiling, and anxious to know if +the calm weather would allow him to put down some early lobster pots at +the Masoline. He kissed her passionately and humbly, and she said: + +“Do not worry--it is natural.” + +He walked quickly over to the Pêche à Agneau, and found his cousins +ready to put out in the boats. Old Eugene and Philip Le Couteur were +delighted when they heard what was toward at Moie Fano. + +“At last we have our new Helier,” said Uncle Eugene. + +“Or our new Kitty Le Couteur--she is better,” said Uncle Philip. + +“Better than the old one--ha! ha!” + +“Ha! Ha! Oh, my Gar--yes!” + +The day passed outwardly tranquil as the night. The boats rode on the +calm waters of Havre Gosselin, where even the dreaded pass between +Brecquo and the Moie du Gouliet was little more than a spatter of +dancing gold. Spring was come, and the gulls were seeking their nesting +places. The Moie was covered with them--a flutter of white wings, an +outcry of shrill voices, breaking the stillness of the noon. Ha-ha-ha! +Ha-ha-ha-ha! Lounging in the boat, waiting for the slow fish, and +listening to the Le Couteurs’ laughter and talk among themselves, Daniel +thought that the gulls’ voices were like his cousins’--Norman voices, +hoarse and rough like the names of the rocks. Ha! Ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha! That +was the voice of Sark--of its people, of its gulls, of its rocks. +Ha-ha-ha-ha!--laughter for love and laughter for death. + +The day dragged on and at last a tinge of rose crept into the mirror of +the sea, and a little wind ruffled up from Herm in the west. The Le +Couteurs brought their boat round to the Saut de Juan and beached her, +and Daniel was given his share of the fish. + +“You are glad to go home,” said Cousin Eugene. + +“You go to find little Helier,” said Cousin Philip. + +“Well, we all be godfathers,” laughed Cousin Peter. + +“Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” + +Daniel walked slowly from the Saut de Juan. Every now and then he would +hurry, then check himself. Perhaps he had better not get back too soon. +Then he would tell himself that Rose was different from the women at +home--she came of a sturdy breed. Probably the baby had been born hours +ago. If it had not been for the last few weeks he would have felt no +anxiety. He remembered the words with which she had dismissed him that +morning: “Do not worry--it is natural.” Yes, it was natural, and he was +a fool to be making such a fuss. Yet, as he looked round him at the +toothed and horned rocks and the deadly slaver of the sea over the +buried _grunes_, he distrusted the tender mercies of nature, and felt +thankful that his little Rose had not been left to them without the pity +and help of man. + + +§ 2 + +The smoke of the chimney of Moie Fano rose in a straight column against +the sky. There was something in that pillar of smoke which stood to +Daniel as a sign. It was the sign of the inn of home--rising from homes +in the Ouse Valley as it rose from homes in Sark, and as probably it +rose from homes in France, in Germany, in Russia. In every place where +there was home there was also that smoke ascending from the hearth, like +a prayer towards the sky.... To-night it was the prayer of the cottage +at Moie Fano going up to God for the mother and her child. + +He was getting fanciful--that day spent amidst the laughter of his +cousins and the laughter of the gulls had made him silly. He must pull +himself together if he was to be any help and comfort to Rose. As he +crossed the threshold, he heard voices coming from the inner room, and +recognized a man’s among them. The doctor must be there.... + +He knocked at the door. + +It opened, and the doctor looked out. He started at the sight of Daniel. +Then he came through into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. + +“I’m glad you’ve come home, Le Couteur.” + +“Is--is the child born?” + +“Yes--a boy--and he will live,” said the doctor gravely. + +Dan was startled. He had never thought of the child not living. + +“But how is Rose? Can I see her?” + +“No--you can’t see her just yet. I want to talk to you about her. Sit +down.” + +Daniel felt his knees suddenly weak. He sat down as the doctor bade him, +and stared into his face. Afterwards it seemed as if he had read in his +face instead of heard from his lips that Rose was very ill and would +almost certainly die. + +“Can’t--can’t you do anything?” + +“I am doing my best.” + +But in his face Daniel read that sometimes the pity and help of man are +of little avail against what is natural. + +“Now, you’d better get yourself some supper,” said the doctor +kindly--“Mrs. de Cartaret can’t come to you yet; but you must have +something to eat, for you’ll want all your strength--for her.” + +“When can I see her?” + +“In an hour, perhaps. Now, make yourself some coffee and have a bit of +something nourishing.” + +He went back into the silent inner room. + +Almost automatically, Daniel put the fish he had brought home into a tub +of water. Then he set the saucepan on the fire, and some bread and +cheese on the table. He was hungry--hungrier than ever, since he had +heard the doctor’s news--and he did not know that hunger and sorrow are +incompatible. He ate hungrily--strengthening himself for the night. The +coffee was good. It cleared his head in a wonderful way, so that it lost +the echo of the gulls’ laughter, and was able to think. He did not want +to think for himself--he would have been happier in his +stupefaction--but he wanted to think for Rose. He did not want to sit +beside her dazed and helpless when she would need his help more than she +had ever needed it--putting out to sea alone in her little boat, which +was to have held the two of them.... + +He had not thought of lighting the lamp and scarcely noticed the +darkness dropping round him, till at last the window square held the +only light. His first realization of it was when a golden slant fell +into the room from the opening door. The next minute he heard Doctor +Pelley’s voice call softly--“Le Couteur,” and then from the bed behind +the doctor came Rose’s voice, faintly, yet very much as it had so often +come from the inner room when he entered the kitchen at the end of the +day: + +“_Es tu là?_” + +Without answering he went in and knelt down beside her. + +She lay as if sunk into the bed, so relaxed that she seemed to lie +scarcely so much on the mattress as in it. Her face was deadly white, +but on her lips was a smile and on her arm was pillowed a little dark +head. + +“_Notre Helier_,” she whispered, smiling up at him. + +Mrs. de Cartaret stooped and lifted away the child. + +“She wanted to be holding him when you first saw him--but she is not +strong enough. I will take him now and put him in his cradle,” and she +laid Helier in the bottom drawer of the chest, which had been made into +a cradle for him with shawls and a piece of blanket. + +“Oh, Daniel,” whispered Rose--“my feet are so cold.” + +She had made her little gesture of motherhood, but could maintain it no +longer--she was too tired. She turned to him, as instinctively she used +to turn when she was tired. + +“My feet are so cold.” + +“Mrs. de Cartaret will heat you a brick for them.” + +But the midwife shook her head. + +“She has a brick already--she does not feel it.” + +“It’s because I’m dying,” said Rose, in her weak, indifferent voice. + +“My darling, you’re not dying--you mustn’t die.” + +“Oh, yes, I must. That’s how it begins--at your feet.” + +Daniel hid his face beside hers in the pillow. + +He heard the doctor tell the midwife that he was going home now for a +bit. He would be back soon, and he did not think there would be any +change before morning. Mrs. de Cartaret went into the kitchen and Rose +and Daniel were alone together. + +They did not speak. Rose was too exhausted and Daniel was too stricken. +He had climbed on the bed beside her, and lay with his face close to +hers, her hand held between both his. He felt submissive and numb. He +meant to be able to help and strengthen her, but now he saw that there +was no help he could give, except of the humblest, most homely kind, the +help of touch and kiss. They lay motionless side by side, while Mrs. de +Cartaret ate her supper in the kitchen. Now and then they opened their +eyes and gazed into each other’s, but for the most part they lay with +their eyes shut, awake, but as if asleep. + +The baby whimpered in his cradle-drawer. Daniel had forgotten all about +him. + +“Helier,” whispered Rose. + +“He is all right.” + +“Our Helier,” she murmured--“remember ... he is ours.” + +The midwife came in and attended to the baby. Then she came and attended +to Rose, giving her something out of a spoon. She took no notice of +Daniel--she let him lie just as he was. + +The night wore on, and, surprisingly, he fell asleep. He had the +sensation that she had fallen asleep, too; and directly he slept they +were in a boat together, pushing out, as they had pushed out a year ago, +under the shadow of Gorey pier, with the moonlight gleaming through the +piles. He heard the wind blowing very loud, as it had not blown then; +but the next minute it was still, and they were riding on calm waters +steeped in sunshine, under the pink rocks of Balmée. He could not see +Rose, but he knew she was in the boat, and suddenly he heard her say: “I +am not afraid.” In his dream he had a wonderful sense of the sunshine +striking off the pink rocks and dancing on the sea. He was not unhappy, +but a little scared ... anxious ... he awoke. + +The doctor was in the room, bending over him with the lamp in his hand, +the lamp whose flame was an orange isle in the white flood of the dawn. + +“Wake up,” said the doctor gently--“it is all over now.” + +“Over.... She is dead?” + +“She died in her sleep.” + +She had left him ... so quietly. + + + + +CHAPTER NINE + + +§ 1 + +Daniel’s marriage ended as it had begun--in a strange language. This +time Helier de Cartaret’s Prayer Book was open at La Sepulture des +Morts, and to a jigging Anglican chant the congregation--much the same +as that which had gathered for the wedding--sang “_Voila, tu as fait la +mesure de mes jours de quelques palmes, et la durée de ma vie est devant +toi comme un rien. Certainement l’homme passe comme une ombre._” + +“_Comme une ombre ... comme un rien_”--that was the marriage now which +had filled and changed his life--all the memory of those days: the +summer days when he had toiled on the sea, the winter days when he had +toiled on the land--the summer nights when the moonlight had made the +bed a house of silver, the winter nights when the lamp had made the +kitchen a house of gold--all now were as the shadows ... which sweep out +on the winds to the sea and are lost ... shadows moving under the clouds +over Baleine Bay ... whose footsteps are not known.... + +“_Ecoute ma prière, O Seigneur, Car je suis étranger et voyageur devant +toi; comme l’ont été tous mes pères._” + +As the Le Couteurs belonged to the aristocracy of the island, the first +part of the service was held in Church. A thick rain was falling, and it +was not till the last prayers that the congregation came out and stood +under the dripping ilex trees. No one wore mourning--black was too +difficult to procure, and too short lived in the salt sea air. Daniel +had a black band round the arm of his jersey--that was all. + +“_L’homme né de la femme est de courte durée...._” The dreadful rhythm +of the burial hymn rose in incongruous and courtly French, like a Tartar +hermit dressed as a troubadour. The sods of Sark earth rattled on the +coffin lid--plain English that. Dan shuddered. For the first time he +identified Rose with the coffin and its contents--Rose with her hair +like flying anthers, her eyes like the pools in the sea gardens of +Tintageu ... the shy, unwilling tears forced themselves out of his +closed eyes. He had not wept before, and it was punishment to weep like +this before all the island, in the sight of all his cousins, of all the +Carrés, and Falles and Hamons and De Cartarets--but he could not help +it. There was something in this burial service so close to earth that +the anguish of earth was upon him. He saw himself as he saw Rose, as +flesh, and all flesh as grass. + +When the dues of earth had been paid, the Le Couteurs walked back in +straggling groups to the Pêche à Agneau. Daniel went with them, for he +was to live there now. The cottage at Moie Fano was too lonely for a man +with a young child, so he came back to the place where Sark had given +him its first unfriendly greeting. As he walked over the brow of Little +Sark, and looking down the slope, saw the still sea, with the currents +wandering over it like dim, mysterious paths, it seemed as if the sea +rather than the land held the presence of his little Rose. Though the +sea had not taken her, as it had taken so many in the island, he thought +of her now as on the first night he had known her, crouching in the +stern of a boat that was putting out into an unknown sea, +embarking--this time solitary--on the strange paths of the sea, where +their footsteps are not known. + + +§ 2 + +With curious ease he adapted himself to the new life, almost as if his +year of marriage had not been. He soon became used to the unaccustomed +solitudes, indeed, in a strange way he came to value them--the solitude +before sleeping and after waking, and of idle daylight when he lounged +on the sward above the cliffs. He never went to the south-east coast, to +the cliffs above Gorey and Brenière--in tacit covenant with himself he +refused to see the cold roof of the cottage at Moie Fano, or Balmée +sleeping like a whale on the golden floor of the sea. Instead, he +haunted the western coast, which he had hitherto neglected, except as +conductor of the English. From the eaves of Pégâne Bay he looked across +the purple Autelets towards Saignie and the tail of Sark; over and +beyond, among strange rocks like men-o’-war, lay Herm and haunted Jethou +... and beyond Jethou lay the violet shape of Guernsey--and beyond +Guernsey.... He knew the country that lay in the blue and purple mists +beyond Guernsey, and once more he found himself thinking of it as home. + +His brief naturalization was over. At the Pêche à Agneau he was the same +stranger he had been before his marriage. Though he now spoke their +language and followed their customs, he had all his old curious sense of +difference from the Le Couteur clan. He had never felt that difference +between himself and Rose. He and Rose--so different in so many ways--had +essentially been one. But now that he was back at the Pêche à Agneau he +once more felt that half-amused, half-angry bewilderment at the native +mind; he knew that however freely he spoke their tongue, however +naturally he followed their ways, his mind would never work as their +minds. + +He had at least two notable outbreaks of Englishry. One was when he +insisted that his son should be baptized Thomas Helier instead of by the +name of his wife’s father alone. + +“He shall be called after my father too.” + +“There is not one of us has ever been called Thomas,” said Uncle Philip. + +“Well, there’s nothing like making a start. You need a few fresh names.” + +“The Hamons will laugh at us,” said Cousin Philip. + +“They’ll do that whatever we call him.” + +“It is an English name.” + +“And what are Ernest and Peter and Philip, I’d like to know?” + +“They are Sark names. Thomas is English.” + +“Well, damn it all, Thomas has an English father.” + +He marched off contemptuously. Really, for sheer ignorance his mother’s +family were hard to beat. However, they could not stop him calling his +baby anything he liked. He had half a mind not to call him Helier. Then +he remembered Rose, and the way she had said “_notre Helier_.” ... There +was no help for it--Helier it must be, though it was Thomas too. + +His next lapse was more serious. He found that on the tombstone that +was to be put up over Rose’s grave, her name was to stand as “_la chère +épouse de Daniel Le Couteur_.” For more than two years he had been Le +Couteur now, but somehow he could not bear the thought of his Normanhood +carved in stone. + +“It shall be Daniel Sheather,” he said. + +“Then we do not pay for it,” said Uncle Philip--which settled the +matter, since Daniel could not afford to pay for it himself. + +Sore and angry at his relations’ benighted attitude, jealous of his own +rights and honour, he put two pieces of wood together in the shape of a +cross, and carved on them his loving memory of Rose Sheather, wife of +Daniel Sheather, formerly of the parish of Bullockdean, Sussex. It was +his gesture of defiance, and in a moonless midnight he set it up at the +head of Rose’s little mound under the ilex trees. + +The result was the ferment of the island. It was an insult to have Rose +remembered under her English name, an insult barbed by the fact that it +was her true one. The whole inscription was in English, too, which was a +challenge, and the cross itself was considered Popish. + +That night it disappeared, and Daniel could obtain no redress, since he +had set it up without authority. + +“If you are wise you will let it alone,” said the Vicar--“our people +have strong prejudices here.” + +So he damped down his wrath and fiery sense of outrage, but he spent +more and more of his free time above the cliffs of the western coast, +looking out towards Guernsey and the country beyond Guernsey.... + +Sometimes he thought he would just pack up and go home. Why should he +slave to put money into his cousins’ pockets when they didn’t know how +to treat him decently? He was deterred partly by the thought of Thomas +Helier, who was well looked after by Alice Hamon, and partly by his own +pride. He didn’t want these Sarkies to think they could drive him out. +He felt now that most of the Le Couteurs would be glad if he went--they +had his child, and in him they had got his mother back again. Daniel +himself they did not care for--he was useful to them in the boats, but +that was not everything, and they could probably do very well without +him, as they had done before. His assistance with the visitors could not +make up for his alien company in the house, from which they had hoped +his marriage had removed him for ever. Once or twice he was made the +subject of a practical joke with fish--the sure sign of local +unpopularity. Someone put a plaice in his cap when he took it off in +church one Sunday, and on another occasion, creeping into bed tired out +after a day in the boats, he found a cold mess of dabs awaiting his +naked feet. + +“Well, if I go,” he said to himself truculently--“I take the kid with +me.” + + + + +CHAPTER TEN + + +§ 1 + +The crisis came sooner than he had expected--forced by that outer world +which had left him untroubled for so long. He had written to his family +to tell them of Rose’s death and the baby’s birth, but had heard nothing +from them, a fact surprising even from their indifference. Then at the +beginning of September he received a letter from his brother Len. This +was a fresh surprise, as Len had written only once since he had left +home, but when he read the letter he realized that it contained matter +too deep for his mother’s scholarship. + +Indeed, it recorded nothing less than the wreck of the George. Tom +Sheather had been finally deprived of his licence for allowing betting +on his premises. It appeared that he had already been fined twice--once +besides the occasion recorded by Ernley, and now his offence was too +great to be passed over. His licence had been withdrawn, whereupon his +brewers had swooped down on him for long-owed arrears, and all the +furniture, the pony and fowls would have to be sold to pay them. The +family smash was absolute. Daniel was shocked and upset, but not deeply +surprised. He had known the ways of the George too long, and had guessed +how much worse they must have grown now that he was no longer there to +control them in a small way. His mother’s voice was shrill, but it could +not persuade her husband out of his courses, and Christopher was +thoughtless and indifferent. No, now that he came to think it over, he +was not surprised. + +There was only one unexpected element in the situation, and that was his +father’s behaviour. Len could hardly write coherently when he told +Daniel that the captain of the sinking ship had abandoned her. Tom +Sheather had disappeared, leaving a message behind him to say that he +had signed on a coaster going to Wales. He expressed no regret--indeed, +so Len recorded in horror, he seemed actually pleased at the prospect. +The innkeeper had shaken his shoulders and gone back to his first love. +At twenty, Tom Sheather had left the land for adventure and freedom on +the sea, and now at fifty he left it again, with evidently the same +youthful expectation. Daniel had a brief moment of sympathy, though he +was indignant at his father’s callous desertion of his wife in the +extremity to which his folly had brought her. He remembered certain +talks and confidences--his parent’s reckless wishes, his own +persuasions. He had never really taken the older man’s sea-fever +seriously, but evidently through all those years it had been gathering +temperature. Nevertheless he was shocked and ashamed, and angrily put +aside any extenuating reflections on the probable sharpness of his +mother’s tongue during the last days at the George. + +“I’m taking mother and Chris to live with me,” wrote Len at the end of +his long letter. “Chris will help me on the farm, where there is plenty +of work for him. The farm has been doing better since last fall, but I +don’t know what will happen this harvest with the guaranteed prices off. +It’s just like the government to get us on a bit and then leave us +stranded. Now things are altered with you perhaps you might manage to +send mother something from time to time like you did before you married. +I am very sorry to hear of your trouble, but we have nothing but trouble +seemingly in our family. There are debts to settle up even after we have +paid Hobday and Hitch. I won’t take a penny from Ernley Munk, though he +offered me a loan, as well he might, seeing what he has made out of the +Crown. He has been a swine, saying it was what he had expected all +along, and speaking against us for not stopping father. I had a regular +shine with him on Tuesday, and told him pretty well what I thought of +him.” + +Dan frowned. That was a pity. But Len had always been like that--too +proud to take a favour from anyone, except the government. He had been +furious with Dan because he wore Ernley’s old clothes ... now, as usual, +they would all have to pay for his pride, and Dan had never been able to +see that pride was worth even half what it usually cost.... + +Well, this settled it--he’d better go home. He might be able to do +something to help them--get some sort of a job somewhere. He couldn’t do +anything for them as he was now. All that he had earned that season, +which had not been so good as last year, had gone towards the support of +himself and his child. If he went back to England, he might be able to +get work on the land, or at the docks at Newhaven. Besides, he couldn’t +bear the thought of his mother penniless and abandoned. Of course she +had Len, and the cherished Christopher, but he thought of her as +abandoned all the same. + +Yes, he would go home--he was fed up with this ghastly island, which +still treated him as a stranger though he had lived in it more than two +years, and had married in it and begotten a child. It would be good to +find himself a son of the house once more, even though that house was +scattered and disgraced. He had nothing really to hold him to Sark, now +that Rose was gone and that even her resting-place might not be +marked.... He would serve out the Le Couteurs by taking himself and his +son back to England. It was curious how he suddenly found himself +desiring England, with its long roads and friendly people.... He’d +manage somehow for himself and his boy, and he would be back once more +in his own country, among his own folk. He would turn his back on the +sea and islands, and they in their turn should become shadows on glass. + + +§ 2 + +The Le Couteur attitude was mixed. On one hand they were glad to be rid +of the stranger, on the other they were vexed that Kitty Le Couteur +should get her own back again. However, they were pleased that after +thirty years of marriage her husband should have shown himself so +unworthy of a Le Couteur lady. + +“Ah, that your poor mother should have married such a vagabond,” said +Uncle Eugene--“my brother Philip and I tell her he is vagabond, but she +would not believe us. Perhaps she believe us now.” + +“You go back to England and sell beer,” said Uncle Philip. “Englishmen +like beer.” + +The pendulum swung when they found he meant to take his son away with +him. + +“He must not go,” cried Uncle Eugene. “He is a Le Couteur--he was born +in this island.” + +“If it comes to that,” said Daniel, “so was I.” + +“But your mother take you away and you never belong to us any more.” + +“And a good job, too--I don’t want my boy to stay here and grow up a +savage.” + +“Ho! Savages, are we? Oh, my Gar--we are savages! Mister Englishman is a +gentleman--he is a visitor. That is it.” + +“I’ve a right to do what I like with my own child.” + +This was obvious even to Uncle Philip and Uncle Eugene. As, twenty-odd +years ago they had let Thomas Sheather depart with his wife and +children, so now they must let his son depart with his child, +reluctantly, yet knowing that none but themselves had driven out the +stranger. However, when he was gone they would put up a splendid +tombstone over his wife’s grave with the text old Eugene had chosen out +of his Bible, two months ago, before there was all the fuss: “_Nous +n’avons rien apporté au monde, et il est évident que nous n’en pouvons +rien emporter_”--a statement which applied with equal truth (if Thomas +Helier were excepted) to her husband’s sojourn in Sark. + +Before he went Daniel paid a visit to the narrow green mound under which +Rose lay nameless. He was not inclined to be sentimental over Rose, +nevertheless he brought her his last offering in the shape of a wreath +of the golden daisies that grow in the corn. He knew well that when he +left the new tombstone would go up, lozenge-shaped and white and +French--Protestant against both Rome and England. He knew, too, that he +would be Daniel Le Couteur for ever here in stone. But after all, he did +not much care. Now he was free of them they could do what they liked +with his name. He was taking away all that Sark had given him--the only +thing it had ever given him--his marriage. He was taking away his +marriage, for all that Rose lay here under a French headstone, engraved +with a name that was not his, and that he would never lie beside her +within sound of the sea. His marriage had been the one treasure of those +three summers--indeed, the one treasure of his life. Amidst all the +strangeness and hostility and abasement of his exile, the island had +given him this one great gift, which he could take away. Rose’s body +might remain here under the ilex trees, but he took his marriage with +him in the child. + + +§ 3 + +William, Peter, and one of the young Philips went with him when he +walked down to the harbour, with his child on his arm. Once more he wore +his English clothes, which were now a little tight, with Ernley’s +British warm to keep out the winds of the Russell. + +“Now you must not go out in the boat alone,” laughed Philip. + +“Or you run aground on the Paternosters,” chuckled William. + +“Ha-ha-ha!” roared Peter. “Ha-ha-ha-ha!” + +“Ha-ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” + +The farewells of his cousins mingled with voices of the gulls on Les +Lâches. + +The sea was calm and hazy. The summer’s heat had baked to a rich gold +the green tops of the Burons, where at last the flowers had dried. The +little paddle-steamer swung into the Goulet race, making her way home by +the east coast. + +Daniel sat under the bulwark on the second-class deck, holding Thomas +Helier firmly wedged between his chest and his arm, and already a little +disconcerted by his change from a nominal to a practising father. He +resolved to take advantage of any feminine goodwill that might be shown +him on board either this or the Southampton boat. At present the baby +slept like a chrysalis in his white shawl, and after a time Daniel lost +his preoccupation with him, as the steamer slipped over the deep waters +by Les Abimes, and he looked for the last time on the Grande Moie and +the Petite Moie, on Dodon and Noire Pierre, standing out of the sea like +broken temples on a green plain. Then the steamer drew her wake past the +Eperquerie--Sark’s huge tail, lying out towards Herm, and holding a +deadly sting under the water. The race began--the little waves +fluttering round the _grunes_ at Bec du Nez.... They were out beyond it +now--looking back on all the huge, cragged bulk of that lovely, +unfriendly island, which lay now as when he had first seen it, like a +horned beast asleep upon the sea. + + + + +_PART III_ + +THE SEA + + + + +CHAPTER ONE + + +§ 1 + +Sussex was as golden-brown as Sark, and from the downs came the same +scent of hot thyme as came from the cliffs above Saignie. Otherwise +there was nothing in the Ouse Valley to remind Daniel of the Norman +isle. The twilight was full of mist, lying between the faintly curved +ridges of the downs--there was no glamour save in the sky, where the +west was the colour of a grape and the east was the colour of pale green +leaves. + +Daniel had economically taken the ’bus which ran several times a day +between Lewes and Newhaven, leaving his luggage to follow by carrier the +next morning. He felt tired after his journey, and a little sick--for +under the oily blue calms of the surface heavy swells had moved and +shuddered over the sea’s bed, and his change from boat to train at +Southampton had only added to his discomfort, by depriving him of the +fresh air. Now it was queer to smell the dust instead of the sea--the +fine, white dust of the Newhaven road--and he had that curious, cradled +feeling which he had so often known among the downs, watching their soft +ridges lying above him against the sky. + +He also had the same feeling as when he had come home after the war--the +feeling of never having been away. The past two and a half years lay +behind him like a dream, and the present hour seemed to close up with +those tragic hours at the George, when he had just lost Belle, as the +hour of waking closes with the hour of falling asleep. Indeed he was +conscious of his loss of Belle as he had never been conscious during the +last two years, and as he was not conscious of his loss of the girl who +had really belonged to him--of Rose “_la chère épouse de Daniel Le +Couteur ... nous n’avons rien apporté dans ce monde, et il est evident +que nous n’en pouvons rien emporter_.” ... It seemed as if even his +memory of her had stayed behind in Sark, and slept within sound of the +sea under the white stone. No--it was not quite like that. There was +something of her which he had brought away--one survival of that +sea-blue interlude which was still with him now that he had returned to +the main grey road of life. He looked down at Thomas Helier Sheather, +asleep in his arms. + +The baby was considerably less tired than his father. He had travelled +comfortably, wrapped in his big white shawl, and he had not fared too +ill by masculine attendance. Daniel had not miscalculated--a big +tight-bodiced woman had taken charge of him on the _Lorena_, had given +him his bottle after it had been warmed by the second-class stewardess, +and attended to even more baffling wants, finally handing him over to a +sister-woman, travelling in the coast-train, so that Daniel had not had +actually the sole charge of him till Brighton. This had given him the +happy illusion that babies are easily managed, and he looked down +affectionately at Thomas Helier, cradled in his arms, and thought how +good it would be to watch the little chap growing up, to see him +beginning to look like his mother, perhaps ... _notre Helier_ ... he +squeezed him in a passion of goodwill.... + +They were set down at the sign-post where the Telscombe lane starts on +its brief roaming. At first Daniel had a moment of qualm, when he +thought that Len had failed to meet him and that he would have to trudge +with Thomas Helier three miles across the down. But the next minute he +saw his brother’s trap coming round a bend--old bay Meg between the +shafts, so different from the sad-eyed mules that had been his beasts of +draught and burden for two years. + +“Hullo!” said Dan. + +“Hullo!” said Len. + +“Whew!” he added, at the nearer sight of Thomas Helier. + +“I squeezed him by mistake, and he’s been sick,” said Dan. “I wish you’d +brought Emmie along.” + +“Never mind. Jump up, and we’ll be at Brakey Bottom in half an hour. How +old is he?” + +“Six months. He was born the eleventh of April, and his mother died the +same night.” + +Len nodded sadly. + +“We’ve all seen a bit of trouble since we were together last.” + +“How’s Mum?” + +“Oh, she’s well enough. Pretty sick with dad, as all of us are. She’ll +be pleased to have the child.” + +Daniel wondered. + +“I can’t help thinking,” continued Len, “that none of this would have +happened if you hadn’t gone away. You kept things just within bounds +while you was at home, but directly you’d gone, nothing would stop dad +ruining the business--and I can’t see that you’ve done much for yourself +by going. Haven’t made a fortune out there, have you?” + +“No--but I couldn’t very well have stayed at home with my last young +lady living only just across the road as another man’s wife.” + +“We never know what we can do till we try,” said Len oracularly. + + + +§ 2 + +At Brakey Bottom his welcome was very much what he had expected. His +mother kissed him and reproached him for having gone away, +Christopher--whose good looks had become more striking in the last two +years--gave him some languid attention, Emmie swooped in cordial +competence upon Thomas Helier, and the children were friendly and noisy, +even after it was discovered that Uncle Daniel had not brought any +sweets. + +“You don’t seem to have brought anything at all except yourself and the +kid,” said Len. “Where’s your luggage?” + +“Following on to-morrow from Lewes.” + +“How are you off for money?” + +“I’ve got a shilling.” + +“And how d’you propose to live on that?” + +“I don’t propose to live on it--nor on you, neither, so don’t worry. +To-morrow I’m going out to look for work.” + +“And it’s precious hard to find.” + +“I know that--but I’ll find it somehow. I’ll take anything that’s +going.” + +“Well, I hope you’ll consider us, and not disgrace yourself too +thoroughly. I’m just beginning to pull the farm up in spite of +everything, and I’d as soon my brother wasn’t a railway porter or a +dustman.” + +“I’d be thankful if I could get as good a job as either--it’s more like +to be cleaning sewers in Newhaven, or driving around a laundry cart.” + +“Well, I don’t see anything to laugh about--what’s happened to you? +You’ve come back in a fine good humour--our affairs don’t seem to bother +you much.” + +“He’s fallen in love again, perhaps,” shrilled Kitty; “he’s fallen in +love with someone he met on the boat.” + +“No fear, mum. I haven’t been widowed six months.” + +“Then maybe it’s your marriage that has changed you. You look +different--more set up.” + +“You’re lucky to have been out of all our troubles,” said Leonard; +“we’ve had some fine times here without you, and not a word from father +since he sailed.” + +“Oh, your father,” groaned Kitty; “he take me away from my dear country +and my dear family and then he leave me. Did your uncles send me any +message, Daniel?” + +Daniel gave what ought to have been the messages of Uncle Philip and +Uncle Eugene but were not. + +His mother sat by him while he had his supper--the others had finished +theirs--and he told her about the Pêche à Agneau and his cousins and a +little about Moie Fano and Rose. But she did not really listen much; her +mind was full of her own trouble. She spoke of Tom Sheather as if he had +deserted her six months after their marriage, instead of thirty years. + +“Oh, you men are cruel and faithless to us poor women, who work for +you.” + +“No, mum, we ain’t,” said Christopher, who was sitting at the table +beside his mother. He rubbed his head against her shoulder--but she +pushed him away. + +“You do not love me--you are courting.” + +“What, Chris courting?--who is she?” + +“She’s Mary Wright at Exceat, and soon I shan’t have even him left----” +and her tears flowed. + +“You will--you will,” cried young Christopher. “Maybe I shan’t marry +her, and if I do, she’ll have to say you’ll live along of us.” + +“That always leads to trouble--the wife is always jealous of her +husband’s mother.” + +“Well, I don’t know as I shall marry her. I haven’t asked her yet, and +seeing the way most marriages turn out, maybe I never will. Why, your +girl, Dan, that you used to be so struck on, Belle Shackford that was, +reckon she leads poor Ernley Munk a proper life--reckon he wouldn’t be +so sorry to have his single days again.” + +“What! ain’t they happy?” asked Daniel, uneasy. + +Kitty shrugged. + +“As happy as most, maybe--but there’s few men wouldn’t like to see their +single days again soon after marriage. They all go off and leave us +sooner or later.” + +“But there’s been no trouble--no quarrel--has there?” + +“Not that I know of--but most like a lot that I don’t.” + +Daniel could not be sure whether his mother was speaking from the +bitterness of her own grievance, or whether she really had grounds for +her suspicions. He decided to let the matter drop for the moment, but +Chris pursued it rather mercilessly. + +“I remember how gone you used to be on her, Dan. Three years ago you’d +have wanted to punch my head if I’d told you that you’d soon be marrying +another woman.” + +“Yes--thank God it all come to nothing!” cried Kitty; “and it is +somebody else’s son who marries a woman who is not a lady.” + +“What are you talking about, mother?” + +“Well, no one can say Belle Shackford was ever a lady. I know how a lady +should behave; and other people know--that is why they did not let +their rooms for this September at the Crown. She’s a big scrambling +thing--and she let the visitors see her with her hair down.... I myself +see her with her hair hanging on her cheeks like straw, and her dress +all undone at the back, so as you could see right through to her stays.” + +Daniel blinked--somehow his mother’s broken words had called up an +almost agonizing picture of Belle. + +“Thank God you did not marry her,” continued Kitty. “And thank God you +did not marry a Carré or a Hamon. I have nothing against the Falles, and +I should have been pleased to meet your poor wife if she had not been +taken. But she has been taken, and I hope that some day you will marry +again, for the sake of the child. Christopher shall take you to see his +Mary Wright.” + +Daniel could not help laughing. + +“Christopher, may I marry your Mary Wright?” + +“You know I did not mean that,” sulked Kitty. + +“Come, ma,” broke in Em Sheather, who had begun to clear the table; “I +reckon Daniel’s tired after his journey and wants to go to bed. I’ve had +to put you in with the children, Danny--I know you don’t mind, and I +haven’t got room for you anywheres else.” + + +§ 3 + +The next morning Daniel went over to Bullockdean. He wanted to see Mr. +Marchbanks and to see Ernley, and perhaps Belle. He would go to the +rectory first, but before he went to it he must pass between the two +inns that stared at each other across the village street. There they +were--the George and the Crown; the creak of their signs in the wind +seemed a familiar music, but he knew that the hearts of both had +changed. + +The Crown had changed outwardly too. It had grown a new wing, of red +brick like the rest of the house, with clematis and virginia creeper +already beginning to hide its crude contrast with the mellow, time-worn +bricks of the old dwelling. The George had not changed--it looked +cracked and mean as ever, and peering through the taproom window, Dan +saw the bar as it always had been, except for a strange young man in his +shirt-sleeves, serving Messrs. Hobday and Hitch’s beer to a couple of +silent farm-hands. + +Young Sheather could not resist the temptation to walk in and spend +fourpence on a glass of the old bad ale. The man behind the bar was +inclined to be friendly. He was the new landlord, he told Daniel--the +former landlord had got into a mess with the police and had gone away to +sea. He himself came from Rottingdean, where he had been a gentleman’s +servant. The old man had died and left him a bit of money, and he’d been +tempted to take a little place like this, and his wife’s father had +helped him. So here he was and he hoped he’d do well, though the place +was a poor sort of place. He was evidently glad to have someone to talk +to--having no doubt suffered from the local prejudice against +“furriners,” and Dan, moved to sympathy by his own recent experiences, +had another glass, which reduced his capital to fourpence. + +He then went up the village to the rectory. Here were more changes, +though perhaps they were less changes than intensifications. The house +seemed more deeply sunk than usual into its orchard and garden--due, +Daniel censoriously felt, to his successor’s defective pruning--its roof +and its lawn had a shaggy, unkempt look, and the rector kept a pig, +judging by the smell that floated round from the backyard. Daniel rang +the bell disapprovingly. + +After a time the door was opened by Mr. Marchbanks himself. + +“What! Daniel!” he cried. “I didn’t know you were back yet. Come in.” + +“I came back last night.” + +“But you haven’t written to me for a year.” + +“No more I have,” said Daniel sheepishly. + +“Well, come in and have some dinner. I’m just getting it ready. Jess +Harman has gone into Lewes for the day.” + +The kitchen was pleasant with the smell of frying bacon. Daniel took the +pan, while the rector laid the table; he also made some tea, and with +that, and bread and cheese, they had a fine dinner, which Brakey Bottom +would have despised. + +“I wrote to you four or five days ago,” said the parson. “I expect you’d +left before my letter arrived.” + +“Reckon I had.” + +Mr. Marchbanks was very shy; so he did not question Daniel as to the +reason for his long silence--indeed, he had been long enough in +Bullockdean to guess that the reason might be only one of penmanship, +the difficulty of getting thoughts or even words to flow in channels of +ink. Daniel, on his side, felt a little ashamed of himself. He might at +least have sent Mr. Marchbanks a card at Christmas--there had been cards +for sale at De Cartaret’s shop. These feelings made them both a little +awkward with each other during the meal, but when it was over and they +had taken out their pipes, they both grew more talkative. Daniel told +his friend about Sark and the Le Couteurs and Rose and the cottage at +Moie Fano, and why he had come back with Thomas Helier, and how he must +now set about and look for work. The rector, in his turn, told him about +the struggle he had had in church and parsonage since Daniel went away. +Tommy Pilbeam, his immediate successor, had lapsed from house and altar +after a few months, and since then there had been a difficult variety +of doubtful youths, till at last, in self-defence, Mr. Marchbanks had +become his own gardener and sacristan. + +“That’s why the place looks so awful,” he said ruefully. “I can cope +with the church, but the garden is beyond me. Jess Harman’s a splendid +girl, but she’s got more than enough to do indoors--and I’d arranged to +sell the pig when I heard you were expected home.” + +“I dunno as I’ve got much home now. At least, it’s only Brakey Bottom, +and I don’t see as I can look properly after the pig and you if I live +over there.” + +“No--that does make it rather difficult. I wish we could think of +something. It would be simple enough if I wasn’t so stony, but I can’t +afford to pay you more than ten bob a week--indeed, I don’t see how I +can even manage that now that I’m paying twelve to Jess Harman--there +she is, by the way,” as a flowered hat went past the window. “I wonder +what’s brought her back so early?” + +As he finished speaking the door opened, and Jess walked in, elegantly +dressed in a saxe-blue coat and skirt and a picture hat trimmed with a +wreath of silk roses, to which, either from neglect or pride, the +price-ticket still adhered, to show the destination of three and +elevenpence of the rector’s twelve shillings. + +“I heard down at auntie’s that you’d come home, Daniel,” she said as she +shook hands, “so I thought I’d run back and have a look at you.” + +Evidently she saw no necessity to maintain the relations of employer and +employed out of working hours; she sat down beside Daniel and fired off +a round of Bullockdean news. + +“Reckon we’re all glad to see you home,” she finished, “and uncommon +glad to see you here. The place has been all mussed up by those louts of +boys, and we’re looking to you to put us straight again.” + +“But I don’t see how he’s to do it,” said Mr. Marchbanks--“he’s living +over at Brakey Bottom.” + +“Why can’t he live here? You’ve eleven empty rooms, as I scrub the +floors of only. You could let him have one of those, or the lot if he +likes.” + +“But how about furniture?” + +“Reckon we could manage that. It isn’t as if he’d need much--he’s not +used to anything special. There’s a chair in here we don’t use, and a +box ud do for a washstand--and a few hooks we’d want ... and maybe I +could get hold of a bed somewhere.” + +“But I’ve got a baby with me, you know,” said Dan deprecatingly. + +“So you have!--that’ll be just sweet. I could do with a kid to mind. +Look here”--she addressed her employer--“if you let him have a room, +furnished, and his meals, and I look after the kid, then he can work the +outside for us, and you needn’t pay him nothing. I don’t say it’s grand, +but it’ll do while he looks around for something better. What about it, +Daniel?” + +“Reckon it ud suit me very well. But I dunno how Mr. Marchbanks feels +about it.” + +“Oh, I should be delighted. I wish I could offer you a proper job, but +this ud be better than nothing.” + +They discussed details, and at last everything was settled, since all +three were eager that the plan should materialize. Daniel thought it a +first-class plan, since it would spare him dependence on Len’s anxious +charity during the search for work, which he felt would probably be a +long one; and when he got work it meant that he would be able to afford +quite a good sum every week for his mother, and wipe off the stigma he +wore in her eyes. He was overcome by Jess’s resource and Mr. +Marchbanks’s generosity, and felt obliged to embark on an explanation as +to why he had not written to either of them for so long--an explanation +which involved him in such embarrassments that in the middle of it Mr. +Marchbanks felt urged to remember the pig’s dinner, and they both went +out. + +That afternoon Daniel cleaned the pigsty, and then, very necessarily, +himself, and afterwards set off towards Brakey Bottom to make his final +arrangements with Len, and spend his last night in the disturbing if +beloved society of Len’s children. But on his way he would call at the +Crown. + + +§ 4 + +When he came to the inn for the second time he saw that in the new wing +was a properly equipped front door, with a bell and a letter-box, but +somehow he shrank from approaching it, and turned to his old entrance +through the bar, even though he knew it would be closed against him. + +He knocked, and the door was opened by Maudie Harman. + +“Hallo! Daniel!--this is good. I heard you’d been in the village, but I +never thought you’d come around here. How are you?” + +“Oh, I’m fine. How are you?” + +“Fine, too. Reckon you’ll have seen Jess at the Rectory. She’s quite the +lady now with her twelve bob a week.” + +“I could see that. I’m to live at the Rectory, Maudie, till I find work. +Reckon it’s a good idea, for there ain’t room for me at Brakey Bottom.” + +“What sort of work are you looking for?” + +“Any sort I can get. I’ve a kid to support now, you know.” + +“Yes, I heard you’d got a kid--fancy you, Danny, with a kid!” and Maudie +rocked with laughter. “What’s he like, Daniel?” + +“Well, he ain’t like much just yet. Em says he takes after me.” + +“Was his mother dark or fair?” + +“She wasn’t neither----” he suddenly found that he did not want to talk +to Maudie about Rose. “Who’s in just now?” + +“They’re both in, and ull be unaccountable glad to see you. But you +shouldn’t ought to have come in this way. There’s a front door now, and +a servant to answer the bell--in a cap, too. I’m sorry you missed her.” + +“I’m glad. Let me in this way, Maudie--it’s the way I always used to +come.” + +“Come on, then. But I’m going to show you the new smoking-room. You’ve +got to see that. Reckon it ain’t to be beat outside Eastbourne.” + +She ushered Daniel into a long, low room with French windows, cream +walls, and saddle-bag armchairs. It was hung with sporting prints, and +with his own eyes he saw the glories of Ernley’s electric light. Maudie +switched it on to make the splendour complete. + +“There now! See what the Crown has got to! I’m lucky to be still here--I +feel the next thing ull be a barman in a white coat and cocktails. Now +don’t you touch anything while I go and find the boss--your hands don’t +look over-clean.” + +A whimpering sound came from the room above. + +“Babies,” said Maudie as she went out--“we have ’em, too. Everybody’s +got ’em now, seemingly.” + +She had not been gone a minute before steps sounded in the passage, and +the next moment Ernley was in the room, gripping both Daniel’s hands in +his own. + +“Thank heaven you’re back. This is splendid, Dan. And you’ve not changed +a bit--except that you look bigger, somehow. I wonder why?” + +“I dunno--maybe it’s having been married.” + +Ernley laughed thinly. + +“Most men find it makes ’em smaller.... Well, anyhow, I’m glad you +haven’t quarrelled with me, old chap--like Leonard.” + +“Reckon I’d be sorry to do that.” + +“I’m glad to hear you say it. I don’t really know why he was so mad with +me, except that I honestly thought and said this wretched thing wouldn’t +have happened if your father’s family had looked after him.” + +“It might or it mightn’t,” said Dan sagely, sitting down with extreme +care and consciousness of his dirty breeches on the edge of one of the +leather armchairs. + +“It’s easy enough to stop gambling, you know--and people getting drunk, +too.... I believe there was a lot of that.” + +“Always was.” + +“But we never have it here--it’s a thing that can easily be stopped. You +used to stop it yourself when you were at home. You should never have +gone away--a silly idea that was going to stay with your mother’s +people. They’re just a lot of savages. Didn’t you think ’em so?” + +“Yes, I did, and they thought the same of me.” + +“Well, I hope they haven’t turned you into one. You look different, +somehow--cheekier ... and now I suppose you’re out of a job. What do you +propose to do?” + +“I was wondering if you’d take me on as barman.” + +“The devil you did. But, joking apart, Daniel, it’s a rotten show, +looking for work these days. I know many a good chap who’s been landed +on his uppers. I’m damn lucky to have this place--though sometimes I +feel I’d like to burn it down.” + +“But you’re doing well, ain’t you?” + +“We’re doing famously. Think--we’re let for Christmas already.... Hallo, +Belle!” + +“Hallo, Daniel,” said Belle. + +Dan rose scramblingly out of the armchair as she came into the room. + + +§ 5 + +His first impression was that Belle had changed--she had a sleek, +trimmed look about her, somehow, different from her old opulent +blowziness. Her hair was all smooth and coiled--it must have been in a +forgetful moment that Kitty Sheather had seen it hanging on her cheeks +like straw--her dress had elegant lines and no immodest gapes, her +ankles were silk and her feet shining. Dan had a supreme sensation of +awkwardness, of being just a common boy, a common country boy in common +clothes, with common, clumsy manners--as he scrambled out of the leather +armchair, treading on his hat which he had laid beside him on the floor. +His hand, clean with that painful scrubbed cleanness which is so much +more damning than dirt, was in Belle’s--and then he knew that she +wasn’t really sleek and trimmed--she only looked it. She had only +brushed herself up a bit in his honour and in honour of the Crown, she +was really just the old Belle, in spite of her changed life and looks, +just as he, in spite of his, was just the old Daniel. + +“I’m pleased to see you again, Belle,” he said, gripping her hand. + +“And I to see you, I’m sure.” + +She gave a nervous giggle, and he wondered how he ever could have +thought her fine. + +“I heard your babies crying a minute ago,” he said, friendly. “You’ve +got a pair of ’em, I’m told.” + +“Yes--Jill and Peter. You have one, too, haven’t you, Daniel?” + +“Yes--Thomas Helier, named after his two grandfathers. I’ll show him to +you, Belle, some day. You’ll let me see yourn, won’t you?” + +Ernley laughed. + +“They’re not much to look at--I think all children under twelve should +be farmed out. It’s too humiliating to be reminded at every turn that +the early stages of one’s life were so entirely animal.” + +Daniel was shocked at such speech. + +“Reckon I’d sooner have a kid about me than most things.” + +“Don’t tell me you’re fond of yours.” + +“Reckon I am--and you of yours, for all your talk.” + +“I don’t deny that I shall be some day. But I’m not now. They’re too +animal, without an animal’s cheapness and independence. Besides, they’re +a nuisance in a house like this--scare people off--I’ll always say that +it was because of them we didn’t let for October.” + +“Oh, Ernley, you know they only cancelled it because the gentleman had +doctor’s orders for the South of France.” + +“That’s what they said--but I’ve a good idea they’d heard from the +Rolands that our youngsters howl o’ nights.” + +“I don’t see why the Rolands should complain--their rooms were right on +the other side of the house.” + +“But your precious Jill and Peter made enough noise to raise both sides +of the house. I’m not complaining--there’s no use complaining of the +inevitable--I’m merely pointing to facts, and it’s a fact that children +in a hotel are bad business.” + +“But you’re doing well, aren’t you, Ernley?” said Dan. “Seeing as you’re +let for Christmas.” + +“Yes, I’ve the whole place let for Christmas, which certainly isn’t +bad.” + +“How many can you hold?” + +“Not more than a dozen--but I shall build on a bit more in the spring. +We were full all the summer, though we’ve only a few here now.” + +“Well, you’ve gone up while we’ve gone down, I reckon.” + +“Yes, and I’m sorry for it--for your side of it, I mean. As for +me--well, it’s nothing to shout about. I’ve turned a decent country pub +into a decent country hotel--that’s all. It isn’t much when one comes to +think of it. When I was crawling over the mud at Wipers I’d have been +devilish upset if someone had told me that was all I’d do with my +life--maybe I shouldn’t have been so anxious not to stop a bullet.” + +Daniel thought Ernley’s attitude unthankful. After all, the problems of +existence seemed wondrously settled for the landlord of the Crown. He +looked round the comfortable room with the saddle-bag armchairs and the +sporting prints on the walls--he looked at Ernley, and detected just the +faint sketching of a curve under his waistcoat--and then at Belle, with +her glowing face under her gleaming hair, and thought of her as Ernley’s +wife, as Ernley’s rich and comfortable possession.... And there was he, +without a home or money or a job or a wife ... some words were ringing +in his ears: “And yet the dogs shall eat the crumbs....” + +“A penny for your thoughts,” said Ernley jocosely. + +“You’re welcome--I could do with it. I was only thinking I was a bit +unlucky--that’s all.” + +“Yes, you’ve had a pretty stiff time in some ways. But it ull +change--you’re not the sort to keep down. I wish I could think of +something for you, though. I’ve a plan in my head for buying the stream +field and starting a few head of poultry and a couple of cows--‘Eggs and +milk from the home farm,’ you know--but it won’t be for a great while +yet. Can’t Len give you a bit of work, just for your board and keep?” + +“No--he’s doing that for Christopher.” + +“Well, he’ll house you till you’ve found something, I reckon.” + +“I’m going to live along of Mr. Marchbanks.” + +“The devil you are. Well, you must manage your own affairs.” + +“What’s the matter with this?” + +“Oh, nothing. I don’t care for Marchbanks, that’s all. Visitors don’t +like his sort--they like a family at the rectory. Marchbanks doesn’t +even live like a gentleman.” + +“He can’t afford to.” + +“Then he shouldn’t have taken the living--always bad for a place if the +parson doesn’t live in proper style.” + +“Well, I’d be in a bad way if it wasn’t for him, whatever his style. Len +hasn’t got house-room for me, and I must go somewhere--I reckon Mr. +Marchbanks ull keep me till I find work, in exchange for my doing a bit +about the garden.” + +He rose to go, feeling ruffled at Ernley’s criticism of his benefactor. +Also it would be past tea-time at Brakey Bottom.... As he rose he met +Belle’s eyes. + +“Won’t you stay?” she said--“and have a cup of tea with us and see the +children.” + +But her eyes weren’t saying that. They were saying: “Please go--I can’t +bear to see you, all poor and homeless as you are, while I have silk +dresses and silk stockings. I’m very sorry for you, Danny, so please +go.” + + + + +CHAPTER TWO + + +§ 1 + +The next morning Daniel moved his son and his other belongings over to +Bullockdean, borrowing the Brakey Bottom trap. His family were obviously +relieved to find that he was making some sort of a home for himself, +though they, too, were inclined to be contemptuous of the poverty and +celibacy of Bullockdean Parsonage. There was no denying that, as it +happened, the whole thing was mighty convenient.... Em, of course, was +miserable at having to part with Thomas Helier, and for some time +continued to assert tearfully that she could have found room for the two +of them somewhere--but Len mistrusted his brother’s presence for +practical reasons. His temperament brooded over the troubles of the +“out-of-work”; he foresaw Dan for long weeks unemployed--in winter too, +when he could be of no use on the farm--and finally in desperation +taking a job under the Sewage Department of the Newhaven Corporation.... +It was better that his brother should go where he could at least make +some appreciable return for his board and keep, and would not be driven +into the hasty acceptance of menial offers. + +As it happened, Dan’s life at the Parsonage involved much of what Len +would have thought menial if he had known its details. He had started +with the idea that he would look after the pig and garden, clean the +boots and carry the coals, while Jess Harman worked indoors, with the +scrubbing, dusting, cooking and the care of Thomas Helier. But after a +week or two their positions altered. Dan had always been secretly fond +of housework, and on an occasion when Jess was away again in Lewes, it +was discovered that he was very much the better cook of the two. Not in +vain had he cooked for his Rose at Moie Fano.... Also he had learned to +make coffee in the same school, and for months Mr. Marchbanks had been +drinking Jess’s tea as the lesser of two evils.... So after some +friendly discussion the matter was resettled. Jess still had charge of +Thomas Helier, except at nights, when she went home to her auntie’s, +also of the cleaning and bed-making; but instead of cooking she took +over the lighter part of Dan’s gardening job, pushed the lawnmower, and +trimmed the borders, while he stood in the kitchen, with her sacking +apron tied round his waist and his sleeves rolled above his elbows, +spelling out slowly from the cookery book which guided his more +ambitious efforts. + +For as a cook Daniel was ambitious in a way that he had never been as a +man. He could not very substantially gratify his ambition on a +housekeeping allowance of two pounds a week, but his imagination soared +above the hashes and milk-puddings that Jess considered a suitable diet +for a country clergyman. He brooded much over the “Entrée” division of +the cookery-book, he produced a curry and a hot-pot, he attempted, and +after three attempts achieved, a rabbit pie. + +“Daniel fancies himself, don’t he?” Jess would say, when in her capacity +of parlourmaid she would set his latest production before her master. + +On the whole the scheme worked well. Daniel liked living with Mr. +Marchbanks, and liked working for him. Their friendship was a sound one, +for it was accompanied by a certain shyness, which made each appreciate +and respectfully leave standing the barriers between them. On one side +was Eton and Oxford and a theological college--on the other was the son +of the inn, the chucker-out of drunken men, the country boy working with +his hands, never quite clean, his mind holding the confused dregs of a +board-school education. They met on the common ground of their poverty, +both living by contrivance from day to day, Dan bringing his friend the +gift of his willing service, and in return sitting at his feet for the +greater necessities of life, the good things he had forgotten while he +was in Sark. + +He was fond of Jess Harman, too, and they went through the day’s work as +comrades. Soon all difference disappeared between the male and the +female tasks, and Mr. Marchbanks never knew whether it was Dan or Jess +who would feed the pig or make the beds or mow the lawn or take Thomas +Helier out in his push-cart. Jess had produced the push-cart from some +unknown source, also the furniture she had promised for their bedroom--a +camp-bed, a crate, a packing-case or two, a few hooks, a jug and basin +and a chair. He in his turn had covered everything with a “polished-oak” +stain, so successfully that he had been encouraged to apply the +treatment to the rest of the house--indeed, he became so enterprising in +the way of stains that Mr. Marchbanks was forced into one of his rare +acts of self-defence, and shut his study door against the advancing tide +of decoration. + +Dan found those first weeks of autumn very happy ones, in spite of his +continued failure to hear of a job, and a certain feeling of sadness +that his mother could so contentedly let him go and live five miles +away, when perhaps her intervention would have kept him near her. But he +had always tacitly accepted the fact of her preference for Christopher, +and his moments of revolt were only occasional and queerly uncomplicated +by jealousy--though sometimes he allowed himself the luxury of wondering +what she would do when Christopher had married his Mary Wright. + +As October wore on into November he became anxious on the score of his +unemployment. It is true that he worked hard for his keep, but he was +not actually saving the rector’s money, as he knew that he and the child +together cost more than the few shillings Mr. Marchbanks would have paid +Tommy Pilbeam or Freddie Pont for the outside work. Thomas Helier was a +glutton for milk, and Dan knew that he himself ate a terrible lot--he +couldn’t help it. He called at the Labour Exchange in Lewes two or three +times a week, and regularly studied the advertisement columns in the +_East Sussex Herald_ and the _Sussex Daily News_; but it was a bad time +to be out of work--winter was at hand, with stagnation on the farms, and +everywhere money was short, economy rife, and labour profuse and +rampant. + +He soon gave up the hope of finding honourable work on a farm or at an +inn, and in time his ambition sank even below the status of corporation +employee, which Len had despised. He was not proud--he would stick at +nothing--all the same he could not help wondering what his brothers and +his mother, or even Jess and Mr. Marchbanks, would think when at last he +found a job as conductor of a motor-bus plying between Newhaven and +Uckfield. + + +§ 2 + +The first person he told about it was Belle. When he came back from the +motor-bus company’s offices in Lewes Mr. Marchbanks was out, and Jess +was sweeping in some distant part of the house, having left Thomas +Helier asleep in his soap-box cradle. Daniel was an adventurous father, +and unimpressed by the advantages of a sleeping child, he decided to +take his son out for an airing in the push-cart. To be rudely awakened, +to have your woolly cap crammed over your head by a well-meaning but +male hand, and finally to be strapped sitting up into a push-cart +intended for a child three times your age, are an accumulation of pains +not to be suffered in silence, and Thomas Helier was not silent. + +“What are you doing, Dan?” shouted Jess out of an upstairs window, as +they went down the parsonage drive. + +“Taking out the kid.” + +“That’s plain enough--poor little mite! Why couldn’t you leave him +alone? He was sleeping beautiful.” + +“It ain’t healthy for him to be always indoors.” + +“He ain’t always indoors. You are a meddler, Daniel.” + +“Well, he’s my own child. I can do what I like with him.” + +“Oh, hark to that now! There’s a Christian father! Poor little soul, his +cap’s right over his face. Really, I’ll be thankful when you’ve got a +job and won’t come interfering....” + +Dan walked out of earshot, rather haughtily, and as soon as he saw he +was out of eyeshot, too, he stopped and pulled the baby’s cap off his +eyes, tickled his neck, and otherwise tried to propitiate him. But +Thomas Helier still howled mightily, and at that moment Belle appeared. + +“Hullo, Daniel!--and you’ve got the baby!” + +She came and stooped over the push-cart. Dan wished she could have found +his son in a more engaging mood, but he saw that her eyes were both +eager and tender as she looked into the crimson, furious little face. + +“Poor little soul! He isn’t comfortable. May I lift him out, Daniel?” + +“Of course you may, Belle.” + +“He isn’t old enough really to sit up in a push-cart. There, there, my +beautiful--I’ve got you. Isn’t that better, my gem?” + +The soft curve of her arm was under Thomas Helier’s backbone--his +yelling died suddenly down. + +“Is this the first time you’ve seen him?” asked Daniel. + +“Oh, I’ve seen him about now and then, but this is the first time I’ve +held him--there’s a sweet--there’s a lovely boy.” + +“I never knew you was fond of children,” said Daniel idiotically. + +“I don’t know that I ever thought about them much till I had them of my +own. You like my Jill and Peter, don’t you?” + +“Reckon I do, though I haven’t seen much of them, either.” + +“You haven’t seen much of any of us. I expect you’ve been busy.” + +“Yes--I’ve had a lot to do for Mr. Marchbanks, and I’ve been looking for +work besides.” + +“Haven’t you heard of anything yet?” + +“I’ve just got a job this morning.” + +“What sort of a job?” + +“Oh, a grand job. I’m to be conductor on the Downs Omnibus Company’s +’bus between Newhaven and Uckfield. I shall wear a fine coat with brass +buttons. You’ll be proud to know me.” + +He laughed without malice. She was wearing a fur coat, and a velvet cap +pulled low over the golden hanks of her hair. Beside her was a man who +was glad to get thirty shillings a week as conductor of a country +’bus--a man who had loved her, whose arms had held her, before she wore +fur and velvet. + +“Well, I’m glad you’ve found something, though I wish it had been +better. Will your hours be long?” + +“Nine till seven--and I’ve got to get to and from Newhaven.” + +“It sounds heavy--but I suppose you’ll have half a day off and your +Sundays.” + +“Yes, I’ll have that.” + +“You must come and see us when you’re free. Ernley was saying only +yesterday that he’s scarcely seen you since you came back to +Bullockdean.” + +“I’ve been cooking for them at the rectory, and doing a lot of work +besides, as well as going in to the Labour Exchange three times a week. +I’ve meant to come round a dunnamany times. Now I’ve got a job maybe +I’ll be able to look in now and then after supper.” + +“Come and have supper with us.” + +“Reckon you’ll have too grand suppers for me these days.” + +“Don’t talk nonsense, Daniel. We won’t have it with the visitors--not +that we think you aren’t ‘grand’ enough, but we’d much rather be by +ourselves.” + +“Don’t you like the visitors?” + +Belle shrugged, and laughed a little ruefully. + +“I dunno--they scare me, somehow--at least our sort do. Such ladies and +gentlemen!... ‘Do you know that your chambermaid doesn’t wipe out the +basins when she empties them?’--I’d never heard of such a thing till I +came here, though I never let on I hadn’t--not even to Ernley. Dan, I +wasn’t meant to be a hotel-keeper’s wife.” + +“It’s a difficult job, but you look very well on it, Belle.” + +“Do I?” she asked, almost eagerly. “Do you think I’ve improved?” + +“Yes--you’re more elegant, somehow. And I like your clothes--not but +that I didn’t like the old ones.” + +“Oh, they were rubbish, and I was always untidy. I’m often untidy still, +but Ernley’s taught me a lot. He’s dreadfully particular about what I +wear and what I look like.” + +“Well, reckon he must be pleased, anyway.” + +She seemed touched by his goodwill. + +“Dan, you don’t--I mean, you’ve quite forgiven me for the way I treated +you all that time ago?” + +Perhaps she ought not to have said it till they had knit together more +strands of their severed acquaintance, but she could not help it. + +“It wasn’t forgiving I had to do, but forgetting,” he said slowly. + +“But you’ve done that.” + +“Yes, I’ve done it now--sure enough.” + +There was a moment’s awkward silence. Then he said: + +“Anyways I’m uncommon glad we’re friends again. It was terrible being +shut of you and Ernley.... I must come around and see old Ernley as soon +as ever I can.” + +“Come and see him now. He’ll be in by tea-time, and till then we can sit +in the nursery and watch the babies. I’d like to see how mine and yours +get on together.” + +The idea pleased Daniel, and they walked on towards the Crown, Belle +still carrying the peaceful Thomas Helier. It was rather wonderful, +Daniel thought, that, after all, she should carry his child in her arms. + + +§ 3 + +The nursery at the Crown was in the new wing, a beautiful room with a +frieze of nursery rhymes, and a crawling-pen beside the fire. Dan’s +eyes opened wide at the sight of it and at the sight of the nurse in +uniform. + +“Lord, but you are fine, Belle!--reckon this is a grand place for kids +... and look at their toys, too.” + +He realized for the first time that Thomas Helier had no toys. He was +rather young for any, it is true; nevertheless Dan experienced his first +real pang of envy as he looked at the shelf on which sat a Teddy-bear, +Pip and Squeak, and other more indefinite animals. + +Belle sat down by the fire with Thomas Helier on her knee, and held up a +woolly ball before him. He stretched out his hands, and kicked +delightedly. It was wonderful how she managed him, thought +Daniel--better than Jess, better certainly than his poor father. As he +looked at her it seemed as if the lines of her face had changed, had +grown softer, more maternal. From a wanton Belle had become a mother. +Had her heart roved only till it had found this, its real desire? + +Her own children were two fair, sturdy little creatures, one about two +years old, the other the same age as Thomas Helier. They wore little +silk smocks that made Dan painfully conscious of his son’s limitations +as a well-dressed baby. It was a pity that he would kick in that +ecstatic way and show what inevitably suggested comparisons. He tried to +straighten his legs upon Belle’s lap, but Thomas Helier only kicked +harder, while otherwise grossly testifying his delight in the situation. + +“What a darling he is!--come and look at him, Jill. Look at the dear +little baby.” + +But the little Munks were as uninterested as small children usually are +in each other. Their curiosity centred in Daniel. + +“Tick-tick,” demanded Jill. + +“Ain’t got none,” said Dan. + +But Jill’s experience did not so far include man as apart from watch; +once more she demanded: + +“Tick-tick.” + +“Don’t bother him, darling--he hasn’t got a tick-tick. But he’s got a +dear little boy just Peter’s age. Come and look at him.” + +“Ugh,” said Jill at the sight of Thomas Helier. Then she gripped Dan’s +trouser-leg and repeated--“tick-tick.” + +Both Dan and Belle laughed. + +“Aren’t children funny!” said Belle. “I’m glad you’re laughing, Daniel. +But don’t let her worry you--I’m afraid I don’t always realize what a +nuisance she is. Ernley says these two annoy the visitors, and the +trouble is I can’t see it, so don’t stop it.” + +He noticed that she seemed unable to speak of Ernley without some sort +of self-depreciation. + +“Well, you can’t keep children in a house as if they was rabbits,” he +remarked sagely--“they’re bound to spannel about a bit. Look at mine--he +almost fills the rectory, as you might say. It’s lucky Mr. Marchbanks +don’t mind, though sometimes he’ll yell o’nights as if it was blue +murder. If Mr. Marchbanks don’t mind, I don’t see why Ernley should, +seeing as he’s the father, which Mr. Marchbanks ain’t, though he’s got +to put up with it all the same.” + +“Oh, Ernley doesn’t mind for himself. It’s for the visitors. You’ve no +idea what a difference it’s made, him having charge of this hotel. While +his father was alive and ran it, he didn’t bother about it much, but now +it’s all the world to him.... Hark! there he is, I believe,” as a +motor-cycle was heard in the street. “We’ll go downstairs, if it is, +Daniel, as he likes to find his tea ready.” + + +§ 4 + +The motor-cyclist proved to be Ernley, and he was delighted to see +Daniel, and they all three had a comfortable, friendly tea together in +the smoking-room of the Crown. They talked about Dan’s new work, which +amused Ernley very much. + +“I’ll come for a ride in your ’bus--we both will. But look here, my boy; +directly I settle about that river land and start the farm, you’ll come +to me. That’s settled.” + +“I’d be glad to come, Ernley, but reckon I ain’t experienced +enough--you’ll want someone more used to that kind of job. I’ve been a +barman and a fisherman and I’ll have been a ’bus conductor, but I guess +none of them ull show me how to look after chickens.” + +“Nonsense--you’ve kept poultry at the George and a pig at the parsonage, +to say nothing of having helped on your uncle’s farm in Sark. I shan’t +run a big affair--only a few fowls and pigs, and a cow or two. But maybe +it’ll all come to nothing--it depends on the price Lord Gage ull take. +We haven’t got a terrible lot of capital at the Crown--all the money +goes in improvements....” Dan was beginning to discover that the subject +of the Crown was a bottomless well into which dropped most of Ernley’s +conversations. This one went in deeper and deeper, till at last Dan +began to have uneasy thoughts of Thomas Helier’s bedtime and Jess +Harman’s wrath at its delay. + +“Reckon I must be taking the kid back home. Thank you, Belle, for the +cup of tea--glad to have seen you, Ernley.” + +Ernley tried to keep him, but Belle, knowing the importance of a baby’s +bed-time, herself fetched Thomas Helier and packed him as comfortably as +might be into the push-cart. Then at the last moment she stooped and put +beside him the woolly ball. + +“Let him take it home. He loved playing with it so.” + +For a moment Dan had no voice to thank her. Thomas Helier’s reproach +among babies had been taken away--and taken away by Belle, with a +gesture which made him realize how little of her he had really lost. + + + + +CHAPTER THREE + + +There was some vexation at Brakey Bottom when it was discovered that Dan +had become the conductor of the Uckfield ’bus, but there was really very +little to be done in the way of protest, beyond words, which were +plentiful. Besides, he was earning thirty shillings a week, fifteen of +which he paid his mother; therefore he had solved the financial problem +of those days. + +The work was arduous, but he liked it--it was so personal ... and it +involved the active, physical service which had always appealed to an +officious element in him. Dan liked helping old women with heavy +baskets, children on their way from school, mothers with large families +inclined to spread about the ’bus. He also liked throwing out drunken +men who tried to travel without a ticket--it was like old times at the +George--and “sassing back” the people who rode on his ’bus and then +scolded him because it wasn’t the ’bus for Chailey or Seaford. There was +nothing aloof or detached or inhuman about conducting a ’bus, especially +when it was a ’bus which jogged and meandered through country lanes, +linking up farms and small villages, taking its regular freight of farm +stuff and farm-people, as well as the interest of strangers, or a tramp +with a few halfpence to spare for a ride. + +Daniel’s day went by rule, or he never could have done in it as much as +he did. Every morning he was up at six, to feed the pig and attend to +any household jobs that, in his opinion, could not wait till Jess Harman +appeared at the more reasonable hour of eight. Then on most mornings he +would represent the village of Bullockdean at its altar. As he lived at +the parsonage, it seemed natural that this function should be his more +often than Tommy Pilbeam’s or Freddie Pont’s or other youths whose +punctuality was more uncertain. It was rather a strain on his already +over-filled day, but Dan would have done much more for Mr. Marchbanks, +who had housed and fed him when his own family were reluctant to do so, +and still bore with Thomas Helier’s crying o’nights.... So there stood +Mr. Marchbanks looking rather like a big green beetle, and there knelt +Daniel trying how much of the Confession he could say in one breath, and +there behind them lay the darkness and emptiness of Bullockdean Church. +It was bitterly cold, as they could not afford to have the heating on +week-days, but he soon grew warm in the hurry back to the parsonage, +with perhaps a turn at Jess Harman’s broom, or a few minutes at the fire +with a sluggish kettle. Half an hour for breakfast and washing up--half +an hour for the tramp into Newhaven--when he had saved some money he +would buy a bicycle--and at nine o’clock he was incredibly at the Downs +Motor Company’s office in Bridge Road, ready to start out on their first +’bus. + +It was as well that he was warm and glowing with all his haste, for the +overcoat with the brass buttons was not of the thickest material, and it +was cold work standing on the back step of a ’bus in winter-time. They +would take a few farm labourers out of Newhaven, men employed on farms +outside the town, who could not find cottages near their work. These +would be set down all along the road between Newhaven and Southease, and +others picked up and carried on to the farms; for it was the same all +over the district, and the old-time labourer’s right to live on the +ground he tilled was lost and the loss accepted. + +The ’bus did not take the direct route from Lewes to Uckfield, but an +eccentric road of its own, looping to include villages a mile or so +away--Ringmer and the Broyle--then turning abruptly north to East +Hoathly, and up to Framfield by Iron Peartree. They were, as a rule, +pretty empty by then, for it was past ten o’clock, and the farm-men were +all at their work and the children were all in school, and it was too +early for more casual road traffic. Between Framfield and Uckfield they +might pick up a few early shoppers, but they often ran empty into the +town. For half an hour the ’bus stood outside the Maiden’s Head, while +Dan and the motor-man smoked their fags--then she went out again by +Bird-in-Eye, generally well loaded. As she ran back through Hoathly and +Ringmer her load increased, and she would often enter Lewes quite full. +On market day there would be tremendous packs and crushes, and Dan would +pull the bell, shouting: “Full up, please,” guarding the entrance with a +sturdy arm. + +They made this journey twice a day, leaving Newhaven at nine and three. +In a week or so Dan knew every scrap of the road by heart, every hill, +every haystack. He depended on the passengers for any variety in his +day, and they themselves seemed to follow a well-worn rule--farm-men out +of Newhaven, old women shoppers into Uckfield, young women shoppers into +Lewes in the morning, and cinema-goers in the evening. Now and then +there would be small excitements--once they took a wedding-party from +Lewes to Rushy Green, the bride very shy, the bridegroom ashamed, and +the guests uproarious; another time a young woman felt ill in the ’bus, +and held Dan’s hand for a mile ... and there were always parcels that +were left behind, and children that were sick, or had lost the pennies +they had been given for their fares ... so altogether he found the life +exciting, and felt pleasurably thrilled and tired when eight o’clock saw +him back at Bullockdean, hungry for supper after his dinner of bread and +cheese. + +He had the whole of Wednesday afternoon off to attend to the garden, and +his Sundays were always free, and spent at Brakey Bottom. Here he would +console his mother, who smarted much under Christopher’s courtship of +his Mary Wright, which took him away to Exceat Bridge every Sunday. Dan +knew that her displayed affection was intended rather as a rebuke to one +son than as a reward to the other, nevertheless, he rejoiced in those +new caresses of provocation, and would give her in return those which +were not coiners’ money, but the currency of true love. Of other comfort +he could give but little, for the situation was outside his +understanding. He was wounded and puzzled by his mother’s selfishness in +trying to thwart her son in the chief business of a man’s life, and his +own experience made it hard for him to realize a love which could be +given to a wife only at the expense of a mother. Still, his whole +philosophy and tendency was to take what he could get and be thankful, +and he was glad to feel a little boy again with his head on his mother’s +shoulder, even though he knew that her arm drew him really close only +when Christopher came and stood in the doorway, staring at them with +shadowed eyes. + +The spare moments of the day were spent with Len, pottering round the +farm and lending a sympathetic ear to his grievances--or else Ivy and +Leslie would be waiting for him with their “Snakes and Ladders,” still +only partly superseded by a race-game with motor-cars. Meanwhile Emmie +“went over” Thomas Helier, as she put it--sewed on buttons and let down +tucks, and otherwise repaired the omissions of the week. She would have +taken charge of him altogether, but Dan was very insistent that he had +“got used” to him, and at the end of the day invariably packed him into +the push-cart and trundled him home. What would Jess Harman say, he +wondered, if he came back without him? or Mr. Marchbanks, with all his +strict notions on the duties of parents to children, which was what he +always preached about, him being a bachelor, instead of the +old-fashioned duties of children to parents that the village was used +to. Or, for that matter, what would he say himself if he broke his one +link with “_la chère épouse de Daniel Le Couteur_,” asleep under the +ilex trees?--that golden Rose with the laughing name, whose love had +given him no pain or fear or sorrow, but had grown up in his heart like +a rose, and, like a rose, in death was still sweet. + +No, he would not part with Thomas Helier, even to the kind Emmie, who +would care for him better than either Jess Harman or his own father. He +would wheel him home down the ruts of the Telscombe lane--if Len were +too busy to put the mare to and give them a lift as far as the high +road--and then down the road, almost in the ditch to avoid the great +cars that swept by, till the sign-post pointed them once more into the +by-ways. Then at last they would trundle between the lights of the +George and the Crown, spilled together in one pool in the midst of +Bullockdean Street, and find the rectory dark, with Mr. Marchbanks and +Jess Harman still in church. Shut out by his possession of Thomas Helier +both from church and tavern, Dan would take him into the kitchen, to the +red gleeds of the fire, and put him into his cradle, while he heated his +milk, and thought with equal regret of the beer he might have drunk and +the hymns he might have sung. + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + + +§ 1 + +During the first weeks of his new work Dan had not much time to spare +for calling at the Crown. He was generally so tired when he came in of +an evening that he could think only of supper and bed. His Wednesday +afternoons were full of long arrears of work in house and garden, and +his Sundays were spent at Brakey Bottom. But shortly before Christmas, +he unexpectedly met Ernley in Lewes High Street. It was a rainy night, +and he had just come off the last ’bus, which had been run into Lewes +for repairs, when he saw him turn the corner out of Station Road. Munk +hailed him with gratifying eagerness. + +“Hullo, old Daniel--it’s good to see you. Where are you going?” + +“I’m just starting home.” + +“Come in and have a bite of something with me, and I’ll run you back in +the side-car. I’ve wanted a talk with you this age, but I never seem to +see you anywhere.” + +“I’ve been wonderful busy on the ’bus.” + +“I bet you have--and you look as if it suited you. You’re a marvellous +chap, Daniel.” + +“In what way?” + +“Oh, leading the life you do and keeping well and cheery with it all.” + +“It ain’t a bad life.” + +“It’s a shocking life, and I’m ashamed that you should have to lead it. +But it doesn’t seem as if I’d ever get that farm going. The tenant won’t +go out--you know old Bream’s had the brook lands since Burnt Oak was +divided, and I can’t quite get round Lord Gage on the price.” + +“Oh, I’m right enough--I don’t have much time to worry.” + +“Well, come and feed, anyhow. We’ll go to the White Hart.” + +A few minutes later they were sitting in the warmth of the coffee-room, +the day’s rain steaming off Daniel’s clothes. + +“I’m uncommonly glad to see you, Dan. D’you know--it’s so good having +you back again, and finding that....” He stopped a little before he +need, to take the bill of fare from the waitress. + +They had chops and tomatoes, with porter, followed by treacle roll and +coffee. Daniel was in high spirits--it was months since he had had such +a meal on a week-day, and he was pleased to find that he and Ernley had +slipped back so happily into the old relationship. Distrust and jealousy +were gone, and Ernley was talking to him as in the old times, laying +down the law on politics, racing, farming and innkeeping--chiefly the +last. + +Afterwards they had coffee, and Ernley had two brandies. These seemed to +turn his conversation into more personal channels. He finished a +sentence he had begun before dinner. + +“It’s so good having you back again, and finding that we’ve got over all +that muddle--you and me--about Belle, you know.” + +“Yes, I’m glad of that.” + +“When I heard you were coming back, I wasn’t sure how you’d have got +over it. You’d been away two years and you’d married another girl, but +somehow I’d an idea you might come back feeling pretty much the +same--about me, I mean ... thinking I’d taken Belle from you and +suchlike.” + +“I never thought you’d taken her from me, Ernley--she’d left me before +she went back to you.” + +“But she left you because of me--she told me she did. It seems that I +was troubling her more or less all the time. Queer, isn’t it?” + +“Yes, it’s queer.” + +Dan had a sudden memory, so acute as to be almost a vision, of himself +facing Belle in the little parlour at Three Cups Corner, and for the +first time since his return some of the misery of those days came back +to him. He felt his love for Belle driving through his heart--not as an +actual reality, but as a memory too much alive. He said no more, but sat +in silence, smoking one of Ernley’s cigarettes. + +Munk dropped the stump of his own into his coffee. + +“Damn it all, Dan--now you’re at it I can talk to you. There’s no one +else I can talk to, for I never was much of a chap for making friends. +Now tell me--when you saw Belle and me together, what did you think of +us?” + +“I thought--I thought you were all right. Don’t tell me I was wrong.” + +“You weren’t very sharp. But of course--oh, I suppose one tries to hide +these things.” + +“What things?” + +“That one’s making one’s wife unhappy.” + +“You ain’t never telling me that!” + +His heart began to beat quickly with sickness and anger. + +“Yes, I am. Did you think I’d stopped doing it just because I’d married +her? No--I haven’t. I’ve gone on like I always did. But the queer thing +is that though marriage hasn’t changed me, it’s changed her. She’s +become something different. You know what Belle always used to be--the +wild, roving kind, out for passion. I never thought she’d turn into the +mother-kind of woman--children first, husband nowhere....” + +“Come, Ernley--that isn’t true.” + +“Maybe it isn’t. That’s just what’s wrong with me. I exaggerate +everything. The truth is that Belle’s turned into a thoroughly good wife +and mother, and I don’t appreciate it.” + +“That wild kind often does--it’s what they’re out after all along, +though maybe they don’t know it.” + +“Then she ought to have married you.” + +“What nonsense! She didn’t love me.” + +“She’d have loved you if you’d married her. I know it’s my own fault +that she didn’t, and it’s right I should be punished for it, but not +right that she should be.” + +“It seems to me you’re talking some unaccountable rubbish. Belle ud +never have been happy along of me--I’m too quiet for her. But she’d be +happy enough along of you if you weren’t always criticizing her and +pulling out your feelings to look at ’em and make other people look at +’em when they don’t want to.” + +“I’m sorry, Dan. I know you don’t want to, but you must. If you don’t, +Belle will have to. It does me good to have things out, and it’s such +ages since I had anyone to talk to--openly. I can’t talk to Belle. She +thinks I’m unnatural, because I don’t care for spending all my spare +time in the nursery.” + +“You’ll never tell me you ain’t fond of those kids.” + +“Oh, I am--I am. But I don’t want them always--hearing them when I +don’t see them. I want my wife.” + +“Well, reckon you’ve got her.” + +“But not as I’d like to have her. I want my old Belle as she used to +be.” + +“No one ud be madder than you if you had.” + +“I don’t mean looking and behaving as she used to. But I want my old +fires lit.” + +Dan shivered. + +“I know it’s not her fault, but I feel they’d have gone on blazing if +she hadn’t changed like this--run all to wifehood in a way I’d never +have thought.... Perhaps I shouldn’t have minded so much if the change +had been of another kind--if she’d turned sleeker and more +sophisticated. D’you remember Pearl?” + +Dan nodded grimly. + +“Well, she was my ideal woman--outwardly. I shouldn’t have quarrelled +with Belle if she’d taken to that sort of thing. But she’s as untidy as +ever--only without the blaze, somehow. I can’t see love in this jog-trot +way. You can--that’s why she’d better have married you.” + +“Adone, do, with your talk of Belle marrying me! You ought to be ashamed +of yourself.” + +“So I ought--and if she had married you I shouldn’t have been any +happier. For the queer thing is that I love her.” + +“I don’t see as it’s at all queer.” + +“Not queer that I should be able to stand outside like this and curse +and criticize--and yet feel that somehow, in spite of it all, I could +never live without her?” + +Dan put out his cigarette with an unsteady hand. + +“Have another?” + +“No, thanks.” + +“You’re not mad with me, are you, Daniel? It’s not quite my fault. We’re +all such insects when we try to live ... flies dancing over stagnant +water--that’s love--a dance of flies.” + +Daniel rose to his feet. + +“Well, I must be going now.” + +“I have made you angry, then?” + +“Only a bit.” + +“I tell you it’s not my fault--unless being what I am’s my fault, as I +dare say it is. What you are doesn’t matter in love, but it matters in +marriage. Women ask so much more of marriage than a man does. God knows +what Belle wants. She hasn’t got it, anyway.” + +Dan felt in the midst of Ernley’s speech as a man feels who sinks slowly +into a swamp. With an effort he threw himself out of it. + +“All she wants is for you to be kind and good to her, and speak kind, +and care for her and the children, and understand all the trouble she +has with them and the place. She doesn’t want much, but maybe more than +you can spare from yourself.” + +The colour rose in Ernley’s cheeks, and for a moment they faced each +other in an angry silence. Then Munk spoke quite calmly: + +“Don’t let’s quarrel, Dan. I couldn’t bear another separation. I’m sorry +if I’ve upset you about Belle--I know I exaggerate things. If you’ll +stay my friend, you’ll help us both a lot.” + +The appeal found Dan’s vulnerable part. His wrath collapsed, and he felt +a little ashamed of it. + +“I’m sorry I spoke rough--but hearing you talk on and on like that----” + +He said no more, and they went out together. + + +§ 2 + +Nevertheless he could not quite get rid of his anger. When Ernley had +left him at Bullockdean parsonage, and he was alone with Thomas Helier +in the little bedroom that Jess had garnished, he still felt shaken and +affronted. He felt affronted, somehow, by Ernley’s confidence. Ernley +had always been like that--taking too much for granted. Now he was +taking for granted that Daniel had “got over” his affair with Belle. Dan +had taken it for granted himself, for the matter of that, till an hour +ago; but Ernley’s cool assumption of his indifference had somehow +destroyed it. What right had Ernley to think he was made like +that?--that he could forget all those beautiful moments that had come to +him with Belle? Of course it was true that he had married another woman +and been happy with her--but that was different. He had not been in love +with Rose Falla when he married her--he had married her out of pity and +repentance, and love had somehow afterwards been made of their common +life. If Rose had still been alive he would not have thought of Belle, +and never of those beautiful moments of passion. But Rose was dead, and +with her his life in Sark was dead, and all the years and changes that +separated him from his love for Belle. + +He had got into bed because of the cold, but he could not sleep. He lay +awake, staring at the ceiling and the pattern of leaves that moved there +in the moonlight. The night was still--dreadfully still.... Thomas +Helier lay quiet in his cradle, though for the first time in his life +Dan would have welcomed any distraction he chose to provide. He did not +like lying awake with his thoughts. He had no business to be thinking of +Belle like this, for though Rose was dead Ernley was alive. Curse +him!--not for being married to Belle--Daniel was still very far from +that--but for being all unworthy of his marriage--of any marriage. +Ernley didn’t know so much as the A B C of married life--he’d no idea +how to behave as a husband. Dan thought of the cottage at Moie Fano and +of the marriage that had begun without love, without common tastes, +without even a common language, and yet had been a thing of pure and +perfect happiness.... In marriage you had to be tender, to put yourself +in her place, to realize that she was made different from you--though +she was flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone.... And Ernley went +about showing her his feelings--like a lot of tripe ... the simile +rushed into his mind as an expression of the almost physical disgust +which he felt at Ernley’s confidences. He never used to mind his +confidences, amorous or otherwise, but now somehow he couldn’t stomach +them.... Ernley was eaten up with himself, and that was why his marriage +was unhappy. He had nothing else to make it so. Belle had got shut of +her bad ways, as Daniel had always felt sure she would; she had given +him two dear little children, and her one thought was to please him. And +he went about grumbling for his “old fires.” Silly fool! Didn’t he know +as much about love as Daniel whom he’d always looked upon as a child in +such matters? “Old fires “--put them out! They only made the place hot +and dangerous--they weren’t the sort of fire you could ever boil a +kettle on. + +A clock somewhere in the house struck two, and Dan was seized with the +working-man’s terror of a sleepless night, knowing that at whatever hour +he slept he must rise for toil as usual. It was a bad thing lying awake +like this, and his reason for it was bad. If he was really beginning to +feel about Belle like this again, he had better clear out. Of course it +was natural that he should fret about two friends making each other +unhappy--but this acuteness of trouble was wrong. Maybe he was +over-tired ... well, he’d be tireder yet before he’d done with +to-morrow. + + +§ 3 + +Indeed he went through the next day little more than half awake. The hum +and rumble of the ’bus, the heavy rush of the wind as it tore after them +down the roads and eddied round him on the back step, swept him into a +drowsiness which was sometimes actual sleep. He slept standing on his +platform for brief dangerous minutes. He had always been able to sleep +on his legs, and he enjoyed these stolen naps, but he was aware of their +criminality in a ’bus conductor. He slept past the turning to Clay Hill +on the Halland road, with the result that an elderly clergyman who had +been marketing in Lewes and seemed as tired as Daniel himself had to +walk back half a mile to the sign-post, laden with bags from which were +bursting loaves of bread, potatoes, cheese and other fare for Poverty +Parsonage. After that he kept awake. + +He was half asleep again when he walked up Bullockdean Street at the end +of the day, and it was as in a dream that at the rectory gate he met +Belle Shackford. She was certainly Belle Shackford, and not Belle Munk, +for she came to him out of the moonlight looking exactly as in the old +days--all her sleekness gone. Her hair was rough and towish under the +moon, which was bright enough to show him also her careless +tam-o’-shanter cap, and the piece of dyed cat-fur that lay at odds upon +her shoulders. Thus he had seen Belle years ago on many a winter’s +night, with her hair upon her cheeks and the gleam of sham pearls upon +her neck, with transparent silk stockings and cracked patent leather +shoes showing under the frayed hem of her coloured coat, and about her +the strong cloying whiff of cheap scent, at once enticing and disgusting +him. + +“Hullo, Belle!” he greeted her, “where have you been?” + +“Over to Batchelors’; Lucy’s been giving a party. She’s going to be +married at last, you know, and her boy’s people have been over, and +we’ve had a bit of a dance. I’m tired.” + +“You don’t tell me you’ve walked back all by yourself?” + +“Why not?--it isn’t far by the down, and the moon’s lovely. Ernley +wanted to fetch me, but I knew he was busy, it being so near Christmas, +and I’m always a bit nervous when he comes over to Batchelors’--he and +my dad don’t hit it off.” + +“That’s a pity.” + +“It is. But Ernley doesn’t understand dad, and of course I own he’s +troublesome, having an idea that I’ve married money, and so ought to +support the old home. Twice he’s tried to borrow money off Ernley, and +twice they’ve had a row about it.” + +“Is your father in a bad way, then?” + +“Oh, he’s sure bust sooner or later. Most farmers do these days. When +Lucy gets married there’ll be one less for the work, and he can’t afford +another man. I’m sorry about it all, which worries Ernley. He says, I +oughtn’t to feel I belong there any more.” + +“Well, I don’t see that you’ve got any call to worry about Batchelors’, +after the way they’ve treated you.” + +“Oh, they haven’t treated me badly. It’s always like that in a big, poor +family. You’ve got to work hard and you have rows. I don’t say I was +never to blame. But we’re all friendly enough now.” + +She sighed, almost as if she regretted Batchelors’ with its toiling, +quarrelling ways. Then she asked: + +“How are you getting on, Dan?” + +“Oh, well enough--it’s hard work, but healthy.” + +“Do you get Christmas off?” + +“Only the day.” + +“Well, you must come and see us some evening when you’re free--what +about supper? You promised us weeks ago that you’d come to supper.” + +Daniel hesitated. He felt unwilling in part--in part too eager. + +“Do come,” said Belle. + +“Well, I’d like to----” + +“Wednesday’s your afternoon off, isn’t it? Come next Wednesday.” + +Daniel struggled in himself. He asked in himself: “Who’ll I meet?--Belle +Shackford or Belle Munk?” But all he could say outwardly was: + +“Thank you kindly. I’d like to come.” + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + + +§ 1 + +Daniel knew he was a fool to go to supper at the Crown. If he was +beginning to feel like this again about Belle he ought to keep away from +her. There was no good telling himself that he was going to see +Ernley--he had plenty of opportunities for seeing Ernley without his +wife. No--he might as well be honest--he was going because he wanted to +see Belle, and also--to be frank as well as honest--because it would be +a treat to have supper at the Crown. He wondered what they would have to +eat ... chops, sausages, cutlets ... a fowl, even.... And he would be +able to sit and talk to Belle, to watch her mouth when she laughed, and +the big column of her throat, and her hair that would be like spun sugar +in the glow of the new electric light.... He was a fool to think of +going, but, of course, he went. + +When Wednesday came he devoted nearly an hour to his preparations. First +he had a comprehensive wash at the sink, then he changed into his Sunday +clothes, put on new-blacked boots, and sleeked his hair with some +hair-cream specially bought in Lewes. It would never do to appear a +shabby fellow. He was just setting out when he met Mr. Marchbanks, who +surveyed him nervously. + +“What time ull you be back?” + +“Ten o’clock. Jess says she’ll stay till then.” + +Mr. Marchbanks coughed. + +“Dan--you feel--you feel quite settled in your mind about Mrs. Munk, +don’t you? I mean, you’ve quite got over all that, or you wouldn’t----” + +Dan suddenly found himself angry. + +“Well, if I haven’t got over it all, seeing as I’ve been married and +widowed and got a kid ... and I don’t see why you’ve any call to think +such things of me.” + +“I beg your pardon. I didn’t really think it. I merely wanted to put you +on your guard. She is a very charming woman, and, of course, it isn’t +easy to forget....” + +“Ho, isn’t it!” cried Daniel as he walked out. + +He felt highly indignant all the way down the drive. What right had Mr. +Marchbanks to interfere? But then he’d always been like that with +Belle--disapproving. It was the one thing he couldn’t get on with in Mr. +Marchbanks--his ideas about women and love ... afraid of everything. +You’d think he’d had some kind of upset himself and got scared. + +But by the time Dan had reached the village he, too, was scared--so +scared in fact that he went into the George and had a pint of Hobday and +Hitch’s before he dared go into the Crown. The young man at the George +now knew who he was, and they often exchanged confidences about the +management of an inn. The George was a quiet place now, entertaining +only a farm labourer or two, and paying its way even more uncertainly +than in the days of Thomas Sheather. Certainly the ale was bad, but Dan +obtained a slight comfort from it, though probably his reassurance was +chiefly due to the few minutes spent in old beloved surroundings--the +familiar, sawdusted floor, the low, beamed ceiling, blackened by the oil +lamp that still hung from it, the familiar whisky advertisements on the +walls, the beer-handles that he himself had worked to and fro behind the +counter for so long. + +He went out feeling comforted for the evening’s adventure. The Crown was +brilliantly lit up--pouring the reflections of its electric light into +the road and across it into the dim, lamp-lit windows of the George. +Above it the blackness of its roof rose steeply into the dark sky, where +a single star hung remote from the dazzle of Bullockdean Street. Dan +looked at the star, and thought of another which he had seen in +pictures, shining above an inn at Christmas-time. Three wise men had +followed a star right across the world, and it had brought them to a +common inn. They must have had a shock. It was curious how his thoughts +of Belle seemed mixed with that story of another inn--he remembered how +he had dreamed of her when he was in Sark, in the stable with her baby +at Christmas-time. Perhaps his love for her was not the wicked thing Mr. +Marchbanks thought it. + +But there was no good standing mooning in the street. He went up to the +door-bell and faced the parlourmaid, who brought him into the Munks’ +private sitting-room, where they both waited. To-night Belle +surprisingly wore black, and Dan was abashed not only by the return of +her sleekness, but by the deepening of her beauty. The black made her +skin like milk and her hair like honey--it gave her an air of pale +delicacy which he had never seen her wear before. It was a delicacy of +colour rather than of outline--in outline she was still the +rich-moulded, splendid Belle whose bigness he had loved. + +They spoke together rather awkwardly till dinner was ready--for it was +certainly dinner and not supper to which he had been invited. It was +served in the hotel dining-room, where the visitors already sat in +high-class dispersal, and Dan’s eyes opened wide at the sight of the two +waitresses in black and white uniforms who brought in the soup. + +“Lord, Ernley, but you have come on!” + +Ernley smiled complacently. + +“Yes--we haven’t done so badly. As I used to say to poor dad--‘it pays +to launch out a bit.’ We were quite full for Christmas, though we’re +slacking again now.” + +It struck Daniel that Ernley was looking extremely prosperous, in spite +of his inward distress. There was certainly a curve under his waistcoat +and his jaw was thicker. But his heart was lean withal--except when he +talked about the hotel, he had all his old questing bitterness. He +talked like Ernley in the trenches, though he looked very different from +the Ernley of those days. + +“Egad, you’re a lucky fellow, Dan. You look straight ahead of you and +don’t worry about what’s at the side. If you had this pub now there’d be +nothing else you’d want.” + +“Reckon there would be a fat lot I’d want,” said Dan, who resented this +description of himself. + +“Well, I mean a wife and children with it, of course. You wouldn’t go +wanting to look beyond the horizon. You’d be satisfied with the common +business of life. I believe you’re satisfied now, even as you are.” + +“I ain’t, but I haven’t got it in me to make a fuss about things like +you.” + +Ernley seemed pleased at this, and laughed. Dan was beginning once more +to find him irritating, but he would not let his feelings betray him any +further. Not only was he Ernley’s guest, eating his very good food, but +he did not want to give any added distress to Belle by goading her +husband. He watched Belle secretly while he ate, watched for any +expression of her face or speech which should betray her feelings. Was +Ernley really making her unhappy, as he thought he was, or was she +merely accepting him with that motherly toleration which is so often the +female response to male unreasonableness? + +He could not tell, for she sat very nearly silent. Indeed, the +conversation being little more than a monologue by Ernley, it would have +been difficult for her to do otherwise. But he noticed that she did not +smile--as she might have, pityingly or comprehendingly--though this +again he should not have expected, for it had never been Belle’s way to +smile at men except in allurement. + +After supper--which though a little distressing on the human side had +been most comforting in the matter of food and drink--they returned to +the sitting-room, where Belle took out some sewing and Ernley went on +talking. He talked about the French occupation of the Ruhr, laying down +the law uncontradicted by Daniel, who had little interest in or +understanding of post-war politics in their larger issues. The rise and +fall of prices, the difficulties in the way of getting work, the gradual +withdrawal of industrial and agricultural guarantees--that was how the +hinder-parts of the Great War looked to Daniel and some millions like +him. Matters of stability, economy and reparation were all by him +vaguely classified as “talk”--and it seemed queer to him that the +politicians should go right away to Paris for their talking when the +unemployed were parading the streets of Lewes and Newhaven. + +In the midst of Ernley’s talk a waitress came in and told him that he +was wanted on the telephone. He threw his cigarette into the grate and +went out, leaving Daniel and Belle to entertain each other on lower +intellectual levels. No sooner had he shut the door behind him than +Belle looked uneasy. + +“I think I hear the children,” she said--and going to the door she +opened it and listened. The house was silent, save for Ernley’s distant +voice on the telephone. She came back into the room, but did not return +to her old chair, sitting down instead on one nearer the door, which she +had left open. + +“I don’t hear any kids,” said Daniel. + +“No.” + +The monosyllable came blankly, and he suddenly realized that she was +listening intently--listening to Ernley’s voice. + +“The children are very quiet as a rule,” she continued. Then shut her +mouth and listened again. + +Dan had a sudden dreadful intuition that she doubted the innocence of +Ernley’s telephone call. She was trying to overhear as much of it as she +could. From where he sat he could hear nothing but a voice, but probably +from her position by the door she could distinguish words. This +suspicion so appalled him that, if Belle wanted his silence she could +not have been better served. She had never been subtle in her methods, +and he soon became convinced that she was listening, for beyond making a +few random remarks about the children, she scarcely opened her mouth +while Ernley was away. + +After a time she evidently heard him put down the receiver, for she shut +the door, and strolled back to the chair she had been sitting in when he +went out. Dan sat rigid with embarrassment and misery, and had not +succeeded even in forcing out a remark about the weather when Ernley +came in. + +“Well,” said Belle at once--“who was your call from?” + +“Barker,” said Ernley, “he was ringing me up about that sherry.” + +“But the shop’s closed.” + +“He rang me up from his home.” + +“Do you generally call him ‘kid’?” + +Dan felt his skin go like a goose’s, not so much for Ernley possibly +snared in a delinquency as for the manner of Belle’s snaring. He saw +Munk’s face grow hard, though he answered quietly: + +“I certainly don’t call him that.” + +“But I heard you--you said ‘don’t be silly, kid,’ and then ‘good night, +kid’ at the end.” + +Belle had always been crude in her methods--Dan had been present at many +a scene like this in the old days--but it was the first instance he had +known since her marriage. Ernley turned crimson, and Dan blushed with +him and for him. + +“You must have good ears,” he said--“to hear so distinctly through two +shut doors.” + +“I need ’em in this house.” + +“Well, I feel this is a matter more interesting to you than to Daniel, +who probably doesn’t care how I address my wine-merchant. Did you ever +go to Barker’s, Dan, when you were in business?” + +“I dunno--we--we were a tied house, you know,” stammered poor Dan. + +“For your wines, I mean of course.” Ernley seemed annoyed at his failure +to assist in the diversion. “I suppose you stocked wines.” + +“Yes, we stocked wines in a manner of speaking--sherry and port and +such.” + +Ernley discoursed on port and sherry as he had formerly discoursed on +German reparations. But the rest of the evening was sheer agony to +Daniel. He knew that Belle was only waiting for him to be gone before +she re-opened her attack. Her parting lips and heavy brow were an +earnest of the storm that would break when she had her husband to +herself. She sat silent, huddled and lumpish, her eyes fixed sullenly on +Ernley. Sometimes Dan almost felt sorry for Munk when he thought of what +he would be put through in the next hour or so. But most often he was +angry and not sorry. Ernley had almost certainly not been talking to his +wine-merchant, and he richly deserved to be told off. Dan was outraged +and disgusted at the idea of his slightest unfaithfulness to Belle. If +he made her unhappy through being unsympathetic and tiresome, that was +bad enough, but if he distressed her through any treacherous friendship +with another woman, he was nothing but a swine. + +Ten o’clock struck, and Daniel rose to his feet with muttered excuses. +It wouldn’t do any good to stop on, so he’d better go and let them get +it over. But as he went out he felt sorry and ashamed for them both. + + +§ 2 + +Once in the dark and empty street he pulled out his handkerchief and +wiped his forehead. Whew! that had been dreadful--that glimpse of +married life.... Ernley a philanderer and Belle a shrew. He had suddenly +been shown the dark side of both his friendship and his love. Ernley, +that companion of so many years, had appeared before him as a gross and +selfish man, unhappy and yet spoilt by prosperity, thinking of nobody +but himself, and already, after barely three years of marriage, fallen +into deceit. Belle, whom, ever since his return, he had seen as all +maternal kindness, the wanton ripened and sweetened into the mother, he +had seen to-night on the level of vulgar jealousy and suspicion, dragged +by them below the decencies of common reticence ... exposing her husband +before the man who had once loved her. + +He had reached the parsonage gate, but felt too much shaken to go in at +once and face the questions of Mr. Marchbanks and Jess Harman. They +would want to know what sort of evening he had spent, and he wasn’t yet +in a fit mood to tell them. He walked up the lane, which just beyond the +parsonage shrivelled into a cart-track and led under some skew-blown +thorn trees to the open down. + +As he walked into the great spread loneliness of Heighton Hill, Dan’s +heart was full of offence because the love-story of Belle Shackford and +Ernley Munk had not yet been given its happy ending. He had lost her not +to joy but to sorrow. He felt that she was unhappier with the man she +had chosen than she would have been with the man who was not her choice. +Ernley had not the power to make any woman happy--he was too +self-centred, too restless, too exacting. Daniel remembered him as he +had been in courtship--that courtship which had been one long series of +quarrels and reconciliations. In marriage he was just the same--it had +not changed him. But marriage had changed Belle--it had made her a +wife, whereas Ernley was still only a lover. + +He told himself that she was happy in her children. But he could have +given her those ... and he would not have stood apart from them, +contemptuous and fault-finding, as Ernley stood. Ernley would have +preferred to be without them, he did not like this change in Belle--he +did not really want a wife but a mistress. He wanted his old fires +rekindled--damn him for a silly fool--and since Belle could not do so he +was carrying the torch elsewhere. + +Dan was always wretched when he hated. The emotion of hate caused him +such acute pain that whenever it was roused in him his whole being +seemed to concentrate on putting it down. Now he reminded himself of all +Ernley had endured in the war, the experiences that had given him not +only the pain of old wounds to harry him, but also had left his mind +torn and gashed. Daniel knew how still in dreams Ernley grovelled in the +craters of no-man’s land, cowering and sweating till the inevitable +crash came which brought both the full horror of his dream and a +terrified awakening. Ernley’s mind bore old wounds like his body, wounds +both of mind and body which Daniel had been spared by his better luck +and his duller constitution. You must judge him morally as you judged a +cripple physically.... And Belle, too, had been very trying. It was +maddening to be suspected ... even if you were guilty ... there had been +something vulgar and womanish in her method of reproach.... But Daniel +could not judge Belle, and thoughts of her often brought him back into +all his rage at Ernley. It was Ernley’s fault that she had behaved in +such a low fashion--she had been driven to it by his conduct, by her own +desperate efforts to defend her marriage. She was in despair, poor +Belle, and had been unable to keep up her disguises. Ernley was not +worthy of her big, generous soul--he did not appreciate the graces it +had acquired through marriage. Dan thought of her stooping over Thomas +Helier with the woolly ball in her hand. + + +§ 3 + +It was not till eleven o’clock that he felt calm enough to go back to +the parsonage. Jess Harman flung open the door in a state of high +indignation. + +“Well, so you’re back at last! What’ll my auntie think of me not coming +home before this? I said I’d be back by ten.” + +“You needn’t have waited.” + +“I like that! With your poor little baby yelling his head off. A nice +father you are--gallivanting half the night and leaving your poor little +child at home.” + +“Well, I couldn’t have taken him with me.” + +“No--but you might have come back at a Christian hour. You really don’t +deserve to have a baby.” + +“Now, Jess, you’ve no call to talk like that.” + +“Yes, I have. I never heard of such goings on--stopping at the Crown +till all hours. It isn’t seemly that you should hang round Mrs. Ernley +Munk.” + +Dan flushed. + +“So it’s taken you that way too, has it?” + +“How d’you mean by ‘too’?” + +“You’re getting like Mr. Marchbanks, seeing harm where there ain’t +none.” + +“Well, if there ain’t harm in leaving your poor child and sitting half +the night with an old sweetheart....” + +“I wasn’t sitting with her. I went for a walk.” + +“That was kind of you, seeing as you knew I was waiting for you here.” + +“Couldn’t Mr. Marchbanks have looked after baby?” + +“Him! What’s he know about a human child? Go on, Daniel--you’ve behaved +badly, and there’s no good making out you haven’t.” + +Daniel did not want to make out that he hadn’t. He suddenly saw himself +as a monster of guilt, neglecting his child while he indulged in his +evil passions. “Out of the heart proceed murders, adulteries....” Those +were words in the Bible. Out of his heart had proceeded murders and +adulteries--up there on the down. Was he the man to judge Belle’s +shrewishness or Munk’s philandering? He said no more, but went +sheepishly upstairs to bed. + + + + + +CHAPTER SIX + + +§ 1 + +The first weeks of the New Year were depressing. It was mortal cold on +the ’bus. Thomas Helier was cutting his teeth, and turned night into day +at the parsonage. Mr. Marchbanks was harassed out of his usual sweet +temper by his choir’s insistence on singing the Magnificat and Nunc +Dimittis to Cathedral settings, and Jess Harman was irritable and +unfriendly for reasons unknown. + +At the back of these minor disturbances lay the thundery conditions at +the Crown, giving Daniel a continual sense of little-ease. He did not go +again to see Ernley and Belle. He kept away unhappily and +self-consciously, feeling that he could do no good either by going or by +staying away. Curiosity urged him to go--apprehension kept him away. Now +and then he met Belle or Ernley in the village, and they exchanged +greetings and perhaps a few more meaningless words, but there was no +reopening of confidence on Ernley’s part, no return of motherly +sweetness on Belle’s. They were both aware of the insight he had had +that night into their home life, and felt shy of him in consequence. + +Daniel learned most about them from the young man at the George. The new +tenants at the George were going out on Lady Day. Their tenancy had been +a failure. + +“There ain’t room for two pubs in this place,” said the young man +sadly--“at least, not two good-class pubs. The Crown has got all the +good-class trade. Of course I could make the George pay if I was to run +it as your father used to run it, but I daren’t do that after all the +trouble there’s been.” + +“Maybe not. But why don’t you go for the sharry-bangs?” remembering +Ernley’s suggestion before the smash. + +“Because we ain’t in the right position for sharry-bangs. We’re off the +main road, and we ain’t any distance either from Lewes or Newhaven, both +of which can give better teas than any one-horse place like this. +Nobody’s passing us at tea-time except cyclists, and maybe a stray +motorist or two. I ain’t had anybody in for teas or lunches since +October, though I provide both. If anyone comes at all this time of year +they go to the Crown. I’m sick of it.” + +“Where are you going?” + +“I dunno--not settled yet. I’ve heard of a job in a catering business, +but it means a mortal lot of travelling about, and I’m not the man to +enjoy being away from my wife.” + +“Who’s coming in here after you?” + +“I dunno. Maybe someone out of Hobday and Hitch’s. But I’ll tell you +what I’ve heard. I’ve heard as how Munk over there is thinking of buying +the George.” + +“You don’t tell me!” + +“I do. It’s only talking, but I got it from one of Hobday and Hitch’s +men last time they was here with the ale. They say he’s after it, +anyway, and when you come to think of it, the two pubs together ud make +a fine little place. He could put a sort of covered passage over the +road--make it look old-fashioned and all that to match the rest. I heard +as he thought of having the tap over here and keeping the Crown for the +visitors only.” + +“I wonder if he’ll do it?” + +“Well, there’s no telling. He’s a clever sort of man, and ambitious. I +believe he’d end up big some day if it wasn’t for his marriage.” + +“You think that ull stop him?” + +“Well, a man’s missus means a lot to his getting on or his getting out, +and by all reports the missus at the Crown is a bit of a trial.” + +“How d’you know that?” + +“I don’t know it, but I’ve heard it. Maudie Harman often steps across +here and has tea with my wife, and she’s told us that they have some +fine rows now and again. But most likely you know more’n I do, seeing +you’re friends.” + +Dan uneasily scraped his foot among the sawdust. + +“I don’t think there’s anything much wrong. She ain’t used to hotel +life, being a farmer’s daughter. But I haven’t been near ’em since New +Year.” + +“Well, seemingly she’s having a jealous fit now. She’s got an idea he’s +after another girl, Maudie says.” + +“And ain’t he?” + +“Maudie doesn’t think so. There’s a young woman he takes out a bit--one +he used to know before his marriage. But Maudie doesn’t think there’s +anything in it.” + +“How the devil does she know?” + +“By his temper. He’s always as cross and difficult as he can be, and a +man ain’t like that when he’s just got a new girl.” + +“It must be jolly over there,” sighed Daniel, “her jealous and him +contrary.” + +The young man nodded. + +“There’s nothing for pulling a man and a woman down like an unhappy +marriage. But you and me know that married life has no call to be like +that, don’t we, Mr. Sheather?” + +Daniel and the young man exchanged some opinions and confidences on +marriage, a subject on which they were both of the same mind. + + +§ 2 + +Early in March a tide set into the affairs of Daniel which definitely +altered their course. The start was nothing more exciting than the Downs +’Bus Company altering their time-table, but this very ordinary piece of +spring tactics resulted in their employee’s complete uprooting. The +first ’bus was scheduled to leave Newhaven at seven instead of nine. +Work was starting earlier on the farms, and it became necessary for most +of the Newhaven-dwelling labourers in the Ouse Valley to be at their +posts by half-past seven at the latest. Therefore the Downs Company put +on an extra ’bus which should run as far as Lewes only, and be back to +take up its normal traffic at nine o’clock. + +It would be extremely difficult and trying for Dan, who had not yet +saved enough money to buy a bicycle, to be in Newhaven by seven. The +rest of the company’s employees lived in the town, but this was out of +the question for young Sheather, who had to stick to his free lodging at +Bullockdean Parsonage if he was still to send half his wages to his +mother at Brakey Bottom. He could, of course, apply for transfer to +another route--several ’buses left Lewes in northward and westward +directions at fairly reasonable hours--but he realized that his home at +Bullockdean put him at a disadvantage even for these, and he was +terrified of losing his job by interfering with the conditions of his +employment. + +The problem was in this state when an unexpected solution of it came +from Brakey Bottom itself--through Chris jilting his Mary Wright. The +exact reasons for this catastrophe were obscure, but Dan was not +altogether surprised. As it happened Chris was now in a good position to +marry. The Squire of Hoddern Place, on the other side of Telscombe, had +taken a fancy to him, and had engaged him as chauffeur. He was having +him taught to drive his Austin landaulette, Chris having had hitherto +only an experimental acquaintance with Fords, and had promised him a +good cottage to live in as well as generous wages. There was never a +better opportunity for Chris to marry his Mary Wright, but in point of +fact his Mary Wright lived on unwed at Exceat, while Chris brought his +mother to the comfortable eight-roomed cottage beside the garage at +Hoddern gates. Kitty Sheather had won at the last. + +Dan felt contemptuous and indignant, but could not fail to realize the +blessings of what had happened. His mother would now be provided for, +comfortable and happy for life; there would no longer be any need for +Daniel’s fifteen shillings a week. He could have them for his own and +buy with them the freedom to live where he liked. He decided almost +immediately to move into Newhaven. If he did not move he might lose his +job, and once more he was restless to be away from the Crown. There was +no need to go across the water this time. Once he was in Newhaven he +would not have to dread those occasional evening meetings with Belle--he +would not have to hear the village gossip about her and Ernley. His work +would fill his days, and his evenings would be devoted to Thomas Helier. +He had made up his mind to take the child with him--he could easily find +some motherly woman who would take charge of him while he was at work. + +He was sorry to be leaving Mr. Marchbanks and the parsonage, and knew +that his services would be missed both in the garden and in the church. +But if he stayed on he would have no time, with his new early hours, +either for housework or for serving the altar, and if he lost his job he +would come once more upon his friend’s hands and purse. No, he must +clear out--everything seemed to demand it, and he’d better start at once +to find some decent place to go to. + +Mr. Marchbanks approved of his decision. He did not say much, but Dan +knew he was glad that he was going out of reach of Belle. Young Sheather +still thought the parson’s attitude towards this part of the situation +narrow and unsympathetic, but he was now half glad that Mr. Marchbanks +felt like this--it would comfort him when the garden beds were all over +groundsel and there couldn’t be any service in Bullockdean Church +because Freddie Pont had overslept himself.... + +Neither did Jess Harman seem to mind his going away--certainly not as +much as he would have thought--but in one respect her opposition +surprised him. She was indignant at his taking Thomas Helier with him. + +“You’d never, Daniel! The poor little thing! You can’t take him to a +strange place and then leave him alone all day.” + +“Well, I can’t leave him here.” + +“Why not? I’d look after him--and take him home along with me at nights. +I know auntie ud let me.” + +“Thank you, Jess. But I couldn’t allow it. He’s an unaccountable +nuisance here at the parsonage--it’ll make up to Mr. Marchbanks a bit my +going if he don’t have the kid yelling at all hours.” + +“He doesn’t yell at all hours. You shouldn’t talk so! Poor little +mite--he’ll die with nobody but you to look after him.” + +“He won’t have nobody but me to look after him. I’ll go to a place where +they’ll undertake it, or maybe put him into a creech while I’m working.” + +“Why not put him out to baby-farm at once and have done with it--and him +too, poor little innocent?”--and Jess Harman walked out, tossing her +chin. + +Emmie, his sister-in-law, took much the same view of the matter. She had +begged Dan to let her have the baby at Brakey Bottom. Of course he knew +that Thomas Helier would probably be happier there than in a “creech,” +or with his father, but there was something at the bottom of Dan’s heart +which refused to let him part with him. Whenever he thought of it he +seemed to see his Rose Falla looking up at him from her big low bed in +Sark, and murmuring with dying lips--“_notre Helier_.” He must not be +unfaithful to that union which he still had with her in the child. In +Thomas Helier, Rose was still alive, still able to receive his love and +cherishing. She no longer slept under her ilex tree and her white French +stone, but lay in his arms and received his kisses. He could not leave +her behind in Bullockdean--in another grave. + +Moreover, Thomas himself was now an engaging infant, who, if he +occasionally yelled in the stresses of bodily development, knew his +father and approved of him, signifying the same by various gross noises +which were very nearly words. It would be good to find Thomas Helier to +welcome him home at the end of the day, when Bullockdean was five miles +up the valley, when both the tavern and the church were strange, and +Belle Munk, who was half Belle Shackford, no longer walked in twilight +down the street. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN + + +Daniel was not long in finding a convenient lodging. He took a room in +Greville Row, a small blind row running out of Bridge Street. The houses +were mean and slaty, but from his window he had a view through chimneys +of the masts of ships. Also his landlady seemed a pleasant woman, and +favourably disposed towards Thomas Helier, which even a brief experience +of lodging-hunting told him most landladies were not. + +Into these new quarters he moved at the end of March, ready for April’s +changes. The first evening was one of unparalleled misery. Indoors he +missed his company--Jess Harman talking and working, Mr. Marchbanks +reading and smoking--and outdoors he missed the clear pure ridges of the +downs against the sky, and the low northward horizon where the sky met +the Brooks in the midst of the Gate of Lewes. Here he felt cramped and +lonely--cramped by the four walls of his room and landscape of masts and +chimneys that shut out all but the topmost reaches of the sky--lonely +with no company but that of Thomas Helier, who lay in his cot, chewing +and sucking Belle’s woolly ball. + +Dan had to give him his bath that night, a task which he had learned to +perform, as he performed most feminine tasks, with a fair amount of +efficiency. He had just finished and was tying his son into his +nightgown, when the landlady came in and was at once overpowered and +delighted by such an unwonted exhibition of paternal resource. She +invited Dan to come down to supper with her and her husband, and the +rest of the evening did not pass so badly. The landlady’s husband kept a +small shop down by the harbour and was full of tales of ships and +seamen. Dan wondered if he had ever had his father for customer, but was +not able to give a clear enough description to stand out of the jumble +of the storekeeper’s memories. + +The next day, after an early breakfast of tea and bread and butter, he +was off to his work, leaving Thomas Helier to the care of the landlady +till it was time to take him to the “creech,” which did not open till +nine. This especial “creech” was run by a local welfare committee on +highly scientific and hygienic principles. When Dan called for his +offspring at six o’clock, he found him in an unwonted atmosphere of +fresh air and pine-tar soap. His clothing had obviously been put in a +sterilizer, and on the whole he seemed almost too antiseptic to handle +with a pair of work-worn hands not innocent of car-oil. But the matron +and her assistant were both exceedingly cordial and kind. Dan was a +relief to them in their day of inefficient yet obstinate mothers, +stuffed with worn-out maxims and old-wives’ tales. They gave him a +feeding-chart for Thomas Helier, and all sorts of practical and intimate +information. They told him that he was just the proper weight for his +age, and much better looked after than many a baby who came to them from +a mother’s care. He went off glowing with pride, while Thomas, full of +good cheer, pulled off his father’s cap half a dozen times on the way +home and threw it on the pavement, thus providing him with introductions +to any number of women he had cared to know. + +After that first day he was not so lonely. His work filled up ten hours, +and his early rising made him want to go early to bed. He had supper +every night with his landlady and her husband, while his Sundays and his +Wednesday afternoons were mostly spent at Hoddern with his mother, +though he still paid occasional visits to Brakey Bottom. + +Kitty Sheather was exulting in her new cottage, so well built, trim and +neat. All day long she swept and dusted and polished and washed and +cooked for Chris, who came home in the evening, and sometimes to mid-day +dinner, looking handsomer than ever in his chauffeur’s uniform. He was +happy in his new work, which involved little more than driving, as his +master had two cars, an Austin two-seater, and a big Austin landaulette. +There was a boy to do the washing and polishing, and for anything +substantial in the way of adjustments or repairs the cars went to a +garage in Newhaven. Daniel’s craving to punch his brother’s head was +often almost physically painful. There was something cheeky and +self-confident about Chris’s whole demeanour which simply cried out to +be hit. It said: “Look at me. Here I am, keeping my mother in comfort. +She’s better off with me now than she’s ever been in her life. I’ve got +a good job, and I’ve done well by myself and her too. Look at you. You +do nothing for her now, and never did much. If she’d only had you to +depend on she’d still be living at Brakey Bottom, grudged and grumbled +at by Len. You’ve got a rotten job, and can barely keep yourself and +your kid.” + +Dan found it very hard not to quarrel with Chris, but he knew that it +would do no good, as Kitty would immediately take her darling’s part and +encourage him still further in his satisfaction. Besides, hang it all, +Chris was right. He _had_ done well for his mother, as well as for +himself, and he loved her as few sons loved their mothers. Dan had not +done well for his mother, and though he knew in his heart that he loved +her as much as Chris did, he had not been able to make her see it, and +possibly never would. + +Of Bullockdean during this time he saw nothing, beyond its distant +cluster of houses from the Lewes road. Once or twice Mr. Marchbanks came +to see him in Newhaven, and they sometimes went to the pictures together +on Wednesday afternoons. On other Wednesdays Jess Harman would come in +and go to the pictures with him--but neither she nor Mr. Marchbanks ever +gave him any news of Belle. Perhaps they would if he had asked, but he +never did. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT + + +§ 1 + +One afternoon in May, when the first heat of the summer was in the air, +and in the dust that whirled in a brown cloud behind the afternoon ’bus, +a rather fuddled-looking sailorman hailed the driver on the outskirts of +Newhaven. Dan was punching tickets in the front seats, and took no +notice beyond pulling the bell-cord when the new passenger had collapsed +creakingly in his seat at the back. It was not till he came to take his +ticket that he recognized him. For fully a quarter of a mile of the +Lewes road Tom Sheather and his son gazed and gaped at each other. + +“Well I’m blessed!” said Daniel at last. + +“Dan, is it you?” moaned his father. + +“Of course it is. Who did you think it was?” + +“I thought you were in Sark with your mother’s people, and I’ve had a +drop to drink.... Anyway, I can’t make out what you’re doing here.” + +“Earning my living,” said Dan gruffly, and pulled the bell for a +non-stop at Piddinghoe. “Did you think that when you cleared out and +left us all, I’d keep away, even if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t? I had +to come back and look after mother when you deserted her.” + +“She was all right,” murmured Tom sheepishly. “I knew as Chris and Len +ud look after her, even if you didn’t. And to tell you the truth, +Daniel, between one man and another, the way she took on after the smash +was something awful. Her tongue ... my Lord!... enough to have driven me +into the deep-sea trade. But I’ve only been coasting--a Geordie, you +know--what brings the coals to Newcastle--from Newcastle, I should say.” + +“And is this the first time you’ve come ashore?” + +“Lord, no! I’ve seen a lot of the world since I’ve been here +last--Cardiff, Newcastle, Middlesbrough--first-class places-- + +“First the Dugeon, then the Spurn-- Flamborough Head comes next in turn. +Then when Whitby’s low light I see, North by west my course will be.” + +This burst of song rang through the ’bus, making even the driver turn +round on his seat. Dan was covered with confusion. + +“Come, father--adone, do. There’s no need to let everyone know as you’re +tight.” + +“Tight! I ain’t tight. I’ve had a drop of drink, as who wouldn’t having +to face what I’ve got to face. I’m going to face that tongue. I’ve had +to do with some first-class tongues since I took up with the Geordie +trade. But never met one like hers. I never meant to go, but I promised +the old man I would. Our old man’s a good old man--a good old +Bible-reading man--and he says to me, ‘Sheather,’ he says, ‘a husband +and wife are one flesh.’ Then I had a row with the donkeyman off +Dungeness--he says to me: ‘What did you do in the great war? I got a +medal!’ I don’t believe it. You can buy ’em second-hand. You never got a +medal, did you, Daniel?” + +“How long are you ashore for?” asked his son severely. + +“For ever and ever and ever and ever,” trolled Tom--“world without end, +aymen. That’s why I’m going to see your mother.” + +“Aren’t you never going to sea again?” + +“Not till the old _Alfred Bateson’s_ gone out of harbour. I won’t go +sailing any more with a blighted skunk like that donkeyman. And there +was others in the fo’c’sle too.... I won’t take sauce from nobody, not +even from the skipper.” + +“You mean as you’ve run off the sea same as you ran off the land?” + +“No--I didn’t run off--I was paid off. I’ve got lots of money”--jingling +his pockets--“I’m going to see my wife and children. I’m glad to see +you, old Daniel. Fancy meeting you on a ’bus. ‘Ticket, please,’ you says +to me, as cool as anything.” + +“Well, here’s your ticket to Telscombe Throws. That’s where you get out, +and it’s fourpence.” + +“You mean to say you’re going to ask your own father to pay for his +ticket on your ’bus?” + +“It ain’t my ’bus. I’m only the conductor--thirty bob a week.” + +“Why?” + +“To earn my living, as I’ve told you before.” + +“You needn’t be so sharp with me, Dan. You’ve got a tongue like a saw. +You’re getting too like your mother for comfort.” + +“I don’t see as you’ve a right to expect anything but straight talk +after the way you’ve treated us. You land us all in a mess, and then +clear out and leave us there.” + +“Surelye you ain’t going to cast that up at me now?” + +“Surelye I am. Now, father, this is where you get out. Mother’s not at +Telscombe now, you know. She’s at Hoddern, with Chris.” + +“Hoddern--what for?” + +“Chris has got a job as shuvver to Mr. Williamson, and mother lives +along of him. Don’t forget to turn off the Telscombe road at Bullock +Down.” + +“I don’t think I’m going,” said Tom suddenly. + +“Of course you’re going.” + +“I ain’t--I’m scared. She’ll have my skin off. I won’t go unless you +come with me, Dan.” + +“Come with you and leave my ’bus! Do talk sense.” + +“Well, I ain’t getting off.” + +“Yes, you are. I’ll put you off if you won’t go.” + +“You’re an undutiful son--that’s what you are,” moaned Tom Sheather, as +the ’bus drew to a standstill in response to Dan’s ring. “The Bible +says, ‘honour your father and mother.’ I’ve seen it written, and they +say it in church too at the Ten Commandments.” + +“Well, I’d honour you fast enough if you’d give me a chance. But you +took this ’bus to go and see mother, and see her you shall, whatever +happens.” + +“You don’t know as I’ll go there even now you have put me off.” + +“Of course you’ll go there. Now, please leave hold of that rail, father. +We want to get on.” + +“I don’t know as I can stand without it. I don’t think any shakes of +your ’bus, Daniel--it’s making everything go round and round. I feel +worse than off Flamborough Head.” + +“That’s your own fault,” said Dan unsympathetically--“nothing to do with +the ’bus. Now, father, adone do and go off, or you’ll get me into +trouble.” + +“I want to see you again.” + +“So you shall. I’ll call at Hoddern to-morrow. It’s my afternoon off. +Good-bye.” + +He rang the bell and the ’bus went grinding away on its bottom gear, +leaving Tom Sheather pathetically planted at the Throws, knowing that +the worst was still before him. + + +§ 2 + +When Daniel came back that way at half-past five he was horrified to see +his father apparently still standing where he had left him. But he +looked different somehow. He was sober for one thing, and badly cowed. +He held up a melancholy hand to stop the ’bus. + +“What, you still here?” greeted Daniel. + +“I’ve been,” said his father ruefully--“and I’ve come back.” + +He collapsed on the nearest seat. + +“She wouldn’t have me. She threw me out. She said I was +good-for-nothing--vagabond was her word--she’d never look at me again. +That wretched boy of hers told me the same. Dressed as a shuvver, he +was--in a uniform with buttons, like yours, but a sight better than +yours. He’d no call to speak to me so, seeing as I’m his father. He told +me I’d dished the family and then left them.” + +Chris’s reproach seemed, to Daniel, to have about it the ring of truth. +But during the last two hours his anger had cooled, and by now it had +evaporated--he was sorry for his father, guessing what his rout at +Hoddern had been like; also he had in all honesty to confess that Kitty +Sheather had probably given him a terrible time before he actually went +off. It was almost certainly true that she had her own tongue to blame +for her desertion. Not that there was any real excuse for his dad, he +told himself severely, but there were certainly extenuating +circumstances, and he could not help being sorry for him in this +miscarriage of his reconciliation--also he’d been told what a tick he +was quite often enough. + +The front part of the ’bus was full, with human cargo for the Newhaven +cinemas, but the back seats were empty enough for Dan to sit down for a +few minutes beside his father. + +“Cheer up, dad. I’m sorry mum won’t have you, but of course she thinks +of nothing but Chris these days. He was most things to her before, but +now you’ve gone he’s everything. I’m nothing, neither. We’re outside +together again, us two.” + +“Then you haven’t turned against me, Dan?” + +“Not I. I won’t say that you haven’t behaved like a mean, low-down, +wicked, unnatural cad, and that you haven’t asked for all you’ve got, +but I can guess what drove you to it, and reckon I’m your son and ull +stick by you.” + +“Same as you always did,” beamed Tom Sheather. “You remember how it was +always me and you against Chris and your mother?” + +“Yes,” said Dan, and sighed. He still hankered for a different alliance, +but it was not the same hankering as of old. He had tacitly come to +accept his mother’s remoteness. Besides, he now had his son. + +“Did you know I’d got a baby, father?” + +“Yes--over in Sark.” + +“No--at Newhaven. I brought him home with me. I’d never leave him with +that lot at the Pêche à Agneau--savages they were, just a lot of +ignorant foreign savages.” + +“Your mother’s stock,” said Tom vindictively. + +“Well, reckon it’s where mum gets some of her hard ways from. But we +mustn’t miscall her. Now, dad, where are you getting out in Newhaven? I +haven’t taken your ticket yet.” + +“Reckon I’ll go to the terminus. I never took a room when I landed, +thinking I’d stop along of your mother. Where’s your little place, +Daniel?” + +“In Greville Row--close to the bridge. I’ve only got a bedroom and there +ain’t room for two. But maybe the landlady ud let you have a bed in the +house.” + +“That ud suit me fine--till I go to sea again. I’d have gone anyhow, for +it’s a better life than on land, but now reckon I’ll go quicker. If +you’ll let me stay along of you, Dan, I’ll be unaccountable obliged. +I’ve got plenty of cash, and I can be looking round for a ship. There’s +nothing like being able to pick your job.” + +“No doubt,” said Daniel, as he pulled the bell for an old woman who +wanted to get off at the Brighton Road. + + +§ 3 + +When the day’s work was over, the ’bus in the garage and Dan’s returns +in the office, he took his parent to Greville Row with a view to finding +him accommodation. On their way they called for Thomas Helier at the +crèche and Tom Sheather had his first meeting with his grandson. + +The child was looking his best. Two months of the most modern and +efficient care had greatly improved both his health and appearance. His +teething troubles were over, he could walk a few steps, and wholesome +food and fresh air had made him merry and friendly. Tom Sheather was +delighted with him. + +“My Lord! Ain’t he just about splendid! Did you ever see such a boy! +Brown eyes, too, like yourn, but I guess he doesn’t take after his +grandma’s family--and you’ve called him Thomas, after me. Reckon you +don’t think so small of your poor old dad after all.” + +“He was christened before you did your bunk,” said Dan truthfully. + +They walked home together, Tom carrying the baby in such a manner that +he could--and did--snatch off both their caps. Their laughter went +before them up the street and prepared their welcome in Greville Row. +Dan already had a place in his landlady’s heart. His forlorn condition, +the appealing youth of his widowerhood and fatherhood, had stirred up +her maternal feelings towards him. Besides, he was uncommonly handy, for +a man, about the house. He had helped her many times at the end of a +heavy day--once even cooking the supper for her, when she had a headache +and did not like stooping over the fire. She was glad to see his father +and readily promised him a bed. If he didn’t mind the top attic, there +was a bed in that, and she could easily fix him up a wash-bowl and some +hooks. + +So three generations of Sheathers took up their abode under Mrs. Gain’s +roof--not highly successful or creditable Sheathers, but comfortable +none the less. It was Tom now who took his grandson every morning to the +crèche, Dan having wisely determined that he was not a fit person to +have charge of the child all day. In the evening he met his son at the +Downs Company’s office, and they brought Thomas Helier home together. +The evening was spent with the Gains, first at supper and afterwards in +the parlour, where there was a gramophone, which reminded Dan, sometimes +uncomfortably, of old days at Batchelors’ Hall. + +Mr. Gain and Tom Sheather had a great deal in common, and told each +other over their pipes endless tales of seaports and the sea. Dan +noticed a change in his father--he seemed much younger, and even more +irresponsible than in the days of the George. Some of the adventures he +recounted were simply the pranks of schoolboys. + +His head was full of the sea. Though it was barely a year since he had +signed on his first ship after nearly thirty years on land, the sea was +now his world, and the land forgotten. The vicissitudes of the George +did not move him, even when at midsummer its amalgamation with the Crown +passed from conjecture into deed. The two inns were to be run as one +hotel--“The George and Crown”--with a passage bridge across the road, +from which the sign should swing. Dan was rather stirred and distressed +by this new change, but Tom Sheather seemed to regard it merely as a +joke. + +“He’ll have bought the Ritz some day, that Ernley Munk. Who’d have +thought he’d turn out such a regular old hotel-keeper--him with his +books and his talk and his wenches? D’you remember that gal in black he +brought over to supper with us?--and then went and married your poor +Belle Shackford? I wonder how she likes all this glory?” + +“Reckon she likes it well enough--why shouldn’t she?” + +“Never said she shouldn’t. Clean contrary. I bet she likes spending his +money on clothes. She was always a gal after clothes for her +back--though she might have shown less of her back when she’d got ’em +on. I never saw that gal without a hook undone.” + +Dan disliked his father’s reminiscences, and changed the subject. + +“Have you heard of another berth yet?” + +“I’ve heard of several, but they won’t do. I tell you this time I’m +going to pick my job. I’ve been on the _Alfred Bateson_, on the +_Yorkshire Crown_ and _Rebecca Rose_. I’ve a long seafaring experience, +seeing I was in the coasting trade before many of these lads were born. +My Lord! I’m glad I went back to the sea. There ain’t no good jobs on +land, except for Christopher Sheather. You’ve got a rotten job, Daniel. +Why don’t you chuck it and come along with me on my next voyage?” + +“What should I do on a ship? I know nothing about the sea.” + +“Weren’t you a Sarkie fisherman for two years?” + +“Yes, but that was only motor-boats.” + +“Well, even they ud teach you something. I never saw a wickeder coast +than the coast of Sark--changing every hour, and some of those rocks not +down on the chart at all. Know that rock under the Grande Moie?--forget +what it’s called, but it wasn’t on the chart.” + +“I never did much navigation over there--they wouldn’t let me. And, +anyways, it ud be very different on a Geordie.” + +“But you’d soon learn--you’re young and smart, and it’s a grand life.” + +“Well, there’s no use talking. I’ve got a kid to look after.” + +“You could leave him with Mr. and Mrs. Gain. Or Emmie ud take him at +Brakey Bottom and be delighted. You’d be able to pay handsome for his +keep, for you’d be making good money--a sight more than you make here, +and not so much chance of spending it.” + +Dan shook his head. + +“There’s no good talking. I can’t leave the kid--and I’m not so badly +off on this job, neither. It might lead to something better.” + +“What?” asked Tom Sheather cruelly. + + + + +CHAPTER NINE + + +§ 1 + +August came. Newhaven harbour was noisy with cross-Channel traffic, and +the Downs Company ’buses were crowded on all journeys with the shifting, +summer traffic of the roads. The weather was very hot, and Daniel often +came home of an evening limp and weary. It was hard work conducting a +crowded ’bus on a hot day, with panting, sweating human beings +clambering over him and clamouring at him, and a cloud of dust whirling +along continually over the back step, on which he stood jarred and +listless through the long hours of the lanes. + +He grew so tired and out-of-sorts that on his free days he gave up his +regular appearances at Hoddern. By giving a refuge to his father he had +only added to his unpopularity with his mother and Chris--they showed +him plainly that they thought him disloyal, and sometimes, apart from +this, sitting with them at their table, he was pricked with envy. For +the first time he became dispirited at the contrast between himself and +Chris. There they sat opposite each other, each side of their mother. +Both were in uniform and both were their mother’s sons. But Chris’s +uniform was a smart summer rig-out of cream-coloured dust-cloth faced +with blue, while Dan’s was his old winter uniform of green and shiny +serge, patched with leather and smelling of car-oil. And if they wore +mufti it was the same contrast--Chris in grey flannels and a fine shirt, +looking the gentleman every bit of him except his shoes, whose failure +to reach that standard was veiled from Daniel by his ignorance; while +Dan’s ordinary suit was even more disreputable-looking than his uniform, +because it was older, and had become too tight for him while he was in +Sark. Then to crown all, Chris was his mother’s darling, loved and +approved by her, while Dan his mother disapproved of and reproached: +“You cannot love me, or you would not live with that vagabond man who +deserted me.” + +So on those hot August Wednesday and Sunday afternoons he no longer +trekked up the Lewes road, but sat with Thomas Helier on the beach, +watching the peacock sea grow pink against the sky--or sometimes he had +what his landlady called “a good lay down” on the sofa in her +sitting-room. Mrs. Gain had by this time given him the freedom of her +house, including the sitting-room with its tapestried suite, central +table, and permanently half-drawn blind. She was proud that he should +use it, feeling sure that it was “better than anything he was accustomed +to,” and certainly nothing quite like it had existed in any of Dan’s +various homes--the George, Moie Fano, the Pêche à Agneau, or Bullockdean +parsonage. + +One particular Wednesday afternoon Tom Sheather had taken out the baby, +and Dan lay asleep on the little hard green sofa, lulled by the drone of +a bee under the blind. He looked particularly helpless and childish, +huddled there in his shirt sleeves, his hair rubbed out of its sleekness +by the tapestried cushion, his cheeks flushed by his sleep. Mrs. Gain +hesitated in a tender moment before she woke him, holding out his coat +for him to put on. + +“Wa’r is it?” he mumbled drowsily. + +“A lady to see you, Mr. Sheather. I thought I’d better bring you your +coat.” + +“Where?” + +“I put her into the kitchen while I went to rouse you.” + +“Who is she?” + +“I think she said her name was Munk.” + +Dan sat up, blinking and terribly awake. His thought was--“I won’t see +Belle. I won’t have her in here. I’ve kept away from her for six months +and I won’t have her spoil it all by coming. Show her out.” His words +actually were: “Please show her in.” + +In came Belle, carrying the spoils of her morning’s shopping in +Newhaven. She wore a dress of flowered voile, tumbled with the heat, and +under her big straw hat her hair showed yellow as straw. + +“Hullo, Belle!” said Daniel awkwardly. “How nice of you to call! I +haven’t seen you for ages.” + +“Hullo, Daniel!” said Belle languidly, and began to cry. + +The bee droned on under the blind. + + +§ 2 + +For nearly a minute Dan stood and gazed at her. At first he thought that +he must be still asleep and dreaming--this was like so many of his +dreams--Belle standing before him in her tumbled loveliness, tormenting +his heart with her sorrow and his love. Then he discovered that he was +trembling all over. + +“Belle--what is it?... what’s happened?” + +“You know,” sobbed Belle. “You know.” + +“I don’t know. I only guess ... a dunnamany things. Belle, sit down and +tell me all about it.” + +She sank down on one of the tapestried armchairs, and he sat down on the +sofa, purposely setting the width of the little centre table between +them. The aspidistra in the middle of it partly hid her from him, +screening her bowed head and dipping hat with its streaky leaves, +disguising the heaving movements of her shoulders. If he had seen her +without this barrier, he would have taken her in his arms. + +“What is it, dear Belle. Tell me ... is it Ernley?” + +“Yes--yes. Oh, Dan, I must talk to somebody about him ... and you know +something already--you must ... that time you came to supper and Ernley +telephoned.” + +“You thought he was speaking to a girl.” + +“Thought?... I knew. He’s had a girl for months. He’s been going out +with that Pearl Jenner--the one he took up with when I was engaged to +you. Oh, I thought that when I’d married him it would all be settled and +happy, as I wanted it to be. I thought I need never be anxious or +jealous any more. But now ... now....” + +Her voice choked away in sobs. + +“Why do you tell me all this?” asked Dan stiffly. The yearning and +agitation of his heart made him seek desperately a manner that was cold. + +“Why? Because you loved me once--you love me a little bit still--and you +ran away from me in my hour of need, because you were frightened.” + +“Belle!” + +“Well, didn’t you?” + +His face was scarlet. His coming to Newhaven had always seemed to him as +much a renunciation as a refuge, and he was shocked to find that Belle +saw it with so different eyes. + +“I--I left Bullockdean,” he stammered--“I left Bullockdean because I was +so miserable. It hurt me to see you and Ernley quarrelling and +suspecting each other like that, and I’d no idea as you liked having me +by.” + +“‘No idea!’ You’re a fool, Daniel. Can’t you imagine what a difference +it made, having someone that cared?... even though we never talked about +it. You took fright that evening and cleared out--or else heaven knows +the comfort you might have been.” + +Though he felt at the back of his mind that, in spite of all she said, +he had been right, Daniel still wore the colour of shame. It seemed a +terrible thing to have deserted Belle--and yet, God knew.... He tried to +make amends. + +“I’d never have gone if I’d thought for a moment you wanted me to stay. +But you never showed me ... you never seemed to want me about. If I’d +known I’d have stayed. Is it too late? Can’t I help at all now?” + +She stood up and with a desponding sweep of her arm pulled off her hat +and dropped it on the table. + +“I dunno. You can’t come back. Maybe I was wrong in blaming you. But I +was mad this morning. Just as I came away he got a post-card from her. +It said ‘Tivoli Palace entrance at 2.30. P.’--and he had told me he was +going to Eastbourne about the new furniture.” + +“You read his post-card?” + +“Of course I did. Don’t be a prig, Daniel. Who wouldn’t read a post-card +addressed to her husband?” + +“Well, it seems to me she couldn’t have meant any harm, or she wouldn’t +have sent a post-card.” + +“That shows how little you know. She does that sort of thing to +humiliate me--to show her power. She knows that I know. She made him +bring her around the other day in the side-car of his motor-bike. God! I +could scratch her face.” + +She had come round the table and stood with her arms akimbo, looking +down on Daniel. She was big and glowing and angry. She made him think of +peonies and sunflowers. He longed to have the aspidistra once more +between them, but instead she stood between him and it, hiding its +desiccated respectability with her big opulent body. The sunshine poured +over her flowered gown, but her head was in the shadow of the drawn +blind. + +“O God, what I’ve endured all these months! I can’t bear it any longer. +It’s--worse--worse than before we married. I ought never to have married +him. I ought to have married you, though you are such a dummy. You +wouldn’t have made me unhappy like this.” + +Belle Munk, the mother of Jill and Peter, the friend of Thomas Helier, +was gone, and in her place stood the old Belle Shackford--who ran after +men, who scratched women’s faces. As he gazed up into her restless, +tragic eyes, her marriage seemed to have ended, to have dropped from +her. She and Ernley were what they had been before it--jealous, +quarrelling lovers, he running after Pearl Jenner, she turning to Daniel +Sheather. He saw his past coming back to him in all its sorrow and joy +and power. He felt it beating in his heart, and his eyes were dim with +its gathering tears. Half-blind and silly, he sprang to his feet, and +threw his arms about her, feeling once more the thrill of her glorious +size and strength. She trembled, yielded, and as her flushed, angry +mouth met his, the rent in the years was knit up, and another home and +another woman no longer stood between this and their last embrace. +Indeed the kiss with which he kissed her now was their parting kiss of +three and a half years ago, still uniting them in its pain and +sweetness. They had never drawn apart. Through all the years their lips +had been together, even when she lived in his memory as a shadow on +glass. + +There was a knock at the door, and they separated. The aspidistra stood +once more between them when Mrs. Gain came in. + +“I was wondering if the lady ud like a cup of tea, Mr. Sheather. The +kettle’s just boiling, and it’s nearly four o’clock.” + +“No, thank you very much,” said Belle, coughing a little. “I must be +getting back now.” + +“I shouldn’t be a minute getting it.” + +“No, thank you. I must catch the four-thirty train.” + +She put on her hat, picked up her parcels and walked to the door. On the +threshold she remembered herself, and turned round and shook hands with +Daniel as he stood gaping at her. + + +§ 3 + +For days afterwards Daniel was shaken by this interview. It bewildered +him. He did not know what to make of it, either on Belle’s side or his +own. He was terrified to think that his old passion for her had revived, +though, now that he no longer held her in his arms, it did not appear +quite as it used in the old days. It was more physical, less romantic +and adoring--marriage had changed his attitude somehow. Though that kiss +had seemed in unbroken continuity with the past, his love for her was +not. It was no longer so very much more than his kiss. It no longer +filled his eyes, satisfying and blinding him. Moreover, he had no +illusions about her love for him. It seemed to him quite plain that she +had sought him out only to avenge herself on Ernley. She was desperately +jealous, as she had always been. She had married to give herself +security, and marriage had failed her. So she had turned to Daniel to +show herself, and perhaps Ernley, that she did not care, and that where +she was betrayed she could betray also. + +The more he thought it over, the more he felt that most likely she had +no real grounds for jealousy. Ernley was only flirting, fooling around, +and if she did not goad him too much would probably soon get over his +infatuation. Three years ago Pearl Jenner had been only a blind and a +consolation; probably she was still no more. Ernley was disappointed in +his marriage too, and was trying to alter its conditions. He had +certainly succeeded in diverting Belle’s attention from her children to +her husband, but beyond that the matter had not prospered. She was not +the woman to be roused by such means--Ernley was a fool; and he was not +the man to be shaped by such handling--Belle was a fool too. + +This was sometimes Dan’s view of the situation--at others he was lost, +groping in his love for Belle, overcome with horror at the idea of +having deserted her in her hour of need. He vowed that he would stand at +her service now, and waited day after day to see if she would claim him. +But two weeks passed and nothing happened. She neither wrote nor came. +Her visit on that hot August afternoon began to appear more and more in +the light of a caprice--the result of a sudden goading. She had +repented, and was ashamed. He told himself that he ought to be ashamed +too. She did not belong to him--she belonged to his best friend, whom +she had taken for better, for worse, not knowing how much better or how +much worse it would be. + +Marriage was a queer thing, thought Daniel during those days. There +seemed so many different kinds of marriage, and you never knew which +kind yours was going to be. He had married without love, out of pity +only, and the force of circumstances, and yet his year of marriage was +(he already knew) his life’s eternal treasure. Ernley and Belle had +married out of a passionate and romantic love, which had plucked them up +by the roots and flung them together like trees in a hurricane. And look +at them now--tossed and distressed, united and yet disunited, lovers and +enemies.... Look at his father and mother too. His father had loved his +mother, and had wooed her in the teeth of difficulty, while his mother +had faced the anger of her kinsfolk to marry the stranger. To-day they +lived apart, and yet content, his mother’s love given to her son, his +father’s to the sea. They had forgotten their wooing and their love and +the blue and golden days of the isles.... + + + + +CHAPTER TEN + + +For some time Dan had gathered that his father’s stay ashore was +conditioned by the time his money lasted. More than once he could have +gone out on a coaster, but he preferred to remain on land, spending what +he had. He went a great deal to the port taverns, but since that first +afternoon Dan had never seen him drunk. He liked the society of other +sailormen ashore, and often brought a couple with him to spend the +evening at Greville Row, to the friendly delight of Mr. Gain. + +He still talked a great deal about Dan’s joining him at sea. He disliked +his son’s work on the ’bus, and it made him angry to think of him at a +disadvantage when compared with Christopher. He insisted that Thomas +Helier should not stand as a barrier between his father and a new life. + +“There’s three sets of people as I know ud look after him--Mr. and Mrs. +Gain here--your sister-in-law Emmie--or that Harman girl. There’s no use +pretending you’re such an extra-special father that he’d miss you at his +age. It ain’t as if you were going on long voyages--you’d be seeing him +every now and again--he wouldn’t forget you like some.” + +Dan shook his head. + +“It isn’t only him. What should I do on board ship? I don’t see myself +as an A.B.” + +“You could come along as cook. My Lord, Dan! But you cook better than +any of the sons of Germans we had on the _Yorkshire Crown_ or on the +_Rebecca Rose_. A good cook is everybody’s friend--you’d have a +first-class time in the galley.” + +Dan was touched by his father’s anxiety to have him with him, but he +would not even discuss the matter. The land held him, though he knew not +quite by what claims. + +At the end of August Tom Sheather went off for a week to see a pal at +Middlesbrough. This man had been skipper of the Geordie which Tom had +first sailed in. He was now skipper of the _White King_ which had put +into Middlesbrough for repairs, and he invited Tom to come and spend a +few days with him and his wife, who let lodgings in the town. + +Dan missed his father, who had always been good company, and had filled +up with talk and tales many hours that might have been disturbing if +spent alone. Now he had to spend his free time as best he could, and +became a devoted father to Thomas Helier, whom he took to the beach on +Wednesday afternoons. Here he would lie dozing in the sunshine that +warmed the shingle and danced on the little waves that the breeze +whipped up on the languid August tide. Thomas Helier sometimes slept in +a shawl, sometimes lay lively and garrulous, expressing his approval of +the sunshine and the sea. He had a little spade, which he used at his +tender age for purposes of destruction rather than construction, and +with which he would beat his father when he was too drowsy for good +company. He would sprawl over him, too, tugging at his hair, and pulling +the carefully brushed and oiled forelock into disarray: “Dadda,” he +would cry--“lady.” + +His infant experience was full of ladies who had befriended him and +Daniel in moments of difficulty or embarrassment. He could not think +that one would ever pass without stopping to speak to them, or to put on +the sock and shoe he had kicked off, or to pick up his woolly ball which +had rolled away. “Lady!” he shrieked and welcomed--and Dan continued his +encounters with motherly minded females whose efficient sentiment ran +over at the sight of the young father and his son. + +But in the evening hours, when Thomas Helier was put to bed by all the +rules of the Babies’ Welfare, there could be no society either of baby +or ladies on the beach. Dan could not bear the stuffiness of the Gains’ +sitting-room, for the August evening was not yet dark, and he would feel +drawn into the twilight, into the streets that still moved with life. +Newhaven was not like Lewes after dusk--there was none of the evening +coma of the market town, when the beasts have been driven home, and the +Fords and gigs are away, and in the public-house sits only the +auctioneer, resting after his raucous day. Newhaven streets were full of +seamen, from the Geordies and other coasters, sometimes among them +strangers from the Baltic or the north-west coast of France. The cinemas +and the public-houses were full of them and their girls, and the +pavements echoed with their tread, and the dusk was hoarse with the +murmur of their voices and stinging with the smell of their pipes. + +Dan went most often to the bridge. Here he would stand and look down +into the basin of the Ouse, spreading towards Sleepers Hole. The masts +of the ships stood like the lances of a great army between him and the +pink edge of the sky. Among them he could see the smoke-stacks--red and +yellow, black and white--and here and there the powerful lines of a +crane. There were the ships that went up and down the Channel, and +across it to the French ports, or to the Norman isles he knew so +well--or turned the Lizard, or wandered up past Deal and Chatham and the +flat isles of Kent into the London river. Leaning there on the bridge he +would brood over all that his father had told him of the strange country +of the sea--of the life on board the ships, with its gaiety and its +quarrelling and its cleanliness, of the expanse which he knew only as +the Channel, but which to his father was a chartered country of roads +and names like the country of the downs--Elphick’s Tree, and Kinsman’s +Nab, and the Horse of Willingdon, and the sea-downs of Le Colbert and Le +Varne right out towards France, with Les Ridens, or Boulogne Middle. + +Sometimes as he looked towards the lances of the coaster-army he felt +that he, too, would like to go with them out to the new country of the +English waters, leaving behind him the land that was so unfriendly, with +all its perplexities and cares. The ghost of Belle Shackford would not +come out to him walking upon the water. He still felt that he could not +leave his son, or break any of the ties that held him to land, but for +the first time he had heard the sea call. + + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN + + +§ 1 + +Suddenly the tranquillity of those days was broken by the summons that +all along he had expected. Belle sent him a telegram: “Meet me outside +Ship Hotel two-thirty to-morrow.” The arrival of a telegram was itself +startling in Greville Row, and in a moment of weakness he lied and said +it was from his father. He had actually had a letter from his father +that morning, telling him that his pal Gregory had offered him a berth +on the _White King_, and would take on Dan as cook if he cared to think +it over. He foisted the main contents of the letter on to the telegram +and the deed was done. + +“There now!” cried Mrs. Gain--“I was sure he’d be going to sea again +soon. Will he come back here first?” + +“I dunno,” said Daniel--“maybe he will, for the _White King_ ain’t ready +to sail for a fortnight or so, and he’ll want to say good-bye to me and +the kid.” + +“Then you ain’t going with him?” + +Dan shook his head. + +“That’s right,” cried the landlady--“you stop ashore. I’ve never yet +believed that the sea is anything like half what they crack it up to +be.” + +Dan smiled wanly, and spent the rest of the evening in restless +conjecture. Why was Belle throwing herself upon him now? What did she +mean by her telegram?--just a meeting? or some confidence or some +service? or plans altogether more sweeping and more desperate? He lay +awake most of the night, and the next morning lounged, tired and +inefficient, at the back of his ’bus, his mind no longer asking +questions, or pricking itself to meet the future, but lumpish and inert, +adapting itself to circumstances as mud adapts itself to the crushing of +wagon-wheels. + +But at half-past two he was outside the Ship, in appearance like any +other of the young men lounging around on this early-closing day--the +country-town mixture of spruceness and stolidity, blue reach-me-down, +grey felt hat, and rather regrettable mauve socks. The next minute Belle +appeared, big, golden, lovely, drooping with the heat that struck down +from the hard blue sky and up from the hard, white pavement. She climbed +off the Lewes ’bus, holding a suit-case in her hand. + +“Hullo, Dan! I’m glad you’ve come.” + +“Of course I’ve come.” + +He took the case from her--it was heavy. + +“What are you going to do with this?” + +“Oh, leave it somewhere--anywhere--wherever I stay. I’ve left Ernley.” + +Daniel stared at her, and the colour climbed as usual up his neck and +face. He wished Belle would not spring these things on him in the public +street. + +“I’ve left him,” she repeated, taking off her long cotton gloves. “I +couldn’t stand any more of it, and when it came to his stopping out all +night....” + +“He did that?” + +“Yes--he’s done it twice. And he’s going to do it again to-night. Once +his motor-bike broke down at Hassocks and he couldn’t get away till +morning. Convenient--a motor-bike. Another time he went up to London to +the Licensed Victuallers’ dinner, and now he’s gone to the Rotary dinner +at Hastings.” + +It all sounded pretty harmless, but Daniel knew what it meant to Belle, +and was not entirely without his own suspicions, which, however, he +would not betray. + +“You don’t know that it means he’s with her--Pearl Jenner.” + +“I do know. I’ve seen her letters.” + +Daniel looked worried. + +“Yes, I dare say you think I’m low, but I’ve been driven to it. Her +letters kept on coming, so I steamed one open and she’s been in town +with him--he hadn’t gone to the dinner at all--he’d gone to a theatre. +Oh, of course, she didn’t say he’d actually slept with her----” Dan +looked round in alarm at the lounging young men and dispersing contents +of the ’bus, but Belle’s warm, husky voice had more fierceness than +carrying power--it filled his ears but reached nobody else’s. + +“Of course she didn’t,” she continued--“she wouldn’t--and there’s no +need. When he told me he was going to Hastings to-night I told him +straight that he was meeting her there--and he didn’t deny it. We had a +scene together then--and he went off--and I telegraphed to you. Oh, Dan, +I know I’m low and bad, but he’s driven me to it--I have to know what +he’s doing, or I’d go mad--and when I do know....” + +The tears sprang up in her eyes, and he felt them in his own. He could +not speak. He merely snatched up her bag from the pavement and carried +it into the inn. + +“We’ll get rid of this--and then we’ll go somewhere and talk. Don’t cry, +Belle, I’ll look after you.” + +But she was not so easily disposed of. The Ship was full--it had no room +for her, and they were driven out once more into the street. He was +perplexed as to what they should do. He could, of course, take her down +to the harbour and find accommodation in the London and Paris Hotel, but +Belle protested: + +“I don’t want to go right away from you like that. Besides, we’ve +neither of us got the money. Can’t I get a cheap room near you--isn’t +there one in the house where you live?” + +“There’s the one dad had, but there’s some of his tackle still in it. +All the same....” + +“That won’t matter. It’ll only be for a night or two. I can’t stay +here.” + +He did not speak. The future seemed to rise before him like a dark and +terrible wall. + + +§ 2 + +Belle’s luggage, which after a furlong of hot pavements seemed to have +doubled its weight at the end of his arm, was finally left in Tom +Sheather’s attic. Mrs. Gain had no objection when his visitor assured +her that she did not expect these luxuries of accommodation which the +landlady’s experience taught her were always a source of trouble with +females. + +“I’ve done for nobody but gentlemen for the last ten year. Howsumever, +ma’am, you’re welcome to the room for a night or two, if you can put up +with it.” + +She thought that her lodger looked fagged, and offered her a cup of tea +in the sitting-room, which Dan accepted for her. He wanted to talk to +Belle in quiet, out of the streets--though he knew now that the +aspidistra and the half-drawn blind no longer afforded the protections +he had relied on. + +They sat down, as before, each side of the centre table, but this time +she was on the sofa, and he sat on the chair under the window, the sun +hot on his back. The tea came in and they both had some, their +conversation mechanically adapted to Mrs. Gain’s occasional entrances. + +When she had taken the tray away, he and Belle sat for some moments in +silence. It was a curious fact that during the hour or so that they had +been together he had grown somehow to understand her purpose in coming +to him, though not a word on the subject had passed between them. She +was throwing herself back into the past--into the old poverty and the +old love. Ernley had failed her, prosperity had failed her, marriage had +failed her. Spiritually she was turning from the Crown to the George, as +she had done before. + +“Well, my dear--what are we going to do?” + +She stood up, and walked round the table into the patch of sunshine +where he sat. Then she sank, spreading like a peony at his feet. + +“Oh, Daniel--I’ve come to you.” + +“To me, my lovely--why to me?” + +“Because I want you.” + +There was no gladness in either of their voices. + +“Don’t you want Ernley any more?” + +“No.” + +“Nor the children?” + +“No.” + +“I don’t believe you.” + +“You would if you understood what I’ve been through during these last +weeks--seeing him turn from me, seeing the children dividing us instead +of bringing us together, seeing everything ... die. Oh, Dan, Ernley’s +dead and the children are dead, and I’m only the poor widow and mother +who’s come to you. Dan, be good to me and take me. You were good to me +years ago, and there’s never been anyone like you for love and +kindness--if only I hadn’t been cursed.” + +She hid her face on his knee, and they both trembled. He forced himself +to speak. + +“But, my dear, don’t you see how hopeless it all is? What can I do for +you now? I make barely enough money to keep myself and the boy. We’d +simply go under.” + +“No, we shouldn’t. You could get better-paid work if you went to another +place--and I could work, too. I’m used to working, and part of my +trouble’s been that I’ve had no work lately, at least none that I could +understand. Dan, don’t you see this? I’m down to the bottom, and nothing +worse can happen to me than what has happened. If we had to be servants +together it would be happier for me than being the landlord’s wife at +the Crown. And don’t you see that you’re down to the bottom, too?--that +you’ve nothing to lose? Your sister-in-law will take care of your baby +for you. You won’t have to worry about him--it’ll be only our two +selves, and, as I say, we’re at the bottom already, so we can’t fall any +lower.” + +Dan’s heart was beating violently. The wall of the future seemed to +topple, and he saw beyond it a dark night into which he and Belle walked +alone--hand in hand, leaving everything behind them, seeing nothing but +sorrow, yet together. Years ago he had hoped to possess her with all +that he most loved in life, and now she was offered to him alone, a +fellow-victim, stripped and cast out. Yet he wanted her as much as when +her love would have brought comfort instead of privation, pride instead +of shame. + +“Belle, how can I take you like that?” For her sake more than his own he +still struggled a little. “You’ll regret it some day, and then in your +heart you’d reproach me. You couldn’t help it. We’ll be without +everything--we’ll be outside--no friends, no home, no money--Belle!” + +“I shan’t mind. I’d rather have love and nothing than everything without +love, and seemingly I’ve got to choose. Besides, it won’t always be like +that. We’ll find work somewhere--and Ernley will divorce me and then we +can get married.” + +Dan’s eyes grew big at the idea of divorce. It sounded grand, but +outside the normal round of human experience either in Sark or +Bullockdean. Still, all that was very far ahead. Nothing was close to +him but Belle in her disillusion and wreck, turning to him as to her one +comfort, claiming him out of the past. She suddenly knelt upright on the +floor in front of him and held out her arms. He caught her, dragging her +over his knees, straining her to his heart. Once more the wall of the +future was built up, and the darkness hidden. The past seemed to go over +his head like a flood, bringing all his old love and joy and pain in +her. He was like a man drowning in a place where waters meet. + + +§ 3 + +When they drew apart from that embrace something had changed in him. He +no longer felt sorrowful and fear-driven--his heart was light, his +outlook triumphant. The scheme of his life till now seemed to him in +this elated moment a very mean scheme. His days on the ’bus, his nights +in Greville Row, even his twilight musings on Newhaven Bridge, when the +armies of the ships lifted their spears up to the sky, even these seemed +trite and humdrum compared to the wonderful adventure of taking Belle +out alone into an empty world. + +The difficulties that lay ahead were traps for glory. He saw himself +conquering fate, swimming the sea of workless post-war England, reaching +a harbour of well-paid independence and building a home anew. Even the +thought of parting from Thomas Helier did not seriously distress +him--besides, in the fullness of time, he, too, would have his place in +that new house which love should build. + +Drawing Belle again into his arms, he took from her lips more power, +more peace, more manhood, till he could have left that room to go +through fire or walk the waters. He had never felt anything quite like +this in his earlier experience of her--this sensation of drawing bigness +from her bigness and strength from her strength. She had always been, +too, as it were, related to other things--to ideals and hopes which +formed a background to his love for her. But now she stood alone, torn +out of her background, and yet somehow immense as she had never been +when she belonged to it. + +The sun in the street was dipping towards the roofs, and the half-drawn +blind was an amber glare. + +“We’ll go out,” said Dan. “Come out with me, Belle. We can’t stop in the +house.” + +“Where are we going?” + +“We’ll go and have supper somewhere--in a shop--in a hotel. Then I’ll +take you to the pictures. We must do something this first night.” + +She picked up her hat from the floor. + +“When ull you take me away?” she murmured--“right away?” + +“I must finish my week on the ’bus.” + +“No! No!” her voice came suddenly with fear--“we can’t wait. Ernley +might find us.” + +“Let him.” + +“Oh, no--I couldn’t bear it.” + +Her eyes grew large and frightened, and her breast heaved. Dan suddenly +saw a vision of himself that he had often seen before--an odious, +practical little cad, whose chief thought was bread and butter. + +“All right--we’ll cut and run. I’ll take baby to Em’s to-morrow.” + +He asked Mrs. Gain to fetch Thomas Helier that evening and put him to +bed--a task she had already performed occasionally when he was at +Hoddern. Then, while Belle went to her attic to tidy her dress and hair, +he ran up to his room and opened the drawer where he kept his money. It +was in a small, battered cash-box, and amounted in all to some three +pounds--his Christmas gratuity from the ’bus company and tips from one +or two passengers whom he had sensationally befriended. It was all he +had in the world, but it was part of his mood now that he should spend +it, that it should be flung into the heap of his welcome for Belle’s +love. + + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE + + +§ 1 + +They ate their meal at the Cimerosa Café, a big place attached to the +leading picture-house and satisfying local ideals of smartness. +Otherwise there were few elegant resorts in Newhaven--the shore-walking +sailormen off the Geordies and other coasting craft sought homeliness +rather than elegance, and were catered for by a multitude of small +taverns and shops. The London and Paris Hotel provided for the more +sophisticated tastes of the passing population of the boat trains. For +the ’busman’s holiday and the shopgirl’s night out there was the +Cimerosa Café, with its inlaid tables and mirrored walls to provide a +glitter of luxury and a certain approximation to those homes of +splendour whose doors would be thrown open on the screen of the +picture-house beyond. + +Both Belle and Daniel were much impressed as they sat together at their +little table, an island in the midst of the vastness. All round them was +the glitter of glass and steel, polished tiles and polished wood, +flowers made at once cheaper and more impressive by masses of gypsophila +and asparagus fern, while the tinkle and wail of a piano and two fiddles +came threading a plaintive way through the clatter of knives and voices. + +Dan was at first struck dumb by the elegance of the waitress and the +profusion of the menu. But between them he and Belle managed at last to +stumble upon the materials of a meal. They had soup, fried cutlets with +French beans, and finally a fruit salad. Belle, as once mistress of the +Crown, knew more about food than Daniel, and also chose the sauterne +that her lover was drinking for the first time. + +Though more at their ease when they had begun eating they scarcely +talked during their dinner. They belonged to that order of society which +is too polite to talk when music is being provided for its +entertainment. They listened respectfully to each item as if they had +been at a concert, and applauded respectfully at the end. Belle ate +slowly and sat dreamily, hardly seeming to notice her surroundings. Dan, +on the other hand, stared about the room, watching the other diners and +the waitresses moving among them, interested in their manners and their +food, as it was his custom to be interested in other people’s concerns. + +There was another smaller hall beyond the first, and from where he sat +he could see a part of it reflected in the mirror opposite him. In the +mirror he saw a man and woman come in together and sit down at a table +under a palm. The elegance of the woman’s black dress and hat made him +look at her twice, and with a start he recognized her as Pearl Jenner. +The man was unknown. + +At first surprise and interest made him miss the significance of this +encounter, but in a minute or two he realized what it meant. Belle had +come to him because she believed her husband to be with another woman, +and here was this other woman without him but with another man. She was +certainly guiltless on this occasion, though, Dan told himself angrily, +it did not follow that she had been guiltless on any other. + +After all, Belle had made sure of her perfidy by effective if low +expedients. + +He wondered if Belle could see her, but Belle sat with her back to the +mirror and outside the angle of direct vision. She could not see nor be +seen. Then he suddenly asked himself what she would do if she realized +that to-night at least her suspicions were confounded, and Ernley was +innocently eating his dinner in Hastings, the blameless guest of +Rotarians. + +The question rushed at him out of the void, bringing with it the answer +not of itself, but of another question which he had not yet dared to +ask. “She is here not because of her love of me, but because of her love +of Ernley.” His hand shook as he quickly raised his glass, and the +glitter of the room with its lights and glass and silver and flowers +seemed to heel over as in a nightmare. By an act of violence he pushed +the question which had no answer and the answer which had no question +out of his mind together. At the same time he stood up. He must do +something--he must settle something--find out something about Pearl +Jenner and why she was there. Then perhaps he would not trouble about +Belle and why she was there. + +“Where are you going?” asked Belle, waking out of her dream. + +“I’m going to ask if they have any programmes. I’ll be back in a +minute.” + +He had seen some posters of the cinema entertainment displayed in the +inner room, and first of all he went and scanned these and took a couple +of leaflets. On his way back he stopped at Pearl Jenner’s table. + +“Good evening,” he said. + +Miss Jenner lifted her large, rather prominent eyes from her plate and +surveyed him carefully without a word. In that glance Dan saw a grease +mark on his waistcoat exposed, his collar and tie dismissed as +impossible. + +“I believe we’ve met before,” he said nervously. + +Miss Jenner obviously did not remember the occasion, and her escort now +joined her in her stare. Dan was nearly overwhelmed, but managed to +stand his ground. + +“It was at Bullockdean--the George Inn. You came with Mr. Ernley Munk to +meet my--to meet his--leastways....” + +Luckily she remembered now. + +“Oh, yes. But that was a long time ago.” + +“More’n three years.” + +“Fancy your remembering.” + +She had lost the deficiencies of his collar and tie in the dark, broad +comeliness of his face, with the tan of the summer roads upon the +cheeks, and the brightness of love and excitement in the eyes. + +“I ain’t likely to forget.” + +He thought a touch of gallantry would not come amiss. Then suddenly his +gaze fell to her hand and saw that she wore a wedding ring. + +“Are you married now?” The words broke straight out of his surprise. + +She bridled suitably. + +“Yes--I’m married. This is my husband, Mr. Percy Johnson. We’re going to +Paris--travelling for his firm.” + +“Oh.” + +“He’s got a job over there, and we thought we’d tack it on to our +honeymoon. We had meant to cross to-night, but there’s too much swell on +for me, so I said we’d stop at the London and Paris Hotel.” + +He seemed properly impressed. + +“Sit down and have a drink of something with us,” said Mr. Percy +Johnson. + +“No--no--much obliged, I’m sure. I’ve got a friend waiting. Good-bye.” + +“So pleased to have met you,” said the lady graciously. + +Daniel fled. + +He walked quickly back into the next room and sat down opposite Belle. + +“It begins at half-past eight. We’d better be going.” + +“Well, I’m ready. What a time you were.” + +“I met a chap I knew.” + +His heart was sick because he knew that he had not the courage to tell +her about Pearl Jenner who was now Pearl Johnson. + + +§ 2 + +He told himself it did not really matter. The thing that mattered was +Belle’s jealous suspicion of Ernley, not the question of whether it was +or was not justified. After all, it probably was justified, though Miss +Jenner had seen the wisdom of escaping from a difficult situation by the +most convenient road. Ernley had certainly deceived his wife, plotted +and schemed and lied. He had made Belle’s life a torture by uncertainty, +as she had made his a boredom by certainty. Their marriage was +smashed--trodden in pieces--by themselves. What did anything else +matter?--Pearl Jenner or Pearl Johnson? Daniel stuck a cigarette in the +corner of his mouth, and having paid his bill, led the way out of the +Cimerosa Café into the Cimerosa Palace. + +“We’ll have a box,” he said to Belle as she followed. + +“But----” + +“I don’t care. We must have a good time to-night.” + +The desire to strip the future was even more fiercely upon him. + + * * * * * + +So Belle and Daniel went into the house of Life together. + +Life moved before them, flickering on a screen in a procession, as the +procession of life moves before the immortal gods. Those ’busmen and +shopgirls in the darkness were as the immortal gods, seeing as in a +mirror for their sport, life and love and death and hate and jealousy +and wealth and despair and laughter and tenderness and vice and beauty +and age and youth and piety and folly.... Scenes of splendour, a great +country house full of servants, rooms that were halls, halls that were +the naves of cathedrals, meals that were banquets--vicarious luxury for +the immortal gods, making them forget the stained tablecloths and +bed-sitting-rooms of their experience--scenes of squalor, drink and +violence, nothing to eat ... pity bringing comfort to the immortal gods, +who see the depths beneath them and are content.... Far lands, palms, +temple bells, spreading pagodas rising tier on tier above the ageless +dragon-shaped trees, an echo of gongs and terror--and the immortal gods +forget the limits of the Southern Railway and have seen the world and +yet are thankful that they sit at home.... A royal +garden-party--greatness condescending at a factory--a fashionable +cricket match ... elegance for the immortal gods, the wand passed over +their jap silks and serge reach-me-downs ... a drama of High Life--Vice +and Virtue matched as through the million ages--vice purple-mouthed, +virtue starry-eyed--vice drinking champagne and dancing on a restaurant +table--virtue weeping and putting the babies to bed--vice +flaunting--virtue shrinking--vice trapped in a burning theatre and +destroyed sensationally--virtue welcoming erring weakness home with +close-up of forgiveness--the Moral Sense of the immortal gods is +satisfied.... The loveliest most aloof of animal souls takes on human +weakness, and shows the immortal gods their own silly vices, shifts and +philanderings through a diminishing glass. Felix keeps on walking and +the gods laugh ... they laugh again as a greater than Grimaldi comes +before them, futile, pathetic, exalted--here are the shifts of humanity, +laughable, piteous, and yet dignified. He fools, falls, blunders and is +cursed and blessed, and when he has gone there is more laughter, and +among it the first real tears the immortal gods have shed. For the +greater than Grimaldi has shown them human nature as immortal gods +should see it--as a thing of futility and dignity, tears and +laughter.... Now “Next week’s features” and “God save the King,” and the +immortal gods have descended from their velvet thrones and are ’busmen +and shopgirls once more in the street, clasping each other as the crowd +disperses on the pavements and the great arclamps of the entrance die. + + * * * * * + +Dan’s arm was clasping Belle as he led her homewards. His body was +drugged by her sweetness, and his mind was drugged by Life. They did not +speak, for their thoughts were passing in a procession as on a screen. +Belle walked with her head bent, one arm hanging limply, one hand +holding Dan’s hand against her waist. Dan walked with his head high, and +saw the lamplight in her yellow hair and breaking into the shadows flung +by her hat. They came together to Greville Row, and stood together in +the narrow hallway, with the door shutting out the street lamp and the +moon. + +Behind them the steep, narrow stairs soared into a still deeper +darkness. Dan’s arms came out and took Belle, drawing her big shoulder +down on his, holding her flushed face and rough hair down against his +cheek. + +“Oh, Belle,” he murmured thickly in her hair. “Oh, Belle--I must love +you.” + +And all the House of Life danced before the darkness of his closed eyes +that were closed against hers. She shuddered in his arms, moved herself +suddenly, and broke from him in tears. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN + + +§ 1 + +The smallness of the house shook with her dash upstairs and the banging +of her door. For a moment Dan stood at the stair-foot, then he too +turned and went upwards. He felt mentally bruised, but still exalted, as +he opened the door of his little room and went in. The moon and the +street lamp were together in a queer troubled light, and the occasional +surfaces of furniture gleamed in pale flecks. His bed was all white, and +Thomas Helier’s bed beside it, with a blot which was Thomas Helier +himself. + +Dan went over to the window, and looked out on the roofs without seeing +them. Why had Belle cried when she left him? He knew that women cry for +joy as much as for sorrow, but he did not think that Belle had cried for +joy. How could she have cried for sorrow with his arms round her and the +vows of his love upon her? Only because she still loved Ernley and still +belonged to him. Only because she loved Ernley so much that when she saw +her marriage breaking she had deliberately killed it rather than let it +drag on as a broken thing. He, Daniel, was only the stick she had taken +to break her marriage, to put her wounded love out of its pain--he was +not there to give her love but to kill her love. That night she was +expecting him to go up to her room and kill the last of her love for +Ernley. To-morrow she would wake up without love, empty, like sounding +brass or a tinkling cymbal. + +He shut his eyes again and the darkness flickered as with lights on a +screen. He saw the procession of his love for Belle--his courtship of +her at Batchelors’ Hall, the tall house and the tall nodding trees, and +the black-and-white striped walls of the drawing-room where the +gramophone played. He saw himself going to seek her up the narrow lanes +by Rushlake Green, and pleading with her in the cottage at Three Cups +Corner, where the white brides mocked him from the wall.... Then he saw +her and Ernley standing together in the doorway of old Gadgett’s +bedroom, holding each other by the hand, and looking at each other with +sad eyes, as if they looked forward into their marriage and saw it +appointed for sorrow.... + +He knew that his love had ended there. After that there had been no +love, only despair, and then escape ... and since he had come back he +had not loved her as in the old days, but in a different, unhappier way. +He loved her for herself and himself only. He loved her as other men had +loved her before Ernley, and to-night his love for her was just a flame, +seeking to devour--not the flame of the hearth where the food is cooked +and life made warm and secure, but the flame of the burning house, which +seeks only to destroy, and is the enemy of the hearth upon which the +dead, burnt house shall fall. + +He opened his eyes again and looked down at the little dark shape of +Thomas Helier asleep in his moonlit bed. Then he remembered his own +marriage. Till that moment it had been merely an empty space in his +thoughts of Belle. But now it became an island, and the rest of life the +empty sea. That year of his married life, belonging to the stranger, the +strange land and the strange language, was none the less his heart’s +true home and abiding sweetness. All that he had ever known of love was +in that marriage, which had gathered up into itself not only his love +for Rose Falla but his love for Belle Shackford. His love for Belle had +led him to his marriage with Rose, and his love for Belle had been made +holy by his marriage with Rose. + +“Oh, Rose, Rose--dear little Rose--I remember that evening when I took +you into my arms in the dark cottage at Moie Fano, and outside was the +cliff like a terrible blind thing asleep in the light. Something better +than love had given you to me then. I thought, ‘All my love is in Sussex +with Belle Shackford’--and reckon I never knew that love was in our +marriage and nowhere else.... If I let Belle use me to break her +marriage, I break my own--I break faith with Rose--I break faith with +Belle. I cannot love a woman away from marriage--if I did that my love +would be like the cliff at Moie Fano--a terrible blind thing asleep in +the light.” + +He sank down on his knees before the window, and his thoughts which had +been drowned came out of the water, and he knew himself to be set on a +mad and evil way. He was about to break a marriage--a wounded marriage, +it is true, but not wounded to death. Belle had taken Ernley as he had +taken Rose--“_pour le mieux et pour le pire_”--“for better for worse.” +He had known nothing of the worse in his marriage with Rose, for his +Rose had been a sweet flower plucked before the rains. But if they had +lived on together they would probably have had to forgive just like +everyone else. He could have forgiven Rose anything--Rose would have +forgiven him anything. By that same power Ernley could forgive Belle and +Belle could forgive Ernley. And Belle had less to forgive Ernley than +she thought ... there lay Daniel’s shame. He was a thief breaking into +the inn of marriage with a lie. What does it matter? The inn of marriage +is empty--it is already robbed. No--love is still there. Respect and +trust and seemliness are gone, but love is still there--sitting alone +and waiting for the others to come back ... love of the mother for the +children and the children for the mother--love of the wife for the +husband and the husband for the wife. Belle knew that, and that was why +she wanted him to break into the inn of marriage and help her kill +love--love waiting in the empty house till her children return.... “But +I can’t do that--I can’t--because for a year I, too, lived with love in +the inn of marriage, and if I kill Belle’s love for her husband I kill +my own for Belle, my own for Rose, my own for our child, since these are +all part of the same thing. Oh, God, I can’t do it--I can’t hurt the +best thing you’ve ever given me--your own thing--part of yourself.” + + +§ 2 + +The dawn was breaking, with the masts of the ships standing up before it +like spears before a banner. Dan still knelt beside the window in the +dishevelment of a sleepless night. His collar was askew, and that tie, +damned of Pearl Johnson, was under one ear. His hair was rumpled out of +its sleekness, and the long, straight lick of it hung sideways almost to +his shoulder. He must clean and tidy himself before he went up to Belle +and told her that his own marriage had been too great a treasure for him +to be the thief of hers. + +He must tell her at once, so that she could go back at once to Ernley. +If she went now the situation might be saved. Indeed, the very fact of +her having gone away might take from her that certainty which had so +disenchanted her husband. This thing that had happened might be the very +thing needed to establish happiness for Belle and Ernley. Whether Belle +had loved Daniel or not, or Ernley had loved Pearl or not, was no +matter. Pearl and Daniel had been useful to break up a hard piece of +life--and now that their task was done, Pearl could go to her Mr. +Johnson, and Daniel could go.... + +He plunged his head into his basin of cold water. What should he do when +he had lost Belle? Didn’t he still love her? Yes--but that terrible, +stripped future which had once enticed him now filled him entirely with +fear. He could not take Belle away from everything that truly belonged +to her--her marriage, her home, her husband, her children ... any more +than he could go away himself from all that truly belonged to him--his +marriage, his home, Rose Falla or Notre Helier. + +The baby was still asleep--he had slept peacefully all through the night +of his father’s distress. Soon he would be waking and demanding +attention in one form or another. Poor little kid--at least one would +not have to part with him now ... or only for a little while. His father +would have to go away for a little while, to forget this new sound of +Belle’s footsteps in his life. Going away was a great cure for +everything--made everything seem like shadows on glass ... then when you +came back you could pick up things again in a new way--he had picked up +his love for Belle in a new way; if he had picked it up in the old way +he could not have renounced it now. But there was sea water in the blood +of his father’s son, and a sea change was a change of heart. When did +the _White King_ sail from Middlesbrough?... + + +§ 3 + +From Belle’s window, too, one could see the masts of the ships, but now +the sunlight gleamed upon them--they were no longer lances but Aaron’s +rod in flower. As Dan came stooping into the attic with its low-set +window, the first thing he saw was the flowering of Aaron’s rod against +the sea. The dawn was full of colour--rose and brown and blue, and the +breeze of it rushed into the attic, both salt and sweet. + +It was almost like an encounter, and gave him a queer sense of +exaltation, and the strength to look at Belle as she lay on the bed, +outside the clothes, wrapped in a purple cotton kimono, over which her +hair flowed tawny and challenging. Her face was hidden in the hollow of +one elbow, and she slept incredibly, in spite of his knock and his +entrance and the flowering of the dawn. + +But immediately he came and stood beside her she woke--she sat up, +sweeping the hair out of her eyes. Her hair frightened him--it was so +aggressively abandoned, so bright, so coarse, so curly.... He remembered +the fine silk of Rose’s hair among his fingers and upon his lips. Belle +had let down her hair to smother and bind him--- a crude and easy charm. +He suddenly felt very far away from her. + +“Well,” she said sullenly--“what do you want now?” + +“I want to talk to you.” + +He pulled a chair beside the bed and sat down. She yawned and stretched +her arms, then suddenly burst into tears. + +“Belle--Belle--don’t cry. You know you don’t really love me.” + +“Since when have you discovered that?” + +Her voice was not sweet. + +“Since I said good night to you--when you cried.... I guessed then that +you’d come to me not because you loved me, but because you loved +Ernley.” + +“You’re damned clever, ain’t you.” + +“And, Belle, I saw I was a swine, for I was keeping something back from +you--something about Ernley.” + +“What?” + +“That he hasn’t been with Pearl Jenner at Hastings.” + +“How do you know?” + +“Because I saw her here in Newhaven last night.” + +Belle seized his arm. + +“She was at the café,” faltered Daniel, realizing how treacherous he +must now appear--“I saw her in the other room--that’s why I went in to +get a programme, and----” + +“Why didn’t you tell me?” + +“Because I knew it ud made a difference to your feelings about Ernley. +You see, it wasn’t only that she was there--she’d got a man with +her--her husband.” + +“D’you mean to say she’s married?” + +“Just--they’re off to Paris to-day.” + +“And you never told me?” + +“I--I couldn’t.” + +“Why?--why?” + +“Because I knew it ud mean I’d lose you--you’d go back to Ernley after +that.” + +“Cad!” shrieked Belle. “You dirty little cad!” + +She sprang off the bed, and stood before him barefooted on the floor, +blazing with anger. She was so much the virago that he almost cowered, +and the shame of his own fear made him angry, too. He rose to his feet, +and then suddenly the fear of his own shame drove down upon him and +swept the anger out of his heart. After all, Belle was right. He had +behaved like a cad with that lie of silence. If Belle had not wept like +that at the foot of the stairs, how much of her life would he have left +her? She was saved only by her tears. + +“I’m sorry, Belle--forgive me, Belle.” + +“Why did you do it?” + +“Because I loved you and reckon I wasn’t strong enough to tell you +something that might send you from me.” + +“And why are you strong enough now--when it’s too late?” + +“My dear, it ain’t too late.” + +“Too late! Of course it’s too late. I’ve stopped away a whole night from +home--the servants all know, even if I manage to get back before Ernley +does.... I never said anything--I just cleared out. It’ll be easy enough +to prove I spent the night along of you here--I reckon Ernley could get +a divorce on it if he wanted to, and maybe he will want to.” + +“Oh, no, he won’t.” + +“Not that I care if he does. I’ll never believe he wasn’t in love with +Pearl Jenner; and as for her being married now, it only means that she’s +got a good eye for her chances, which I never doubted, and that he’ll +soon find somebody else. We’re done with each other, so your lovely +conscience and pure heart go for nothing.” + +“Belle, don’t go mocking at my conscience and my heart. I don’t set up +for being good--I know I ain’t. But I just felt as somehow I couldn’t +spoil a thing like marriage.” + +“Marriage! What are you talking about? Mine’s spoilt already, isn’t it?” + +“No, it isn’t. You only think so because you’ve mixed up marriage with +love, and they ain’t the same thing really.” + +“You needn’t tell me that.” + +“I mean that when you’re in love and go back on each other, you +generally can’t forgive, but in marriage you can--always.” + +Belle sat down heavily upon the bed. + +“What’s come over you, Daniel?” + +“Nothing--it’s the same as I’ve always felt, but can’t explain. I think +a lot about marriage. I never was more surprised by anything than I was +by my marriage. I’ve never told you about it, Belle, but it was like +this. I met a girl at a dancing-place in Jersey, and she told me she was +done for and must go on the streets for a living. I’d had a drop too +much, so when I got worked up about what she told me, I never stopped to +think sense, but just put her in my boat and took her over to Sark with +me. Then that crowd at the Pêche à Agneau wouldn’t keep her--they said +she must go back--and she cried ... and begged me to save her ... so +just out of pity I said I’d marry her, and I was in a mortal funk about +it--I didn’t really love her and was only doing it out of pity. But I +swore I’d go through with it, for it was up to me, so to speak. Then +when we went into church and the minister prayed and I put on her ring I +suddenly saw it all different. And when I came out of church I knew we +belonged to each other and ud be happy together, no matter how it had +all started. And after that ... well, I can’t speak about it--but ... +well, of course you know she died. But if it had gone on it would always +have been good, because we were like being one person, and if one went +against the other it would just be like being sick with yourself, as you +are at times. You always forgive yourself in the end--you can’t help it. +And then there’s the kid--there’s your kids, Belle. You can’t get shut +of a marriage so easy as you think--by just walking out of the door. +It’s all mixed up with everything else in your life.” + +Belle sat silent, leaning her head against the bedpost. + +“You can’t get shut of a marriage,” Daniel repeated--“all that talk +about divorce is just silly. You’re a part of Ernley and the children +are a part of you both, and there you are, and nothing can be done about +it.” + +“Oh, can’t it, just! And reckon it will be done when Ernley finds out.” + +“There ain’t nothing for him to find out--except that you loved him so +much that you were driven half mad when you thought he loved somebody +else. You know you don’t really love me, Belle. It’s twice you’ve taken +me because you loved Ernley, but reckon I can’t bear any more of that.” + +“And you don’t really love me.” + +“No--all I’ve ever done is to want to get married. I’m not the same sort +as you--I can’t go in for these big love affairs and all that. They +scare me and I act silly. I’d have loved you as my wife and have made +you a good husband, but I can’t go loving you outside marriage--I’m not +made that way. The only woman I’ve ever loved is Rose, just because she +was my wife.” + +“And now she’s dead, will you marry again?” + +“Maybe. I could love any good woman that was my wife. I’m sorry, Belle. +I know it doesn’t sound very good, but it’s the way I’m made. It means +that I’ll always be happier than you, but not so interesting.” + +Belle smiled, and for the first time he saw almost a look of tenderness +in her eyes. + +“You poor child. Reckon I’ve scared you. No--maybe I’m not your sort, +Daniel. Though the Lord knows that the trouble with Ernley has been +because of my being too homely since I married. He never thought of my +becoming a mother when I had children.” + +“It’ll do him a lot of good, your going off like this--he won’t feel so +sure of you. Ernley doesn’t like feeling sure.” + +“Well, I do.” + +“And so you will--if he doesn’t.” + +Belle stood up again and went towards the window, twisting up her hair +as she walked. The action seemed somehow to show that she had done with +him. + +“You talk sense, Daniel. You do sometimes. You’ve treated me badly this +last day and night, but I’ve treated you badly these years. Reckon +you’re the sort of man that women make a refuge of. Well, I won’t do it +again. I hope you’ll meet some kind, good woman who’ll marry you and +protect you from the likes of me. For if I go back to Ernley, I don’t +expect I’ll be happy--not for years, anyway. But, of course, I know in +my heart that he belongs to me and I to him, and nobody else will ever +do. I dare say we’ll both be all the better for this shake-up--I dunno. +He’s hit me and been hurt--I’ve hit him and been hurt ... there’s no +telling what difference that ull make. But you’ll have to keep out of +it, Daniel. Ernley will hate you after this.” + +“Hate me! That’s odd, after all that’s gone before.” + +“If he doesn’t hate you, the same as I hate Pearl Jenner, I’ll know it’s +all no use.” + +“Well, anyhow, I’ll be going away.” + +“Where?” + +Daniel looked out towards the sea. + +“My father wrote only the other day, offering me a berth as cook on a +Geordie sailing next week from Middlesbrough.” + +“And what will you do with the child?” + +“Leave him with Em.” + +“Shall you be happy at sea?” + +“Happier than in spoiling your life on land.” + +“You haven’t spoiled my life, Daniel. I’ve spoiled my own. Perhaps it’s +not quite spoilt.” + +She held out her hand to him, and he took it limply. + +“Oh, Belle----” + +“I must dress now. Get out. I hope they haven’t heard us talking.” + +“Not up here. I’ll go down. Will you be having breakfast with me and get +an early start?” + +“Yes, I must be back when Ernley comes. Then I can tell him everything +and perhaps he will tell me something.” + +He went out, with nothing in his heart except a great longing for the +sea. + + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN + + +§ 1 + +“Tickets, please”--Daniel stooped over the fat woman in the corner and +waited while she fumbled in her pocket and then in her bag and then in +her basket--“sixpence to Whitesmith. Thank you, ma’am.... Tickets, +please.” + +He had picked up this lot at Bullockdean Throws, where he had set down +Belle, and while he was helping them in with their bundles she had +walked off up the lane towards the village and the inn that straddled +the way. He had not even been able to turn round and see the last of her +disappearing. The day was grey and windy, and she had been in it like a +flame, and like a flame she had gone out. + +He thought of their breakfast together in the half-light of the little +sitting-room. They had scarcely talked and she had seemed angry, +but--when their maimed excuses and explanations had gone to Mrs. +Gain--Belle had insisted on accompanying him when he took Thomas Helier +to the crèche, and at parting she had kissed the baby and he had taken +and held for a moment a handful of her coarse yellow hair. Then they had +walked together to the ’bus, and Dan had punched Belle’s ticket for her, +and then gone out on the step. He did not dare look at her as she sat +there like a sunflower. Not that he was afraid of her any more--that +madness had passed--but when he looked at her he was ashamed. + +“Bullockdean Corner”--he pulled the bell. The ’bus stopped. She climbed +down, with her hand upon his wrist like any other passenger. He passed +out her bag. Other passengers crowded in--she was gone--and when the +’bus had started again and he looked round he could not see her. He +might never see her again--he did not know. Already the ways of land +were tiring him, and as his tongue, in the interests of his passengers, +busied itself with names like Swanborough Manor, Beddingham Throws, the +Brooks, his mind was resting in names like Elphick’s Tree, Les Ridens, +and other names of the land which is under the sea, where the Geordies +go, sailing out of the mouth of the Ouse. + +Here was Ouse River, flowing through Lewes. The streets of Lewes Town +piled themselves on either side of it, and the downs rose beyond the +streets, while in the south stood Firle Beacon and Mount Caburn, pillars +of the Gate of Lewes.... Here they were at the very bottom of the pit, +the well of the downs and the well of the streets, and Ouse River +flowing under the bridge, under the streets, away from Lewes ... out +through the Brooks, down the valley past Bullockdean and Southease and +Piddinghoe, into the grey of Newhaven streets, under Newhaven Bridge, +down through the armies of the ships with their lances in rest, and then +out into the new country of winds and waves and waters, the free river +that has found the sea. + + +§ 2 + +“Reckon you’ve done the right thing this time,” said Jess Harman. + +She stood facing Dan as he sat by the kitchen table in Bullockdean +parsonage, with Thomas Helier on his knee. + +“I’m glad you approve of me at last.” + +“I won’t say I’ve always disapproved, but then I haven’t always +approved, neither.” + +“You never approved of me and Belle.” + +“Never--she isn’t your sort, as you’ve been uncommon slow to +understand.” + +“Why isn’t she my sort?” + +“You’ve asked me that question a dunnamany times before, and I’ve told +you a dunnamany times in answer that she isn’t comfortable enough for +you. You want a comfortable woman, and Belle isn’t a comfortable woman. +Whatever she does she does uncomfortably--if she loves a man she gives +him hell, if she marries a man she gives him hell, if she loves her +children she gives everybody hell because of it. Now some men like that +style--Ernley Munk does--so that’s why it’s good that she should marry +him and stick to him. All these rows they have don’t matter--they only +keep ’em going. Neither Belle nor Ernley could live without rows and +feeling ill-treated, so it’s just as well they’ve got each other. Now if +you’d taken Belle away from Ernley and been good to her, she’d have been +dead of dullness in a year. It’s her sort to make rows. And all that +fuss about Pearl Jenner was only a row she’d made to keep herself +lively. And Ernley just about loves to think he’s ill-used and +blighted--so reckon it was a godsend to him to have his wife run away +with another man, so long as she comes back and gives him the fun of +forgiving her.” + +Dan had not meant to tell Jess so much about himself. He had come to +Bullockdean with the intention of opening his grief to Mr. Marchbanks, +which was one of the good things his friend had taught him. Between two +Norman pillars in Bullockdean church the events of the last few months +had slipped into new places, and--as had so often happened before--Dan +saw his splash of folly as little more than the spate cast up by a +treacherous sea, in the waves of which he might have drowned while he +feared only the foam. + +When he got back to the parsonage, Jess was waiting to give him tea, and +comforted and a little exalted, he found himself pouring out his tale +anew to her, though with different stresses. He wanted to hear about the +family at the inn. Ernley had taken his wife away to foreign parts. +Business was slack and they were going to have a holiday--another +honeymoon. When they came back the amalgamation of the two inns, the +George and the Crown, would be complete, a new life would be beginning; +and Daniel Sheather, out of the old life, would be safely busy on board +a Geordie coaster, working and whistling in his galley that smelt of +soup and the sea. + +“Is it all fixed?” asked Jess. + +“Yes--it’s fixed. Dad’s old man says he’s unaccountable pleased to have +me. Reckon dad’s been pitching him no end of a yarn about my cooking. +May I take your book with me, Jess?” + +“You’ve got a nerve. What will I do without my book?” + +“Much better than I’ll do with it. Reckon I must cut some sort of a +figure this first voyage--and Mr. Marchbanks don’t notice what you give +him.” + +“That’s true. Well, you can have the book, Daniel. But bring it back +when you come ashore.” + +“Reckon I’ll bring you a new one. I’ll have some cash to spare them, +though I’m stony-broke just now. The sea pays better than the land.” + +“And when do you start?” + +“I go north to-morrow--the nine o’clock from Lewes.” + +“Have you said good-bye to your mother?” + +“I’ll call at Hoddern this evening on my way back.” + +“And you’re leaving baby at Brakey Bottom?” + +“Yes--that’s to-night, too.” + +Then suddenly Jess’s face changed--her manner changed--she was a new +Jess, and coming round the side of the table, she knelt down beside +Daniel’s chair and put her arms round the baby that he held upon his +knee. + +“Leave him with me, Daniel. Let me take care of him for you.” + +Her voice came with a sudden husky sweetness, reminding him of Belle’s. + +“But, Jess--how can I? How could you possibly look after him?” + +“Easy. I can have him with me here, same as I had when you lived along +of us, and I can take him home to auntie’s in the evening. Reckon they +won’t be sorry at Brakey Bottom, and you can give me what you would have +given them, so as I can manage for him. Oh, Dan, I love him so, and it’s +been such misery losing him when you were at Newhaven. I’ll be so good +to him--I’ll love him and pet him and take care of him, same as if I was +his mother.” + +For some reason he found himself trembling, and his hand came down upon +her shoulder as she knelt beside him with her arms round the child. He +said, almost without knowing it: + +“But, Jess, I think now that I’m always going to live on the sea.” + +“But you’ll be ashore in between whiles.” + +“Yes--but the sea’s going to be my country. I don’t belong here any +more--at least, not till I’m old. The sea’s better than the land, my +dear, and it’s in my blood to go to sea.” + +“You can go to sea and I’ll stay on the land, for sometimes you’ve got +to come home.” + +In that moment he felt it would be easier and better to think of home at +Bullockdean than at Brakey Bottom, among the wranglings and strugglings +of his kin. Perhaps Jess would not take such good care of Thomas Helier +as Emmy would have done--but Len was sour.... Jess was taking him out of +love, and there would always be love at Bullockdean. It seemed as if +Rose Falla’s legacy to her husband had been a legacy of love. When she +had given him “Notre Helier” she had given him the power of building +romance anew.... + +“Let him stay just this once,” pleaded Jess, “and if you don’t think +I’ve done well by him when you come back, you can change. But let me +try.” + +“Very well, Jess. You try.” + +Thomas Helier’s good manners broke down under the sudden squeeze that +she gave him. + +“I’m sorry, dearie, that’s a bad beginning. But you’re used to it with +your dad and me. There, don’t cry, my pet--there, there.” + +She had lifted him off Daniel’s knee and held him cuddled against her +neck. + +“Mum ... Mum,” murmured Thomas Helier, comforted. + +“And now, Dan,” said Jess, “you must be getting off, for you’ve a power +of things to get through to-night. I’ll walk with you as far as the pub, +and we’ll go in and have a glass of ale together. You can get a Number +One Bass there now--no more of those Hobday and Hitch’s swipes. We’ll go +down together and have a drink to your good luck.” + + +§3 + +Two hours later Dan knelt by his mother’s side in the firelight at +Hoddern. Kitty’s arm was around him, for she felt and dealt tenderly in +this moment of farewell. + +“You always were your father’s son, Dan--and it is only what I expected +that you should go to him, but you’ve been a good boy to me all the +same.” + +“I’m glad to hear you say that, mum.” + +“Yes, you’ve been good and done your best when that rascal he went off. +It was not your fault that you could not help me more. Now I shall not +see you very often, I expect.” + +“Whenever I’m ashore, mum.” + +“But you leave your child at Bullockdean and you go where your child is. +Ah, she is a clever girl, that Jess Harman.” + +“How do you mean?” + +“If you have not the wit to understand me I will not explain. Poor +Daniel, you were not happy in your marriage.” + +“Mum, I was happy.” + +“Ah, but she died.” + +He did not speak, for he could not tell his mother what he felt about +Rose. + +“Marriage is not a happy thing,” continued Kitty--“our men grow up and +cease to love us--they forsake us, and we live only in our children.” + +“Oh, mother, don’t speak so--some men make good husbands.” + +“You would make a good husband, Daniel.” + +“I hope I didn’t make a bad one.” + +“You are the sort of man who’d make a good husband to any girl except +one.” + +“Except one?” + +“Except Belle Munk--Belle Shackford that was. She belongs to one man +only, though he will never be much good to her. Still, she belongs. And +I knew it long ago when you wanted her so much.” + +Dan did not believe his mother knew anything of the kind, still he +thought her words were wise, and he listened as she continued: + +“Some men and women are like that--for one person only, and others are +for everyone. You are among the others.” + +“What do you mean, mum?” + +“You could be happy married to any good girl, for what you really want +is not love but marriage. When you come home you will marry again.” + +“How do you know?” + +“Because you were made for marriage, and for a man marriage is easy.” + +A step sounded in the passage, and his mother’s expression changed. She +withdrew her arm from his shoulder and looked up. He knew that +Christopher had come home. + +He rose and kissed her hastily, anxious to take leave before his brother +appeared. + +“Say good-bye to Chris from me.” + +Outside the big stars hung over the Ouse Valley, where the windings of +the river showed pale in the darkness. Dan felt vaguely disturbed by +what his mother had said. It seemed to rob him of his last claim to be +interesting and romantic, if he had ever had any. Was it indeed true, +then, that the woman of his dream who sat in an inn stable with her +child upon her knee, was not Belle, nor even Rose, but just any woman, +every woman, whose heart was warm and whose eyes were kind? Was that all +he craved for?--Only a home, and a wife and a child. If so, it was +strange to go seeking them upon the sea. But there is a star of the +sea.... A woman sits in the stable of an inn with her child upon her +knee and a star in the sky above her to lead the wise man to her feet. + + + Printed by + Cassell & Company, Limited, + La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C.4 + F250.225 + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78485 *** |