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diff --git a/8914-0.txt b/8914-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..591fec6 --- /dev/null +++ b/8914-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8523 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of England, My England, by D.H. Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: England, My England + +Author: D.H. Lawrence + +Release Date: August 24, 2003 [eBook #8914] +[Most recently updated: September 17, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Distributed Proofreaders + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +England, My England + +AND OTHER STORIES + +by D.H. Lawrence + +Contents + + ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND + TICKETS, PLEASE + THE BLIND MAN + MONKEY NUTS + WINTRY PEACOCK + YOU TOUCHED ME + SAMSON AND DELILAH + THE PRIMROSE PATH + THE HORSE DEALER’S DAUGHTER + FANNY AND ANNIE + + + + +ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND + + +He was working on the edge of the common, beyond the small brook that +ran in the dip at the bottom of the garden, carrying the garden path in +continuation from the plank bridge on to the common. He had cut the +rough turf and bracken, leaving the grey, dryish soil bare. But he was +worried because he could not get the path straight, there was a pleat +between his brows. He had set up his sticks, and taken the sights +between the big pine trees, but for some reason everything seemed +wrong. He looked again, straining his keen blue eyes, that had a touch +of the Viking in them, through the shadowy pine trees as through a +doorway, at the green-grassed garden-path rising from the shadow of +alders by the log bridge up to the sunlit flowers. Tall white and +purple columbines, and the butt-end of the old Hampshire cottage that +crouched near the earth amid flowers, blossoming in the bit of shaggy +wildness round about. + +There was a sound of children’s voices calling and talking: high, +childish, girlish voices, slightly didactic and tinged with +domineering: “If you don’t come quick, nurse, I shall run out there to +where there are snakes.” And nobody had the _sang-froid_ to reply: “Run +then, little fool.” It was always, “No, darling. Very well, darling. In +a moment, darling. Darling, you _must_ be patient.” + +His heart was hard with disillusion: a continual gnawing and +resistance. But he worked on. What was there to do but submit! + +The sunlight blazed down upon the earth, there was a vividness of flamy +vegetation, of fierce seclusion amid the savage peace of the commons. +Strange how the savage England lingers in patches: as here, amid these +shaggy gorse commons, and marshy, snake infested places near the foot +of the south downs. The spirit of place lingering on primeval, as when +the Saxons came, so long ago. + +Ah, how he had loved it! The green garden path, the tufts of flowers, +purple and white columbines, and great oriental red poppies with their +black chaps and mulleins tall and yellow, this flamy garden which had +been a garden for a thousand years, scooped out in the little hollow +among the snake-infested commons. He had made it flame with flowers, in +a sun cup under its hedges and trees. So old, so old a place! And yet +he had re-created it. + +The timbered cottage with its sloping, cloak-like roof was old and +forgotten. It belonged to the old England of hamlets and yeomen. Lost +all alone on the edge of the common, at the end of a wide, grassy, +briar-entangled lane shaded with oak, it had never known the world of +today. Not till Egbert came with his bride. And he had come to fill it +with flowers. + +The house was ancient and very uncomfortable. But he did not want to +alter it. Ah, marvellous to sit there in the wide, black, time-old +chimney, at night when the wind roared overhead, and the wood which he +had chopped himself sputtered on the hearth! Himself on one side the +angle, and Winifred on the other. + +Ah, how he had wanted her: Winifred! She was young and beautiful and +strong with life, like a flame in sunshine. She moved with a slow grace +of energy like a blossoming, red-flowered bush in motion. She, too, +seemed to come out of the old England, ruddy, strong, with a certain +crude, passionate quiescence and a hawthorn robustness. And he, he was +tall and slim and agile, like an English archer with his long supple +legs and fine movements. Her hair was nut-brown and all in energic +curls and tendrils. Her eyes were nut-brown, too, like a robin’s for +brightness. And he was white-skinned with fine, silky hair that had +darkened from fair, and a slightly arched nose of an old country +family. They were a beautiful couple. + +The house was Winifred’s. Her father was a man of energy, too. He had +come from the north poor. Now he was moderately rich. He had bought +this fair stretch of inexpensive land, down in Hampshire. Not far from +the tiny church of the almost extinct hamlet stood his own house, a +commodious old farmhouse standing back from the road across a bare +grassed yard. On one side of this quadrangle was the long, long barn or +shed which he had made into a cottage for his youngest daughter +Priscilla. One saw little blue-and-white check curtains at the long +windows, and inside, overhead, the grand old timbers of the +high-pitched shed. This was Prissy’s house. Fifty yards away was the +pretty little new cottage which he had built for his daughter Magdalen, +with the vegetable garden stretching away to the oak copse. And then +away beyond the lawns and rose trees of the house-garden went the track +across a shaggy, wild grass space, towards the ridge of tall black +pines that grew on a dyke-bank, through the pines and above the sloping +little bog, under the wide, desolate oak trees, till there was +Winifred’s cottage crouching unexpectedly in front, so much alone, and +so primitive. + +It was Winifred’s own house, and the gardens and the bit of common and +the boggy slope were hers: her tiny domain. She had married just at the +time when her father had bought the estate, about ten years before the +war, so she had been able to come to Egbert with this for a marriage +portion. And who was more delighted, he or she, it would be hard to +say. She was only twenty at the time, and he was only twenty-one. He +had about a hundred and fifty pounds a year of his own—and nothing else +but his very considerable personal attractions. He had no profession: +he earned nothing. But he talked of literature and music, he had a +passion for old folk-music, collecting folk-songs and folk-dances, +studying the Morris-dance and the old customs. Of course in time he +would make money in these ways. + +Meanwhile youth and health and passion and promise. Winifred’s father +was always generous: but still, he was a man from the north with a hard +head and a hard skin too, having received a good many knocks. At home +he kept the hard head out of sight, and played at poetry and romance +with his literary wife and his sturdy, passionate girls. He was a man +of courage, not given to complaining, bearing his burdens by himself. +No, he did not let the world intrude far into his home. He had a +delicate, sensitive wife whose poetry won some fame in the narrow world +of letters. He himself, with his tough old barbarian fighting spirit, +had an almost child-like delight in verse, in sweet poetry, and in the +delightful game of a cultured home. His blood was strong even to +coarseness. But that only made the home more vigorous, more robust and +Christmassy. There was always a touch of Christmas about him, now he +was well off. If there was poetry after dinner, there were also +chocolates and nuts, and good little out-of-the-way things to be +munching. + +Well then, into this family came Egbert. He was made of quite a +different paste. The girls and the father were strong-limbed, +thick-blooded people, true English, as holly-trees and hawthorn are +English. Their culture was grafted on to them, as one might perhaps +graft a common pink rose on to a thornstem. It flowered oddly enough, +but it did not alter their blood. + +And Egbert was a born rose. The age-long breeding had left him with a +delightful spontaneous passion. He was not clever, nor even “literary”. +No, but the intonation of his voice, and the movement of his supple, +handsome body, and the fine texture of his flesh and his hair, the +slight arch of his nose, the quickness of his blue eyes would easily +take the place of poetry. Winifred loved him, loved him, this +southerner, as a higher being. A _higher_ being, mind you. Not a +deeper. And as for him, he loved her in passion with every fibre of +him. She was the very warm stuff of life to him. + +Wonderful then, those days at Crockham Cottage, the first days, all +alone save for the woman who came to work in the mornings. Marvellous +days, when she had all his tall, supple, fine-fleshed youth to herself, +for herself, and he had her like a ruddy fire into which he could cast +himself for rejuvenation. Ah, that it might never end, this passion, +this marriage! The flame of their two bodies burnt again into that old +cottage, that was haunted already by so much by-gone, physical desire. +You could not be in the dark room for an hour without the influences +coming over you. The hot blood-desire of by-gone yeomen, there in this +old den where they had lusted and bred for so many generations. The +silent house, dark, with thick, timbered walls and the big black +chimney-place, and the sense of secrecy. Dark, with low, little +windows, sunk into the earth. Dark, like a lair where strong beasts had +lurked and mated, lonely at night and lonely by day, left to themselves +and their own intensity for so many generations. It seemed to cast a +spell on the two young people. They became different. There was a +curious secret glow about them, a certain slumbering flame hard to +understand, that enveloped them both. They too felt that they did not +belong to the London world any more. Crockham had changed their blood: +the sense of the snakes that lived and slept even in their own garden, +in the sun, so that he, going forward with the spade, would see a +curious coiled brownish pile on the black soil, which suddenly would +start up, hiss, and dazzle rapidly away, hissing. One day Winifred +heard the strangest scream from the flower-bed under the low window of +the living room: ah, the strangest scream, like the very soul of the +dark past crying aloud. She ran out, and saw a long brown snake on the +flower-bed, and in its flat mouth the one hind leg of a frog was +striving to escape, and screaming its strange, tiny, bellowing scream. +She looked at the snake, and from its sullen flat head it looked at +her, obstinately. She gave a cry, and it released the frog and slid +angrily away. + +That was Crockham. The spear of modern invention had not passed through +it, and it lay there secret, primitive, savage as when the Saxons first +came. And Egbert and she were caught there, caught out of the world. + +He was not idle, nor was she. There were plenty of things to be done, +the house to be put into final repair after the workmen had gone, +cushions and curtains to sew, the paths to make, the water to fetch and +attend to, and then the slope of the deep-soiled, neglected garden to +level, to terrace with little terraces and paths, and to fill with +flowers. He worked away, in his shirt-sleeves, worked all day +intermittently doing this thing and the other. And she, quiet and rich +in herself, seeing him stooping and labouring away by himself, would +come to help him, to be near him. He of course was an amateur—a born +amateur. He worked so hard, and did so little, and nothing he ever did +would hold together for long. If he terraced the garden, he held up the +earth with a couple of long narrow planks that soon began to bend with +the pressure from behind, and would not need many years to rot through +and break and let the soil slither all down again in a heap towards the +stream-bed. But there you are. He had not been brought up to come to +grips with anything, and he thought it would do. Nay, he did not think +there was anything else except little temporary contrivances possible, +he who had such a passion for his old enduring cottage, and for the old +enduring things of the bygone England. Curious that the sense of +permanency in the past had such a hold over him, whilst in the present +he was all amateurish and sketchy. + +Winifred could not criticize him. Town-bred, everything seemed to her +splendid, and the very digging and shovelling itself seemed romantic. +But neither Egbert nor she yet realised the difference between work and +romance. + +Godfrey Marshall, her father, was at first perfectly pleased with the +ménage down at Crockham Cottage. He thought Egbert was wonderful, the +many things he accomplished, and he was gratified by the glow of +physical passion between the two young people. To the man who in London +still worked hard to keep steady his modest fortune, the thought of +this young couple digging away and loving one another down at Crockham +Cottage, buried deep among the commons and marshes, near the +pale-showing bulk of the downs, was like a chapter of living romance. +And they drew the sustenance for their fire of passion from him, from +the old man. It was he who fed their flame. He triumphed secretly in +the thought. And it was to her father that Winifred still turned, as +the one source of all surety and life and support. She loved Egbert +with passion. But behind her was the power of her father. It was the +power of her father she referred to, whenever she needed to refer. It +never occurred to her to refer to Egbert, if she were in difficulty or +doubt. No, in all the _serious_ matters she depended on her father. + +For Egbert had no intention of coming to grips with life. He had no +ambition whatsoever. He came from a decent family, from a pleasant +country home, from delightful surroundings. He should, of course, have +had a profession. He should have studied law or entered business in +some way. But no—that fatal three pounds a week would keep him from +starving as long as he lived, and he did not want to give himself into +bondage. It was not that he was idle. He was always doing something, in +his amateurish way. But he had no desire to give himself to the world, +and still less had he any desire to fight his way in the world. No, no, +the world wasn’t worth it. He wanted to ignore it, to go his own way +apart, like a casual pilgrim down the forsaken sidetracks. He loved his +wife, his cottage and garden. He would make his life there, as a sort +of epicurean hermit. He loved the past, the old music and dances and +customs of old England. He would try and live in the spirit of these, +not in the spirit of the world of business. + +But often Winifred’s father called her to London: for he loved to have +his children round him. So Egbert and she must have a tiny flat in +town, and the young couple must transfer themselves from time to time +from the country to the city. In town Egbert had plenty of friends, of +the same ineffectual sort as himself, tampering with the arts, +literature, painting, sculpture, music. He was not bored. + +Three pounds a week, however, would not pay for all this. Winifred’s +father paid. He liked paying. He made her only a very small allowance, +but he often gave her ten pounds—or gave Egbert ten pounds. So they +both looked on the old man as the mainstay. Egbert didn’t mind being +patronized and paid for. Only when he felt the family was a little +_too_ condescending, on account of money, he began to get huffy. + +Then of course children came: a lovely little blonde daughter with a +head of thistle-down. Everybody adored the child. It was the first +exquisite blonde thing that had come into the family, a little mite +with the white, slim, beautiful limbs of its father, and as it grew up +the dancing, dainty movement of a wild little daisy-spirit. No wonder +the Marshalls all loved the child: they called her Joyce. They +themselves had their own grace, but it was slow, rather heavy. They had +everyone of them strong, heavy limbs and darkish skins, and they were +short in stature. And now they had for one of their own this light +little cowslip child. She was like a little poem in herself. + +But nevertheless, she brought a new difficulty. Winifred must have a +nurse for her. Yes, yes, there must be a nurse. It was the family +decree. Who was to pay for the nurse? The grandfather—seeing the father +himself earned no money. Yes, the grandfather would pay, as he had paid +all the lying-in expenses. There came a slight sense of money-strain. +Egbert was living on his father-in-law. + +After the child was born, it was never quite the same between him and +Winifred. The difference was at first hardly perceptible. But it was +there. In the first place Winifred had a new centre of interest. She +was not going to adore her child. But she had what the modern mother so +often has in the place of spontaneous love: a profound sense of duty +towards her child. Winifred appreciated her darling little girl, and +felt a deep sense of duty towards her. Strange, that this sense of duty +should go deeper than the love for her husband. But so it was. And so +it often is. The responsibility of motherhood was the prime +responsibility in Winifred’s heart: the responsibility of wifehood came +a long way second. + +Her child seemed to link her up again in a circuit with her own family. +Her father and mother, herself, and her child, that was the human +trinity for her. Her husband—? Yes, she loved him still. But that was +like play. She had an almost barbaric sense of duty and of family. Till +she married, her first human duty had been towards her father: he was +the pillar, the source of life, the everlasting support. Now another +link was added to the chain of duty: her father, herself, and her +child. + +Egbert was out of it. Without anything happening, he was gradually, +unconsciously excluded from the circle. His wife still loved him, +physically. But, but—he was _almost_ the unnecessary party in the +affair. He could not complain of Winifred. She still did her duty +towards him. She still had a physical passion for him, that physical +passion on which he had put all his life and soul. But—but— + +It was for a long while an ever-recurring _but_. And then, after the +second child, another blonde, winsome touching little thing, not so +proud and flame-like as Joyce; after Annabel came, then Egbert began +truly to realise how it was. His wife still loved him. But—and now the +but had grown enormous—her physical love for him was of secondary +importance to her. It became ever less important. After all, she had +had it, this physical passion, for two years now. It was not this that +one lived from. No, no—something sterner, realer. + +She began to resent her own passion for Egbert—just a little she began +to despise it. For after all there he was, he was charming, he was +lovable, he was terribly desirable. But—but—oh, the awful looming cloud +of that _but!_—He did not stand firm in the landscape of her life like +a tower of strength, like a great pillar of significance. No, he was +like a cat one has about the house, which will one day disappear and +leave no trace. He was like a flower in the garden, trembling in the +wind of life, and then gone, leaving nothing to show. As an adjunct, as +an accessory, he was perfect. Many a woman would have adored to have +him about her all her life, the most beautiful and desirable of all her +possessions. But Winifred belonged to another school. + +The years went by, and instead of coming more to grips with life, he +relaxed more. He was of a subtle, sensitive, passionate nature. But he +simply _would_ not give himself to what Winifred called life, _Work_. +No, he would not go into the world and work for money. No, he just +would not. If Winifred liked to live beyond their small income—well, it +was her look-out. + +And Winifred did not really want him to go out into the world to work +for money. Money became, alas, a word like a firebrand between them, +setting them both aflame with anger. But that is because we must talk +in symbols. Winifred did not really care about money. She did not care +whether he earned or did not earn anything. Only she knew she was +dependent on her father for three-fourths of the money spent for +herself and her children, that she let that be the _casus belli_, the +drawn weapon between herself and Egbert. + +What did she want—what did she want? Her mother once said to her, with +that characteristic touch of irony: “Well, dear, if it is your fate to +consider the lilies, that toil not, neither do they spin, that is one +destiny among many others, and perhaps not so unpleasant as most. Why +do you take it amiss, my child?” + +The mother was subtler than her children, they very rarely knew how to +answer her. So Winifred was only more confused. It was not a question +of lilies. At least, if it were a question of lilies, then her children +were the little blossoms. They at least _grew_. Doesn’t Jesus say: +“Consider the lilies _how they grow_.” Good then, she had her growing +babies. But as for that other tall, handsome flower of a father of +theirs, he was full grown already, so she did not want to spend her +life considering him in the flower of his days. + +No, it was not that he didn’t earn money. It was not that he was idle. +He was _not_ idle. He was always doing something, always working away, +down at Crockham, doing little jobs. But, oh dear, the little jobs—the +garden paths—the gorgeous flowers—the chairs to mend, old chairs to +mend! + +It was that he stood for nothing. If he had done something +unsuccessfully, and _lost_ what money they had! If he had but striven +with something. Nay, even if he had been wicked, a waster, she would +have been more free. She would have had something to resist, at least. +A waster stands for something, really. He says: “No, I will not aid and +abet society in this business of increase and hanging together, I will +upset the apple-cart as much as I can, in my small way.” Or else he +says: “No, I will _not_ bother about others. If I have lusts, they are +my own, and I prefer them to other people’s virtues.” So, a waster, a +scamp, takes a sort of stand. He exposes himself to opposition and +final castigation: at any rate in story-books. + +But Egbert! What are you to do with a man like Egbert? He had no vices. +He was really kind, nay generous. And he was not weak. If he had been +weak Winifred could have been kind to him. But he did not even give her +that consolation. He was not weak, and he did not want her consolation +or her kindness. No, thank you. He was of a fine passionate temper, and +of a rarer steel than she. He knew it, and she knew it. Hence she was +only the more baffled and maddened, poor thing. He, the higher, the +finer, in his way the stronger, played with his garden, and his old +folk-songs and Morris-dances, just played, and let her support the +pillars of the future on her own heart. + +And he began to get bitter, and a wicked look began to come on his +face. He did not give in to her; not he. There were seven devils inside +his long, slim, white body. He was healthy, full of restrained life. +Yes, even he himself had to lock up his own vivid life inside himself, +now she would not take it from him. Or rather, now that she only took +it occasionally. For she had to yield at times. She loved him so, she +desired him so, he was so exquisite to her, the fine creature that he +was, finer than herself. Yes, with a groan she had to give in to her +own unquenched passion for him. And he came to her then—ah, terrible, +ah, wonderful, sometimes she wondered how either of them could live +after the terror of the passion that swept between them. It was to her +as if pure lightning, flash after flash, went through every fibre of +her, till extinction came. + +But it is the fate of human beings to live on. And it is the fate of +clouds that seem nothing but bits of vapour slowly to pile up, to pile +up and fill the heavens and blacken the sun entirely. + +So it was. The love came back, the lightning of passion flashed +tremendously between them. And there was blue sky and gorgeousness for +a little while. And then, as inevitably, as inevitably, slowly the +clouds began to edge up again above the horizon, slowly, slowly to lurk +about the heavens, throwing an occasional cold and hateful shadow: +slowly, slowly to congregate, to fill the empyrean space. + +And as the years passed, the lightning cleared the sky more and more +rarely, less and less the blue showed. Gradually the grey lid sank down +upon them, as if it would be permanent. + +Why didn’t Egbert do something, then? Why didn’t he come to grips with +life? Why wasn’t he like Winifred’s father, a pillar of society, even +if a slender, exquisite column? Why didn’t he go into harness of some +sort? Why didn’t he take _some_ direction? + +Well, you can bring an ass to the water, but you cannot make him drink. +The world was the water and Egbert was the ass. And he wasn’t having +any. He couldn’t: he just couldn’t. Since necessity did not force him +to work for his bread and butter, he would not work for work’s sake. +You can’t make the columbine flowers nod in January, nor make the +cuckoo sing in England at Christmas. Why? It isn’t his season. He +doesn’t want to. Nay, he _can’t_ want to. + +And there it was with Egbert. He couldn’t link up with the world’s +work, because the basic desire was absent from him. Nay, at the bottom +of him he had an even stronger desire: to hold aloof. To hold aloof. To +do nobody any damage. But to hold aloof. It was not his season. + +Perhaps he should not have married and had children. But you can’t stop +the waters flowing. + +Which held true for Winifred, too. She was not made to endure aloof. +Her family tree was a robust vegetation that had to be stirring and +believing. In one direction or another her life _had_ to go. In her own +home she had known nothing of this diffidence which she found in +Egbert, and which she could not understand, and which threw her into +such dismay. What was she to do, what was she to do, in face of this +terrible diffidence? + +It was all so different in her own home. Her father may have had his +own misgivings, but he kept them to himself. Perhaps he had no very +profound belief in this world of ours, this society which we have +elaborated with so much effort, only to find ourselves elaborated to +death at last. But Godfrey Marshall was of tough, rough fibre, not +without a vein of healthy cunning through it all. It was for him a +question of winning through, and leaving the rest to heaven. Without +having many illusions to grace him, he still _did_ believe in heaven. +In a dark and unquestioning way, he had a sort of faith: an acrid faith +like the sap of some not-to-be-exterminated tree. Just a blind acrid +faith as sap is blind and acrid, and yet pushes on in growth and in +faith. Perhaps he was unscrupulous, but only as a striving tree is +unscrupulous, pushing its single way in a jungle of others. + +In the end, it is only this robust, sap-like faith which keeps man +going. He may live on for many generations inside the shelter of the +social establishment which he has erected for himself, as pear-trees +and currant bushes would go on bearing fruit for many seasons, inside a +walled garden, even if the race of man were suddenly exterminated. But +bit by bit the wall-fruit-trees would gradually pull down the very +walls that sustained them. Bit by bit every establishment collapses, +unless it is renewed or restored by living hands, all the while. + +Egbert could not bring himself to any more of this restoring or +renewing business. He was not aware of the fact: but awareness doesn’t +help much, anyhow. He just couldn’t. He had the stoic and epicurean +quality of his old, fine breeding. His father-in-law, however, though +he was not one bit more of a fool than Egbert, realised that since we +are here we may as well live. And so he applied himself to his own tiny +section of the social work, and to doing the best for his family, and +to leaving the rest to the ultimate will of heaven. A certain +robustness of blood made him able to go on. But sometimes even from him +spurted a sudden gall of bitterness against the world and its make-up. +And yet—he had his own will-to-succeed, and this carried him through. +He refused to ask himself what the success would amount to. It amounted +to the estate down in Hampshire, and his children lacking for nothing, +and himself of some importance in the world: and _basta!_—Basta! Basta! + +Nevertheless do not let us imagine that he was a common pusher. He was +not. He knew as well as Egbert what disillusion meant. Perhaps in his +soul he had the same estimation of success. But he had a certain acrid +courage, and a certain will-to-power. In his own small circle he would +emanate power, the single power of his own blind self. With all his +spoiling of his children, he was still the father of the old English +type. He was too wise to make laws and to domineer in the abstract. But +he had kept, and all honour to him, a certain primitive dominion over +the souls of his children, the old, almost magic prestige of paternity. +There it was, still burning in him, the old smoky torch or paternal +godhead. + +And in the sacred glare of this torch his children had been brought up. +He had given the girls every liberty, at last. But he had never really +let them go beyond his power. And they, venturing out into the hard +white light of our fatherless world, learned to see with the eyes of +the world. They learned to criticize their father, even, from some +effulgence of worldly white light, to see him as inferior. But this was +all very well in the head. The moment they forgot their tricks of +criticism, the old red glow of his authority came over them again. He +was not to be quenched. + +Let the psychoanalysts talk about father complex. It is just a word +invented. Here was a man who had kept alive the old red flame of +fatherhood, fatherhood that had even the right to sacrifice the child +to God, like Isaac. Fatherhood that had life-and-death authority over +the children: a great natural power. And till his children could be +brought under some other great authority as girls; or could arrive at +manhood and become themselves centres of the same power, continuing the +same male mystery as men; until such time, willy-nilly, Godfrey +Marshall would keep his children. + +It had seemed as if he might lose Winifred. Winifred had _adored_ her +husband, and looked up to him as to something wonderful. Perhaps she +had expected in him another great authority, a male authority greater, +finer than her father’s. For having once known the glow of male power, +she would not easily turn to the cold white light of feminine +independence. She would hunger, hunger all her life for the warmth and +shelter of true male strength. + +And hunger she might, for Egbert’s power lay in the abnegation of +power. He was himself the living negative of power. Even of +responsibility. For the negation of power at last means the negation of +responsibility. As far as these things went, he would confine himself +to himself. He would try to confine his own _influence_ even to +himself. He would try, as far as possible, to abstain from influencing +his children by assuming any responsibility for them. “A little child +shall lead them—” His child should lead, then. He would try not to make +it go in any direction whatever. He would abstain from influencing it. +Liberty!— + +Poor Winifred was like a fish out of water in this liberty, gasping for +the denser element which should contain her. Till her child came. And +then she knew that she must be responsible for it, that she must have +authority over it. + +But here Egbert silently and negatively stepped in. Silently, +negatively, but fatally he neutralized her authority over her children. + +There was a third little girl born. And after this Winifred wanted no +more children. Her soul was turning to salt. + +So she had charge of the children, they were her responsibility. The +money for them had come from her father. She would do her very best for +them, and have command over their life and death. But no! Egbert would +not take the responsibility. He would not even provide the money. But +he would not let her have her way. Her dark, silent, passionate +authority he would not allow. It was a battle between them, the battle +between liberty and the old blood-power. And of course he won. The +little girls loved him and adored him. “Daddy! Daddy!” They could do as +they liked with him. Their mother would have ruled them. She would have +ruled them passionately, with indulgence, with the old dark magic of +parental authority, something looming and unquestioned and, after all, +divine: if we believe in divine authority. The Marshalls did, being +Catholic. + +And Egbert, he turned her old dark, Catholic blood-authority into a +sort of tyranny. He would not leave her her children. He stole them +from her, and yet without assuming responsibility for them. He stole +them from her, in emotion and spirit, and left her only to command +their behaviour. A thankless lot for a mother. And her children adored +him, adored him, little knowing the empty bitterness they were +preparing for themselves when they too grew up to have husbands: +husbands such as Egbert, adorable and null. + +Joyce, the eldest, was still his favourite. She was now a quicksilver +little thing of six years old. Barbara, the youngest, was a toddler of +two years. They spent most of their time down at Crockham, because he +wanted to be there. And even Winifred loved the place really. But now, +in her frustrated and blinded state, it was full of menace for her +children. The adders, the poison-berries, the brook, the marsh, the +water that might not be pure—one thing and another. From mother and +nurse it was a guerilla gunfire of commands, and blithe, quicksilver +disobedience from the three blonde, never-still little girls. Behind +the girls was the father, against mother and nurse. And so it was. + +“If you don’t come quick, nurse, I shall run out there to where there +are snakes.” + +“Joyce, you _must_ be patient. I’m just changing Annabel.” + +There you are. There it was: always the same. Working away on the +common across the brook he heard it. And he worked on, just the same. + +Suddenly he heard a shriek, and he flung the spade from him and started +for the bridge, looking up like a startled deer. Ah, there was +Winifred—Joyce had hurt herself. He went on up the garden. + +“What is it?” + +The child was still screaming—now it was—“Daddy! Daddy! Oh—oh, Daddy!” +And the mother was saying: + +“Don’t be frightened, darling. Let mother look.” + +But the child only cried: + +“Oh, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” + +She was terrified by the sight of the blood running from her own knee. +Winifred crouched down, with her child of six in her lap, to examine +the knee. Egbert bent over also. + +“Don’t make such a noise, Joyce,” he said irritably. “How did she do +it?” + +“She fell on that sickle thing which you left lying about after cutting +the grass,” said Winifred, looking into his face with bitter accusation +as he bent near. + +He had taken his handkerchief and tied it round the knee. Then he +lifted the still sobbing child in his arms, and carried her into the +house and upstairs to her bed. In his arms she became quiet. But his +heart was burning with pain and with guilt. He had left the sickle +there lying on the edge of the grass, and so his first-born child whom +he loved so dearly had come to hurt. But then it was an accident—it was +an accident. Why should he feel guilty? It would probably be nothing, +better in two or three days. Why take it to heart, why worry? He put it +aside. + +The child lay on the bed in her little summer frock, her face very +white now after the shock, Nurse had come carrying the youngest child: +and little Annabel stood holding her skirt. Winifred, terribly serious +and wooden-seeming, was bending over the knee, from which she had taken +his blood-soaked handkerchief. Egbert bent forward, too, keeping more +_sang-froid_ in his face than in his heart. Winifred went all of a lump +of seriousness, so he had to keep some reserve. The child moaned and +whimpered. + +The knee was still bleeding profusely—it was a deep cut right in the +joint. + +“You’d better go for the doctor, Egbert,” said Winifred bitterly. + +“Oh, no! Oh, no!” cried Joyce in a panic. + +“Joyce, my darling, don’t cry!” said Winifred, suddenly catching the +little girl to her breast in a strange tragic anguish, the _Mater +Dolorata_. Even the child was frightened into silence. Egbert looked at +the tragic figure of his wife with the child at her breast, and turned +away. Only Annabel started suddenly to cry: “Joycey, Joycey, don’t have +your leg bleeding!” + +Egbert rode four miles to the village for the doctor. He could not help +feeling that Winifred was laying it on rather. Surely the knee itself +wasn’t hurt! Surely not. It was only a surface cut. + +The doctor was out. Egbert left the message and came cycling swiftly +home, his heart pinched with anxiety. He dropped sweating off his +bicycle and went into the house, looking rather small, like a man who +is at fault. Winifred was upstairs sitting by Joyce, who was looking +pale and important in bed, and was eating some tapioca pudding. The +pale, small, scared face of his child went to Egbert’s heart. + +“Doctor Wing was out. He’ll be here about half past two,” said Egbert. + +“I don’t want him to come,” whimpered Joyce. + +“Joyce, dear, you must be patient and quiet,” said Winifred. “He won’t +hurt you. But he will tell us what to do to make your knee better +quickly. That is why he must come.” + +Winifred always explained carefully to her little girls: and it always +took the words off their lips for the moment. + +“Does it bleed yet?” said Egbert. + +Winifred moved the bedclothes carefully aside. + +“I think not,” she said. + +Egbert stooped also to look. + +“No, it doesn’t,” she said. Then he stood up with a relieved look on +his face. He turned to the child. + +“Eat your pudding, Joyce,” he said. “It won’t be anything. You’ve only +got to keep still for a few days.” + +“You haven’t had your dinner, have you, Daddy?” + +“Not yet.” + +“Nurse will give it to you,” said Winifred. + +“You’ll be all right, Joyce,” he said, smiling to the child and pushing +the blonde hair off her brow. She smiled back winsomely into his face. + +He went downstairs and ate his meal alone. Nurse served him. She liked +waiting on him. All women liked him and liked to do things for him. + +The doctor came—a fat country practitioner, pleasant and kind. + +“What, little girl, been tumbling down, have you? There’s a thing to be +doing, for a smart little lady like you! What! And cutting your knee! +Tut-tut-tut! That _wasn’t_ clever of you, now was it? Never mind, never +mind, soon be better. Let us look at it. Won’t hurt you. Not the least +in life. Bring a bowl with a little warm water, nurse. Soon have it all +right again, soon have it all right.” + +Joyce smiled at him with a pale smile of faint superiority. This was +_not_ the way in which she was used to being talked to. + +He bent down, carefully looking at the little, thin, wounded knee of +the child. Egbert bent over him. + +“Oh, dear, oh, dear! Quite a deep little cut. Nasty little cut. Nasty +little cut. But, never mind. Never mind, little lady. We’ll soon have +it better. Soon have it better, little lady. What’s your name?” + +“My name is Joyce,” said the child distinctly. + +“Oh, really!” he replied. “Oh, really! Well, that’s a fine name too, in +my opinion. Joyce, eh?—And how old might Miss Joyce be? Can she tell me +that?” + +“I’m six,” said the child, slightly amused and very condescending. + +“Six! There now. Add up and count as far as six, can you? Well, that’s +a clever little girl, a clever little girl. And if she has to drink a +spoonful of medicine, she won’t make a murmur, I’ll be bound. Not like +_some_ little girls. What? Eh?” + +“I take it if mother wishes me to,” said Joyce. + +“Ah, there now! That’s the style! That’s what I like to hear from a +little lady in bed because she’s cut her knee. That’s the style—” + +The comfortable and prolix doctor dressed and bandaged the knee and +recommended bed and a light diet for the little lady. He thought a week +or a fortnight would put it right. No bones or ligatures +damaged—fortunately. Only a flesh cut. He would come again in a day or +two. + +So Joyce was reassured and stayed in bed and had all her toys up. Her +father often played with her. The doctor came the third day. He was +fairly pleased with the knee. It was healing. It was healing—yes—yes. +Let the child continue in bed. He came again after a day or two. +Winifred was a trifle uneasy. The wound seemed to be healing on the +top, but it hurt the child too much. It didn’t look quite right. She +said so to Egbert. + +“Egbert, I’m sure Joyce’s knee isn’t healing properly.” + +“I think it is,” he said. “I think it’s all right.” + +“I’d rather Doctor Wing came again—I don’t feel satisfied.” + +“Aren’t you trying to imagine it worse than it really is?” + +“You would say so, of course. But I shall write a post-card to Doctor +Wing now.” + +The doctor came next day. He examined the knee. Yes, there was +inflammation. Yes, there _might_ be a little septic poisoning—there +might. There might. Was the child feverish? + +So a fortnight passed by, and the child _was_ feverish, and the knee +was more inflamed and grew worse and was painful, painful. She cried in +the night, and her mother had to sit up with her. Egbert still insisted +it was nothing, really—it would pass. But in his heart he was anxious. + +Winifred wrote again to her father. On Saturday the elderly man +appeared. And no sooner did Winifred see the thick, rather short figure +in its grey suit than a great yearning came over her. + +“Father, I’m not satisfied with Joyce. I’m not satisfied with Doctor +Wing.” + +“Well, Winnie, dear, if you’re not satisfied we must have further +advice, that is all.” + +The sturdy, powerful, elderly man went upstairs, his voice sounding +rather grating through the house, as if it cut upon the tense +atmosphere. + +“How are you, Joyce, darling?” he said to the child. “Does your knee +hurt you? Does it hurt you, dear?” + +“It does sometimes.” The child was shy of him, cold towards him. + +“Well, dear, I’m sorry for that. I hope you try to bear it, and not +trouble mother too much.” + +There was no answer. He looked at the knee. It was red and stiff. + +“Of course,” he said, “I think we must have another doctor’s opinion. +And if we’re going to have it, we had better have it at once. Egbert, +do you think you might cycle in to Bingham for Doctor Wayne? I found +him very satisfactory for Winnie’s mother.” + +“I can go if you think it necessary,” said Egbert. + +“Certainly I think it necessary. Even if there _is_ nothing, we can +have peace of mind. Certainly I think it necessary. I should like +Doctor Wayne to come this evening if possible.” + +So Egbert set off on his bicycle through the wind, like a boy sent on +an errand, leaving his father-in-law a pillar of assurance, with +Winifred. + +Doctor Wayne came, and looked grave. Yes, the knee was certainly taking +the wrong way. The child might be lame for life. + +Up went the fire and fear and anger in every heart. Doctor Wayne came +again the next day for a proper examination. And, yes, the knee had +really taken bad ways. It should be X-rayed. It was very important. + +Godfrey Marshall walked up and down the lane with the doctor, beside +the standing motor-car: up and down, up and down in one of those +consultations of which he had had so many in his life. + +As a result he came indoors to Winifred. + +“Well, Winnie, dear, the best thing to do is to take Joyce up to +London, to a nursing home where she can have proper treatment. Of +course this knee has been allowed to go wrong. And apparently there is +a risk that the child may even lose her leg. What do you think, dear? +You agree to our taking her up to town and putting her under the best +care?” + +“Oh, father, you _know_ I would do anything on earth for her.” + +“I know you would, Winnie darling. The pity is that there has been this +unfortunate delay already. I can’t think what Doctor Wing was doing. +Apparently the child is in danger of losing her leg. Well then, if you +will have everything ready, we will take her up to town tomorrow. I +will order the large car from Denley’s to be here at ten. Egbert, will +you take a telegram at once to Doctor Jackson? It is a small nursing +home for children and for surgical cases, not far from Baker Street. +I’m sure Joyce will be all right there.” + +“Oh, father, can’t I nurse her myself!” + +“Well, darling, if she is to have proper treatment, she had best be in +a home. The X-ray treatment, and the electric treatment, and whatever +is necessary.” + +“It will cost a great deal—” said Winifred. + +“We can’t think of cost, if the child’s leg is in danger—or even her +life. No use speaking of cost,” said the elder man impatiently. + +And so it was. Poor Joyce, stretched out on a bed in the big closed +motor-car—the mother sitting by her head, the grandfather in his short +grey beard and a bowler hat, sitting by her feet, thick, and implacable +in his responsibility—they rolled slowly away from Crockham, and from +Egbert who stood there bareheaded and a little ignominious, left +behind. He was to shut up the house and bring the rest of the family +back to town, by train, the next day. + +Followed a dark and bitter time. The poor child. The poor, poor child, +how she suffered, an agony and a long crucifixion in that nursing home. +It was a bitter six weeks which changed the soul of Winifred for ever. +As she sat by the bed of her poor, tortured little child, tortured with +the agony of the knee, and the still worse agony of these diabolic, but +perhaps necessary modern treatments, she felt her heart killed and +going cold in her breast. Her little Joyce, her frail, brave, +wonderful, little Joyce, frail and small and pale as a white flower! +Ah, how had she, Winifred, dared to be so wicked, so wicked, so +careless, so sensual. + +“Let my heart die! Let my woman’s heart of flesh die! Saviour, let my +heart die. And save my child. Let my heart die from the world and from +the flesh. Oh, destroy my heart that is so wayward. Let my heart of +pride die. Let my heart die.” + +So she prayed beside the bed of her child. And like the Mother with the +seven swords in her breast, slowly her heart of pride and passion died +in her breast, bleeding away. Slowly it died, bleeding away, and she +turned to the Church for comfort, to Jesus, to the Mother of God, but +most of all, to that great and enduring institution, the Roman Catholic +Church. She withdrew into the shadow of the Church. She was a mother +with three children. But in her soul she died, her heart of pride and +passion and desire bled to death, her soul belonged to her church, her +body belonged to her duty as a mother. + +Her duty as a wife did not enter. As a wife she had no sense of duty: +only a certain bitterness towards the man with whom she had known such +sensuality and distraction. She was purely the _Mater Dolorata_. To the +man she was closed as a tomb. + +Egbert came to see his child. But Winifred seemed to be always seated +there, like the tomb of his manhood and his fatherhood. Poor Winifred: +she was still young, still strong and ruddy and beautiful like a ruddy +hard flower of the field. Strange—her ruddy, healthy face, so sombre, +and her strong, heavy, full-blooded body, so still. She, a nun! Never. +And yet the gates of her heart and soul had shut in his face with a +slow, resonant clang, shutting him out for ever. There was no need for +her to go into a convent. Her will had done it. + +And between this young mother and this young father lay the crippled +child, like a bit of pale silk floss on the pillow, and a little white +pain-quenched face. He could not bear it. He just could not bear it. He +turned aside. There was nothing to do but to turn aside. He turned +aside, and went hither and thither, desultory. He was still attractive +and desirable. But there was a little frown between his brow as if he +had been cleft there with a hatchet: cleft right in, for ever, and that +was the stigma. + +The child’s leg was saved: but the knee was locked stiff. The fear now +was lest the lower leg should wither, or cease to grow. There must be +long-continued massage and treatment, daily treatment, even when the +child left the nursing home. And the whole of the expense was borne by +the grandfather. + +Egbert now had no real home. Winifred with the children and nurse was +tied to the little flat in London. He could not live there: he could +not contain himself. The cottage was shut-up—or lent to friends. He +went down sometimes to work in his garden and keep the place in order. +Then with the empty house around him at night, all the empty rooms, he +felt his heart go wicked. The sense of frustration and futility, like +some slow, torpid snake, slowly bit right through his heart. Futility, +futility: the horrible marsh-poison went through his veins and killed +him. + +As he worked in the garden in the silence of day he would listen for a +sound. No sound. No sound of Winifred from the dark inside of the +cottage: no sound of children’s voices from the air, from the common, +from the near distance. No sound, nothing but the old dark +marsh-venomous atmosphere of the place. So he worked spasmodically +through the day, and at night made a fire and cooked some food alone. + +He was alone. He himself cleaned the cottage and made his bed. But his +mending he did not do. His shirts were slit on the shoulders, when he +had been working, and the white flesh showed through. He would feel the +air and the spots of rain on his exposed flesh. And he would look again +across the common, where the dark, tufted gorse was dying to seed, and +the bits of cat-heather were coming pink in tufts, like a sprinkling of +sacrificial blood. + +His heart went back to the savage old spirit of the place: the desire +for old gods, old, lost passions, the passion of the cold-blooded, +darting snakes that hissed and shot away from him, the mystery of +blood-sacrifices, all the lost, intense sensations of the primeval +people of the place, whose passions seethed in the air still, from +those long days before the Romans came. The seethe of a lost, dark +passion in the air. The presence of unseen snakes. + +A queer, baffled, half-wicked look came on his face. He could not stay +long at the cottage. Suddenly he must swing on to his bicycle and +go—anywhere. Anywhere, away from the place. He would stay a few days +with his mother in the old home. His mother adored him and grieved as a +mother would. But the little, baffled, half-wicked smile curled on his +face, and he swung away from his mother’s solicitude as from everything +else. + +Always moving on—from place to place, friend to friend: and always +swinging away from sympathy. As soon as sympathy, like a soft hand, was +reached out to touch him, away he swerved, instinctively, as a harmless +snake swerves and swerves and swerves away from an outstretched hand. +Away he must go. And periodically he went back to Winifred. + +He was terrible to her now, like a temptation. She had devoted herself +to her children and her church. Joyce was once more on her feet; but, +alas! lame, with iron supports to her leg, and a little crutch. It was +strange how she had grown into a long, pallid, wild little thing. +Strange that the pain had not made her soft and docile, but had brought +out a wild, almost maenad temper in the child. She was seven, and long +and white and thin, but by no means subdued. Her blonde hair was +darkening. She still had long sufferings to face, and, in her own +childish consciousness, the stigma of her lameness to bear. + +And she bore it. An almost maenad courage seemed to possess her, as if +she were a long, thin, young weapon of life. She acknowledged all her +mother’s care. She would stand by her mother for ever. But some of her +father’s fine-tempered desperation flashed in her. + +When Egbert saw his little girl limping horribly—not only limping but +lurching horribly in crippled, childish way, his heart again hardened +with chagrin, like steel that is tempered again. There was a tacit +understanding between him and his little girl: not what we would call +love, but a weapon-like kinship. There was a tiny touch of irony in his +manner towards her, contrasting sharply with Winifred’s heavy, +unleavened solicitude and care. The child flickered back to him with an +answering little smile of irony and recklessness: an odd flippancy +which made Winifred only the more sombre and earnest. + +The Marshalls took endless thought and trouble for the child, searching +out every means to save her limb and her active freedom. They spared no +effort and no money, they spared no strength of will. With all their +slow, heavy power of will they willed that Joyce should save her +liberty of movement, should win back her wild, free grace. Even if it +took a long time to recover, it should be recovered. + +So the situation stood. And Joyce submitted, week after week, month +after month to the tyranny and pain of the treatment. She acknowledged +the honourable effort on her behalf. But her flamy reckless spirit was +her father’s. It was he who had all the glamour for her. He and she +were like members of some forbidden secret society who know one another +but may not recognise one another. Knowledge they had in common, the +same secret of life, the father and the child. But the child stayed in +the camp of her mother, honourably, and the father wandered outside +like Ishmael, only coming sometimes to sit in the home for an hour or +two, an evening or two beside the camp fire, like Ishmael, in a curious +silence and tension, with the mocking answer of the desert speaking out +of his silence, and annulling the whole convention of the domestic +home. + +His presence was almost an anguish to Winifred. She prayed against it. +That little cleft between his brow, that flickering, wicked, little +smile that seemed to haunt his face, and above all, the triumphant +loneliness, the Ishmael quality. And then the erectness of his supple +body, like a symbol. The very way he stood, so quiet, so insidious, +like an erect, supple symbol of life, the living body, confronting her +downcast soul, was torture to her. He was like a supple living idol +moving before her eyes, and she felt if she watched him she was damned. + +And he came and made himself at home in her little home. When he was +there, moving in his own quiet way, she felt as if the whole great law +of sacrifice, by which she had elected to live, were annulled. He +annulled by his very presence the laws of her life. And what did he +substitute? Ah, against that question she hardened herself in recoil. + +It was awful to her to have to have him about—moving about in his +shirt-sleeves, speaking in his tenor, throaty voice to the children. +Annabel simply adored him, and he teased the little girl. The baby, +Barbara, was not sure of him. She had been born a stranger to him. But +even the nurse, when she saw his white shoulder of flesh through the +slits of his torn shirt, thought it a shame. + +Winifred felt it was only another weapon of his against her. + +“You have other shirts—why do you wear that old one that is all torn, +Egbert?” she said. + +“I may as well wear it out,” he said subtly. + +He knew she would not offer to mend it for him. She _could_ not. And +no, she would not. Had she not her own gods to honour? And could she +betray them, submitting to his Baal and Ashtaroth? And it was terrible +to her, his unsheathed presence, that seemed to annul her and her +faith, like another revelation. Like a gleaming idol evoked against +her, a vivid life-idol that might triumph. + +He came and he went—and she persisted. And then the great war broke +out. He was a man who could not go to the dogs. He could not dissipate +himself. He was pure-bred in his Englishness, and even when he would +have killed to be vicious, he could not. + +So when the war broke out his whole instinct was against it: against +war. He had not the faintest desire to overcome any foreigners or to +help in their death. He had no conception of Imperial England, and Rule +Britannia was just a joke to him. He was a pure-blooded Englishman, +perfect in his race, and when he was truly himself he could no more +have been aggressive on the score of his Englishness than a rose can be +aggressive on the score of its rosiness. + +No, he had no desire to defy Germany and to exalt England. The +distinction between German and English was not for him the distinction +between good and bad. It was the distinction between blue water-flowers +and red or white bush-blossoms: just difference. The difference between +the wild boar and the wild bear. And a man was good or bad according to +his nature, not according to his nationality. + +Egbert was well-bred, and this was part of his natural understanding. +It was merely unnatural to him to hate a nation _en bloc_. Certain +individuals he disliked, and others he liked, and the mass he knew +nothing about. Certain deeds he disliked, certain deeds seemed natural +to him, and about most deeds he had no particular feeling. + +He had, however, the one deepest pure-bred instinct. He recoiled +inevitably from having his feelings dictated to him by the mass +feeling. His feelings were his own, his understanding was his own, and +he would never go back on either, willingly. Shall a man become +inferior to his own true knowledge and self, just because the mob +expects it of him? + +What Egbert felt subtly and without question, his father-in-law felt +also in a rough, more combative way. Different as the two men were, +they were two real Englishmen, and their instincts were almost the +same. + +And Godfrey Marshall had the world to reckon with. There was German +military aggression, and the English non-military idea of liberty and +the “conquests of peace”—meaning industrialism. Even if the choice +between militarism and industrialism were a choice of evils, the +elderly man asserted his choice of the latter, perforce. He whose soul +was quick with the instinct of power. + +Egbert just refused to reckon with the world. He just refused even to +decide between German militarism and British industrialism. He chose +neither. As for atrocities, he despised the people who committed them +as inferior criminal types. There was nothing national about crime. + +And yet, war! War! Just war! Not right or wrong, but just war itself. +Should he join? Should he give himself over to war? The question was in +his mind for some weeks. Not because he thought England was right and +Germany wrong. Probably Germany was wrong, but he refused to make a +choice. Not because he felt inspired. No. But just—war. + +The deterrent was, the giving himself over into the power of other men, +and into the power of the mob-spirit of a democratic army. Should he +give himself over? Should he make over his own life and body to the +control of something which he _knew_ was inferior, in spirit, to his +own self? Should he commit himself into the power of an inferior +control? Should he? Should he betray himself? + +He was going to put himself into the power of his inferiors, and he +knew it. He was going to subjugate himself. He was going to be ordered +about by petty _canaille_ of non-commissioned officers—and even +commissioned officers. He who was born and bred free. Should he do it? + +He went to his wife, to speak to her. + +“Shall I join up, Winifred?” + +She was silent. Her instinct also was dead against it. And yet a +certain profound resentment made her answer: + +“You have three children dependent on you. I don’t know whether you +have thought of that.” + +It was still only the third month of the war, and the old pre-war ideas +were still alive. + +“Of course. But it won’t make much difference to them. I shall be +earning a shilling a day, at least.” + +“You’d better speak to father, I think,” she replied heavily. + +Egbert went to his father-in-law. The elderly man’s heart was full of +resentment. + +“I should say,” he said rather sourly, “it is the best thing you could +do.” + +Egbert went and joined up immediately, as a private soldier. He was +drafted into the light artillery. + +Winifred now had a new duty towards him: the duty of a wife towards a +husband who is himself performing his duty towards the world. She loved +him still. She would always love him, as far as earthly love went. But +it was duty she now lived by. When he came back to her in khaki, a +soldier, she submitted to him as a wife. It was her duty. But to his +passion she could never again fully submit. Something prevented her, +for ever: even her own deepest choice. + +He went back again to camp. It did not suit him to be a modern soldier. +In the thick, gritty, hideous khaki his subtle physique was +extinguished as if he had been killed. In the ugly intimacy of the camp +his thoroughbred sensibilities were just degraded. But he had chosen, +so he accepted. An ugly little look came on to his face, of a man who +has accepted his own degradation. + +In the early spring Winifred went down to Crockham to be there when +primroses were out, and the tassels hanging on the hazel-bushes. She +felt something like a reconciliation towards Egbert, now he was a +prisoner in camp most of his days. Joyce was wild with delight at +seeing the garden and the common again, after the eight or nine months +of London and misery. She was still lame. She still had the irons up +her leg. But she lurched about with a wild, crippled agility. + +Egbert came for a week-end, in his gritty, thick, sand-paper khaki and +puttees and the hideous cap. Nay, he looked terrible. And on his face a +slightly impure look, a little sore on his lip, as if he had eaten too +much or drunk too much or let his blood become a little unclean. He was +almost uglily healthy, with the camp life. It did not suit him. + +Winifred waited for him in a little passion of duty and sacrifice, +willing to serve the soldier, if not the man. It only made him feel a +little more ugly inside. The week-end was torment to him: the memory of +the camp, the knowledge of the life he led there; even the sight of his +own legs in that abhorrent khaki. He felt as if the hideous cloth went +into his blood and made it gritty and dirty. Then Winifred so ready to +serve the _soldier_, when she repudiated the man. And this made the +grit worse between his teeth. And the children running around playing +and calling in the rather mincing fashion of children who have nurses +and governesses and literature in the family. And Joyce so lame! It had +all become unreal to him, after the camp. It only set his soul on edge. +He left at dawn on the Monday morning, glad to get back to the realness +and vulgarity of the camp. + +Winifred would never meet him again at the cottage—only in London, +where the world was with them. But sometimes he came alone to Crockham +perhaps when friends were staying there. And then he would work awhile +in his garden. This summer still it would flame with blue anchusas and +big red poppies, the mulleins would sway their soft, downy erections in +the air: he loved mulleins: and the honeysuckle would stream out scent +like memory, when the owl was whooing. Then he sat by the fire with the +friends and with Winifred’s sisters, and they sang the folk-songs. He +put on thin civilian clothes and his charm and his beauty and the +supple dominancy of his body glowed out again. But Winifred was not +there. + +At the end of the summer he went to Flanders, into action. He seemed +already to have gone out of life, beyond the pale of life. He hardly +remembered his life any more, being like a man who is going to take a +jump from a height, and is only looking to where he must land. + +He was twice slightly wounded, in two months. But not enough to put him +off duty for more than a day or two. They were retiring again, holding +the enemy back. He was in the rear—three machine-guns. The country was +all pleasant, war had not yet trampled it. Only the air seemed +shattered, and the land awaiting death. It was a small, unimportant +action in which he was engaged. + +The guns were stationed on a little bushy hillock just outside a +village. But occasionally, it was difficult to say from which +direction, came the sharp crackle of rifle-fire, and beyond, the +far-off thud of cannon. The afternoon was wintry and cold. + +A lieutenant stood on a little iron platform at the top of the ladders, +taking the sights and giving the aim, calling in a high, tense, +mechanical voice. Out of the sky came the sharp cry of the directions, +then the warning numbers, then “Fire!” The shot went, the piston of the +gun sprang back, there was a sharp explosion, and a very faint film of +smoke in the air. Then the other two guns fired, and there was a lull. +The officer was uncertain of the enemy’s position. The thick clump of +horse-chestnut trees below was without change. Only in the far distance +the sound of heavy firing continued, so far off as to give a sense of +peace. + +The gorse bushes on either hand were dark, but a few sparks of flowers +showed yellow. He noticed them almost unconsciously as he waited, in +the lull. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and the air came chill on his +arms. Again his shirt was slit on the shoulders, and the flesh showed +through. He was dirty and unkempt. But his face was quiet. So many +things go out of consciousness before we come to the end of +consciousness. + +Before him, below, was the highroad, running between high banks of +grass and gorse. He saw the whitish muddy tracks and deep scores in the +road, where the part of the regiment had retired. Now all was still. +Sounds that came, came from the outside. The place where he stood was +still silent, chill, serene: the white church among the trees beyond +seemed like a thought only. + +He moved into a lightning-like mechanical response at the sharp cry +from the officer overhead. Mechanism, the pure mechanical action of +obedience at the guns. Pure mechanical action at the guns. It left the +soul unburdened, brooding in dark nakedness. In the end, the soul is +alone, brooding on the face of the uncreated flux, as a bird on a dark +sea. + +Nothing could be seen but the road, and a crucifix knocked slanting and +the dark, autumnal fields and woods. There appeared three horsemen on a +little eminence, very small, on the crest of a ploughed field. They +were our own men. Of the enemy, nothing. + +The lull continued. Then suddenly came sharp orders, and a new +direction of the guns, and an intense, exciting activity. Yet at the +centre the soul remained dark and aloof, alone. + +But even so, it was the soul that heard the new sound: the new, deep +“papp!” of a gun that seemed to touch right upon the soul. He kept up +the rapid activity at the machine-gun, sweating. But in his soul was +the echo of the new, deep sound, deeper than life. + +And in confirmation came the awful faint whistling of a shell, +advancing almost suddenly into a piercing, tearing shriek that would +tear through the membrane of life. He heard it in his ears, but he +heard it also in his soul, in tension. There was relief when the thing +had swung by and struck, away beyond. He heard the hoarseness of its +explosion, and the voice of the soldier calling to the horses. But he +did not turn round to look. He only noticed a twig of holly with red +berries fall like a gift on to the road below. + +Not this time, not this time. Whither thou goest I will go. Did he say +it to the shell, or to whom? Whither thou goest I will go. Then, the +faint whistling of another shell dawned, and his blood became small and +still to receive it. It drew nearer, like some horrible blast of wind; +his blood lost consciousness. But in the second of suspension he saw +the heavy shell swoop to earth, into the rocky bushes on the right, and +earth and stones poured up into the sky. It was as if he heard no +sound. The earth and stones and fragments of bush fell to earth again, +and there was the same unchanging peace. The Germans had got the aim. + +Would they move now? Would they retire? Yes. The officer was giving the +last lightning-rapid orders to fire before withdrawing. A shell passed +unnoticed in the rapidity of action. And then, into the silence, into +the suspense where the soul brooded, finally crashed a noise and a +darkness and a moment’s flaming agony and horror. Ah, he had seen the +dark bird flying towards him, flying home this time. In one instant +life and eternity went up in a conflagration of agony, then there was a +weight of darkness. + +When faintly something began to struggle in the darkness, a +consciousness of himself, he was aware of a great load and a clanging +sound. To have known the moment of death! And to be forced, before +dying, to review it. So, fate, even in death. + +There was a resounding of pain. It seemed to sound from the outside of +his consciousness: like a loud bell clanging very near. Yet he knew it +was himself. He must associate himself with it. After a lapse and a new +effort, he identified a pain in his head, a large pain that clanged and +resounded. So far he could identify himself with himself. Then there +was a lapse. + +After a time he seemed to wake up again, and waking, to know that he +was at the front, and that he was killed. He did not open his eyes. +Light was not yet his. The clanging pain in his head rang out the rest +of his consciousness. So he lapsed away from consciousness, in +unutterable sick abandon of life. + +Bit by bit, like a doom came the necessity to know. He was hit in the +head. It was only a vague surmise at first. But in the swinging of the +pendulum of pain, swinging ever nearer and nearer, to touch him into an +agony of consciousness and a consciousness of agony, gradually the +knowledge emerged—he must be hit in the head—hit on the left brow; if +so, there would be blood—was there blood?—could he feel blood in his +left eye? Then the clanging seemed to burst the membrane of his brain, +like death-madness. + +Was there blood on his face? Was hot blood flowing? Or was it dry blood +congealing down his cheek? It took him hours even to ask the question: +time being no more than an agony in darkness, without measurement. + +A long time after he had opened his eyes he realised he was seeing +something—something, something, but the effort to recall what was too +great. No, no; no recall! + +Were they the stars in the dark sky? Was it possible it was stars in +the dark sky? Stars? The world? Ah, no, he could not know it! Stars and +the world were gone for him, he closed his eyes. No stars, no sky, no +world. No, No! The thick darkness of blood alone. It should be one +great lapse into the thick darkness of blood in agony. + +Death, oh, death! The world all blood, and the blood all writhing with +death. The soul like the tiniest little light out on a dark sea, the +sea of blood. And the light guttering, beating, pulsing in a windless +storm, wishing it could go out, yet unable. + +There had been life. There had been Winifred and his children. But the +frail death-agony effort to catch at straws of memory, straws of life +from the past, brought on too great a nausea. No, No! No Winifred, no +children. No world, no people. Better the agony of dissolution ahead +than the nausea of the effort backwards. Better the terrible work +should go forward, the dissolving into the black sea of death, in the +extremity of dissolution, than that there should be any reaching back +towards life. To forget! To forget! Utterly, utterly to forget, in the +great forgetting of death. To break the core and the unit of life, and +to lapse out on the great darkness. Only that. To break the clue, and +mingle and commingle with the one darkness, without afterwards or +forwards. Let the black sea of death itself solve the problem of +futurity. Let the will of man break and give up. + +What was that? A light! A terrible light! Was it figures? Was it legs +of a horse colossal—colossal above him: huge, huge? + +The Germans heard a slight noise, and started. Then, in the glare of a +light-bomb, by the side of the heap of earth thrown up by the shell, +they saw the dead face. + + + + +TICKETS, PLEASE + + +There is in the Midlands a single-line tramway system which boldly +leaves the county town and plunges off into the black, industrial +countryside, up hill and down dale, through the long ugly villages of +workmen’s houses, over canals and railways, past churches perched high +and nobly over the smoke and shadows, through stark, grimy cold little +market-places, tilting away in a rush past cinemas and shops down to +the hollow where the collieries are, then up again, past a little rural +church, under the ash trees, on in a rush to the terminus, the last +little ugly place of industry, the cold little town that shivers on the +edge of the wild, gloomy country beyond. There the green and creamy +coloured tram-car seems to pause and purr with curious satisfaction. +But in a few minutes—the clock on the turret of the Co-operative +Wholesale Society’s Shops gives the time—away it starts once more on +the adventure. Again there are the reckless swoops downhill, bouncing +the loops: again the chilly wait in the hill-top market-place: again +the breathless slithering round the precipitous drop under the church: +again the patient halts at the loops, waiting for the outcoming car: so +on and on, for two long hours, till at last the city looms beyond the +fat gas-works, the narrow factories draw near, we are in the sordid +streets of the great town, once more we sidle to a standstill at our +terminus, abashed by the great crimson and cream-coloured city cars, +but still perky, jaunty, somewhat dare-devil, green as a jaunty sprig +of parsley out of a black colliery garden. + +To ride on these cars is always an adventure. Since we are in war-time, +the drivers are men unfit for active service: cripples and hunchbacks. +So they have the spirit of the devil in them. The ride becomes a +steeple-chase. Hurray! we have leapt in a clear jump over the canal +bridges—now for the four-lane corner. With a shriek and a trail of +sparks we are clear again. To be sure, a tram often leaps the rails—but +what matter! It sits in a ditch till other trams come to haul it out. +It is quite common for a car, packed with one solid mass of living +people, to come to a dead halt in the midst of unbroken blackness, the +heart of nowhere on a dark night, and for the driver and the girl +conductor to call, “All get off—car’s on fire!” Instead, however, of +rushing out in a panic, the passengers stolidly reply: “Get on—get on! +We’re not coming out. We’re stopping where we are. Push on, George.” So +till flames actually appear. + +The reason for this reluctance to dismount is that the nights are +howlingly cold, black, and windswept, and a car is a haven of refuge. +From village to village the miners travel, for a change of cinema, of +girl, of pub. The trams are desperately packed. Who is going to risk +himself in the black gulf outside, to wait perhaps an hour for another +tram, then to see the forlorn notice “Depot Only,” because there is +something wrong! Or to greet a unit of three bright cars all so tight +with people that they sail past with a howl of derision. Trams that +pass in the night. + +This, the most dangerous tram-service in England, as the authorities +themselves declare, with pride, is entirely conducted by girls, and +driven by rash young men, a little crippled, or by delicate young men, +who creep forward in terror. The girls are fearless young hussies. In +their ugly blue uniform, skirts up to their knees, shapeless old peaked +caps on their heads, they have all the _sang-froid_ of an old +non-commissioned officer. With a tram packed with howling colliers, +roaring hymns downstairs and a sort of antiphony of obscenities +upstairs, the lasses are perfectly at their ease. They pounce on the +youths who try to evade their ticket-machine. They push off the men at +the end of their distance. They are not going to be done in the eye—not +they. They fear nobody—and everybody fears them. + +“Hello, Annie!” + +“Hello, Ted!” + +“Oh, mind my corn, Miss Stone. It’s my belief you’ve got a heart of +stone, for you’ve trod on it again.” + +“You should keep it in your pocket,” replies Miss Stone, and she goes +sturdily upstairs in her high boots. + +“Tickets, please.” + +She is peremptory, suspicious, and ready to hit first. She can hold her +own against ten thousand. The step of that tram-car is her Thermopylæ. + +Therefore, there is a certain wild romance aboard these cars—and in the +sturdy bosom of Annie herself. The time for soft romance is in the +morning, between ten o’clock and one, when things are rather slack: +that is, except market-day and Saturday. Thus Annie has time to look +about her. Then she often hops off her car and into a shop where she +has spied something, while the driver chats in the main road. There is +very good feeling between the girls and the drivers. Are they not +companions in peril, shipments aboard this careering vessel of a +tram-car, for ever rocking on the waves of a stormy land? + +Then, also, during the easy hours, the inspectors are most in evidence. +For some reason, everybody employed in this tram-service is young: +there are no grey heads. It would not do. Therefore the inspectors are +of the right age, and one, the chief, is also good-looking. See him +stand on a wet, gloomy morning, in his long oil-skin, his peaked cap +well down over his eyes, waiting to board a car. His face is ruddy, his +small brown moustache is weathered, he has a faint impudent smile. +Fairly tall and agile, even in his waterproof, he springs aboard a car +and greets Annie. + +“Hello, Annie! Keeping the wet out?” + +“Trying to.” + +There are only two people in the car. Inspecting is soon over. Then for +a long and impudent chat on the foot-board, a good, easy, twelve-mile +chat. + +The inspector’s name is John Thomas Raynor—always called John Thomas, +except sometimes, in malice, Coddy. His face sets in fury when he is +addressed, from a distance, with this abbreviation. There is +considerable scandal about John Thomas in half a dozen villages. He +flirts with the girl conductors in the morning, and walks out with them +in the dark night, when they leave their tram-car at the depôt. Of +course, the girls quit the service frequently. Then he flirts and walks +out with the newcomer: always providing she is sufficiently attractive, +and that she will consent to walk. It is remarkable, however, that most +of the girls are quite comely, they are all young, and this roving life +aboard the car gives them a sailor’s dash and recklessness. What matter +how they behave when the ship is in port. Tomorrow they will be aboard +again. + +Annie, however, was something of a Tartar, and her sharp tongue had +kept John Thomas at arm’s length for many months. Perhaps, therefore, +she liked him all the more: for he always came up smiling, with +impudence. She watched him vanquish one girl, then another. She could +tell by the movement of his mouth and eyes, when he flirted with her in +the morning, that he had been walking out with this lass, or the other, +the night before. A fine cock-of-the-walk he was. She could sum him up +pretty well. + +In this subtle antagonism they knew each other like old friends, they +were as shrewd with one another almost as man and wife. But Annie had +always kept him sufficiently at arm’s length. Besides, she had a boy of +her own. + +The Statutes fair, however, came in November, at Bestwood. It happened +that Annie had the Monday night off. It was a drizzling ugly night, yet +she dressed herself up and went to the fair ground. She was alone, but +she expected soon to find a pal of some sort. + +The roundabouts were veering round and grinding out their music, the +side shows were making as much commotion as possible. In the cocoanut +shies there were no cocoanuts, but artificial war-time substitutes, +which the lads declared were fastened into the irons. There was a sad +decline in brilliance and luxury. None the less, the ground was muddy +as ever, there was the same crush, the press of faces lighted up by the +flares and the electric lights, the same smell of naphtha and a few +fried potatoes, and of electricity. + +Who should be the first to greet Miss Annie on the showground but John +Thomas? He had a black overcoat buttoned up to his chin, and a tweed +cap pulled down over his brows, his face between was ruddy and smiling +and handy as ever. She knew so well the way his mouth moved. + +She was very glad to have a “boy”. To be at the Statutes without a +fellow was no fun. Instantly, like the gallant he was, he took her on +the dragons, grim-toothed, round-about switchbacks. It was not nearly +so exciting as a tram-car actually. But, then, to be seated in a +shaking, green dragon, uplifted above the sea of bubble faces, +careering in a rickety fashion in the lower heavens, whilst John Thomas +leaned over her, his cigarette in his mouth, was after all the right +style. She was a plump, quick, alive little creature. So she was quite +excited and happy. + +John Thomas made her stay on for the next round. And therefore she +could hardly for shame repulse him when he put his arm round her and +drew her a little nearer to him, in a very warm and cuddly manner. +Besides, he was fairly discreet, he kept his movement as hidden as +possible. She looked down, and saw that his red, clean hand was out of +sight of the crowd. And they knew each other so well. So they warmed up +to the fair. + +After the dragons they went on the horses. John Thomas paid each time, +so she could but be complaisant. He, of course, sat astride on the +outer horse—named “Black Bess”—and she sat sideways, towards him, on +the inner horse—named “Wildfire”. But of course John Thomas was not +going to sit discreetly on “Black Bess”, holding the brass bar. Round +they spun and heaved, in the light. And round he swung on his wooden +steed, flinging one leg across her mount, and perilously tipping up and +down, across the space, half lying back, laughing at her. He was +perfectly happy; she was afraid her hat was on one side, but she was +excited. + +He threw quoits on a table, and won for her two large, pale-blue +hat-pins. And then, hearing the noise of the cinemas, announcing +another performance, they climbed the boards and went in. + +Of course, during these performances pitch darkness falls from time to +time, when the machine goes wrong. Then there is a wild whooping, and a +loud smacking of simulated kisses. In these moments John Thomas drew +Annie towards him. After all, he had a wonderfully warm, cosy way of +holding a girl with his arm, he seemed to make such a nice fit. And, +after all, it was pleasant to be so held: so very comforting and cosy +and nice. He leaned over her and she felt his breath on her hair; she +knew he wanted to kiss her on the lips. And, after all, he was so warm +and she fitted in to him so softly. After all, she wanted him to touch +her lips. + +But the light sprang up; she also started electrically, and put her hat +straight. He left his arm lying nonchalantly behind her. Well, it was +fun, it was exciting to be at the Statutes with John Thomas. + +When the cinema was over they went for a walk across the dark, damp +fields. He had all the arts of love-making. He was especially good at +holding a girl, when he sat with her on a stile in the black, drizzling +darkness. He seemed to be holding her in space, against his own warmth +and gratification. And his kisses were soft and slow and searching. + +So Annie walked out with John Thomas, though she kept her own boy +dangling in the distance. Some of the tram-girls chose to be huffy. But +there, you must take things as you find them, in this life. + +There was no mistake about it, Annie liked John Thomas a good deal. She +felt so rich and warm in herself whenever he was near. And John Thomas +really liked Annie, more than usual. The soft, melting way in which she +could flow into a fellow, as if she melted into his very bones, was +something rare and good. He fully appreciated this. + +But with a developing acquaintance there began a developing intimacy. +Annie wanted to consider him a person, a man; she wanted to take an +intelligent interest in him, and to have an intelligent response. She +did not want a mere nocturnal presence, which was what he was so far. +And she prided herself that he could not leave her. + +Here she made a mistake. John Thomas intended to remain a nocturnal +presence; he had no idea of becoming an all-round individual to her. +When she started to take an intelligent interest in him and his life +and his character, he sheered off. He hated intelligent interest. And +he knew that the only way to stop it was to avoid it. The possessive +female was aroused in Annie. So he left her. + +It is no use saying she was not surprised. She was at first startled, +thrown out of her count. For she had been so _very_ sure of holding +him. For a while she was staggered, and everything became uncertain to +her. Then she wept with fury, indignation, desolation, and misery. Then +she had a spasm of despair. And then, when he came, still impudently, +on to her car, still familiar, but letting her see by the movement of +his head that he had gone away to somebody else for the time being, and +was enjoying pastures new, then she determined to have her own back. + +She had a very shrewd idea what girls John Thomas had taken out. She +went to Nora Purdy. Nora was a tall, rather pale, but well-built girl, +with beautiful yellow hair. She was rather secretive. + +“Hey!” said Annie, accosting her; then softly, “Who’s John Thomas on +with now?” + +“I don’t know,” said Nora. + +“Why tha does,” said Annie, ironically lapsing into dialect. “Tha knows +as well as I do.” + +“Well, I do, then,” said Nora. “It isn’t me, so don’t bother.” + +“It’s Cissy Meakin, isn’t it?” + +“It is, for all I know.” + +“Hasn’t he got a face on him!” said Annie. “I don’t half like his +cheek. I could knock him off the foot-board when he comes round at me.” + +“He’ll get dropped-on one of these days,” said Nora. + +“Ay, he will, when somebody makes up their mind to drop it on him. I +should like to see him taken down a peg or two, shouldn’t you?” + +“I shouldn’t mind,” said Nora. + +“You’ve got quite as much cause to as I have,” said Annie. “But we’ll +drop on him one of these days, my girl. What? Don’t you want to?” + +“I don’t mind,” said Nora. + +But as a matter of fact, Nora was much more vindictive than Annie. + +One by one Annie went the round of the old flames. It so happened that +Cissy Meakin left the tramway service in quite a short time. Her mother +made her leave. Then John Thomas was on the _qui-vive_. He cast his +eyes over his old flock. And his eyes lighted on Annie. He thought she +would be safe now. Besides, he liked her. + +She arranged to walk home with him on Sunday night. It so happened that +her car would be in the depôt at half past nine: the last car would +come in at 10.15. So John Thomas was to wait for her there. + +At the depôt the girls had a little waiting-room of their own. It was +quite rough, but cosy, with a fire and an oven and a mirror, and table +and wooden chairs. The half dozen girls who knew John Thomas only too +well had arranged to take service this Sunday afternoon. So, as the +cars began to come in, early, the girls dropped into the waiting-room. +And instead of hurrying off home, they sat around the fire and had a +cup of tea. Outside was the darkness and lawlessness of war-time. + +John Thomas came on the car after Annie, at about a quarter to ten. He +poked his head easily into the girls’ waiting-room. + +“Prayer-meeting?” he asked. + +“Ay,” said Laura Sharp. “Ladies only.” + +“That’s me!” said John Thomas. It was one of his favourite +exclamations. + +“Shut the door, boy,” said Muriel Baggaley. + +“On which side of me?” said John Thomas. + +“Which tha likes,” said Polly Birkin. + +He had come in and closed the door behind him. The girls moved in their +circle, to make a place for him near the fire. He took off his +great-coat and pushed back his hat. + +“Who handles the teapot?” he said. + +Nora Purdy silently poured him out a cup of tea. + +“Want a bit o’ my bread and drippin’?” said Muriel Baggaley to him. + +“Ay, give us a bit.” + +And he began to eat his piece of bread. + +“There’s no place like home, girls,” he said. + +They all looked at him as he uttered this piece of impudence. He seemed +to be sunning himself in the presence of so many damsels. + +“Especially if you’re not afraid to go home in the dark,” said Laura +Sharp. + +“Me! By myself I am.” + +They sat till they heard the last tram come in. In a few minutes Emma +Houselay entered. + +“Come on, my old duck!” cried Polly Birkin. + +“It _is_ perishing,” said Emma, holding her fingers to the fire. + +“But—I’m afraid to, go home in, the dark,” sang Laura Sharp, the tune +having got into her mind. + +“Who’re you going with tonight, John Thomas?” asked Muriel Baggaley, +coolly. + +“Tonight?” said John Thomas. “Oh, I’m going home by myself tonight—all +on my lonely-O.” + +“That’s me!” said Nora Purdy, using his own ejaculation. + +The girls laughed shrilly. + +“Me as well, Nora,” said John Thomas. + +“Don’t know what you mean,” said Laura. + +“Yes, I’m toddling,” said he, rising and reaching for his overcoat. + +“Nay,” said Polly. “We’re all here waiting for you.” + +“We’ve got to be up in good time in the morning,” he said, in the +benevolent official manner. + +They all laughed. + +“Nay,” said Muriel. “Don’t leave us all lonely, John Thomas. Take one!” + +“I’ll take the lot, if you like,” he responded gallantly. + +“That you won’t either,” said Muriel, “Two’s company; seven’s too much +of a good thing.” + +“Nay—take one,” said Laura. “Fair and square, all above board, and say +which.” + +“Ay,” cried Annie, speaking for the first time. “Pick, John Thomas; +let’s hear thee.” + +“Nay,” he said. “I’m going home quiet tonight. Feeling good, for once.” + +“Whereabouts?” said Annie. “Take a good un, then. But tha’s got to take +one of us!” + +“Nay, how can I take one,” he said, laughing uneasily. “I don’t want to +make enemies.” + +“You’d only make _one_,” said Annie. + +“The chosen _one_,” added Laura. + +“Oh, my! Who said girls!” exclaimed John Thomas, again turning, as if +to escape. “Well—good-night.” + +“Nay, you’ve got to make your pick,” said Muriel. “Turn your face to +the wall, and say which one touches you. Go on—we shall only just touch +your back—one of us. Go on—turn your face to the wall, and don’t look, +and say which one touches you.” + +He was uneasy, mistrusting them. Yet he had not the courage to break +away. They pushed him to a wall and stood him there with his face to +it. Behind his back they all grimaced, tittering. He looked so comical. +He looked around uneasily. + +“Go on!” he cried. + +“You’re looking—you’re looking!” they shouted. + +He turned his head away. And suddenly, with a movement like a swift +cat, Annie went forward and fetched him a box on the side of the head +that sent his cap flying and himself staggering. He started round. + +But at Annie’s signal they all flew at him, slapping him, pinching him, +pulling his hair, though more in fun than in spite or anger. He, +however, saw red. His blue eyes flamed with strange fear as well as +fury, and he butted through the girls to the door. It was locked. He +wrenched at it. Roused, alert, the girls stood round and looked at him. +He faced them, at bay. At that moment they were rather horrifying to +him, as they stood in their short uniforms. He was distinctly afraid. + +“Come on, John Thomas! Come on! Choose!” said Annie. + +“What are you after? Open the door,” he said. + +“We shan’t—not till you’ve chosen!” said Muriel. + +“Chosen what?” he said. + +“Chosen the one you’re going to marry,” she replied. + +He hesitated a moment. + +“Open the blasted door,” he said, “and get back to your senses.” He +spoke with official authority. + +“You’ve got to choose!” cried the girls. + +“Come on!” cried Annie, looking him in the eye.” Come on! Come on!” + +He went forward, rather vaguely. She had taken off her belt, and +swinging it, she fetched him a sharp blow over the head with the buckle +end. He sprang and seized her. But immediately the other girls rushed +upon him, pulling and tearing and beating him. Their blood was now +thoroughly up. He was their sport now. They were going to have their +own back, out of him. Strange, wild creatures, they hung on him and +rushed at him to bear him down. His tunic was torn right up the back, +Nora had hold at the back of his collar, and was actually strangling +him. Luckily the button burst. He struggled in a wild frenzy of fury +and terror, almost mad terror. His tunic was simply torn off his back, +his shirt-sleeves were torn away, his arms were naked. The girls rushed +at him, clenched their hands on him and pulled at him: or they rushed +at him and pushed him, butted him with all their might: or they struck +him wild blows. He ducked and cringed and struck sideways. They became +more intense. + +At last he was down. They rushed on him, kneeling on him. He had +neither breath nor strength to move. His face was bleeding with a long +scratch, his brow was bruised. + +Annie knelt on him, the other girls knelt and hung on to him. Their +faces were flushed, their hair wild, their eyes were all glittering +strangely. He lay at last quite still, with face averted, as an animal +lies when it is defeated and at the mercy of the captor. Sometimes his +eye glanced back at the wild faces of the girls. His breast rose +heavily, his wrists were torn. + +“Now, then, my fellow!” gasped Annie at length. “Now then—now—” + +At the sound of her terrifying, cold triumph, he suddenly started to +struggle as an animal might, but the girls threw themselves upon him +with unnatural strength and power, forcing him down. + +“Yes—now, then!” gasped Annie at length. + +And there was a dead silence, in which the thud of heart-beating was to +be heard. It was a suspense of pure silence in every soul. + +“Now you know where you are,” said Annie. + +The sight of his white, bare arm maddened the girls. He lay in a kind +of trance of fear and antagonism. They felt themselves filled with +supernatural strength. + +Suddenly Polly started to laugh—to giggle wildly—helplessly—and Emma +and Muriel joined in. But Annie and Nora and Laura remained the same, +tense, watchful, with gleaming eyes. He winced away from these eyes. + +“Yes,” said Annie, in a curious low tone, secret and deadly. “Yes! +You’ve got it now! You know what you’ve done, don’t you? You know what +you’ve done.” + +He made no sound nor sign, but lay with bright, averted eyes, and +averted, bleeding face. + +“You ought to be _killed_, that’s what you ought,” said Annie, tensely. +“You ought to be _killed_.” And there was a terrifying lust in her +voice. + +Polly was ceasing to laugh, and giving long-drawn Oh-h-hs and sighs as +she came to herself. + +“He’s got to choose,” she said vaguely. + +“Oh, yes, he has,” said Laura, with vindictive decision. + +“Do you hear—do you hear?” said Annie. And with a sharp movement, that +made him wince, she turned his face to her. + +“Do you hear?” she repeated, shaking him. + +But he was quite dumb. She fetched him a sharp slap on the face. He +started, and his eyes widened. Then his face darkened with defiance, +after all. + +“Do you hear?” she repeated. + +He only looked at her with hostile eyes. + +“Speak!” she said, putting her face devilishly near his. + +“What?” he said, almost overcome. + +“You’ve got to _choose!_” she cried, as if it were some terrible +menace, and as if it hurt her that she could not exact more. + +“What?” he said, in fear. + +“Choose your girl, Coddy. You’ve got to choose her now. And you’ll get +your neck broken if you play any more of your tricks, my boy. You’re +settled now.” + +There was a pause. Again he averted his face. He was cunning in his +overthrow. He did not give in to them really—no, not if they tore him +to bits. + +“All right, then,” he said, “I choose Annie.” His voice was strange and +full of malice. Annie let go of him as if he had been a hot coal. + +“He’s chosen Annie!” said the girls in chorus. + +“Me!” cried Annie. She was still kneeling, but away from him. He was +still lying prostrate, with averted face. The girls grouped uneasily +around. + +“Me!” repeated Annie, with a terrible bitter accent. + +Then she got up, drawing away from him with strange disgust and +bitterness. + +“I wouldn’t touch him,” she said. + +But her face quivered with a kind of agony, she seemed as if she would +fall. The other girls turned aside. He remained lying on the floor, +with his torn clothes and bleeding, averted face. + +“Oh, if he’s chosen—” said Polly. + +“I don’t want him—he can choose again,” said Annie, with the same +rather bitter hopelessness. + +“Get up,” said Polly, lifting his shoulder. “Get up.” + +He rose slowly, a strange, ragged, dazed creature. The girls eyed him +from a distance, curiously, furtively, dangerously. + +“Who wants him?” cried Laura, roughly. + +“Nobody,” they answered, with contempt. Yet each one of them waited for +him to look at her, hoped he would look at her. All except Annie, and +something was broken in her. + +He, however, kept his face closed and averted from them all. There was +a silence of the end. He picked up the torn pieces of his tunic, +without knowing what to do with them. The girls stood about uneasily, +flushed, panting, tidying their hair and their dress unconsciously, and +watching him. He looked at none of them. He espied his cap in a corner, +and went and picked it up. He put it on his head, and one of the girls +burst into a shrill, hysteric laugh at the sight he presented. He, +however, took no heed, but went straight to where his overcoat hung on +a peg. The girls moved away from contact with him as if he had been an +electric wire. He put on his coat and buttoned it down. Then he rolled +his tunic-rags into a bundle, and stood before the locked door, dumbly. + +“Open the door, somebody,” said Laura. + +“Annie’s got the key,” said one. + +Annie silently offered the key to the girls. Nora unlocked the door. + +“Tit for tat, old man,” she said. “Show yourself a man, and don’t bear +a grudge.” + +But without a word or sign he had opened the door and gone, his face +closed, his head dropped. + +“That’ll learn him,” said Laura. + +“Coddy!” said Nora. + +“Shut up, for God’s sake!” cried Annie fiercely, as if in torture. + +“Well, I’m about ready to go, Polly. Look sharp!” said Muriel. + +The girls were all anxious to be off. They were tidying themselves +hurriedly, with mute, stupefied faces. + + + + +THE BLIND MAN + + +Isabel Pervin was listening for two sounds—for the sound of wheels on +the drive outside and for the noise of her husband’s footsteps in the +hall. Her dearest and oldest friend, a man who seemed almost +indispensable to her living, would drive up in the rainy dusk of the +closing November day. The trap had gone to fetch him from the station. +And her husband, who had been blinded in Flanders, and who had a +disfiguring mark on his brow, would be coming in from the outhouses. + +He had been home for a year now. He was totally blind. Yet they had +been very happy. The Grange was Maurice’s own place. The back was a +farmstead, and the Wernhams, who occupied the rear premises, acted as +farmers. Isabel lived with her husband in the handsome rooms in front. +She and he had been almost entirely alone together since he was +wounded. They talked and sang and read together in a wonderful and +unspeakable intimacy. Then she reviewed books for a Scottish newspaper, +carrying on her old interest, and he occupied himself a good deal with +the farm. Sightless, he could still discuss everything with Wernham, +and he could also do a good deal of work about the place—menial work, +it is true, but it gave him satisfaction. He milked the cows, carried +in the pails, turned the separator, attended to the pigs and horses. +Life was still very full and strangely serene for the blind man, +peaceful with the almost incomprehensible peace of immediate contact in +darkness. With his wife he had a whole world, rich and real and +invisible. + +They were newly and remotely happy. He did not even regret the loss of +his sight in these times of dark, palpable joy. A certain exultance +swelled his soul. + +But as time wore on, sometimes the rich glamour would leave them. +Sometimes, after months of this intensity, a sense of burden overcame +Isabel, a weariness, a terrible _ennui_, in that silent house +approached between a colonnade of tall-shafted pines. Then she felt she +would go mad, for she could not bear it. And sometimes he had +devastating fits of depression, which seemed to lay waste his whole +being. It was worse than depression—a black misery, when his own life +was a torture to him, and when his presence was unbearable to his wife. +The dread went down to the roots of her soul as these black days +recurred. In a kind of panic she tried to wrap herself up still further +in her husband. She forced the old spontaneous cheerfulness and joy to +continue. But the effort it cost her was almost too much. She knew she +could not keep it up. She felt she would scream with the strain, and +would give anything, anything, to escape. She longed to possess her +husband utterly; it gave her inordinate joy to have him entirely to +herself. And yet, when again he was gone in a black and massive misery, +she could not bear him, she could not bear herself; she wished she +could be snatched away off the earth altogether, anything rather than +live at this cost. + +Dazed, she schemed for a way out. She invited friends, she tried to +give him some further connexion with the outer world. But it was no +good. After all their joy and suffering, after their dark, great year +of blindness and solitude and unspeakable nearness, other people seemed +to them both shallow, prattling, rather impertinent. Shallow prattle +seemed presumptuous. He became impatient and irritated, she was +wearied. And so they lapsed into their solitude again. For they +preferred it. + +But now, in a few weeks’ time, her second baby would be born. The first +had died, an infant, when her husband first went out to France. She +looked with joy and relief to the coming of the second. It would be her +salvation. But also she felt some anxiety. She was thirty years old, +her husband was a year younger. They both wanted the child very much. +Yet she could not help feeling afraid. She had her husband on her +hands, a terrible joy to her, and a terrifying burden. The child would +occupy her love and attention. And then, what of Maurice? What would he +do? If only she could feel that he, too, would be at peace and happy +when the child came! She did so want to luxuriate in a rich, physical +satisfaction of maternity. But the man, what would he do? How could she +provide for him, how avert those shattering black moods of his, which +destroyed them both? + +She sighed with fear. But at this time Bertie Reid wrote to Isabel. He +was her old friend, a second or third cousin, a Scotchman, as she was a +Scotchwoman. They had been brought up near to one another, and all her +life he had been her friend, like a brother, but better than her own +brothers. She loved him—though not in the marrying sense. There was a +sort of kinship between them, an affinity. They understood one another +instinctively. But Isabel would never have thought of marrying Bertie. +It would have seemed like marrying in her own family. + +Bertie was a barrister and a man of letters, a Scotchman of the +intellectual type, quick, ironical, sentimental, and on his knees +before the woman he adored but did not want to marry. Maurice Pervin +was different. He came of a good old country family—the Grange was not +a very great distance from Oxford. He was passionate, sensitive, +perhaps over-sensitive, wincing—a big fellow with heavy limbs and a +forehead that flushed painfully. For his mind was slow, as if drugged +by the strong provincial blood that beat in his veins. He was very +sensitive to his own mental slowness, his feelings being quick and +acute. So that he was just the opposite to Bertie, whose mind was much +quicker than his emotions, which were not so very fine. + +From the first the two men did not like each other. Isabel felt that +they _ought_ to get on together. But they did not. She felt that if +only each could have the clue to the other there would be such a rare +understanding between them. It did not come off, however. Bertie +adopted a slightly ironical attitude, very offensive to Maurice, who +returned the Scotch irony with English resentment, a resentment which +deepened sometimes into stupid hatred. + +This was a little puzzling to Isabel. However, she accepted it in the +course of things. Men were made freakish and unreasonable. Therefore, +when Maurice was going out to France for the second time, she felt +that, for her husband’s sake, she must discontinue her friendship with +Bertie. She wrote to the barrister to this effect. Bertram Reid simply +replied that in this, as in all other matters, he must obey her wishes, +if these were indeed her wishes. + +For nearly two years nothing had passed between the two friends. Isabel +rather gloried in the fact; she had no compunction. She had one great +article of faith, which was, that husband and wife should be so +important to one another, that the rest of the world simply did not +count. She and Maurice were husband and wife. They loved one another. +They would have children. Then let everybody and everything else fade +into insignificance outside this connubial felicity. She professed +herself quite happy and ready to receive Maurice’s friends. She was +happy and ready: the happy wife, the ready woman in possession. Without +knowing why, the friends retired abashed and came no more. Maurice, of +course, took as much satisfaction in this connubial absorption as +Isabel did. + +He shared in Isabel’s literary activities, she cultivated a real +interest in agriculture and cattle-raising. For she, being at heart +perhaps an emotional enthusiast, always cultivated the practical side +of life, and prided herself on her mastery of practical affairs. Thus +the husband and wife had spent the five years of their married life. +The last had been one of blindness and unspeakable intimacy. And now +Isabel felt a great indifference coming over her, a sort of lethargy. +She wanted to be allowed to bear her child in peace, to nod by the fire +and drift vaguely, physically, from day to day. Maurice was like an +ominous thunder-cloud. She had to keep waking up to remember him. + +When a little note came from Bertie, asking if he were to put up a +tombstone to their dead friendship, and speaking of the real pain he +felt on account of her husband’s loss of sight, she felt a pang, a +fluttering agitation of re-awakening. And she read the letter to +Maurice. + +“Ask him to come down,” he said. + +“Ask Bertie to come here!” she re-echoed. + +“Yes—if he wants to.” + +Isabel paused for a few moments. + +“I know he wants to—he’d only be too glad,” she replied. “But what +about you, Maurice? How would you like it?” + +“I should like it.” + +“Well—in that case—— But I thought you didn’t care for him—” + +“Oh, I don’t know. I might think differently of him now,” the blind man +replied. It was rather abstruse to Isabel. + +“Well, dear,” she said, “if you’re quite sure—” + +“I’m sure enough. Let him come,” said Maurice. + +So Bertie was coming, coming this evening, in the November rain and +darkness. Isabel was agitated, racked with her old restlessness and +indecision. She had always suffered from this pain of doubt, just an +agonizing sense of uncertainty. It had begun to pass off, in the +lethargy of maternity. Now it returned, and she resented it. She +struggled as usual to maintain her calm, composed, friendly bearing, a +sort of mask she wore over all her body. + +A woman had lighted a tall lamp beside the table, and spread the cloth. +The long dining-room was dim, with its elegant but rather severe pieces +of old furniture. Only the round table glowed softly under the light. +It had a rich, beautiful effect. The white cloth glistened and dropped +its heavy, pointed lace corners almost to the carpet, the china was old +and handsome, creamy-yellow, with a blotched pattern of harsh red and +deep blue, the cups large and bell-shaped, the teapot gallant. Isabel +looked at it with superficial appreciation. + +Her nerves were hurting her. She looked automatically again at the +high, uncurtained windows. In the last dusk she could just perceive +outside a huge fir-tree swaying its boughs: it was as if she thought it +rather than saw it. The rain came flying on the window panes. Ah, why +had she no peace? These two men, why did they tear at her? Why did they +not come—why was there this suspense? + +She sat in a lassitude that was really suspense and irritation. +Maurice, at least, might come in—there was nothing to keep him out. She +rose to her feet. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she +glanced at herself with a slight smile of recognition, as if she were +an old friend to herself. Her face was oval and calm, her nose a little +arched. Her neck made a beautiful line down to her shoulder. With hair +knotted loosely behind, she had something of a warm, maternal look. +Thinking this of herself, she arched her eyebrows and her rather heavy +eyelids, with a little flicker of a smile, and for a moment her grey +eyes looked amused and wicked, a little sardonic, out of her +transfigured Madonna face. + +Then, resuming her air of womanly patience—she was really fatally +self-determined—she went with a little jerk towards the door. Her eyes +were slightly reddened. + +She passed down the wide hall, and through a door at the end. Then she +was in the farm premises. The scent of dairy, and of farm-kitchen, and +of farm-yard and of leather almost overcame her: but particularly the +scent of dairy. They had been scalding out the pans. The flagged +passage in front of her was dark, puddled and wet. Light came out from +the open kitchen door. She went forward and stood in the doorway. The +farm-people were at tea, seated at a little distance from her, round a +long, narrow table, in the centre of which stood a white lamp. Ruddy +faces, ruddy hands holding food, red mouths working, heads bent over +the tea-cups: men, land-girls, boys: it was tea-time, feeding-time. +Some faces caught sight of her. Mrs. Wernham, going round behind the +chairs with a large black teapot, halting slightly in her walk, was not +aware of her for a moment. Then she turned suddenly. + +“Oh, is it Madam!” she exclaimed. “Come in, then, come in! We’re at +tea.” And she dragged forward a chair. + +“No, I won’t come in,” said Isabel, “I’m afraid I interrupt your meal.” + +“No—no—not likely, Madam, not likely.” + +“Hasn’t Mr. Pervin come in, do you know?” + +“I’m sure I couldn’t say! Missed him, have you, Madam?” + +“No, I only wanted him to come in,” laughed Isabel, as if shyly. + +“Wanted him, did ye? Get you, boy—get up, now—” + +Mrs. Wernham knocked one of the boys on the shoulder. He began to +scrape to his feet, chewing largely. + +“I believe he’s in top stable,” said another face from the table. + +“Ah! No, don’t get up. I’m going myself,” said Isabel. + +“Don’t you go out of a dirty night like this. Let the lad go. Get along +wi’ ye, boy,” said Mrs. Wernham. + +“No, no,” said Isabel, with a decision that was always obeyed. “Go on +with your tea, Tom. I’d like to go across to the stable, Mrs. Wernham.” + +“Did ever you hear tell!” exclaimed the woman. + +“Isn’t the trap late?” asked Isabel. + +“Why, no,” said Mrs. Wernham, peering into the distance at the tall, +dim clock. “No, Madam—we can give it another quarter or twenty minutes +yet, good—yes, every bit of a quarter.” + +“Ah! It seems late when darkness falls so early,” said Isabel. + +“It do, that it do. Bother the days, that they draw in so,” answered +Mrs. Wernham. “Proper miserable!” + +“They are,” said Isabel, withdrawing. + +She pulled on her overshoes, wrapped a large tartan shawl around her, +put on a man’s felt hat, and ventured out along the causeways of the +first yard. It was very dark. The wind was roaring in the great elms +behind the outhouses. When she came to the second yard the darkness +seemed deeper. She was unsure of her footing. She wished she had +brought a lantern. Rain blew against her. Half she liked it, half she +felt unwilling to battle. + +She reached at last the just visible door of the stable. There was no +sign of a light anywhere. Opening the upper half, she looked in: into a +simple well of darkness. The smell of horses, and ammonia, and of +warmth was startling to her, in that full night. She listened with all +her ears, but could hear nothing save the night, and the stirring of a +horse. + +“Maurice!” she called, softly and musically, though she was afraid. +“Maurice—are you there?” + +Nothing came from the darkness. She knew the rain and wind blew in upon +the horses, the hot animal life. Feeling it wrong, she entered the +stable, and drew the lower half of the door shut, holding the upper +part close. She did not stir, because she was aware of the presence of +the dark hindquarters of the horses, though she could not see them, and +she was afraid. Something wild stirred in her heart. + +She listened intensely. Then she heard a small noise in the +distance—far away, it seemed—the chink of a pan, and a man’s voice +speaking a brief word. It would be Maurice, in the other part of the +stable. She stood motionless, waiting for him to come through the +partition door. The horses were so terrifyingly near to her, in the +invisible. + +The loud jarring of the inner door-latch made her start; the door was +opened. She could hear and feel her husband entering and invisibly +passing among the horses near to her, in darkness as they were, +actively intermingled. The rather low sound of his voice as he spoke to +the horses came velvety to her nerves. How near he was, and how +invisible! The darkness seemed to be in a strange swirl of violent +life, just upon her. She turned giddy. + +Her presence of mind made her call, quietly and musically: + +“Maurice! Maurice—dea-ar!” + +“Yes,” he answered. “Isabel?” + +She saw nothing, and the sound of his voice seemed to touch her. + +“Hello!” she answered cheerfully, straining her eyes to see him. He was +still busy, attending to the horses near her, but she saw only +darkness. It made her almost desperate. + +“Won’t you come in, dear?” she said. + +“Yes, I’m coming. Just half a minute. _Stand over—now!_ Trap’s not +come, has it?” + +“Not yet,” said Isabel. + +His voice was pleasant and ordinary, but it had a slight suggestion of +the stable to her. She wished he would come away. Whilst he was so +utterly invisible she was afraid of him. + +“How’s the time?” he asked. + +“Not yet six,” she replied. She disliked to answer into the dark. +Presently he came very near to her, and she retreated out of doors. + +“The weather blows in here,” he said, coming steadily forward, feeling +for the doors. She shrank away. At last she could dimly see him. + +“Bertie won’t have much of a drive,” he said, as he closed the doors. + +“He won’t indeed!” said Isabel calmly, watching the dark shape at the +door. + +“Give me your arm, dear,” she said. + +She pressed his arm close to her, as she went. But she longed to see +him, to look at him. She was nervous. He walked erect, with face rather +lifted, but with a curious tentative movement of his powerful, muscular +legs. She could feel the clever, careful, strong contact of his feet +with the earth, as she balanced against him. For a moment he was a +tower of darkness to her, as if he rose out of the earth. + +In the house-passage he wavered, and went cautiously, with a curious +look of silence about him as he felt for the bench. Then he sat down +heavily. He was a man with rather sloping shoulders, but with heavy +limbs, powerful legs that seemed to know the earth. His head was small, +usually carried high and light. As he bent down to unfasten his gaiters +and boots he did not look blind. His hair was brown and crisp, his +hands were large, reddish, intelligent, the veins stood out in the +wrists; and his thighs and knees seemed massive. When he stood up his +face and neck were surcharged with blood, the veins stood out on his +temples. She did not look at his blindness. + +Isabel was always glad when they had passed through the dividing door +into their own regions of repose and beauty. She was a little afraid of +him, out there in the animal grossness of the back. His bearing also +changed, as he smelt the familiar, indefinable odour that pervaded his +wife’s surroundings, a delicate, refined scent, very faintly spicy. +Perhaps it came from the pot-pourri bowls. + +He stood at the foot of the stairs, arrested, listening. She watched +him, and her heart sickened. He seemed to be listening to fate. + +“He’s not here yet,” he said. “I’ll go up and change.” + +“Maurice,” she said, “you’re not wishing he wouldn’t come, are you?” + +“I couldn’t quite say,” he answered. “I feel myself rather on the _qui +vive_.” + +“I can see you are,” she answered. And she reached up and kissed his +cheek. She saw his mouth relax into a slow smile. + +“What are you laughing at?” she said roguishly. + +“You consoling me,” he answered. + +“Nay,” she answered. “Why should I console you? You know we love each +other—you know _how_ married we are! What does anything else matter?” + +“Nothing at all, my dear.” + +He felt for her face, and touched it, smiling. + +“_You’re_ all right, aren’t you?” he asked, anxiously. + +“I’m wonderfully all right, love,” she answered. “It’s you I am a +little troubled about, at times.” + +“Why me?” he said, touching her cheeks delicately with the tips of his +fingers. The touch had an almost hypnotizing effect on her. + +He went away upstairs. She saw him mount into the darkness, unseeing +and unchanging. He did not know that the lamps on the upper corridor +were unlighted. He went on into the darkness with unchanging step. She +heard him in the bathroom. + +Pervin moved about almost unconsciously in his familiar surroundings, +dark though everything was. He seemed to know the presence of objects +before he touched them. It was a pleasure to him to rock thus through a +world of things, carried on the flood in a sort of blood-prescience. He +did not think much or trouble much. So long as he kept this sheer +immediacy of blood-contact with the substantial world he was happy, he +wanted no intervention of visual consciousness. In this state there was +a certain rich positivity, bordering sometimes on rapture. Life seemed +to move in him like a tide lapping, and advancing, enveloping all +things darkly. It was a pleasure to stretch forth the hand and meet the +unseen object, clasp it, and possess it in pure contact. He did not try +to remember, to visualize. He did not want to. The new way of +consciousness substituted itself in him. + +The rich suffusion of this state generally kept him happy, reaching its +culmination in the consuming passion for his wife. But at times the +flow would seem to be checked and thrown back. Then it would beat +inside him like a tangled sea, and he was tortured in the shattered +chaos of his own blood. He grew to dread this arrest, this throw-back, +this chaos inside himself, when he seemed merely at the mercy of his +own powerful and conflicting elements. How to get some measure of +control or surety, this was the question. And when the question rose +maddening in him, he would clench his fists as if he would _compel_ the +whole universe to submit to him. But it was in vain. He could not even +compel himself. + +Tonight, however, he was still serene, though little tremors of +unreasonable exasperation ran through him. He had to handle the razor +very carefully, as he shaved, for it was not at one with him, he was +afraid of it. His hearing also was too much sharpened. He heard the +woman lighting the lamps on the corridor, and attending to the fire in +the visitor’s room. And then, as he went to his room he heard the trap +arrive. Then came Isabel’s voice, lifted and calling, like a bell +ringing: + +“Is it you, Bertie? Have you come?” + +And a man’s voice answered out of the wind: + +“Hello, Isabel! There you are.” + +“Have you had a miserable drive? I’m so sorry we couldn’t send a closed +carriage. I can’t see you at all, you know.” + +“I’m coming. No, I liked the drive—it was like Perthshire. Well, how +are you? You’re looking fit as ever, as far as I can see.” + +“Oh, yes,” said Isabel. “I’m wonderfully well. How are you? Rather +thin, I think—” + +“Worked to death—everybody’s old cry. But I’m all right, Ciss. How’s +Pervin?—isn’t he here?” + +“Oh, yes, he’s upstairs changing. Yes, he’s awfully well. Take off your +wet things; I’ll send them to be dried.” + +“And how are you both, in spirits? He doesn’t fret?” + +“No—no, not at all. No, on the contrary, really. We’ve been wonderfully +happy, incredibly. It’s more than I can understand—so wonderful: the +nearness, and the peace—” + +“Ah! Well, that’s awfully good news—” + +They moved away. Pervin heard no more. But a childish sense of +desolation had come over him, as he heard their brisk voices. He seemed +shut out—like a child that is left out. He was aimless and excluded, he +did not know what to do with himself. The helpless desolation came over +him. He fumbled nervously as he dressed himself, in a state almost of +childishness. He disliked the Scotch accent in Bertie’s speech, and the +slight response it found on Isabel’s tongue. He disliked the slight +purr of complacency in the Scottish speech. He disliked intensely the +glib way in which Isabel spoke of their happiness and nearness. It made +him recoil. He was fretful and beside himself like a child, he had +almost a childish nostalgia to be included in the life circle. And at +the same time he was a man, dark and powerful and infuriated by his own +weakness. By some fatal flaw, he could not be by himself, he had to +depend on the support of another. And this very dependence enraged him. +He hated Bertie Reid, and at the same time he knew the hatred was +nonsense, he knew it was the outcome of his own weakness. + +He went downstairs. Isabel was alone in the dining-room. She watched +him enter, head erect, his feet tentative. He looked so strong-blooded +and healthy, and, at the same time, cancelled. Cancelled—that was the +word that flew across her mind. Perhaps it was his scars suggested it. + +“You heard Bertie come, Maurice?” she said. + +“Yes—isn’t he here?” + +“He’s in his room. He looks very thin and worn.” + +“I suppose he works himself to death.” + +A woman came in with a tray—and after a few minutes Bertie came down. +He was a little dark man, with a very big forehead, thin, wispy hair, +and sad, large eyes. His expression was inordinately sad—almost funny. +He had odd, short legs. + +Isabel watched him hesitate under the door, and glance nervously at her +husband. Pervin heard him and turned. + +“Here you are, now,” said Isabel. “Come, let us eat.” + +Bertie went across to Maurice. + +“How are you, Pervin,” he said, as he advanced. + +The blind man stuck his hand out into space, and Bertie took it. + +“Very fit. Glad you’ve come,” said Maurice. + +Isabel glanced at them, and glanced away, as if she could not bear to +see them. + +“Come,” she said. “Come to table. Aren’t you both awfully hungry? I am, +tremendously.” + +“I’m afraid you waited for me,” said Bertie, as they sat down. + +Maurice had a curious monolithic way of sitting in a chair, erect and +distant. Isabel’s heart always beat when she caught sight of him thus. + +“No,” she replied to Bertie. “We’re very little later than usual. We’re +having a sort of high tea, not dinner. Do you mind? It gives us such a +nice long evening, uninterrupted.” + +“I like it,” said Bertie. + +Maurice was feeling, with curious little movements, almost like a cat +kneading her bed, for his place, his knife and fork, his napkin. He was +getting the whole geography of his cover into his consciousness. He sat +erect and inscrutable, remote-seeming Bertie watched the static figure +of the blind man, the delicate tactile discernment of the large, ruddy +hands, and the curious mindless silence of the brow, above the scar. +With difficulty he looked away, and without knowing what he did, picked +up a little crystal bowl of violets from the table, and held them to +his nose. + +“They are sweet-scented,” he said. “Where do they come from?” + +“From the garden—under the windows,” said Isabel. + +“So late in the year—and so fragrant! Do you remember the violets under +Aunt Bell’s south wall?” + +The two friends looked at each other and exchanged a smile, Isabel’s +eyes lighting up. + +“Don’t I?” she replied. “_Wasn’t_ she queer!” + +“A curious old girl,” laughed Bertie. “There’s a streak of freakishness +in the family, Isabel.” + +“Ah—but not in you and me, Bertie,” said Isabel. “Give them to Maurice, +will you?” she added, as Bertie was putting down the flowers. “Have you +smelled the violets, dear? Do!—they are so scented.” + +Maurice held out his hand, and Bertie placed the tiny bowl against his +large, warm-looking fingers. Maurice’s hand closed over the thin white +fingers of the barrister. Bertie carefully extricated himself. Then the +two watched the blind man smelling the violets. He bent his head and +seemed to be thinking. Isabel waited. + +“Aren’t they sweet, Maurice?” she said at last, anxiously. + +“Very,” he said. And he held out the bowl. Bertie took it. Both he and +Isabel were a little afraid, and deeply disturbed. + +The meal continued. Isabel and Bertie chatted spasmodically. The blind +man was silent. He touched his food repeatedly, with quick, delicate +touches of his knife-point, then cut irregular bits. He could not bear +to be helped. Both Isabel and Bertie suffered: Isabel wondered why. She +did not suffer when she was alone with Maurice. Bertie made her +conscious of a strangeness. + +After the meal the three drew their chairs to the fire, and sat down to +talk. The decanters were put on a table near at hand. Isabel knocked +the logs on the fire, and clouds of brilliant sparks went up the +chimney. Bertie noticed a slight weariness in her bearing. + +“You will be glad when your child comes now, Isabel?” he said. + +She looked up to him with a quick wan smile. + +“Yes, I shall be glad,” she answered. “It begins to seem long. Yes, I +shall be very glad. So will you, Maurice, won’t you?” she added. + +“Yes, I shall,” replied her husband. + +“We are both looking forward so much to having it,” she said. + +“Yes, of course,” said Bertie. + +He was a bachelor, three or four years older than Isabel. He lived in +beautiful rooms overlooking the river, guarded by a faithful Scottish +man-servant. And he had his friends among the fair sex—not lovers, +friends. So long as he could avoid any danger of courtship or marriage, +he adored a few good women with constant and unfailing homage, and he +was chivalrously fond of quite a number. But if they seemed to encroach +on him, he withdrew and detested them. + +Isabel knew him very well, knew his beautiful constancy, and kindness, +also his incurable weakness, which made him unable ever to enter into +close contact of any sort. He was ashamed of himself, because he could +not marry, could not approach women physically. He wanted to do so. But +he could not. At the centre of him he was afraid, helplessly and even +brutally afraid. He had given up hope, had ceased to expect any more +that he could escape his own weakness. Hence he was a brilliant and +successful barrister, also _littérateur_ of high repute, a rich man, +and a great social success. At the centre he felt himself neuter, +nothing. + +Isabel knew him well. She despised him even while she admired him. She +looked at his sad face, his little short legs, and felt contempt of +him. She looked at his dark grey eyes, with their uncanny, almost +childlike intuition, and she loved him. He understood amazingly—but she +had no fear of his understanding. As a man she patronized him. + +And she turned to the impassive, silent figure of her husband. He sat +leaning back, with folded arms, and face a little uptilted. His knees +were straight and massive. She sighed, picked up the poker, and again +began to prod the fire, to rouse the clouds of soft, brilliant sparks. + +“Isabel tells me,” Bertie began suddenly, “that you have not suffered +unbearably from the loss of sight.” + +Maurice straightened himself to attend, but kept his arms folded. + +“No,” he said, “not unbearably. Now and again one struggles against it, +you know. But there are compensations.” + +“They say it is much worse to be stone deaf,” said Isabel. + +“I believe it is,” said Bertie. “Are there compensations?” he added, to +Maurice. + +“Yes. You cease to bother about a great many things.” Again Maurice +stretched his figure, stretched the strong muscles of his back, and +leaned backwards, with uplifted face. + +“And that is a relief,” said Bertie. “But what is there in place of the +bothering? What replaces the activity?” + +There was a pause. At length the blind man replied, as out of a +negligent, unattentive thinking: + +“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a good deal when you’re not active.” + +“Is there?” said Bertie. “What, exactly? It always seems to me that +when there is no thought and no action, there is nothing.” + +Again Maurice was slow in replying. + +“There is something,” he replied. “I couldn’t tell you what it is.” + +And the talk lapsed once more, Isabel and Bertie chatting gossip and +reminiscence, the blind man silent. + +At length Maurice rose restlessly, a big, obtrusive figure. He felt +tight and hampered. He wanted to go away. + +“Do you mind,” he said, “if I go and speak to Wernham?” + +“No—go along, dear,” said Isabel. + +And he went out. A silence came over the two friends. At length Bertie +said: + +“Nevertheless, it is a great deprivation, Cissie.” + +“It is, Bertie. I know it is.” + +“Something lacking all the time,” said Bertie. + +“Yes, I know. And yet—and yet—Maurice is right. There is something +else, something _there_, which you never knew was there, and which you +can’t express.” + +“What is there?” asked Bertie. + +“I don’t know—it’s awfully hard to define it—but something strong and +immediate. There’s something strange in Maurice’s +presence—indefinable—but I couldn’t do without it. I agree that it +seems to put one’s mind to sleep. But when we’re alone I miss nothing; +it seems awfully rich, almost splendid, you know.” + +“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” said Bertie. + +They talked desultorily. The wind blew loudly outside, rain chattered +on the window-panes, making a sharp, drum-sound, because of the closed, +mellow-golden shutters inside. The logs burned slowly, with hot, almost +invisible small flames. Bertie seemed uneasy, there were dark circles +round his eyes. Isabel, rich with her approaching maternity, leaned +looking into the fire. Her hair curled in odd, loose strands, very +pleasing to the man. But she had a curious feeling of old woe in her +heart, old, timeless night-woe. + +“I suppose we’re all deficient somewhere,” said Bertie. + +“I suppose so,” said Isabel wearily. + +“Damned, sooner or later.” + +“I don’t know,” she said, rousing herself. “I feel quite all right, you +know. The child coming seems to make me indifferent to everything, just +placid. I can’t feel that there’s anything to trouble about, you know.” + +“A good thing, I should say,” he replied slowly. + +“Well, there it is. I suppose it’s just Nature. If only I felt I +needn’t trouble about Maurice, I should be perfectly content—” + +“But you feel you must trouble about him?” + +“Well—I don’t know—” She even resented this much effort. + +The evening passed slowly. Isabel looked at the clock. “I say,” she +said. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. Where can Maurice be? I’m sure they’re +all in bed at the back. Excuse me a moment.” + +She went out, returning almost immediately. + +“It’s all shut up and in darkness,” she said. “I wonder where he is. He +must have gone out to the farm—” + +Bertie looked at her. + +“I suppose he’ll come in,” he said. + +“I suppose so,” she said. “But it’s unusual for him to be out now.” + +“Would you like me to go out and see?” + +“Well—if you wouldn’t mind. I’d go, but—” She did not want to make the +physical effort. + +Bertie put on an old overcoat and took a lantern. He went out from the +side door. He shrank from the wet and roaring night. Such weather had a +nervous effect on him: too much moisture everywhere made him feel +almost imbecile. Unwilling, he went through it all. A dog barked +violently at him. He peered in all the buildings. At last, as he opened +the upper door of a sort of intermediate barn, he heard a grinding +noise, and looking in, holding up his lantern, saw Maurice, in his +shirt-sleeves, standing listening, holding the handle of a +turnip-pulper. He had been pulping sweet roots, a pile of which lay +dimly heaped in a corner behind him. + +“That you, Wernham?” said Maurice, listening. + +“No, it’s me,” said Bertie. + +A large, half-wild grey cat was rubbing at Maurice’s leg. The blind man +stooped to rub its sides. Bertie watched the scene, then unconsciously +entered and shut the door behind him, He was in a high sort of +barn-place, from which, right and left, ran off the corridors in front +of the stalled cattle. He watched the slow, stooping motion of the +other man, as he caressed the great cat. + +Maurice straightened himself. + +“You came to look for me?” he said. + +“Isabel was a little uneasy,” said Bertie. + +“I’ll come in. I like messing about doing these jobs.” + +The cat had reared her sinister, feline length against his leg, clawing +at his thigh affectionately. He lifted her claws out of his flesh. + +“I hope I’m not in your way at all at the Grange here,” said Bertie, +rather shy and stiff. + +“My way? No, not a bit. I’m glad Isabel has somebody to talk to. I’m +afraid it’s I who am in the way. I know I’m not very lively company. +Isabel’s all right, don’t you think? She’s not unhappy, is she?” + +“I don’t think so.” + +“What does she say?” + +“She says she’s very content—only a little troubled about you.” + +“Why me?” + +“Perhaps afraid that you might brood,” said Bertie, cautiously. + +“She needn’t be afraid of that.” He continued to caress the flattened +grey head of the cat with his fingers. “What I am a bit afraid of,” he +resumed, “is that she’ll find me a dead weight, always alone with me +down here.” + +“I don’t think you need think that,” said Bertie, though this was what +he feared himself. + +“I don’t know,” said Maurice. “Sometimes I feel it isn’t fair that +she’s saddled with me.” Then he dropped his voice curiously. “I say,” +he asked, secretly struggling, “is my face much disfigured? Do you mind +telling me?” + +“There is the scar,” said Bertie, wondering. “Yes, it is a +disfigurement. But more pitiable than shocking.” + +“A pretty bad scar, though,” said Maurice. + +“Oh, yes.” + +There was a pause. + +“Sometimes I feel I am horrible,” said Maurice, in a low voice, talking +as if to himself. And Bertie actually felt a quiver of horror. + +“That’s nonsense,” he said. + +Maurice again straightened himself, leaving the cat. + +“There’s no telling,” he said. Then again, in an odd tone, he added: “I +don’t really know you, do I?” + +“Probably not,” said Bertie. + +“Do you mind if I touch you?” + +The lawyer shrank away instinctively. And yet, out of very +philanthropy, he said, in a small voice: “Not at all.” + +But he suffered as the blind man stretched out a strong, naked hand to +him. Maurice accidentally knocked off Bertie’s hat. + +“I thought you were taller,” he said, starting. Then he laid his hand +on Bertie Reid’s head, closing the dome of the skull in a soft, firm +grasp, gathering it, as it were; then, shifting his grasp and softly +closing again, with a fine, close pressure, till he had covered the +skull and the face of the smaller man, tracing the brows, and touching +the full, closed eyes, touching the small nose and the nostrils, the +rough, short moustache, the mouth, the rather strong chin. The hand of +the blind man grasped the shoulder, the arm, the hand of the other man. +He seemed to take him, in the soft, travelling grasp. + +“You seem young,” he said quietly, at last. + +The lawyer stood almost annihilated, unable to answer. + +“Your head seems tender, as if you were young,” Maurice repeated. “So +do your hands. Touch my eyes, will you?—touch my scar.” + +Now Bertie quivered with revulsion. Yet he was under the power of the +blind man, as if hypnotized. He lifted his hand, and laid the fingers +on the scar, on the scarred eyes. Maurice suddenly covered them with +his own hand, pressed the fingers of the other man upon his disfigured +eye-sockets, trembling in every fibre, and rocking slightly, slowly, +from side to side. He remained thus for a minute or more, whilst Bertie +stood as if in a swoon, unconscious, imprisoned. + +Then suddenly Maurice removed the hand of the other man from his brow, +and stood holding it in his own. + +“Oh, my God’ he said, “we shall know each other now, shan’t we? We +shall know each other now.” + +Bertie could not answer. He gazed mute and terror-struck, overcome by +his own weakness. He knew he could not answer. He had an unreasonable +fear, lest the other man should suddenly destroy him. Whereas Maurice +was actually filled with hot, poignant love, the passion of friendship. +Perhaps it was this very passion of friendship which Bertie shrank from +most. + +“We’re all right together now, aren’t we?” said Maurice. “It’s all +right now, as long as we live, so far as we’re concerned?” + +“Yes,” said Bertie, trying by any means to escape. + +Maurice stood with head lifted, as if listening. The new delicate +fulfilment of mortal friendship had come as a revelation and surprise +to him, something exquisite and unhoped-for. He seemed to be listening +to hear if it were real. + +Then he turned for his coat. + +“Come,” he said, “we’ll go to Isabel.” + +Bertie took the lantern and opened the door. The cat disappeared. The +two men went in silence along the causeways. Isabel, as they came, +thought their footsteps sounded strange. She looked up pathetically and +anxiously for their entrance. There seemed a curious elation about +Maurice. Bertie was haggard, with sunken eyes. + +“What is it?” she asked. + +“We’ve become friends,” said Maurice, standing with his feet apart, +like a strange colossus. + +“Friends!” re-echoed Isabel. And she looked again at Bertie. He met her +eyes with a furtive, haggard look; his eyes were as if glazed with +misery. + +“I’m so glad,” she said, in sheer perplexity. + +“Yes,” said Maurice. + +He was indeed so glad. Isabel took his hand with both hers, and held it +fast. + +“You’ll be happier now, dear,” she said. + +But she was watching Bertie. She knew that he had one desire—to escape +from this intimacy, this friendship, which had been thrust upon him. He +could not bear it that he had been touched by the blind man, his insane +reserve broken in. He was like a mollusc whose shell is broken. + + + + +MONKEY NUTS + + +At first Joe thought the job O.K. He was loading hay on the trucks, +along with Albert, the corporal. The two men were pleasantly billeted +in a cottage not far from the station: they were their own masters, for +Joe never thought of Albert as a master. And the little sidings of the +tiny village station was as pleasant a place as you could wish for. On +one side, beyond the line, stretched the woods: on the other, the near +side, across a green smooth field red houses were dotted among +flowering apple trees. The weather being sunny, work being easy, +Albert, a real good pal, what life could be better! After Flanders, it +was heaven itself. + +Albert, the corporal, was a clean-shaven, shrewd-looking fellow of +about forty. He seemed to think his one aim in life was to be full of +fun and nonsense. In repose, his face looked a little withered, old. He +was a very good pal to Joe, steady, decent and grave under all his +“mischief”; for his mischief was only his laborious way of skirting his +own _ennui_. + +Joe was much younger than Albert—only twenty-three. He was a tallish, +quiet youth, pleasant looking. He was of a slightly better class than +his corporal, more personable. Careful about his appearance, he shaved +every day. “I haven’t got much of a face,” said Albert. “If I was to +shave every day like you, Joe, I should have none.” + +There was plenty of life in the little goods-yard: three porter youths, +a continual come and go of farm wagons bringing hay, wagons with timber +from the woods, coal carts loading at the trucks. The black coal seemed +to make the place sleepier, hotter. Round the big white gate the +station-master’s children played and his white chickens walked, whilst +the stationmaster himself, a young man getting too fat, helped his wife +to peg out the washing on the clothes line in the meadow. + +The great boat-shaped wagons came up from Playcross with the hay. At +first the farm-men waggoned it. On the third day one of the land-girls +appeared with the first load, drawing to a standstill easily at the +head of her two great horses. She was a buxom girl, young, in linen +overalls and gaiters. Her face was ruddy, she had large blue eyes. + +“Now that’s the waggoner for us, boys,” said the corporal loudly. + +“Whoa!” she said to her horses; and then to the corporal: “Which boys +do you mean?” + +“We are the pick of the bunch. That’s Joe, my pal. Don’t you let on +that my name’s Albert,” said the corporal to his private. “I’m the +corporal.” + +“And I’m Miss Stokes,” said the land-girl coolly, “if that’s all the +boys you are.” + +“You know you couldn’t want more, Miss Stokes,” said Albert politely. +Joe, who was bare-headed, whose grey flannel sleeves were rolled up to +the elbow, and whose shirt was open at the breast, looked modestly +aside as if he had no part in the affair. + +“Are you on this job regular, then?” said the corporal to Miss Stokes. + +“I don’t know for sure,” she said, pushing a piece of hair under her +hat, and attending to her splendid horses. + +“Oh, make it a certainty,” said Albert. + +She did not reply. She turned and looked over the two men coolly. She +was pretty, moderately blonde, with crisp hair, a good skin, and large +blue eyes. She was strong, too, and the work went on leisurely and +easily. + +“Now!” said the corporal, stopping as usual to look round, “pleasant +company makes work a pleasure—don’t hurry it, boys.” He stood on the +truck surveying the world. That was one of his great and absorbing +occupations: to stand and look out on things in general. Joe, also +standing on the truck, also turned round to look what was to be seen. +But he could not become blankly absorbed, as Albert could. + +Miss Stokes watched the two men from under her broad felt hat. She had +seen hundreds of Alberts, khaki soldiers standing in loose attitudes, +absorbed in watching nothing in particular. She had seen also a good +many Joes, quiet, good-looking young soldiers with half-averted faces. +But there was something in the turn of Joe’s head, and something in his +quiet, tender-looking form, young and fresh—which attracted her eye. As +she watched him closely from below, he turned as if he felt her, and +his dark-blue eye met her straight, light-blue gaze. He faltered and +turned aside again and looked as if he were going to fall off the +truck. A slight flush mounted under the girl’s full, ruddy face. She +liked him. + +Always, after this, when she came into the sidings with her team, it +was Joe she looked for. She acknowledged to herself that she was sweet +on him. But Albert did all the talking. He was so full of fun and +nonsense. Joe was a very shy bird, very brief and remote in his +answers. Miss Stokes was driven to indulge in repartee with Albert, but +she fixed her magnetic attention on the younger fellow. Joe would talk +with Albert, and laugh at his jokes. But Miss Stokes could get little +out of him. She had to depend on her silent forces. They were more +effective than might be imagined. + +Suddenly, on Saturday afternoon, at about two o’clock, Joe received a +bolt from the blue—a telegram: “Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m. +today. M.S.” He knew at once who M.S. was. His heart melted, he felt +weak as if he had had a blow. + +“What’s the trouble, boy?” asked Albert anxiously. + +“No—no trouble—it’s to meet somebody.” Joe lifted his dark-blue eyes in +confusion towards his corporal. + +“Meet somebody!” repeated the corporal, watching his young pal with +keen blue eyes. “It’s all right, then; nothing wrong?” + +“No—nothing wrong. I’m not going,” said Joe. + +Albert was old and shrewd enough to see that nothing more should be +said before the housewife. He also saw that Joe did not want to take +him into confidence. So he held his peace, though he was piqued. + +The two soldiers went into town, smartened up. Albert knew a fair +number of the boys round about; there would be plenty of gossip in the +market-place, plenty of lounging in groups on the Bath Road, watching +the Saturday evening shoppers. Then a modest drink or two, and the +movies. They passed an agreeable, casual, nothing-in-particular +evening, with which Joe was quite satisfied. He thought of Belbury +Station, and of M.S. waiting there. He had not the faintest intention +of meeting her. And he had not the faintest intention of telling +Albert. + +And yet, when the two men were in their bedroom, half undressed, Joe +suddenly held out the telegram to his corporal, saying: “What d’you +think of that?” + +Albert was just unbuttoning his braces. He desisted, took the telegram +form, and turned towards the candle to read it. + +“_Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m. today. M.S._,” he read, _sotto +voce_. His face took on its fun-and-nonsense look. + +“Who’s M.S.?” he asked, looking shrewdly at Joe. + +“You know as well as I do,” said Joe, non-committal. + +“M.S.,” repeated Albert. “Blamed if I know, boy. Is it a woman?” + +The conversation was carried on in tiny voices, for fear of disturbing +the householders. + +“I don’t know,” said Joe, turning. He looked full at Albert, the two +men looked straight into each other’s eyes. There was a lurking grin in +each of them. + +“Well, I’m—_blamed!_” said Albert at last, throwing the telegram down +emphatically on the bed. + +“Wha-at?” said Joe, grinning rather sheepishly, his eyes clouded none +the less. + +Albert sat on the bed and proceeded to undress, nodding his head with +mock gravity all the while. Joe watched him foolishly. + +“What?” he repeated faintly. + +Albert looked up at him with a knowing look. + +“If that isn’t coming it quick, boy!” he said. “What the blazes! What +ha’ you bin doing?” + +“Nothing!” said Joe. + +Albert slowly shook his head as he sat on the side of the bed. + +“Don’t happen to me when I’ve bin doin’ nothing,” he said. And he +proceeded to pull off his stockings. + +Joe turned away, looking at himself in the mirror as he unbuttoned his +tunic. + +“You didn’t want to keep the appointment?” Albert asked, in a changed +voice, from the bedside. + +Joe did not answer for a moment. Then he said: + +“I made no appointment.” + +“I’m not saying you did, boy. Don’t be nasty about it. I mean you +didn’t want to answer the—unknown person’s summons—shall I put it that +way?” + +“No,” said Joe. + +“What was the deterring motive?” asked Albert, who was now lying on his +back in bed. + +“Oh,” said Joe, suddenly looking round rather haughtily. “I didn’t want +to.” He had a well-balanced head, and could take on a sudden distant +bearing. + +“Didn’t want to—didn’t cotton on, like. Well—_they be artful, the +women_—” he mimicked his landlord. “Come on into bed, boy. Don’t loiter +about as if you’d lost something.” + +Albert turned over, to sleep. + +On Monday Miss Stokes turned up as usual, striding beside her team. Her +“whoa!” was resonant and challenging, she looked up at the truck as her +steeds came to a standstill. Joe had turned aside, and had his face +averted from her. She glanced him over—save for his slender succulent +tenderness she would have despised him. She sized him up in a steady +look. Then she turned to Albert, who was looking down at her and +smiling in his mischievous turn. She knew his aspects by now. She +looked straight back at him, though her eyes were hot. He saluted her. + +“Beautiful morning, Miss Stokes.” + +“Very!” she replied. + +“Handsome is as handsome looks,” said Albert. + +Which produced no response. + +“Now, Joe, come on here,” said the corporal. “Don’t keep the ladies +waiting—it’s the sign of a weak heart.” + +Joe turned, and the work began. Nothing more was said for the time +being. As the week went on all parties became more comfortable. Joe +remained silent, averted, neutral, a little on his dignity. Miss Stokes +was off-hand and masterful. Albert was full of mischief. + +The great theme was a circus, which was coming to the market town on +the following Saturday. + +“You’ll go to the circus, Miss Stokes?” said Albert. + +“I may go. Are you going?” + +“Certainly. Give us the pleasure of escorting you.” + +“No, thanks.” + +“That’s what I call a flat refusal—what, Joe? You don’t mean that you +have no liking for our company, Miss Stokes?” + +“Oh, I don’t know,” said Miss Stokes. “How many are there of you?” + +“Only me and Joe.” + +“Oh, is that all?” she said, satirically. + +Albert was a little nonplussed. + +“Isn’t that enough for you?” he asked. + +“Too many by half,” blurted out Joe, jeeringly, in a sudden fit of +uncouth rudeness that made both the others stare. + +“Oh, I’ll stand out of the way, boy, if that’s it,” said Albert to Joe. +Then he turned mischievously to Miss Stokes. “He wants to know what M. +stands for,” he said, confidentially. + +“Monkeys,” she replied, turning to her horses. + +“What’s M.S.?” said Albert. + +“Monkey-nuts,” she retorted, leading off her team. + +Albert looked after her a little discomfited. Joe had flushed dark, and +cursed Albert in his heart. + +On the Saturday afternoon the two soldiers took the train into town. +They would have to walk home. They had tea at six o’clock, and lounged +about till half past seven. The circus was in a meadow near the river—a +great red-and-white striped tent. Caravans stood at the side. A great +crowd of people was gathered round the ticket-caravan. + +Inside the tent the lamps were lighted, shining on a ring of faces, a +great circular bank of faces round the green grassy centre. Along with +some comrades, the two soldiers packed themselves on a thin plank seat, +rather high. They were delighted with the flaring lights, the wild +effect. But the circus performance did not affect them deeply. They +admired the lady in black velvet with rose-purple legs who leapt so +neatly on to the galloping horse; they watched the feats of strength +and laughed at the clown. But they felt a little patronizing, they +missed the sensational drama of the cinema. + +Half-way through the performance Joe was electrified to see the face of +Miss Stokes not very far from him. There she was, in her khaki and her +felt hat, as usual; he pretended not to see her. She was laughing at +the clown; she also pretended not to see him. It was a blow to him, and +it made him angry. He would not even mention it to Albert. Least said, +soonest mended. He liked to believe she had not seen him. But he knew, +fatally, that she had. + +When they came out it was nearly eleven o’clock; a lovely night, with a +moon and tall, dark, noble trees: a magnificent May night. Joe and +Albert laughed and chaffed with the boys. Joe looked round frequently +to see if he were safe from Miss Stokes. It seemed so. + +But there were six miles to walk home. At last the two soldiers set +off, swinging their canes. The road was white between tall hedges, +other stragglers were passing out of the town towards the villages; the +air was full of pleased excitement. + +They were drawing near to the village when they saw a dark figure +ahead. Joe’s heart sank with pure fear. It was a figure wheeling a +bicycle; a land girl; Miss Stokes. Albert was ready with his nonsense. +Miss Stokes had a puncture. + +“Let me wheel the rattler,” said Albert. + +“Thank you,” said Miss Stokes. “You _are_ kind.” + +“Oh, I’d be kinder than that, if you’d show me how,” said Albert. + +“Are you sure?” said Miss Stokes. + +“Doubt my words?” said Albert. “That’s cruel of you, Miss Stokes.” + +Miss Stokes walked between them, close to Joe. + +“Have you been to the circus?” she asked him. + +“Yes,” he replied, mildly. + +“Have _you_ been?” Albert asked her. + +“Yes. I didn’t see you,” she replied. + +“What!—you say so! Didn’t see us! Didn’t think us worth looking at,” +began Albert. “Aren’t I as handsome as the clown, now? And you didn’t +as much as glance in our direction? I call it a downright oversight.” + +“I never _saw_ you,” reiterated Miss Stokes. “I didn’t know you saw +me.” + +“That makes it worse,” said Albert. + +The road passed through a belt of dark pine-wood. The village, and the +branch road, was very near. Miss Stokes put out her fingers and felt +for Joe’s hand as it swung at his side. To say he was staggered is to +put it mildly. Yet he allowed her softly to clasp his fingers for a few +moments. But he was a mortified youth. + +At the cross-road they stopped—Miss Stokes should turn off. She had +another mile to go. + +“You’ll let us see you home,” said Albert. + +“Do me a kindness,” she said. “Put my bike in your shed, and take it to +Baker’s on Monday, will you?” + +“I’ll sit up all night and mend it for you, if you like.” + +“No thanks. And Joe and I’ll walk on.” + +“Oh—ho! Oh—ho!” sang Albert. “Joe! Joe! What do you say to that, now, +boy? Aren’t you in luck’s way. And I get the bloomin’ old bike for my +pal. Consider it again, Miss Stokes.” + +Joe turned aside his face, and did not speak. + +“Oh, well! I wheel the grid, do I? I leave you, boy—” + +“I’m not keen on going any further,” barked out Joe, in an uncouth +voice. “She hain’t my choice.” + +The girl stood silent, and watched the two men. + +“There now!” said Albert. “Think o’ that! If it was _me_ now—” But he +was uncomfortable. “Well, Miss Stokes, have me,” he added. + +Miss Stokes stood quite still, neither moved nor spoke. And so the +three remained for some time at the lane end. At last Joe began kicking +the ground—then he suddenly lifted his face. At that moment Miss Stokes +was at his side. She put her arm delicately round his waist. + +“Seems I’m the one extra, don’t you think?” Albert inquired of the high +bland moon. + +Joe had dropped his head and did not answer. Miss Stokes stood with her +arm lightly round his waist. Albert bowed, saluted, and bade +good-night. He walked away, leaving the two standing. + +Miss Stokes put a light pressure on Joe’s waist, and drew him down the +road. They walked in silence. The night was full of scent—wild cherry, +the first bluebells. Still they walked in silence. A nightingale was +singing. They approached nearer and nearer, till they stood close by +his dark bush. The powerful notes sounded from the cover, almost like +flashes of light—then the interval of silence—then the moaning notes, +almost like a dog faintly howling, followed by the long, rich trill, +and flashing notes. Then a short silence again. + +Miss Stokes turned at last to Joe. She looked up at him, and in the +moonlight he saw her faintly smiling. He felt maddened, but helpless. +Her arm was round his waist, she drew him closely to her with a soft +pressure that made all his bones rotten. + +Meanwhile Albert was waiting at home. He put on his overcoat, for the +fire was out, and he had had malarial fever. He looked fitfully at the +_Daily Mirror_ and the _Daily Sketch_, but he saw nothing. It seemed a +long time. He began to yawn widely, even to nod. At last Joe came in. + +Albert looked at him keenly. The young man’s brow was black, his face +sullen. + +“All right, boy?” asked Albert. + +Joe merely grunted for a reply. There was nothing more to be got out of +him. So they went to bed. + +Next day Joe was silent, sullen. Albert could make nothing of him. He +proposed a walk after tea. + +“I’m going somewhere,” said Joe. + +“Where—Monkey-nuts?” asked the corporal. But Joe’s brow only became +darker. + +So the days went by. Almost every evening Joe went off alone, returning +late. He was sullen, taciturn and had a hang-dog look, a curious way of +dropping his head and looking dangerously from under his brows. And he +and Albert did not get on so well any more with one another. For all +his fun and nonsense, Albert was really irritable, soon made angry. And +Joe’s stand-offish sulkiness and complete lack of confidence riled him, +got on his nerves. His fun and nonsense took a biting, sarcastic turn, +at which Joe’s eyes glittered occasionally, though the young man turned +unheeding aside. Then again Joe would be full of odd, whimsical fun, +outshining Albert himself. + +Miss Stokes still came to the station with the wain: Monkey-nuts, +Albert called her, though not to her face. For she was very clear and +good-looking, almost she seemed to gleam. And Albert was a tiny bit +afraid of her. She very rarely addressed Joe whilst the hay-loading was +going on, and that young man always turned his back to her. He seemed +thinner, and his limber figure looked more slouching. But still it had +the tender, attractive appearance, especially from behind. His tanned +face, a little thinned and darkened, took a handsome, slightly sinister +look. + +“Come on, Joe!” the corporal urged sharply one day. “What’re you doing, +boy? Looking for beetles on the bank?” + +Joe turned round swiftly, almost menacing, to work. + +“He’s a different fellow these days, Miss Stokes,” said Albert to the +young woman. “What’s got him? Is it Monkey-nuts that don’t suit him, do +you think?” + +“Choked with chaff, more like,” she retorted. “It’s as bad as feeding a +threshing machine, to have to listen to some folks.” + +“As bad as what?” said Albert. “You don’t mean me, do you, Miss +Stokes?” + +“No,” she cried. “I don’t mean you.” + +Joe’s face became dark red during these sallies, but he said nothing. +He would eye the young woman curiously, as she swung so easily at the +work, and he had some of the look of a dog which is going to bite. + +Albert, with his nerves on edge, began to find the strain rather +severe. The next Saturday evening, when Joe came in more black-browed +than ever, he watched him, determined to have it out with him. + +When the boy went upstairs to bed, the corporal followed him. He closed +the door behind him carefully, sat on the bed and watched the younger +man undressing. And for once he spoke in a natural voice, neither +chaffing nor commanding. + +“What’s gone wrong, boy?” + +Joe stopped a moment as if he had been shot. Then he went on unwinding +his puttees, and did not answer or look up. + +“You can hear, can’t you?” said Albert, nettled. + +“Yes, I can hear,” said Joe, stooping over his puttees till his face +was purple. + +“Then why don’t you answer?” + +Joe sat up. He gave a long, sideways look at the corporal. Then he +lifted his eyes and stared at a crack in the ceiling. + +The corporal watched these movements shrewdly. + +“And _then_ what?” he asked, ironically. + +Again Joe turned and stared him in the face. The corporal smiled very +slightly, but kindly. + +“There’ll be murder done one of these days,” said Joe, in a quiet, +unimpassioned voice. + +“So long as it’s by daylight—” replied Albert. Then he went over, sat +down by Joe, put his hand on his shoulder affectionately, and +continued, “What is it, boy? What’s gone wrong? You can trust me, can’t +you?” + +Joe turned and looked curiously at the face so near to his. + +“It’s nothing, that’s all,” he said laconically. + +Albert frowned. + +“Then who’s going to be murdered?—and who’s going to do the +murdering?—me or you—which is it, boy?” He smiled gently at the stupid +youth, looking straight at him all the while, into his eyes. Gradually +the stupid, hunted, glowering look died out of Joe’s eyes. He turned +his head aside, gently, as one rousing from a spell. + +“I don’t want her,” he said, with fierce resentment. + +“Then you needn’t have her,” said Albert. “What do you go for, boy?” + +But it wasn’t as simple as all that. Joe made no remark. + +“She’s a smart-looking girl. What’s wrong with her, my boy? I should +have thought you were a lucky chap, myself.” + +“I don’t want ’er,” Joe barked, with ferocity and resentment. + +“Then tell her so and have done,” said Albert. He waited awhile. There +was no response. “Why don’t you?” he added. + +“Because I don’t,” confessed Joe, sulkily. + +Albert pondered—rubbed his head. + +“You’re too soft-hearted, that’s where it is, boy. You want your mettle +dipping in cold water, to temper it. You’re too soft-hearted—” + +He laid his arm affectionately across the shoulders of the younger man. +Joe seemed to yield a little towards him. + +“When are you going to see her again?” Albert asked. For a long time +there was no answer. + +“When is it, boy?” persisted the softened voice of the corporal. + +“Tomorrow,” confessed Joe. + +“Then let me go,” said Albert. “Let me go, will you?” + +The morrow was Sunday, a sunny day, but a cold evening. The sky was +grey, the new foliage very green, but the air was chill and depressing. +Albert walked briskly down the white road towards Beeley. He crossed a +larch plantation, and followed a narrow by-road, where blue speedwell +flowers fell from the banks into the dust. He walked swinging his cane, +with mixed sensations. Then having gone a certain length, he turned and +began to walk in the opposite direction. + +So he saw a young woman approaching him. She was wearing a wide hat of +grey straw, and a loose, swinging dress of nigger-grey velvet. She +walked with slow inevitability. Albert faltered a little as he +approached her. Then he saluted her, and his roguish, slightly withered +skin flushed. She was staring straight into his face. + +He fell in by her side, saying impudently: + +“Not so nice for a walk as it was, is it?” + +She only stared at him. He looked back at her. + +“You’ve seen me before, you know,” he said, grinning slightly. “Perhaps +you never noticed me. Oh, I’m quite nice looking, in a quiet way, you +know. What—?” + +But Miss Stokes did not speak: she only stared with large, icy blue +eyes at him. He became self-conscious, lifted up his chin, walked with +his nose in the air, and whistled at random. So they went down the +quiet, deserted grey lane. He was whistling the air: “I’m Gilbert, the +filbert, the colonel of the nuts.” + +At last she found her voice: + +“Where’s Joe?” + +“He thought you’d like a change: they say variety’s the salt of +life—that’s why I’m mostly in pickle.” + +“Where is he?” + +“Am I my brother’s keeper? He’s gone his own ways.” + +“Where?” + +“Nay, how am I to know? Not so far but he’ll be back for supper.” + +She stopped in the middle of the lane. He stopped facing her. + +“Where’s Joe?” she asked. + +He struck a careless attitude, looked down the road this way and that, +lifted his eyebrows, pushed his khaki cap on one side, and answered: + +“He is not conducting the service tonight: he asked me if I’d +officiate.” + +“Why hasn’t he come?” + +“Didn’t want to, I expect. _I_ wanted to.” + +She stared him up and down, and he felt uncomfortable in his spine, but +maintained his air of nonchalance. Then she turned slowly on her heel, +and started to walk back. The corporal went at her side. + +“You’re not going back, are you?” he pleaded. “Why, me and you, we +should get on like a house on fire.” + +She took no heed, but walked on. He went uncomfortably at her side, +making his funny remarks from time to time. But she was as if stone +deaf. He glanced at her, and to his dismay saw the tears running down +her cheeks. He stopped suddenly, and pushed back his cap. + +“I say, you know—” he began. + +But she was walking on like an automaton, and he had to hurry after +her. + +She never spoke to him. At the gate of her farm she walked straight in, +as if he were not there. He watched her disappear. Then he turned on +his heel, cursing silently, puzzled, lifting off his cap to scratch his +head. + +That night, when they were in bed, he remarked: “Say, Joe, boy; strikes +me you’re well-off without Monkey-nuts. Gord love us, beans ain’t in +it.” + +So they slept in amity. But they waited with some anxiety for the +morrow. + +It was a cold morning, a grey sky shifting in a cold wind, and +threatening rain. They watched the wagon come up the road and through +the yard gates. Miss Stokes was with her team as usual; her “Whoa!” +rang out like a war-whoop. + +She faced up at the truck where the two men stood. + +“Joe!” she called, to the averted figure which stood up in the wind. + +“What?” he turned unwillingly. + +She made a queer movement, lifting her head slightly in a sipping, +half-inviting, half-commanding gesture. And Joe was crouching already +to jump off the truck to obey her, when Albert put his hand on his +shoulder. + +“Half a minute, boy! Where are you off? Work’s work, and nuts is nuts. +You stop here.” + +Joe slowly straightened himself. + +“Joe!” came the woman’s clear call from below. + +Again Joe looked at her. But Albert’s hand was on his shoulder, +detaining him. He stood half averted, with his tail between his legs. + +“Take your hand off him, you!” said Miss Stokes. + +“Yes, Major,” retorted Albert satirically. + +She stood and watched. + +“Joe!” Her voice rang for the third time. + +Joe turned and looked at her, and a slow, jeering smile gathered on his +face. + +“Monkey-nuts!” he replied, in a tone mocking her call. + +She turned white—dead white. The men thought she would fall. Albert +began yelling to the porters up the line to come and help with the +load. He could yell like any non-commissioned officer upon occasion. + +Some way or other the wagon was unloaded, the girl was gone. Joe and +his corporal looked at one another and smiled slowly. But they had a +weight on their minds, they were afraid. + +They were reassured, however, when they found that Miss Stokes came no +more with the hay. As far as they were concerned, she had vanished into +oblivion. And Joe felt more relieved even than he had felt when he +heard the firing cease, after the news had come that the armistice was +signed. + + + + +WINTRY PEACOCK + + +There was thin, crisp snow on the ground, the sky was blue, the wind +very cold, the air clear. Farmers were just turning out the cows for an +hour or so in the midday, and the smell of cow-sheds was unendurable as +I entered Tible. I noticed the ash-twigs up in the sky were pale and +luminous, passing into the blue. And then I saw the peacocks. There +they were in the road before me, three of them, and tailless, brown, +speckled birds, with dark-blue necks and ragged crests. They stepped +archly over the filigree snow, and their bodies moved with slow motion, +like small, light, flat-bottomed boats. I admired them, they were +curious. Then a gust of wind caught them, heeled them over as if they +were three frail boats opening their feathers like ragged sails. They +hopped and skipped with discomfort, to get out of the draught of the +wind. And then, in the lee of the walls, they resumed their arch, +wintry motion, light and unballasted now their tails were gone, +indifferent. They were indifferent to my presence. I might have touched +them. They turned off to the shelter of an open shed. + +As I passed the end of the upper house, I saw a young woman just coming +out of the back door. I had spoken to her in the summer. She recognised +me at once, and waved to me. She was carrying a pail, wearing a white +apron that was longer than her preposterously short skirt, and she had +on the cotton bonnet. I took off my hat to her and was going on. But +she put down her pail and darted with a swift, furtive movement after +me. + +“Do you mind waiting a minute?” she said. “I’ll be out in a minute.” + +She gave me a slight, odd smile, and ran back. Her face was long and +sallow and her nose rather red. But her gloomy black eyes softened +caressively to me for a moment, with that momentary humility which +makes a man lord of the earth. + +I stood in the road, looking at the fluffy, dark-red young cattle that +mooed and seemed to bark at me. They seemed happy, frisky cattle, a +little impudent, and either determined to go back into the warm shed, +or determined not to go back, I could not decide which. + +Presently the woman came forward again, her head rather ducked. But she +looked up at me and smiled, with that odd, immediate intimacy, +something witch-like and impossible. + +“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “Shall we stand in this +cart-shed—it will be more out of the wind.” + +So we stood among the shafts of the open cart-shed that faced the road. +Then she looked down at the ground, a little sideways, and I noticed a +small black frown on her brows. She seemed to brood for a moment. Then +she looked straight into my eyes, so that I blinked and wanted to turn +my face aside. She was searching me for something and her look was too +near. The frown was still on her keen, sallow brow. + +“Can you speak French?” she asked me abruptly. + +“More or less,” I replied. + +“I was supposed to learn it at school,” she said. “But I don’t know a +word.” She ducked her head and laughed, with a slightly ugly grimace +and a rolling of her black eyes. + +“No good keeping your mind full of scraps,” I answered. + +But she had turned aside her sallow, long face, and did not hear what I +said. Suddenly again she looked at me. She was searching. And at the +same time she smiled at me, and her eyes looked softly, darkly, with +infinite trustful humility into mine. I was being cajoled. + +“Would you mind reading a letter for me, in French,” she said, her face +immediately black and bitter-looking. She glanced at me, frowning. + +“Not at all,” I said. + +“It’s a letter to my husband,” she said, still scrutinizing. + +I looked at her, and didn’t quite realise. She looked too far into me, +my wits were gone. She glanced round. Then she looked at me shrewdly. +She drew a letter from her pocket, and handed it to me. It was +addressed from France to Lance-Corporal Goyte, at Tible. I took out the +letter and began to read it, as mere words. “_Mon cher Alfred_”—it +might have been a bit of a torn newspaper. So I followed the script: +the trite phrases of a letter from a French-speaking girl to an English +soldier. “I think of you always, always. Do you think sometimes of me?” +And then I vaguely realised that I was reading a man’s private +correspondence. And yet, how could one consider these trivial, facile +French phrases private! Nothing more trite and vulgar in the world, +than such a love-letter—no newspaper more obvious. + +Therefore I read with a callous heart the effusions of the Belgian +damsel. But then I gathered my attention. For the letter went on, +“_Notre cher petit bébé_—our dear little baby was born a week ago. +Almost I died, knowing you were far away, and perhaps forgetting the +fruit of our perfect love. But the child comforted me. He has the +smiling eyes and virile air of his English father. I pray to the Mother +of Jesus to send me the dear father of my child, that I may see him +with my child in his arms, and that we may be united in holy family +love. Ah, my Alfred, can I tell you how I miss you, how I weep for you. +My thoughts are with you always, I think of nothing but you, I live for +nothing but you and our dear baby. If you do not come back to me soon, +I shall die, and our child will die. But no, you cannot come back to +me. But I can come to you, come to England with our child. If you do +not wish to present me to your good mother and father, you can meet me +in some town, some city, for I shall be so frightened to be alone in +England with my child, and no one to take care of us. Yet I must come +to you, I must bring my child, my little Alfred to his father, the big, +beautiful Alfred that I love so much. Oh, write and tell me where I +shall come. I have some money, I am not a penniless creature. I have +money for myself and my dear baby—” + +I read to the end. It was signed: “Your very happy and still more +unhappy Élise.” I suppose I must have been smiling. + +“I can see it makes you laugh,” said Mrs. Goyte, sardonically. I looked +up at her. + +“It’s a love-letter, I know that,” she said. “There’s too many +‘Alfreds’ in it.” + +“One too many,” I said. + +“Oh, yes—And what does she say—Eliza? We know her name’s Eliza, that’s +another thing.” She grimaced a little, looking up at me with a mocking +laugh. + +“Where did you get this letter?” I said. + +“Postman gave it me last week.” + +“And is your husband at home?” + +“I expect him home tonight. He’s been wounded, you know, and we’ve been +applying for him home. He was home about six weeks ago—he’s been in +Scotland since then. Oh, he was wounded in the leg. Yes, he’s all +right, a great strapping fellow. But he’s lame, he limps a bit. He +expects he’ll get his discharge—but I don’t think he will. We married? +We’ve been married six years—and he joined up the first day of the war. +Oh, he thought he’d like the life. He’d been through the South African +War. No, he was sick of it, fed up. I’m living with his father and +mother—I’ve no home of my own now. My people had a big farm—over a +thousand acres—in Oxfordshire. Not like here—no. Oh, they’re very good +to me, his father and mother. Oh, yes, they couldn’t be better. They +think more of me than of their own daughters. But it’s not like being +in a place of your own, is it? You can’t _really_ do as you like. No, +there’s only me and his father and mother at home. Before the war? Oh, +he was anything. He’s had a good education—but he liked the farming +better. Then he was a chauffeur. That’s how he knew French. He was +driving a gentleman in France for a long time—” + +At this point the peacocks came round the corner on a puff of wind. + +“Hello, Joey!” she called, and one of the birds came forward, on +delicate legs. Its grey speckled back was very elegant, it rolled its +full, dark-blue neck as it moved to her. She crouched down. “Joey, +dear,” she said, in an odd, saturnine caressive voice, “you’re bound to +find me, aren’t you?” She put her face forward, and the bird rolled his +neck, almost touching her face with his beak, as if kissing her. + +“He loves you,” I said. + +She twisted her face up at me with a laugh. + +“Yes,” she said, “he loves me, Joey does,”—then, to the bird—“and I +love Joey, don’t I. I _do_ love Joey.” And she smoothed his feathers +for a moment. Then she rose, saying: “He’s an affectionate bird.” + +I smiled at the roll of her “bir-rrd’. + +“Oh, yes, he is,” she protested. “He came with me from my home seven +years ago. Those others are his descendants—but they’re not like +Joey—_are they, dee-urr?_” Her voice rose at the end with a witch-like +cry. + +Then she forgot the birds in the cart-shed and turned to business +again. + +“Won’t you read that letter?” she said. “Read it, so that I know what +it says.” + +“It’s rather behind his back,” I said. + +“Oh, never mind him,” she cried. “He’s been behind my back long +enough—all these four years. If he never did no worse things behind my +back than I do behind his, he wouldn’t have cause to grumble. You read +me what it says.” + +Now I felt a distinct reluctance to do as she bid, and yet I began—“My +dear Alfred.” + +“I guessed that much,” she said. “Eliza’s dear Alfred.” She laughed. +“How do you say it in French? _Eliza?_” + +I told her, and she repeated the name with great contempt—_Élise_. + +“Go on,” she said. “You’re not reading.” + +So I began—“I have been thinking of you sometimes—have you been +thinking of me?”— + +“Of several others as well, beside her, I’ll wager,” said Mrs. Goyte. + +“Probably not,” said I, and continued. “A dear little baby was born +here a week ago. Ah, can I tell you my feelings when I take my darling +little brother into my arms—” + +“I’ll bet it’s _his_,” cried Mrs. Goyte. + +“No,” I said. “It’s her mother’s.” + +“Don’t you believe it,” she cried. “It’s a blind. You mark, it’s her +own right enough—and his.” + +“No,” I said, “it’s her mother’s.” “He has sweet smiling eyes, but not +like your beautiful English eyes—” + +She suddenly struck her hand on her skirt with a wild motion, and bent +down, doubled with laughter. Then she rose and covered her face with +her hand. + +“I’m forced to laugh at the beautiful English eyes,” she said. + +“Aren’t his eyes beautiful?” I asked. + +“Oh, yes—_very!_ Go on!—_Joey, dear, dee-urr, Joey!_”—this to the +peacock. + +—“Er—We miss you very much. We all miss you. We wish you were here to +see the darling baby. Ah, Alfred, how happy we were when you stayed +with us. We all loved you so much. My mother will call the baby Alfred +so that we shall never forget you—” + +“Of course it’s his right enough,” cried Mrs. Goyte. + +“No,” I said. “It’s the mother’s.” Er—“My mother is very well. My +father came home yesterday—on leave. He is delighted with his son, my +little brother, and wishes to have him named after you, because you +were so good to us all in that terrible time, which I shall never +forget. I must weep now when I think of it. Well, you are far away in +England, and perhaps I shall never see you again. How did you find your +dear mother and father? I am so happy that your wound is better, and +that you can nearly walk—” + +“How did he find his dear _wife!_” cried Mrs. Goyte. “He never told her +he had one. Think of taking the poor girl in like that!” + +“We are so pleased when you write to us. Yet now you are in England you +will forget the family you served so well—” + +“A bit too well—eh, _Joey!_” cried the wife. + +“If it had not been for you we should not be alive now, to grieve and +to rejoice in this life, that is so hard for us. But we have recovered +some of our losses, and no longer feel the burden of poverty. The +little Alfred is a great comfort to me. I hold him to my breast and +think of the big, good Alfred, and I weep to think that those times of +suffering were perhaps the times of a great happiness that is gone for +ever.” + +“Oh, but isn’t it a shame, to take a poor girl in like that!” cried +Mrs. Goyte. “Never to let on that he was married, and raise her hopes—I +call it beastly, I do.” + +“You don’t know,” I said. “You know how anxious women are to fall in +love, wife or no wife. How could he help it, if she was determined to +fall in love with him?” + +“He could have helped it if he’d wanted.” + +“Well,” I said, “we aren’t all heroes.” + +“Oh, but that’s different! The big, good Alfred!—did ever you hear such +tommy-rot in your life! Go on—what does she say at the end?” + +“Er—We shall be pleased to hear of your life in England. We all send +many kind regards to your good parents. I wish you all happiness for +your future days. Your very affectionate and ever-grateful Élise.” + +There was silence for a moment, during which Mrs. Goyte remained with +her head dropped, sinister and abstracted. Suddenly she lifted her +face, and her eyes flashed. + +“Oh, but I call it beastly, I call it mean, to take a girl in like +that.” + +“Nay,” I said. “Probably he hasn’t taken her in at all. Do you think +those French girls are such poor innocent things? I guess she’s a great +deal more downy than he.” + +“Oh, he’s one of the biggest fools that ever walked,” she cried. + +“There you are!” said I. + +“But it’s his child right enough,” she said. + +“I don’t think so,” said I. + +“I’m sure of it.” + +“Oh, well,” I said, “if you prefer to think that way.” + +“What other reason has she for writing like that—” + +I went out into the road and looked at the cattle. + +“Who is this driving the cows?” I said. She too came out. + +“It’s the boy from the next farm,” she said. + +“Oh, well,” said I, “those Belgian girls! You never know where their +letters will end. And, after all, it’s his affair—you needn’t bother.” + +“Oh—!” she cried, with rough scorn—“it’s not _me_ that bothers. But +it’s the nasty meanness of it—me writing him such loving letters”—she +put her hand before her face and laughed malevolently—“and sending him +parcels all the time. You bet he fed that gurrl on my parcels—I know he +did. It’s just like him. I’ll bet they laughed together over my +letters. I bet anything they did—” + +“Nay,” said I. “He’d burn your letters for fear they’d give him away.” + +There was a black look on her yellow face. Suddenly a voice was heard +calling. She poked her head out of the shed, and answered coolly: + +“All right!” Then turning to me: “That’s his mother looking after me.” + +She laughed into my face, witch-like, and we turned down the road. + +When I awoke, the morning after this episode, I found the house +darkened with deep, soft snow, which had blown against the large west +windows, covering them with a screen. I went outside, and saw the +valley all white and ghastly below me, the trees beneath black and thin +looking like wire, the rock-faces dark between the glistening shroud, +and the sky above sombre, heavy, yellowish-dark, much too heavy for +this world below of hollow bluey whiteness figured with black. I felt I +was in a valley of the dead. And I sensed I was a prisoner, for the +snow was everywhere deep, and drifted in places. So all the morning I +remained indoors, looking up the drive at the shrubs so heavily plumed +with snow, at the gateposts raised high with a foot or more of extra +whiteness. Or I looked down into the white-and-black valley that was +utterly motionless and beyond life, a hollow sarcophagus. + +Nothing stirred the whole day—no plume fell off the shrubs, the valley +was as abstracted as a grove of death. I looked over at the tiny, +half-buried farms away on the bare uplands beyond the valley hollow, +and I thought of Tible in the snow, of the black witch-like little Mrs. +Goyte. And the snow seemed to lay me bare to influences I wanted to +escape. + +In the faint glow of the half-clear light that came about four o’clock +in the afternoon, I was roused to see a motion in the snow away below, +near where the thorn-trees stood very black and dwarfed, like a little +savage group, in the dismal white. I watched closely. Yes, there was a +flapping and a struggle—a big bird, it must be, labouring in the snow. +I wondered. Our biggest birds, in the valley, were the large hawks that +often hung flickering opposite my windows, level with me, but high +above some prey on the steep valleyside. This was much too big for a +hawk—too big for any known bird. I searched in my mind for the largest +English wild birds, geese, buzzards. + +Still it laboured and strove, then was still, a dark spot, then +struggled again. I went out of the house and down the steep slope, at +risk of breaking my leg between the rocks. I knew the ground so +well—and yet I got well shaken before I drew near the thorn-trees. + +Yes, it was a bird. It was Joey. It was the grey-brown peacock with a +blue neck. He was snow-wet and spent. + +“Joey—Joey, de-urr!” I said, staggering unevenly towards him. He looked +so pathetic, rowing and struggling in the snow, too spent to rise, his +blue neck stretching out and lying sometimes on the snow, his eye +closing and opening quickly, his crest all battered. + +“Joey dee-uur! Dee-urr!” I said caressingly to him. And at last he lay +still, blinking, in the surged and furrowed snow, whilst I came near +and touched him, stroked him, gathered him under my arm. He stretched +his long, wetted neck away from me as I held him, none the less he was +quiet in my arm, too tired, perhaps, to struggle. Still he held his +poor, crested head away from me, and seemed sometimes to droop, to +wilt, as if he might suddenly die. + +He was not so heavy as I expected, yet it was a struggle to get up to +the house with him again. We set him down, not too near the fire, and +gently wiped him with cloths. He submitted, only now and then stretched +his soft neck away from us, avoiding us helplessly. Then we set warm +food by him. I _put_ it to his beak, tried to make him eat. But he +ignored it. He seemed to be ignorant of what we were doing, recoiled +inside himself inexplicably. So we put him in a basket with cloths, and +left him crouching oblivious. His food we put near him. The blinds were +drawn, the house was warm, it was night. Sometimes he stirred, but +mostly he huddled still, leaning his queer crested head on one side. He +touched no food, and took no heed of sounds or movements. We talked of +brandy or stimulants. But I realised we had best leave him alone. + +In the night, however, we heard him thumping about. I got up anxiously +with a candle. He had eaten some food, and scattered more, making a +mess. And he was perched on the back of a heavy arm-chair. So I +concluded he was recovered, or recovering. + +The next day was clear, and the snow had frozen, so I decided to carry +him back to Tible. He consented, after various flappings, to sit in a +big fish-bag with his battered head peeping out with wild uneasiness. +And so I set off with him, slithering down into the valley, making good +progress down in the pale shadow beside the rushing waters, then +climbing painfully up the arrested white valleyside, plumed with +clusters of young pine trees, into the paler white radiance of the +snowy, upper regions, where the wind cut fine. Joey seemed to watch all +the time with wide anxious, unseeing eye, brilliant and inscrutable. As +I drew near to Tible township he stirred violently in the bag, though I +do not know if he had recognised the place. Then, as I came to the +sheds, he looked sharply from side to side, and stretched his neck out +long. I was a little afraid of him. He gave a loud, vehement yell, +opening his sinister beak, and I stood still, looking at him as he +struggled in the bag, shaken myself by his struggles, yet not thinking +to release him. + +Mrs. Goyte came darting past the end of the house, her head sticking +forward in sharp scrutiny. She saw me, and came forward. + +“Have you got Joey?” she cried sharply, as if I were a thief. + +I opened the bag, and he flopped out, flapping as if he hated the touch +of the snow now. She gathered him up, and put her lips to his beak. She +was flushed and handsome, her eyes bright, her hair slack, thick, but +more witch-like than ever. She did not speak. + +She had been followed by a grey-haired woman with a round, rather +sallow face and a slightly hostile bearing. + +“Did you bring him with you, then?” she asked sharply. I answered that +I had rescued him the previous evening. + +From the background slowly approached a slender man with a grey +moustache and large patches on his trousers. + +“You’ve got ’im back ’gain, ah see,” he said to his daughter-in-law. +His wife explained how I had found Joey. + +“Ah,” went on the grey man. “It wor our Alfred scared him off, back +your life. He must’a flyed ower t’valley. Tha ma’ thank thy stars as ’e +wor fun, Maggie. ’E’d a bin froze. They a bit nesh, you know,” he +concluded to me. + +“They are,” I answered. “This isn’t their country.” + +“No, it isna,” replied Mr. Goyte. He spoke very slowly and +deliberately, quietly, as if the soft pedal were always down in his +voice. He looked at his daughter-in-law as she crouched, flushed and +dark, before the peacock, which would lay its long blue neck for a +moment along her lap. In spite of his grey moustache and thin grey +hair, the elderly man had a face young and almost delicate, like a +young man’s. His blue eyes twinkled with some inscrutable source of +pleasure, his skin was fine and tender, his nose delicately arched. His +grey hair being slightly ruffled, he had a debonair look, as of a youth +who is in love. + +“We mun tell ’im it’s come,” he said slowly, and turning he called: +“Alfred—Alfred! Wheer’s ter gotten to?” + +Then he turned again to the group. + +“Get up then, Maggie, lass, get up wi’ thee. Tha ma’es too much o’ th’ +bod.” + +A young man approached, wearing rough khaki and kneebreeches. He was +Danish looking, broad at the loins. + +“I’s come back then,” said the father to the son; “leastwise, he’s bin +browt back, flyed ower the Griff Low.” + +The son looked at me. He had a devil-may-care bearing, his cap on one +side, his hands stuck in the front pockets of his breeches. But he said +nothing. + +“Shall you come in a minute, Master,” said the elderly woman, to me. + +“Ay, come in an’ ha’e a cup o’ tea or summat. You’ll do wi’ summat, +carrin’ that bod. Come on, Maggie wench, let’s go in.” + +So we went indoors, into the rather stuffy, overcrowded living-room, +that was too cosy, and too warm. The son followed last, standing in the +doorway. The father talked to me. + +Maggie put out the tea-cups. The mother went into the dairy again. + +“Tha’lt rouse thysen up a bit again, now, Maggie,” the father-in-law +said—and then to me: “’ers not bin very bright sin’ Alfred came whoam, +an’ the bod flyed awee. ’E come whoam a Wednesday night, Alfred did. +But ay, you knowed, didna yer. Ay, ’e comed ’a Wednesday—an’ I reckon +there wor a bit of a to-do between ’em, worn’t there, Maggie?” + +He twinkled maliciously to his daughter-in-law, who was flushed, +brilliant and handsome. + +“Oh, be quiet, father. You’re wound up, by the sound of you,” she said +to him, as if crossly. But she could never be cross with him. + +“’Ers got ’er colour back this mornin’,” continued the father-in-law +slowly. “It’s bin heavy weather wi’ ’er this last two days. Ay—’er’s +bin northeast sin ’er seed you a Wednesday.” + +“Father, do stop talking. You’d wear the leg off an iron pot. I can’t +think where you’ve found your tongue, all of a sudden,” said Maggie, +with caressive sharpness. + +“Ah’ve found it wheer I lost it. Aren’t goin’ ter come in an’ sit thee +down, Alfred?” + +But Alfred turned and disappeared. + +“’E’s got th’ monkey on ’is back ower this letter job,” said the father +secretly to me. “Mother, ’er knows nowt about it. Lot o’ tom-foolery, +isn’t it? Ay! What’s good o’ makkin’ a peck o’ trouble over what’s far +enough off, an’ ned niver come no nigher. No—not a smite o’ use. That’s +what I tell ’er. ’Er should ta’e no notice on’t. Ty, what can y’ +expect.” + +The mother came in again, and the talk became general. Maggie flashed +her eyes at me from time to time, complacent and satisfied, moving +among the men. I paid her little compliments, which she did not seem to +hear. She attended to me with a kind of sinister, witch-like +graciousness, her dark head ducked between her shoulders, at once +humble and powerful. She was happy as a child attending to her +father-in-law and to me. But there was something ominous between her +eyebrows, as if a dark moth were settled there—and something ominous in +her bent, hulking bearing. + +She sat on a low stool by the fire, near her father-in-law. Her head +was dropped, she seemed in a state of abstraction. From time to time +she would suddenly recover, and look up at us, laughing and chatting. +Then she would forget again. Yet in her hulked black forgetting she +seemed very near to us. + +The door having been opened, the peacock came slowly in, prancing +calmly. He went near to her and crouched down, coiling his blue neck. +She glanced at him, but almost as if she did not observe him. The bird +sat silent, seeming to sleep, and the woman also sat hulked and silent, +seemingly oblivious. Then once more there was a heavy step, and Alfred +entered. He looked at his wife, and he looked at the peacock crouching +by her. He stood large in the doorway, his hands stuck in front of him, +in his breeches pockets. Nobody spoke. He turned on his heel and went +out again. + +I rose also to go. Maggie started as if coming to herself. + +“Must you go?” she asked, rising and coming near to me, standing in +front of me, twisting her head sideways and looking up at me. “Can’t +you stop a bit longer? We can all be cosy today, there’s nothing to do +outdoors.” And she laughed, showing her teeth oddly. She had a long +chin. + +I said I must go. The peacock uncoiled and coiled again his long blue +neck, as he lay on the hearth. Maggie still stood close in front of me, +so that I was acutely aware of my waistcoat buttons. + +“Oh, well,” she said, “you’ll come again, won’t you? Do come again.” + +I promised. + +“Come to tea one day—yes, do!” + +I promised—one day. + +The moment I went out of her presence I ceased utterly to exist for +her—as utterly as I ceased to exist for Joey. With her curious +abstractedness she forgot me again immediately. I knew it as I left +her. Yet she seemed almost in physical contact with me while I was with +her. + +The sky was all pallid again, yellowish. When I went out there was no +sun; the snow was blue and cold. I hurried away down the hill, musing +on Maggie. The road made a loop down the sharp face of the slope. As I +went crunching over the laborious snow I became aware of a figure +striding down the steep scarp to intercept me. It was a man with his +hands in front of him, half stuck in his breeches pockets, and his +shoulders square—a real farmer of the hills; Alfred, of course. He +waited for me by the stone fence. + +“Excuse me,” he said as I came up. + +I came to a halt in front of him and looked into his sullen blue eyes. +He had a certain odd haughtiness on his brows. But his blue eyes stared +insolently at me. + +“Do you know anything about a letter—in French—that my wife opened—a +letter of mine—?” + +“Yes,” said I. “She asked me to read it to her.” + +He looked square at me. He did not know exactly how to feel. + +“What was there in it?” he asked. + +“Why?” I said. “Don’t you know?” + +“She makes out she’s burnt it,” he said. + +“Without showing it you?” I asked. + +He nodded slightly. He seemed to be meditating as to what line of +action he should take. He wanted to know the contents of the letter: he +must know: and therefore he must ask me, for evidently his wife had +taunted him. At the same time, no doubt, he would like to wreak untold +vengeance on my unfortunate person. So he eyed me, and I eyed him, and +neither of us spoke. He did not want to repeat his request to me. And +yet I only looked at him, and considered. + +Suddenly he threw back his head and glanced down the valley. Then he +changed his position—he was a horse-soldier. Then he looked at me +confidentially. + +“She burnt the blasted thing before I saw it,” he said. + +“Well,” I answered slowly, “she doesn’t know herself what was in it.” + +He continued to watch me narrowly. I grinned to myself. + +“I didn’t like to read her out what there was in it,” I continued. + +He suddenly flushed so that the veins in his neck stood out, and he +stirred again uncomfortably. + +“The Belgian girl said her baby had been born a week ago, and that they +were going to call it Alfred,” I told him. + +He met my eyes. I was grinning. He began to grin, too. + +“Good luck to her,” he said. + +“Best of luck,” said I. + +“And what did you tell _her_?” he asked. + +“That the baby belonged to the old mother—that it was brother to your +girl, who was writing to you as a friend of the family.” + +He stood smiling, with the long, subtle malice of a farmer. + +“And did she take it in?” he asked. + +“As much as she took anything else.” + +He stood grinning fixedly. Then he broke into a short laugh. + +“Good for _her_” he exclaimed cryptically. + +And then he laughed aloud once more, evidently feeling he had won a big +move in his contest with his wife. + +“What about the other woman?” I asked. + +“Who?” + +“Élise.” + +“Oh”—he shifted uneasily—“she was all right—” + +“You’ll be getting back to her,” I said. + +He looked at me. Then he made a grimace with his mouth. + +“Not me,” he said. “Back your life it’s a plant.” + +“You don’t think the _cher petit bébé_ is a little Alfred?” + +“It might be,” he said. + +“Only might?” + +“Yes—an’ there’s lots of mites in a pound of cheese.” He laughed +boisterously but uneasily. + +“What did she say, exactly?” he asked. + +I began to repeat, as well as I could, the phrases of the letter: + +“_Mon cher Alfred— Figure-toi comme je suis desolée_—” + +He listened with some confusion. When I had finished all I could +remember, he said: + +“They know how to pitch you out a letter, those Belgian lasses.” + +“Practice,” said I. + +“They get plenty,” he said. + +There was a pause. + +“Oh, well,” he said. “I’ve never got that letter, anyhow.” + +The wind blew fine and keen, in the sunshine, across the snow. I blew +my nose and prepared to depart. + +“And _she_ doesn’t know anything?” he continued, jerking his head up +the hill in the direction of Tible. + +“She knows nothing but what I’ve said—that is, if she really burnt the +letter.” + +“I believe she burnt it,” he said, “for spite. She’s a little devil, +she is. But I shall have it out with her.” His jaw was stubborn and +sullen. Then suddenly he turned to me with a new note. + +“Why?” he said. “Why didn’t you wring that b—— peacock’s neck—that b—— +Joey?” + +“Why?” I said. “What for?” + +“I hate the brute,” he said. “I had a shot at him—” + +I laughed. He stood and mused. + +“Poor little Élise,” he murmured. + +“Was she small—_petite_?” I asked. He jerked up his head. + +“No,” he said. “Rather tall.” + +“Taller than your wife, I suppose.” + +Again he looked into my eyes. And then once more he went into a loud +burst of laughter that made the still, snow-deserted valley clap again. + +“God, it’s a knockout!” he said, thoroughly amused. Then he stood at +ease, one foot out, his hands in his breeches pockets, in front of him, +his head thrown back, a handsome figure of a man. + +“But I’ll do that blasted Joey in—” he mused. + +I ran down the hill, shouting with laughter. + + + + +YOU TOUCHED ME + + +The Pottery House was a square, ugly, brick house girt in by the wall +that enclosed the whole grounds of the pottery itself. To be sure, a +privet hedge partly masked the house and its ground from the +pottery-yard and works: but only partly. Through the hedge could be +seen the desolate yard, and the many-windowed, factory-like pottery, +over the hedge could be seen the chimneys and the outhouses. But inside +the hedge, a pleasant garden and lawn sloped down to a willow pool, +which had once supplied the works. + +The Pottery itself was now closed, the great doors of the yard +permanently shut. No more the great crates with yellow straw showing +through, stood in stacks by the packing shed. No more the drays drawn +by great horses rolled down the hill with a high load. No more the +pottery-lasses in their clay-coloured overalls, their faces and hair +splashed with grey fine mud, shrieked and larked with the men. All that +was over. + +“We like it much better—oh, much better—quieter,” said Matilda Rockley. + +“Oh, yes,” assented Emmie Rockley, her sister. + +“I’m sure you do,” agreed the visitor. + +But whether the two Rockley girls really liked it better, or whether +they only imagined they did, is a question. Certainly their lives were +much more grey and dreary now that the grey clay had ceased to spatter +its mud and silt its dust over the premises. They did not quite realise +how they missed the shrieking, shouting lasses, whom they had known all +their lives and disliked so much. + +Matilda and Emmie were already old maids. In a thorough industrial +district, it is not easy for the girls who have expectations above the +common to find husbands. The ugly industrial town was full of men, +young men who were ready to marry. But they were all colliers or +pottery-hands, mere workmen. The Rockley girls would have about ten +thousand pounds each when their father died: ten thousand pounds’ worth +of profitable house-property. It was not to be sneezed at: they felt so +themselves, and refrained from sneezing away such a fortune on any mere +member of the proletariat. Consequently, bank-clerks or nonconformist +clergymen or even school-teachers having failed to come forward, +Matilda had begun to give up all idea of ever leaving the Pottery +House. + +Matilda was a tall, thin, graceful fair girl, with a rather large nose. +She was the Mary to Emmie’s Martha: that is, Matilda loved painting and +music, and read a good many novels, whilst Emmie looked after the +house-keeping. Emmie was shorter, plumper than her sister, and she had +no accomplishments. She looked up to Matilda, whose mind was naturally +refined and sensible. + +In their quiet, melancholy way, the two girls were happy. Their mother +was dead. Their father was ill also. He was an intelligent man who had +had some education, but preferred to remain as if he were one with the +rest of the working people. He had a passion for music and played the +violin pretty well. But now he was getting old, he was very ill, dying +of a kidney disease. He had been rather a heavy whisky-drinker. + +This quiet household, with one servant-maid, lived on year after year +in the Pottery House. Friends came in, the girls went out, the father +drank himself more and more ill. Outside in the street there was a +continual racket of the colliers and their dogs and children. But +inside the pottery wall was a deserted quiet. + +In all this ointment there was one little fly. Ted Rockley, the father +of the girls, had had four daughters, and no son. As his girls grew, he +felt angry at finding himself always in a house-hold of women. He went +off to London and adopted a boy out of a Charity Institution. Emmie was +fourteen years old, and Matilda sixteen, when their father arrived home +with his prodigy, the boy of six, Hadrian. + +Hadrian was just an ordinary boy from a Charity Home, with ordinary +brownish hair and ordinary bluish eyes and of ordinary rather cockney +speech. The Rockley girls—there were three at home at the time of his +arrival—had resented his being sprung on them. He, with his watchful, +charity-institution instinct, knew this at once. Though he was only six +years old, Hadrian had a subtle, jeering look on his face when he +regarded the three young women. They insisted he should address them as +Cousin: Cousin Flora, Cousin Matilda, Cousin Emmie. He complied, but +there seemed a mockery in his tone. + +The girls, however, were kind-hearted by nature. Flora married and left +home. Hadrian did very much as he pleased with Matilda and Emmie, +though they had certain strictnesses. He grew up in the Pottery House +and about the Pottery premises, went to an elementary school, and was +invariably called Hadrian Rockley. He regarded Cousin Matilda and +Cousin Emmie with a certain laconic indifference, was quiet and +reticent in his ways. The girls called him sly, but that was unjust. He +was merely cautious, and without frankness. His Uncle, Ted Rockley, +understood him tacitly, their natures were somewhat akin. Hadrian and +the elderly man had a real but unemotional regard for one another. + +When he was thirteen years old the boy was sent to a High School in the +County town. He did not like it. His Cousin Matilda had longed to make +a little gentleman of him, but he refused to be made. He would give a +little contemptuous curve to his lip, and take on a shy, charity-boy +grin, when refinement was thrust upon him. He played truant from the +High School, sold his books, his cap with its badge, even his very +scarf and pocket-handkerchief, to his school-fellows, and went raking +off heaven knows where with the money. So he spent two very +unsatisfactory years. + +When he was fifteen he announced that he wanted to leave England and go +to the Colonies. He had kept touch with the Home. The Rockleys knew +that, when Hadrian made a declaration, in his quiet, half-jeering +manner, it was worse than useless to oppose him. So at last the boy +departed, going to Canada under the protection of the Institution to +which he had belonged. He said good-bye to the Rockleys without a word +of thanks, and parted, it seemed, without a pang. Matilda and Emmie +wept often to think of how he left them: even on their father’s face a +queer look came. But Hadrian wrote fairly regularly from Canada. He had +entered some electricity works near Montreal, and was doing well. + +At last, however, the war came. In his turn, Hadrian joined up and came +to Europe. The Rockleys saw nothing of him. They lived on, just the +same, in the Pottery House. Ted Rockley was dying of a sort of dropsy, +and in his heart he wanted to see the boy. When the armistice was +signed, Hadrian had a long leave, and wrote that he was coming home to +the Pottery House. + +The girls were terribly fluttered. To tell the truth, they were a +little afraid of Hadrian. Matilda, tall and thin, was frail in her +health, both girls were worn with nursing their father. To have +Hadrian, a young man of twenty-one, in the house with them, after he +had left them so coldly five years before, was a trying circumstance. + +They were in a flutter. Emmie persuaded her father to have his bed made +finally in the morning-room downstairs, whilst his room upstairs was +prepared for Hadrian. This was done, and preparations were going on for +the arrival, when, at ten o’clock in the morning the young man suddenly +turned up, quite unexpectedly. Cousin Emmie, with her hair bobbed up in +absurd little bobs round her forehead, was busily polishing the +stair-rods, while Cousin Matilda was in the kitchen washing the +drawing-room ornaments in a lather, her sleeves rolled back on her thin +arms, and her head tied up oddly and coquettishly in a duster. + +Cousin Matilda blushed deep with mortification when the self-possessed +young man walked in with his kit-bag, and put his cap on the sewing +machine. He was little and self-confident, with a curious neatness +about him that still suggested the Charity Institution. His face was +brown, he had a small moustache, he was vigorous enough in his +smallness. + +“_Well_, is it Hadrian!” exclaimed Cousin Matilda, wringing the lather +off her hand. “We didn’t expect you till tomorrow.” + +“I got off Monday night,” said Hadrian, glancing round the room. + +“Fancy!” said Cousin Matilda. Then, having dried her hands, she went +forward, held out her hand, and said: + +“How are you?” + +“Quite well, thank you,” said Hadrian. + +“You’re quite a man,” said Cousin Matilda. + +Hadrian glanced at her. She did not look her best: so thin, so +large-nosed, with that pink-and-white checked duster tied round her +head. She felt her disadvantage. But she had had a good deal of +suffering and sorrow, she did not mind any more. + +The servant entered—one that did not know Hadrian. + +“Come and see my father,” said Cousin Matilda. + +In the hall they roused Cousin Emmie like a partridge from cover. She +was on the stairs pushing the bright stair-rods into place. +Instinctively her hand went to the little knobs, her front hair bobbed +on her forehead. + +“Why!” she exclaimed, crossly. “What have you come today for?” + +“I got off a day earlier,” said Hadrian, and his man’s voice so deep +and unexpected was like a blow to Cousin Emmie. + +“Well, you’ve caught us in the midst of it,” she said, with resentment. +Then all three went into the middle room. + +Mr. Rockley was dressed—that is, he had on his trousers and socks—but +he was resting on the bed, propped up just under the window, from +whence he could see his beloved and resplendent garden, where tulips +and apple-trees were ablaze. He did not look as ill as he was, for the +water puffed him up, and his face kept its colour. His stomach was much +swollen. He glanced round swiftly, turning his eyes without turning his +head. He was the wreck of a handsome, well-built man. + +Seeing Hadrian, a queer, unwilling smile went over his face. The young +man greeted him sheepishly. + +“You wouldn’t make a life-guardsman,” he said. “Do you want something +to eat?” + +Hadrian looked round—as if for the meal. + +“I don’t mind,” he said. + +“What shall you have—egg and bacon?” asked Emmie shortly. + +“Yes, I don’t mind,” said Hadrian. + +The sisters went down to the kitchen, and sent the servant to finish +the stairs. + +“Isn’t he _altered_?” said Matilda, _sotto voce_. + +“Isn’t he!” said Cousin Emmie. “_What_ a little man!” + +They both made a grimace, and laughed nervously. + +“Get the frying-pan,” said Emmie to Matilda. + +“But he’s as cocky as ever,” said Matilda, narrowing her eyes and +shaking her head knowingly, as she handed the frying-pan. + +“Mannie!” said Emmie sarcastically. Hadrian’s new-fledged, cock-sure +manliness evidently found no favour in her eyes. + +“Oh, he’s not bad,” said Matilda. “You don’t want to be prejudiced +against him.” + +I’m not prejudiced against him, I think he’s all right for looks,” said +Emmie, “but there’s too much of the little mannie about him.” + +“Fancy catching us like this,” said Matilda. + +“They’ve no thought for anything,” said Emmie with contempt. “You go up +and get dressed, our Matilda. I don’t care about him. I can see to +things, and you can talk to him. I shan’t.” + +“He’ll talk to my father,” said Matilda, meaningful. + +“_Sly—!_” exclaimed Emmie, with a grimace. + +The sisters believed that Hadrian had come hoping to get something out +of their father—hoping for a legacy. And they were not at all sure he +would not get it. + +Matilda went upstairs to change. She had thought it all out how she +would receive Hadrian, and impress him. And he had caught her with her +head tied up in a duster, and her thin arms in a basin of lather. But +she did not care. She now dressed herself most scrupulously, carefully +folded her long, beautiful, blonde hair, touched her pallor with a +little rouge, and put her long string of exquisite crystal beads over +her soft green dress. Now she looked elegant, like a heroine in a +magazine illustration, and almost as unreal. + +She found Hadrian and her father talking away. The young man was short +of speech as a rule, but he could find his tongue with his “uncle”. +They were both sipping a glass of brandy, and smoking, and chatting +like a pair of old cronies. Hadrian was telling about Canada. He was +going back there when his leave was up. + +“You wouldn’t like to stop in England, then?” said Mr. Rockley. + +“No, I wouldn’t stop in England,” said Hadrian. + +“How’s that? There’s plenty of electricians here,” said Mr. Rockley. + +“Yes. But there’s too much difference between the men and the employers +over here—too much of that for me,” said Hadrian. + +The sick man looked at him narrowly, with oddly smiling eyes. + +“That’s it, is it?” he replied. + +Matilda heard and understood. “So that’s your big idea, is it, my +little man,” she said to herself. She had always said of Hadrian that +he had no proper _respect_ for anybody or anything, that he was sly and +_common_. She went down to the kitchen for a _sotto voce_ confab with +Emmie. + +“He thinks a rare lot of himself!” she whispered. + +“He’s somebody, he is!” said Emmie with contempt. + +“He thinks there’s too much difference between masters and men, over +here,” said Matilda. + +“Is it any different in Canada?” asked Emmie. + +“Oh, yes—democratic,” replied Matilda, “He thinks they’re all on a +level over there.” + +“Ay, well he’s over here now,” said Emmie dryly, “so he can keep his +place.” + +As they talked they saw the young man sauntering down the garden, +looking casually at the flowers. He had his hands in his pockets, and +his soldier’s cap neatly on his head. He looked quite at his ease, as +if in possession. The two women, fluttered, watched him through the +window. + +“We know what he’s come for,” said Emmie, churlishly. Matilda looked a +long time at the neat khaki figure. It had something of the charity-boy +about it still; but now it was a man’s figure, laconic, charged with +plebeian energy. She thought of the derisive passion in his voice as he +had declaimed against the propertied classes, to her father. + +“You don’t know, Emmie. Perhaps he’s not come for that,” she rebuked +her sister. They were both thinking of the money. + +They were still watching the young soldier. He stood away at the bottom +of the garden, with his back to them, his hands in his pockets, looking +into the water of the willow pond. Matilda’s dark-blue eyes had a +strange, full look in them, the lids, with the faint blue veins +showing, dropped rather low. She carried her head light and high, but +she had a look of pain. The young man at the bottom of the garden +turned and looked up the path. Perhaps he saw them through the window. +Matilda moved into shadow. + +That afternoon their father seemed weak and ill. He was easily +exhausted. The doctor came, and told Matilda that the sick man might +die suddenly at any moment—but then he might not. They must be +prepared. + +So the day passed, and the next. Hadrian made himself at home. He went +about in the morning in his brownish jersey and his khaki trousers, +collarless, his bare neck showing. He explored the pottery premises, as +if he had some secret purpose in so doing, he talked with Mr. Rockley, +when the sick man had strength. The two girls were always angry when +the two men sat talking together like cronies. Yet it was chiefly a +kind of politics they talked. + +On the second day after Hadrian’s arrival, Matilda sat with her father +in the evening. She was drawing a picture which she wanted to copy. It +was very still, Hadrian was gone out somewhere, no one knew where, and +Emmie was busy. Mr. Rockley reclined on his bed, looking out in silence +over his evening-sunny garden. + +“If anything happens to me, Matilda,” he said, “you won’t sell this +house—you’ll stop here—” + +Matilda’s eyes took their slightly haggard look as she stared at her +father. + +“Well, we couldn’t do anything else,” she said. + +“You don’t know what you might do,” he said. “Everything is left to you +and Emmie, equally. You’do as you like with it—only don’t sell this +house, don’t part with it.” + +“No,” she said. + +“And give Hadrian my watch and chain, and a hundred pounds out of +what’s in the bank—and help him if he ever wants helping. I haven’t put +his name in the will.” + +“Your watch and chain, and a hundred pounds—yes. But you’ll be here +when he goes back to Canada, father.” + +“You never know what’ll happen,” said her father. + +Matilda sat and watched him, with her full, haggard eyes, for a long +time, as if tranced. She saw that he knew he must go soon—she saw like +a clairvoyant. + +Later on she told Emmie what her father had said about the watch and +chain and the money. + +“What right has _he”—he_—meaning Hadrian—“to my father’s watch and +chain—what has it to do with him? Let him have the money, and get off,” +said Emmie. She loved her father. + +That night Matilda sat late in her room. Her heart was anxious and +breaking, her mind seemed entranced. She was too much entranced even to +weep, and all the time she thought of her father, only her father. At +last she felt she must go to him. + +It was near midnight. She went along the passage and to his room. There +was a faint light from the moon outside. She listened at his door. Then +she softly opened and entered. The room was faintly dark. She heard a +movement on the bed. + +“Are you asleep?” she said softly, advancing to the side of the bed. + +“Are you asleep?” she repeated gently, as she stood at the side of the +bed. And she reached her hand in the darkness to touch his forehead. +Delicately, her fingers met the nose and the eyebrows, she laid her +fine, delicate hand on his brow. It seemed fresh and smooth—very fresh +and smooth. A sort of surprise stirred her, in her entranced state. But +it could not waken her. Gently, she leaned over the bed and stirred her +fingers over the low-growing hair on his brow. + +“Can’t you sleep tonight?” she said. + +There was a quick stirring in the bed. “Yes, I can,” a voice answered. +It was Hadrian’s voice. She started away. Instantly, she was wakened +from her late-at-night trance. She remembered that her father was +downstairs, that Hadrian had his room. She stood in the darkness as if +stung. + +“It is you, Hadrian?” she said. “I thought it was my father.” She was +so startled, so shocked, that she could not move. The young man gave an +uncomfortable laugh, and turned in his bed. + +At last she got out of the room. When she was back in her own room, in +the light, and her door was closed, she stood holding up her hand that +had touched him, as if it were hurt. She was almost too shocked, she +could not endure. + +“Well,” said her calm and weary mind, “it was only a mistake, why take +any notice of it.” + +But she could not reason her feelings so easily. She suffered, feeling +herself in a false position. Her right hand, which she had laid so +gently on his face, on his fresh skin, ached now, as if it were really +injured. She could not forgive Hadrian for the mistake: it made her +dislike him deeply. + +Hadrian too slept badly. He had been awakened by the opening of the +door, and had not realised what the question meant. But the soft, +straying tenderness of her hand on his face startled something out of +his soul. He was a charity boy, aloof and more or less at bay. The +fragile exquisiteness of her caress startled him most, revealed unknown +things to him. + +In the morning she could feel the consciousness in his eyes, when she +came downstairs. She tried to bear herself as if nothing at all had +happened, and she succeeded. She had the calm self-control, +self-indifference, of one who has suffered and borne her suffering. She +looked at him from her darkish, almost drugged blue eyes, she met the +spark of consciousness in his eyes, and quenched it. And with her long, +fine hand she put the sugar in his coffee. + +But she could not control him as she thought she could. He had a keen +memory stinging his mind, a new set of sensations working in his +consciousness. Something new was alert in him. At the back of his +reticent, guarded mind he kept his secret alive and vivid. She was at +his mercy, for he was unscrupulous, his standard was not her standard. + +He looked at her curiously. She was not beautiful, her nose was too +large, her chin was too small, her neck was too thin. But her skin was +clear and fine, she had a high-bred sensitiveness. This queer, brave, +high-bred quality she shared with her father. The charity boy could see +it in her tapering fingers, which were white and ringed. The same +glamour that he knew in the elderly man he now saw in the woman. And he +wanted to possess himself of it, he wanted to make himself master of +it. As he went about through the old pottery-yard, his secretive mind +schemed and worked. To be master of that strange soft delicacy such as +he had felt in her hand upon his face,—this was what he set himself +towards. He was secretly plotting. + +He watched Matilda as she went about, and she became aware of his +attention, as of some shadow following her. But her pride made her +ignore it. When he sauntered near her, his hands in his pockets, she +received him with that same commonplace kindliness which mastered him +more than any contempt. Her superior breeding seemed to control him. +She made herself feel towards him exactly as she had always felt: he +was a young boy who lived in the house with them, but was a stranger. +Only, she dared not remember his face under her hand. When she +remembered that, she was bewildered. Her hand had offended her, she +wanted to cut it off. And she wanted, fiercely, to cut off the memory +in him. She assumed she had done so. + +One day, when he sat talking with his “uncle”, he looked straight into +the eyes of the sick man, and said: + +“But I shouldn’t like to live and die here in Rawsley.” + +“No—well—you needn’t,” said the sick man. + +“Do you think Cousin Matilda likes it?” + +“I should think so.” + +“I don’t call it much of a life,” said the youth. “How much older is +she than me, Uncle?” + +The sick man looked at the young soldier. + +“A good bit,” he said. + +“Over thirty?” said Hadrian. + +“Well, not so much. She’s thirty-two.” + +Hadrian considered a while. + +“She doesn’t look it,” he said. + +Again the sick father looked at him. + +“Do you think she’d like to leave here?” said Hadrian. + +“Nay, I don’t know,” replied the father, restive. + +Hadrian sat still, having his own thoughts. Then in a small, quiet +voice, as if he were speaking from inside himself, he said: + +“I’d marry her if you wanted me to.” + +The sick man raised his eyes suddenly, and stared. He stared for a long +time. The youth looked inscrutably out of the window. + +“_You!_” said the sick man, mocking, with some contempt. Hadrian turned +and met his eyes. The two men had an inexplicable understanding. + +“If you wasn’t against it,” said Hadrian. + +“Nay,” said the father, turning aside, “I don’t think I’m against it. +I’ve never thought of it. But—But Emmie’s the youngest.” + +He had flushed, and looked suddenly more alive. Secretly he loved the +boy. + +“You might ask her,” said Hadrian. + +The elder man considered. + +“Hadn’t you better ask her yourself?” he said. + +“She’d take more notice of you,” said Hadrian. + +They were both silent. Then Emmie came in. + +For two days Mr. Rockley was excited and thoughtful. Hadrian went about +quietly, secretly, unquestioning. At last the father and daughter were +alone together. It was very early morning, the father had been in much +pain. As the pain abated, he lay still, thinking. + +“Matilda!” he said suddenly, looking at his daughter. + +“Yes, I’m here,” she said. + +“Ay! I want you to do something—” + +She rose in anticipation. + +“Nay, sit still. I want you to marry Hadrian—” + +She thought he was raving. She rose, bewildered and frightened. + +“Nay, sit you still, sit you still. You hear what I tell you.” + +“But you don’t know what you’re saying, father.” + +“Ay, I know well enough. I want you to marry Hadrian, I tell you.” + +She was dumbfounded. He was a man of few words. + +“You’ll do what I tell you,” he said. + +She looked at him slowly. + +“What put such an idea in your mind?” she said proudly. + +“He did.” + +Matilda almost looked her father down, her pride was so offended. + +“Why, it’s disgraceful,” she said. + +“Why?” + +She watched him slowly. + +“What do you ask me for?” she said. “It’s disgusting.” + +“The lad’s sound enough,” he replied, testily. + +“You’d better tell him to clear out,” she said, coldly. + +He turned and looked out of the window. She sat flushed and erect for a +long time. At length her father turned to her, looking really +malevolent. + +“If you won’t,” he said, “you’re a fool, and I’ll make you pay for your +foolishness, do you see?” + +Suddenly a cold fear gripped her. She could not believe her senses. She +was terrified and bewildered. She stared at her father, believing him +to be delirious, or mad, or drunk. What could she do? + +“I tell you,” he said. “I’ll send for Whittle tomorrow if you don’t. +You shall neither of you have anything of mine.” + +Whittle was the solicitor. She understood her father well enough: he +would send for his solicitor, and make a will leaving all his property +to Hadrian: neither she nor Emmie should have anything. It was too +much. She rose and went out of the room, up to her own room, where she +locked herself in. + +She did not come out for some hours. At last, late at night, she +confided in Emmie. + +“The sliving demon, he wants the money,” said Emmie. “My father’s out +of his mind.” + +The thought that Hadrian merely wanted the money was another blow to +Matilda. She did not love the impossible youth—but she had not yet +learned to think of him as a thing of evil. He now became hideous to +her mind. + +Emmie had a little scene with her father next day. + +“You don’t mean what you said to our Matilda yesterday, do you, +father?” she asked aggressively. + +“Yes,” he replied. + +“What, that you’ll alter your will?” + +“Yes.” + +“You won’t,” said his angry daughter. + +But he looked at her with a malevolent little smile. + +“Annie!” he shouted. “Annie!” + +He had still power to make his voice carry. The servant maid came in +from the kitchen. + +“Put your things on, and go down to Whittle’s office, and say I want to +see Mr. Whittle as soon as he can, and will he bring a will-form.” + +The sick man lay back a little—he could not lie down. His daughter sat +as if she had been struck. Then she left the room. + +Hadrian was pottering about in the garden. She went straight down to +him. + +“Here,” she said. “You’d better get off. You’d better take your things +and go from here, quick.” + +Hadrian looked slowly at the infuriated girl. + +“Who says so?” he asked. + +“_We_ say so—get off, you’ve done enough mischief and damage.” + +“Does Uncle say so?” + +“Yes, he does.” + +“I’ll go and ask him.” + +But like a fury Emmie barred his way. + +“No, you needn’t. You needn’t ask him nothing at all. We don’t want +you, so you can go.” + +“Uncle’s boss here.” + +“A man that’s dying, and you crawling round and working on him for his +money!—you’re not fit to live.” + +“Oh!” he said. “Who says I’m working for his money?” + +“I say. But my father told our Matilda, and _she_ knows what you are. +_She_ knows what you’re after. So you might as well clear out, for all +you’ll get—guttersnipe!” + +He turned his back on her, to think. It had not occurred to him that +they would think he was after the money. He _did_ want the money—badly. +He badly wanted to be an employer himself, not one of the employed. But +he knew, in his subtle, calculating way, that it was not for money he +wanted Matilda. He wanted both the money and Matilda. But he told +himself the two desires were separate, not one. He could not do with +Matilda, _without_ the money. But he did not want her _for_ the money. + +When he got this clear in his mind, he sought for an opportunity to +tell it her, lurking and watching. But she avoided him. In the evening +the lawyer came. Mr. Rockley seemed to have a new access of strength—a +will was drawn up, making the previous arrangements wholly conditional. +The old will held good, if Matilda would consent to marry Hadrian. If +she refused then at the end of six months the whole property passed to +Hadrian. + +Mr. Rockley told this to the young man, with malevolent satisfaction. +He seemed to have a strange desire, quite unreasonable, for revenge +upon the women who had surrounded him for so long, and served him so +carefully. + +“Tell her in front of me,” said Hadrian. + +So Mr. Rockley sent for his daughters. + +At last they came, pale, mute, stubborn. Matilda seemed to have retired +far off, Emmie seemed like a fighter ready to fight to the death. The +sick man reclined on the bed, his eyes bright, his puffed hand +trembling. But his face had again some of its old, bright handsomeness. +Hadrian sat quiet, a little aside: the indomitable, dangerous charity +boy. + +“There’s the will,” said their father, pointing them to the paper. + +The two women sat mute and immovable, they took no notice. + +“Either you marry Hadrian, or he has everything,” said the father with +satisfaction. + +“Then let him have everything,” said Matilda boldly. + +“He’s not! He’s not!” cried Emmie fiercely. “He’s not going to have it. +The guttersnipe!” + +An amused look came on her father’s face. + +“You hear that, Hadrian,” he said. + +“I didn’t offer to marry Cousin Matilda for the money,” said Hadrian, +flushing and moving on his seat. + +Matilda looked at him slowly, with her dark-blue, drugged eyes. He +seemed a strange little monster to her. + +“Why, you liar, you know you did,” cried Emmie. + +The sick man laughed. Matilda continued to gaze strangely at the young +man. + +“She knows I didn’t,” said Hadrian. + +He too had his courage, as a rat has indomitable courage in the end. +Hadrian had some of the neatness, the reserve, the underground quality +of the rat. But he had perhaps the ultimate courage, the most +unquenchable courage of all. + +Emmie looked at her sister. + +“Oh, well,” she said. “Matilda—don’t bother. Let him have everything, +we can look after ourselves.” + +“I know he’ll take everything,” said Matilda, abstractedly. + +Hadrian did not answer. He knew in fact that if Matilda refused him he +would take everything, and go off with it. + +“A clever little mannie—!” said Emmie, with a jeering grimace. + +The father laughed noiselessly to himself. But he was tired.... + +“Go on, then,” he said. “Go on, let me be quiet.” + +Emmie turned and looked at him. + +“You deserve what you’ve got,” she said to her father bluntly. + +“Go on,” he answered mildly. “Go on.” + +Another night passed—a night nurse sat up with Mr. Rockley. Another day +came. Hadrian was there as ever, in his woollen jersey and coarse khaki +trousers and bare neck. Matilda went about, frail and distant, Emmie +black-browed in spite of her blondness. They were all quiet, for they +did not intend the mystified servant to learn anything. + +Mr. Rockley had very bad attacks of pain, he could not breathe. The end +seemed near. They all went about quiet and stoical, all unyielding. +Hadrian pondered within himself. If he did not marry Matilda he would +go to Canada with twenty thousand pounds. This was itself a very +satisfactory prospect. If Matilda consented he would have nothing—she +would have her own money. + +Emmie was the one to act. She went off in search of the solicitor and +brought him with her. There was an interview, and Whittle tried to +frighten the youth into withdrawal—but without avail. The clergyman and +relatives were summoned—but Hadrian stared at them and took no notice. +It made him angry, however. + +He wanted to catch Matilda alone. Many days went by, and he was not +successful: she avoided him. At last, lurking, he surprised her one day +as she came to pick gooseberries, and he cut off her retreat. He came +to the point at once. + +“You don’t want me, then?” he said, in his subtle, insinuating voice. + +“I don’t want to speak to you,” she said, averting her face. + +“You put your hand on me, though,” he said. “You shouldn’t have done +that, and then I should never have thought of it. You shouldn’t have +touched me.” + +“If you were anything decent, you’d know that was a mistake, and forget +it,” she said. + +“I know it was a mistake—but I shan’t forget it. If you wake a man up, +he can’t go to sleep again because he’s told to.” + +“If you had any decent feeling in you, you’d have gone away,” she +replied. + +“I didn’t want to,” he replied. + +She looked away into the distance. At last she asked: + +“What do you persecute me for, if it isn’t for the money. I’m old +enough to be your mother. In a way I’ve been your mother.” + +“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “You’ve been no mother to me. Let us marry +and go out to Canada—you might as well—you’ve touched me.” + +She was white and trembling. Suddenly she flushed with anger. + +“It’s so _indecent_,” she said. + +“How?” he retorted. “You touched me.” + +But she walked away from him. She felt as if he had trapped her. He was +angry and depressed, he felt again despised. + +That same evening she went into her father’s room. + +“Yes,” she said suddenly. “I’ll marry him.” + +Her father looked up at her. He was in pain, and very ill. + +“You like him now, do you?” he said, with a faint smile. + +She looked down into his face, and saw death not far off. She turned +and went coldly out of the room. + +The solicitor was sent for, preparations were hastily made. In all the +interval Matilda did not speak to Hadrian, never answered him if he +addressed her. He approached her in the morning. + +“You’ve come round to it, then?” he said, giving her a pleasant look +from his twinkling, almost kindly eyes. She looked down at him and +turned aside. She looked down on him both literally and figuratively. +Still he persisted, and triumphed. + +Emmie raved and wept, the secret flew abroad. But Matilda was silent +and unmoved, Hadrian was quiet and satisfied, and nipped with fear +also. But he held out against his fear. Mr. Rockley was very ill, but +unchanged. + +On the third day the marriage took place. Matilda and Hadrian drove +straight home from the registrar, and went straight into the room of +the dying man. His face lit up with a clear twinkling smile. + +“Hadrian—you’ve got her?” he said, a little hoarsely. + +“Yes,” said Hadrian, who was pale round the gills. + +“Ay, my lad, I’m glad you’re mine,” replied the dying man. Then he +turned his eyes closely on Matilda. + +“Let’s look at you, Matilda,” he said. Then his voice went strange and +unrecognisable. “Kiss me,” he said. + +She stooped and kissed him. She had never kissed him before, not since +she was a tiny child. But she was quiet, very still. + +“Kiss him,” the dying man said. + +Obediently, Matilda put forward her mouth and kissed the young husband. + +“That’s right! That’s right!” murmured the dying man. + + + + +SAMSON AND DELILAH + + +A man got down from the motor-omnibus that runs from Penzance to St +Just-in-Penwith, and turned northwards, uphill towards the Polestar. It +was only half past six, but already the stars were out, a cold little +wind was blowing from the sea, and the crystalline, three-pulse flash +of the lighthouse below the cliffs beat rhythmically in the first +darkness. + +The man was alone. He went his way unhesitating, but looked from side +to side with cautious curiosity. Tall, ruined power-houses of tin-mines +loomed in the darkness from time to time, like remnants of some by-gone +civilization. The lights of many miners’ cottages scattered on the +hilly darkness twinkled desolate in their disorder, yet twinkled with +the lonely homeliness of the Celtic night. + +He tramped steadily on, always watchful with curiosity. He was a tall, +well-built man, apparently in the prime of life. His shoulders were +square and rather stiff, he leaned forwards a little as he went, from +the hips, like a man who must stoop to lower his height. But he did not +stoop his shoulders: he bent his straight back from the hips. + +Now and again short, stump, thick-legged figures of Cornish miners +passed him, and he invariably gave them goodnight, as if to insist that +he was on his own ground. He spoke with the west-Cornish intonation. +And as he went along the dreary road, looking now at the lights of the +dwellings on land, now at the lights away to sea, vessels veering round +in sight of the Longships Lighthouse, the whole of the Atlantic Ocean +in darkness and space between him and America, he seemed a little +excited and pleased with himself, watchful, thrilled, veering along in +a sense of mastery and of power in conflict. + +The houses began to close on the road, he was entering the straggling, +formless, desolate mining village, that he knew of old. On the left was +a little space set back from the road, and cosy lights of an inn. There +it was. He peered up at the sign: “The Tinners’ Rest”. But he could not +make out the name of the proprietor. He listened. There was excited +talking and laughing, a woman’s voice laughing shrilly among the men’s. + +Stooping a little, he entered the warmly-lit bar. The lamp was burning, +a buxom woman rose from the white-scrubbed deal table where the black +and white and red cards were scattered, and several men, miners, lifted +their faces from the game. + +The stranger went to the counter, averting his face. His cap was pulled +down over his brow. + +“Good-evening!” said the landlady, in her rather ingratiating voice. + +“Good-evening. A glass of ale.” + +“A glass of ale,” repeated the landlady suavely. “Cold night—but +bright.” + +“Yes,” the man assented, laconically. Then he added, when nobody +expected him to say any more: “Seasonable weather.” + +“Quite seasonable, quite,” said the landlady. “Thank you.” + +The man lifted his glass straight to his lips, and emptied it. He put +it down again on the zinc counter with a click. + +“Let’s have another,” he said. + +The woman drew the beer, and the man went away with his glass to the +second table, near the fire. The woman, after a moment’s hesitation, +took her seat again at the table with the card-players. She had noticed +the man: a big fine fellow, well dressed, a stranger. + +But he spoke with that Cornish-Yankee accent she accepted as the +natural twang among the miners. + +The stranger put his foot on the fender and looked into the fire. He +was handsome, well coloured, with well-drawn Cornish eyebrows, and the +usual dark, bright, mindless Cornish eyes. He seemed abstracted in +thought. Then he watched the card-party. + +The woman was buxom and healthy, with dark hair and small, quick brown +eyes. She was bursting with life and vigour, the energy she threw into +the game of cards excited all the men, they shouted, and laughed, and +the woman held her breast, shrieking with laughter. + +“Oh, my, it’ll be the death o’ me,” she panted. “Now, come on, Mr. +Trevorrow, play fair. Play fair, I say, or I s’ll put the cards down.” + +“Play fair! Why who’s played unfair?” ejaculated Mr. Trevorrow. “Do you +mean t’accuse me, as I haven’t played fair, Mrs. Nankervis?” + +“I do. I say it, and I mean it. Haven’t you got the queen of spades? +Now, come on, no dodging round me. _I_ know you’ve got that queen, as +well as I know my name’s Alice.” + +“Well—if your name’s Alice, you’ll have to have it—” + +“Ay, now—what did I say? Did you ever see such a man? My word, but your +missus must be easy took in, by the looks of things.” + +And off she went into peals of laughter. She was interrupted by the +entrance of four men in khaki, a short, stumpy sergeant of middle age, +a young corporal, and two young privates. The woman leaned back in her +chair. + +“Oh, my!” she cried. “If there isn’t the boys back: looking perished, I +believe—” + +“Perished, Ma!” exclaimed the sergeant. “Not yet.” + +“Near enough,” said a young private, uncouthly. + +The woman got up. + +“I’m sure you are, my dears. You’ll be wanting your suppers, I’ll be +bound.” + +“We could do with ’em.” + +“Let’s have a wet first,” said the sergeant. + +The woman bustled about getting the drinks. The soldiers moved to the +fire, spreading out their hands. + +“Have your suppers in here, will you?” she said. “Or in the kitchen?” + +“Let’s have it here,” said the sergeant. “More cosier—_if_ you don’t +mind.” + +“You shall have it where you like, boys, where you like.” + +She disappeared. In a minute a girl of about sixteen came in. She was +tall and fresh, with dark, young, expressionless eyes, and well-drawn +brows, and the immature softness and mindlessness of the sensuous +Celtic type. + +“Ho, Maryann! Evenin’, Maryann! How’s Maryann, now?” came the multiple +greeting. + +She replied to everybody in a soft voice, a strange, soft _aplomb_ that +was very attractive. And she moved round with rather mechanical, +attractive movements, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. But she had +always this dim far-awayness in her bearing: a sort of modesty. The +strange man by the fire watched her curiously. There was an alert, +inquisitive, mindless curiosity on his well-coloured face. + +“I’ll have a bit of supper with you, if I might,” he said. + +She looked at him, with her clear, unreasoning eyes, just like the eyes +of some non-human creature. + +“I’ll ask mother,” she said. Her voice was soft-breathing, gently +singsong. + +When she came in again: + +“Yes,” she said, almost whispering. “What will you have?” + +“What have you got?” he said, looking up into her face. + +“There’s cold meat—” + +“That’s for me, then.” + +The stranger sat at the end of the table and ate with the tired, quiet +soldiers. Now, the landlady was interested in him. Her brow was knit +rather tense, there was a look of panic in her large, healthy face, but +her small brown eyes were fixed most dangerously. She was a big woman, +but her eyes were small and tense. She drew near the stranger. She wore +a rather loud-patterned flannelette blouse, and a dark skirt. + +“What will you have to drink with your supper?” she asked, and there +was a new, dangerous note in her voice. + +He moved uneasily. + +“Oh, I’ll go on with ale.” + +She drew him another glass. Then she sat down on the bench at the table +with him and the soldiers, and fixed him with her attention. + +“You’ve come from St Just, have you?” she said. + +He looked at her with those clear, dark, inscrutable Cornish eyes, and +answered at length: + +“No, from Penzance.” + +“Penzance!—but you’re not thinking of going back there tonight?” + +“No—no.” + +He still looked at her with those wide, clear eyes that seemed like +very bright agate. Her anger began to rise. It was seen on her brow. +Yet her voice was still suave and deprecating. + +“I _thought_ not—but you’re not living in these parts, are you?” + +“No—no, I’m not living here.” He was always slow in answering, as if +something intervened between him and any outside question. + +“Oh, I see,” she said. “You’ve got relations down here.” + +Again he looked straight into her eyes, as if looking her into silence. + +“Yes,” he said. + +He did not say any more. She rose with a flounce. The anger was tight +on her brow. There was no more laughing and card-playing that evening, +though she kept up her motherly, suave, good-humoured way with the men. +But they knew her, they were all afraid of her. + +The supper was finished, the table cleared, the stranger did not go. +Two of the young soldiers went off to bed, with their cheery: + +“Good-night, Ma. Good-night, Maryann.” + +The stranger talked a little to the sergeant about the war, which was +in its first year, about the new army, a fragment of which was +quartered in this district, about America. + +The landlady darted looks at him from her small eyes, minute by minute +the electric storm welled in her bosom, as still he did not go. She was +quivering with suppressed, violent passion, something frightening and +abnormal. She could not sit still for a moment. Her heavy form seemed +to flash with sudden, involuntary movements as the minutes passed by, +and still he sat there, and the tension on her heart grew unbearable. +She watched the hands of the dock move on. Three of the soldiers had +gone to bed, only the crop-headed, terrier-like old sergeant remained. + +The landlady sat behind the bar fidgeting spasmodically with the +newspaper. She looked again at the clock. At last it was five minutes +to ten. + +“Gentlemen—the enemy!” she said, in her diminished, furious voice. +“Time, please. Time, my dears. And good-night all!” + +The men began to drop out, with a brief good-night. It was a minute to +ten. The landlady rose. + +“Come,” she said. “I’m shutting the door.” + +The last of the miners passed out. She stood, stout and menacing, +holding the door. Still the stranger sat on by the fire, his black +overcoat opened, smoking. + +“We’re closed now, sir,” came the perilous, narrowed voice of the +landlady. + +The little, dog-like, hard-headed sergeant touched the arm of the +stranger. + +“Closing time,” he said. + +The stranger turned round in his seat, and his quick-moving, dark, +jewel-like eyes went from the sergeant to the landlady. + +“I’m stopping here tonight,” he said, in his laconic Cornish-Yankee +accent. + +The landlady seemed to tower. Her eyes lifted strangely, frightening. + +“Oh! indeed!” she cried.” Oh, indeed! And whose orders are those, may I +ask?” + +He looked at her again. + +“My orders,” he said. + +Involuntarily she shut the door, and advanced like a great, dangerous +bird. Her voice rose, there was a touch of hoarseness in it. + +“And what might _your_ orders be, if you please?” she cried. “Who might +_you_ be, to give orders, in the house?” + +He sat still, watching her. + +“You know who I am,” he said. “At least, I know who you are.” + +“Oh, you do? Oh, do you? And who am _I_ then, if you’ll be so good as +to tell me?” + +He stared at her with his bright, dark eyes. + +“You’re my Missis, you are,” he said. “And you know it, as well as I +do.” + +She started as if something had exploded in her. + +Her eyes lifted and flared madly. + +“_Do_ I know it, indeed!” she cried. “I know no such thing! I know no +such thing! Do you think a man’s going to walk into this bar, and tell +me off-hand I’m his Missis, and I’m going to believe him?—I say to you, +whoever you may be, you’re mistaken. I know myself for no Missis of +yours, and I’ll thank you to go out of this house, this minute, before +I get those that will put you out.” + +The man rose to his feet, stretching his head towards her a little. He +was a handsomely built Cornishman in the prime of life. + +“What you say, eh? You don’t know me?” he said, in his singsong voice, +emotionless, but rather smothered and pressing: it reminded one of the +girl’s. “I should know you anywhere, you see. I should! I shouldn’t +have to look twice to know you, you see. You see, now, don’t you?” + +The woman was baffled. + +“So you may say,” she replied, staccato. “So you may say. That’s easy +enough. My name’s known, and respected, by most people for ten miles +round. But I don’t know _you_.” + +Her voice ran to sarcasm. “I can’t say I know _you_. You’re a _perfect_ +stranger to me, and I don’t believe I’ve ever set eyes on you before +tonight.” + +Her voice was very flexible and sarcastic. + +“Yes, you have,” replied the man, in his reasonable way.” Yes, you +have. Your name’s my name, and that girl Maryann is my girl; she’s my +daughter. You’re my Missis right enough. As sure as I’m Willie +Nankervis.” + +He spoke as if it were an accepted fact. His face was handsome, with a +strange, watchful alertness and a fundamental fixity of intention that +maddened her. + +“You villain!” she cried. “You villain, to come to this house and dare +to speak to me. You villain, you down-right rascal!” + +He looked at her. + +“Ay,” he said, unmoved. “All that.” He was uneasy before her. Only he +was not afraid of her. There was something impenetrable about him, like +his eyes, which were as bright as agate. + +She towered, and drew near to him menacingly. + +“You’re going out of this house, aren’t you?”—She stamped her foot in +sudden madness. “_This minute!_” + +He watched her. He knew she wanted to strike him. + +“No,” he said, with suppressed emphasis. “I’ve told you, I’m stopping +here.” + +He was afraid of her personality, but it did not alter him. She +wavered. Her small, tawny-brown eyes concentrated in a point of vivid, +sightless fury, like a tiger’s. The man was wincing, but he stood his +ground. Then she bethought herself. She would gather her forces. + +“We’ll see whether you’re stopping here,” she said. And she turned, +with a curious, frightening lifting of her eyes, and surged out of the +room. The man, listening, heard her go upstairs, heard her tapping at a +bedroom door, heard her saying: “Do you mind coming down a minute, +boys? I want you. I’m in trouble.” + +The man in the bar took off his cap and his black overcoat, and threw +them on the seat behind him. His black hair was short and touched with +grey at the temples. He wore a well-cut, well-fitting suit of dark +grey, American in style, and a turn-down collar. He looked well-to-do, +a fine, solid figure of a man. The rather rigid look of the shoulders +came from his having had his collar-bone twice broken in the mines. + +The little terrier of a sergeant, in dirty khaki, looked at him +furtively. + +“She’s your Missis?” he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the +departed woman. + +“Yes, she is,” barked the man. “She’s that, sure enough.” + +“Not seen her for a long time, haven’t ye?” + +“Sixteen years come March month.” + +“Hm!” + +And the sergeant laconically resumed his smoking. + +The landlady was coming back, followed by the three young soldiers, who +entered rather sheepishly, in trousers and shirt and stocking-feet. The +woman stood histrionically at the end of the bar, and exclaimed: + +“That man refuses to leave the house, claims he’s stopping the night +here. You know very well I have no bed, don’t you? And this house +doesn’t accommodate travellers. Yet he’s going to stop in spite of all! +But not while I’ve a drop of blood in my body, that I declare with my +dying breath. And not if you men are worth the name of men, and will +help a woman as has no one to help her.” + +Her eyes sparkled, her face was flushed pink. She was drawn up like an +Amazon. + +The young soldiers did not quite know what to do. They looked at the +man, they looked at the sergeant, one of them looked down and fastened +his braces on the second button. + +“What say, sergeant?” asked one whose face twinkled for a little +devilment. + +“Man says he’s husband to Mrs. Nankervis,” said the sergeant. + +“He’s no husband of mine. I declare I never set eyes on him before this +night. It’s a dirty trick, nothing else, it’s a dirty trick.” + +“Why, you’re a liar, saying you never set eyes on me before,” barked +the man near the hearth. “You’re married to me, and that girl Maryann +you had by me—well enough you know it.” + +The young soldiers looked on in delight, the sergeant smoked +imperturbed. + +“Yes,” sang the landlady, slowly shaking her head in supreme sarcasm, +“it sounds very pretty, doesn’t it? But you see we don’t believe a word +of it, and _how_ are you going to prove it?” She smiled nastily. + +The man watched in silence for a moment, then he said: + +“It wants no proof.” + +“Oh, yes, but it does! Oh, yes, but it does, sir, it wants a lot of +proving!” sang the lady’s sarcasm. “We’re not such gulls as all that, +to swallow your words whole.” + +But he stood unmoved near the fire. She stood with one hand resting on +the zinc-covered bar, the sergeant sat with legs crossed, smoking, on +the seat halfway between them, the three young soldiers in their shirts +and braces stood wavering in the gloom behind the bar. There was +silence. + +“Do you know anything of the whereabouts of your husband, Mrs. +Nankervis? Is he still living?” asked the sergeant, in his judicious +fashion. + +Suddenly the landlady began to cry, great scalding tears, that left the +young men aghast. + +“I know nothing of him,” she sobbed, feeling for her pocket +handkerchief. “He left me when Maryann was a baby, went mining to +America, and after about six months never wrote a line nor sent me a +penny bit. I can’t say whether he’s alive or dead, the villain. All +I’ve heard of him’s to the bad—and I’ve heard nothing for years an’ +all, now.” She sobbed violently. + +The golden-skinned, handsome man near the fire watched her as she wept. +He was frightened, he was troubled, he was bewildered, but none of his +emotions altered him underneath. + +There was no sound in the room but the violent sobbing of the landlady. +The men, one and all, were overcome. + +“Don’t you think as you’d better go, for tonight?” said the sergeant to +the man, with sweet reasonableness. “You’d better leave it a bit, and +arrange something between you. You can’t have much claim on a woman, I +should imagine, if it’s how she says. And you’ve come down on her a bit +too sudden-like.” + +The landlady sobbed heart-brokenly. The man watched her large breasts +shaken. They seemed to cast a spell over his mind. + +“How I’ve treated her, that’s no matter,” he replied. “I’ve come back, +and I’m going to stop in my own home—for a bit, anyhow. There you’ve +got it.” + +“A dirty action,” said the sergeant, his face flushing dark. “A dirty +action, to come, after deserting a woman for that number of years, and +want to force yourself on her! A dirty action—as isn’t allowed by the +law.” + +The landlady wiped her eyes. + +“Never you mind about law nor nothing,” cried the man, in a strange, +strong voice. “I’m not moving out of this public tonight.” + +The woman turned to the soldiers behind her, and said in a wheedling, +sarcastic tone: + +“Are we going to stand it, boys?—Are we going to be done like this, +Sergeant Thomas, by a scoundrel and a bully as has led a life beyond +_mention_, in those American mining-camps, and then wants to come back +and make havoc of a poor woman’s life and savings, after having left +her with a baby in arms to struggle as best she might? It’s a crying +shame if nobody will stand up for me—a crying shame—!” + +The soldiers and the little sergeant were bristling. The woman stooped +and rummaged under the counter for a minute. Then, unseen to the man +away near the fire, she threw out a plaited grass rope, such as is used +for binding bales, and left it lying near the feet of the young +soldiers, in the gloom at the back of the bar. + +Then she rose and fronted the situation. + +“Come now,” she said to the man, in a reasonable, coldly-coaxing tone, +“put your coat on and leave us alone. Be a man, and not worse than a +brute of a German. You can get a bed easy enough in St Just, and if +you’ve nothing to pay for it sergeant would lend you a couple of +shillings, I’m sure he would.” + +All eyes were fixed on the man. He was looking down at the woman like a +creature spell-bound or possessed by some devil’s own intention. + +“I’ve got money of my own,” he said. “Don’t you be frightened for your +money, I’ve plenty of that, for the time.” + +“Well, then,” she coaxed, in a cold, almost sneering propitiation, “put +your coat on and go where you’re wanted—be a _man_, not a brute of a +German.” + +She had drawn quite near to him, in her challenging coaxing intentness. +He looked down at her with his bewitched face. + +“No, I shan’t,” he said. “I shan’t do no such thing. _You’ll_ put me up +for tonight.” + +“Shall I!” she cried. And suddenly she flung her arms round him, hung +on to him with all her powerful weight, calling to the soldiers: “Get +the rope, boys, and fasten him up. Alfred—John, quick now—” + +The man reared, looked round with maddened eyes, and heaved his +powerful body. But the woman was powerful also, and very heavy, and was +clenched with the determination of death. Her face, with its exulting, +horribly vindictive look, was turned up to him from his own breast; he +reached back his head frantically, to get away from it. Meanwhile the +young soldiers, after having watched this frightful Laocoon swaying for +a moment, stirred, and the malicious one darted swiftly with the rope. +It was tangled a little. + +“Give me the end here,” cried the sergeant. + +Meanwhile the big man heaved and struggled, swung the woman round +against the seat and the table, in his convulsive effort to get free. +But she pinned down his arms like a cuttlefish wreathed heavily upon +him. And he heaved and swayed, and they crashed about the room, the +soldiers hopping, the furniture bumping. + +The young soldier had got the rope once round, the brisk sergeant +helping him. The woman sank heavily lower, they got the rope round +several times. In the struggle the victim fell over against the table. +The ropes tightened till they cut his arms. The woman clung to his +knees. Another soldier ran in a flash of genius, and fastened the +strange man’s feet with the pair of braces. Seats had crashed over, the +table was thrown against the wall, but the man was bound, his arms +pinned against his sides, his feet tied. He lay half fallen, sunk +against the table, still for a moment. + +The woman rose, and sank, faint, on to the seat against the wall. Her +breast heaved, she could not speak, she thought she was going to die. +The bound man lay against the overturned table, his coat all twisted +and pulled up beneath the ropes, leaving the loins exposed. The +soldiers stood around, a little dazed, but excited with the row. + +The man began to struggle again, heaving instinctively against the +ropes, taking great, deep breaths. His face, with its golden skin, +flushed dark and surcharged, he heaved again. The great veins in his +neck stood out. But it was no good, he went relaxed. Then again, +suddenly, he jerked his feet. + +“Another pair of braces, William,” cried the excited soldier. He threw +himself on the legs of the bound man, and managed to fasten the knees. +Then again there was stillness. They could hear the clock tick. + +The woman looked at the prostrate figure, the strong, straight limbs, +the strong back bound in subjection, the wide-eyed face that reminded +her of a calf tied in a sack in a cart, only its head stretched dumbly +backwards. And she triumphed. + +The bound-up body began to struggle again. She watched fascinated the +muscles working, the shoulders, the hips, the large, clean thighs. Even +now he might break the ropes. She was afraid. But the lively young +soldier sat on the shoulders of the bound man, and after a few perilous +moments, there was stillness again. + +“Now,” said the judicious sergeant to the bound man, “if we untie you, +will you promise to go off and make no more trouble.” + +“You’ll not untie him in here,” cried the woman. “I wouldn’t trust him +as far as I could blow him.” + +There was silence. + +“We might carry him outside, and undo him there,” said the soldier. +“Then we could get the policeman, if he made any bother.” + +“Yes,” said the sergeant. “We could do that.” Then again, in an +altered, almost severe tone, to the prisoner. “If we undo you outside, +will you take your coat and go without creating any more disturbance?” + +But the prisoner would not answer, he only lay with wide, dark, bright, +eyes, like a bound animal. There was a space of perplexed silence. + +“Well, then, do as you say,” said the woman irritably. “Carry him out +amongst you, and let us shut up the house.” + +They did so. Picking up the bound man, the four soldiers staggered +clumsily into the silent square in front of the inn, the woman +following with the cap and the overcoat. The young soldiers quickly +unfastened the braces from the prisoner’s legs, and they hopped +indoors. They were in their stocking-feet, and outside the stars +flashed cold. They stood in the doorway watching. The man lay quite +still on the cold ground. + +“Now,” said the sergeant, in a subdued voice, “I’ll loosen the knot, +and he can work himself free, if you go in, Missis.” + +She gave a last look at the dishevelled, bound man, as he sat on the +ground. Then she went indoors, followed quickly by the sergeant. Then +they were heard locking and barring the door. + +The man seated on the ground outside worked and strained at the rope. +But it was not so easy to undo himself even now. So, with hands bound, +making an effort, he got on his feet, and went and worked the cord +against the rough edge of an old wall. The rope, being of a kind of +plaited grass, soon frayed and broke, and he freed himself. He had +various contusions. His arms were hurt and bruised from the bonds. He +rubbed them slowly. Then he pulled his clothes straight, stooped, put +on his cap, struggled into his overcoat, and walked away. + +The stars were very brilliant. Clear as crystal, the beam from the +lighthouse under the cliffs struck rhythmically on the night. Dazed, +the man walked along the road past the churchyard. Then he stood +leaning up against a wall, for a long time. + +He was roused because his feet were so cold. So he pulled himself +together, and turned again in the silent night, back towards the inn. + +The bar was in darkness. But there was a light in the kitchen. He +hesitated. Then very quietly he tried the door. + +He was surprised to find it open. He entered, and quietly closed it +behind him. Then he went down the step past the bar-counter, and +through to the lighted doorway of the kitchen. There sat his wife, +planted in front of the range, where a furze fire was burning. She sat +in a chair full in front of the range, her knees wide apart on the +fender. She looked over her shoulder at him as he entered, but she did +not speak. Then she stared in the fire again. + +It was a small, narrow kitchen. He dropped his cap on the table that +was covered with yellowish American cloth, and took a seat with his +back to the wall, near the oven. His wife still sat with her knees +apart, her feet on the steel fender and stared into the fire, +motionless. Her skin was smooth and rosy in the firelight. Everything +in the house was very clean and bright. The man sat silent, too, his +head dropped. And thus they remained. + +It was a question who would speak first. The woman leaned forward and +poked the ends of the sticks in between the bars of the range. He +lifted his head and looked at her. + +“Others gone to bed, have they?” he asked. + +But she remained closed in silence. + +“’S a cold night, out,” he said, as if to himself. + +And he laid his large, yet well-shapen workman’s hand on the top of the +stove, that was polished black and smooth as velvet. She would not look +at him, yet she glanced out of the corners of her eyes. + +His eyes were fixed brightly on her, the pupils large and electric like +those of a cat. + +“I should have picked you out among thousands,” he said. “Though you’re +bigger than I’d have believed. Fine flesh you’ve made.” + +She was silent for some time. Then she turned in her chair upon him. + +“What do you think of yourself,” she said, “coming back on me like this +after over fifteen years? You don’t think I’ve not heard of you, +neither, in Butte City and elsewhere?” + +He was watching her with his clear, translucent, unchallenged eyes. + +“Yes,” he said. “Chaps comes an’ goes—I’ve heard tell of you from time +to time.” + +She drew herself up. + +“And what lies have you heard about _me_?” she demanded superbly. + +“I dunno as I’ve heard any lies at all—’cept as you was getting on very +well, like.” + +His voice ran warily and detached. Her anger stirred again in her +violently. But she subdued it, because of the danger there was in him, +and more, perhaps, because of the beauty of his head and his level +drawn brows, which she could not bear to forfeit. + +“That’s more than I can say of _you_,” she said. “I’ve heard more harm +than good about _you_.” + +“Ay, I dessay,” he said, looking in the fire. It was a long time since +he had seen the furze burning, he said to himself. There was a silence, +during which she watched his face. + +“Do you call yourself a _man_?” she said, more in contemptuous reproach +than in anger. “Leave a woman as you’ve left me, you don’t care to +what!—and then to turn up in _this_ fashion, without a word to say for +yourself.” + +He stirred in his chair, planted his feet apart, and resting his arms +on his knees, looked steadily into the fire, without answering. So near +to her was his head, and the close black hair, she could scarcely +refrain from starting away, as if it would bite her. + +“Do you call that the action of a _man_?” she repeated. + +“No,” he said, reaching and poking the bits of wood into the fire with +his fingers. “I didn’t call it anything, as I know of. It’s no good +calling things by any names whatsoever, as I know of.” + +She watched him in his actions. There was a longer and longer pause +between each speech, though neither knew it. + +“I _wonder_ what you think of yourself!” she exclaimed, with vexed +emphasis. “I _wonder_ what sort of a fellow you take yourself to be!” +She was really perplexed as well as angry. + +“Well,” he said, lifting his head to look at her, “I guess I’ll answer +for my own faults, if everybody else’ll answer for theirs.” + +Her heart beat fiery hot as he lifted his face to her. She breathed +heavily, averting her face, almost losing her self-control. + +“And what do you take _me_ to be?” she cried, in real helplessness. + +His face was lifted watching her, watching her soft, averted face, and +the softly heaving mass of her breasts. + +“I take you,” he said, with that laconic truthfulness which exercised +such power over her, “to be the deuce of a fine woman—darn me if you’re +not as fine a built woman as I’ve seen, handsome with it as well. I +shouldn’t have expected you to put on such handsome flesh: ’struth I +shouldn’t.” + +Her heart beat fiery hot, as he watched her with those bright agate +eyes, fixedly. + +“Been very handsome to _you_, for fifteen years, my sakes!” she +replied. + +He made no answer to this, but sat with his bright, quick eyes upon +her. + +Then he rose. She started involuntarily. But he only said, in his +laconic, measured way: + +“It’s warm in here now.” + +And he pulled off his overcoat, throwing it on the table. She sat as if +slightly cowed, whilst he did so. + +“Them ropes has given my arms something, by Ga-ard,” he drawled, +feeling his arms with his hands. + +Still she sat in her chair before him, slightly cowed. + +“You was sharp, wasn’t you, to catch me like that, eh?” he smiled +slowly. “By Ga-ard, you had me fixed proper, proper you had. Darn me, +you fixed me up proper—proper, you did.” + +He leaned forwards in his chair towards her. + +“I don’t think no worse of you for it, no, darned if I do. Fine pluck +in a woman’s what I admire. That I do, indeed.” + +She only gazed into the fire. + +“We fet from the start, we did. And, my word, you begin again quick the +minute you see me, you did. Darn me, you was too sharp for me. A darn +fine woman, puts up a darn good fight. Darn me if I could find a woman +in all the darn States as could get me down like that. Wonderful fine +woman you be, truth to say, at this minute.” + +She only sat glowering into the fire. + +“As grand a pluck as a man could wish to find in a woman, true as I’m +here,” he said, reaching forward his hand and tentatively touching her +between her full, warm breasts, quietly. + +She started, and seemed to shudder. But his hand insinuated itself +between her breasts, as she continued to gaze in the fire. + +“And don’t you think I’ve come back here a-begging,” he said. “I’ve +more than _one_ thousand pounds to my name, I have. And a bit of a +fight for a how-de-do pleases me, that it do. But that doesn’t mean as +you’re going to deny as you’re my Missis....” + + + + +THE PRIMROSE PATH + + +A young man came out of the Victoria station, looking undecidedly at +the taxi-cabs, dark-red and black, pressing against the kerb under the +glass-roof. Several men in greatcoats and brass buttons jerked +themselves erect to catch his attention, at the same time keeping an +eye on the other people as they filtered through the open doorways of +the station. Berry, however, was occupied by one of the men, a big, +burly fellow whose blue eyes glared back and whose red-brown moustache +bristled in defiance. + +“Do you _want_ a cab, sir?” the man asked, in a half-mocking, +challenging voice. + +Berry hesitated still. + +“Are you Daniel Sutton?” he asked. + +“Yes,” replied the other defiantly, with uneasy conscience. + +“Then you are my uncle,” said Berry. + +They were alike in colouring, and somewhat in features, but the taxi +driver was a powerful, well-fleshed man who glared at the world +aggressively, being really on the defensive against his own heart. His +nephew, of the same height, was thin, well-dressed, quiet and +indifferent in his manner. And yet they were obviously kin. + +“And who the devil are you?” asked the taxi driver. + +“I’m Daniel Berry,” replied the nephew. + +“Well, I’m damned—never saw you since you were a kid.” + +Rather awkwardly at this late hour the two shook hands. + +“How are you, lad?” + +“All right. I thought you were in Australia.” + +“Been back three months—bought a couple of these damned things,”—he +kicked the tyre of his taxi-cab in affectionate disgust. There was a +moment’s silence. + +“Oh, but I’m going back out there. I can’t stand this cankering, +rotten-hearted hell of a country any more; you want to come out to +Sydney with me, lad. That’s the place for you—beautiful place, oh, you +could wish for nothing better. And money in it, too.—How’s your +mother?” + +“She died at Christmas,” said the young man. + +“Dead! What!—our Anna!” The big man’s eyes stared, and he recoiled in +fear. “God, lad,” he said, “that’s three of ’em gone!” + +The two men looked away at the people passing along the pale grey +pavements, under the wall of Trinity Church. + +“Well, strike me lucky!” said the taxi driver at last, out of breath. +“She wor th’ best o’ th’ bunch of ’em. I see nowt nor hear nowt from +any of ’em—they’re not worth it, I’ll be damned if they are—our +sermon-lapping Adela and Maud,” he looked scornfully at his nephew. +“But she was the best of ’em, our Anna was, that’s a fact.” + +He was talking because he was afraid. + +“An’ after a hard life like she’d had. How old was she, lad?” + +“Fifty-five.” + +“Fifty-five....” He hesitated. Then, in a rather hushed voice, he asked +the question that frightened him: + +“And what was it, then?” + +“Cancer.” + +“Cancer again, like Julia! I never knew there was cancer in our family. +Oh, my good God, our poor Anna, after the life she’d had!—What, lad, do +you see any God at the back of that?—I’m damned if I do.” + +He was glaring, very blue-eyed and fierce, at his nephew. Berry lifted +his shoulders slightly. + +“God?” went on the taxi driver, in a curious intense tone, “You’ve only +to look at the folk in the street to know there’s nothing keeps it +going but gravitation. Look at ’em. Look at him!”—A mongrel-looking man +was nosing past. “Wouldn’t _he_ murder you for your watch-chain, but +that he’s afraid of society. He’s got it _in_ him.... Look at ’em.” + +Berry watched the towns-people go by, and, sensitively feeling his +uncle’s antipathy, it seemed he was watching a sort of _danse macabre_ +of ugly criminals. + +“Did you ever see such a God-forsaken crew creeping about! It gives you +the very horrors to look at ’em. I sit in this damned car and watch ’em +till, I can tell you, I feel like running the cab amuck among ’em, and +running myself to kingdom come—” + +Berry wondered at this outburst. He knew his uncle was the black-sheep, +the youngest, the darling of his mother’s family. He knew him to be at +outs with respectability, mixing with the looser, sporting type, all +betting and drinking and showing dogs and birds, and racing. As a +critic of life, however, he did not know him. But the young man felt +curiously understanding. “He uses words like I do, he talks nearly as I +talk, except that I shouldn’t say those things. But I might feel like +that, in myself, if I went a certain road.” + +“I’ve got to go to Watmore,” he said. “Can you take me?” + +“When d’you want to go?” asked the uncle fiercely. + +“Now.” + +“Come on, then. What d’yer stand gassin’ on th’ causeway for?” + +The nephew took his seat beside the driver. The cab began to quiver, +then it started forward with a whirr. The uncle, his hands and feet +acting mechanically, kept his blue eyes fixed on the highroad into +whose traffic the car was insinuating its way. Berry felt curiously as +if he were sitting beside an older development of himself. His mind +went back to his mother. She had been twenty years older than this +brother of hers whom she had loved so dearly. “He was one of the most +affectionate little lads, and such a curly head! I could never have +believed he would grow into the great, coarse bully he is—for he’s +nothing else. My father made a god of him—well, it’s a good thing his +father is dead. He got in with that sporting gang, that’s what did it. +Things were made too easy for him, and so he thought of no one but +himself, and this is the result.” + +Not that “Joky” Sutton was so very black a sheep. He had lived idly +till he was eighteen, then had suddenly married a young, beautiful girl +with clear brows and dark grey eyes, a factory girl. Having taken her +to live with his parents he, lover of dogs and pigeons, went on to the +staff of a sporting paper. But his wife was without uplift or warmth. +Though they made money enough, their house was dark and cold and +uninviting. He had two or three dogs, and the whole attic was turned +into a great pigeon-house. He and his wife lived together roughly, with +no warmth, no refinement, no touch of beauty anywhere, except that she +was beautiful. He was a blustering, impetuous man, she was rather cold +in her soul, did not care about anything very much, was rather capable +and close with money. And she had a common accent in her speech. He +outdid her a thousand times in coarse language, and yet that cold twang +in her voice tortured him with shame that he stamped down in bullying +and in becoming more violent in his own speech. + +Only his dogs adored him, and to them, and to his pigeons, he talked +with rough, yet curiously tender caresses while they leaped and +fluttered for joy. + +After he and his wife had been married for seven years a little girl +was born to them, then later, another. But the husband and wife drew no +nearer together. She had an affection for her children almost like a +cool governess. He had an emotional man’s fear of sentiment, which +helped to nip his wife from putting out any shoots. He treated his +children roughly, and pretended to think it a good job when one was +adopted by a well-to-do maternal aunt. But in his soul he hated his +wife that she could give away one of his children. For after her cool +fashion, she loved him. With a chaos of a man such as he, she had no +chance of being anything but cold and hard, poor thing. For she did +love him. + +In the end he fell absurdly and violently in love with a rather +sentimental young woman who read Browning. He made his wife an +allowance and established a new ménage with the young lady, shortly +after emigrating with her to Australia. Meanwhile his wife had gone to +live with a publican, a widower, with whom she had had one of those +curious, tacit understandings of which quiet women are capable, +something like an arrangement for provision in the future. + +This was as much as the nephew knew. He sat beside his uncle, wondering +how things stood at the present. They raced lightly out past the +cemetery and along the boulevard, then turned into the rather grimy +country. The mud flew out on either side, there was a fine mist of rain +which blew in their faces. Berry covered himself up. + +In the lanes the high hedges shone black with rain. The silvery grey +sky, faintly dappled, spread wide over the low, green land. The elder +man glanced fiercely up the road, then turned his red face to his +nephew. + +“And how’re you going on, lad?” he said loudly. Berry noticed that his +uncle was slightly uneasy of him. It made him also uncomfortable. The +elder man had evidently something pressing on his soul. + +“Who are you living with in town?” asked the nephew. “Have you gone +back to Aunt Maud?” + +“No,” barked the uncle. “She wouldn’t have me. I offered to—I want +to—but she wouldn’t.” + +“You’re alone, then?” + +“No, I’m not alone.” + +He turned and glared with his fierce blue eyes at his nephew, but said +no more for some time. The car ran on through the mud, under the wet +wall of the park. + +“That other devil tried to poison me,” suddenly shouted the elder man. +“The one I went to Australia with.” At which, in spite of himself, the +younger smiled in secret. + +“How was that?” he asked. + +“Wanted to get rid of me. She got in with another fellow on the +ship.... By Jove, I was bad.” + +“Where?—on the ship?” + +“No,” bellowed the other. “No. That was in Wellington, New Zealand. I +was bad, and got lower an’ lower—couldn’t think what was up. I could +hardly crawl about. As certain as I’m here, she was poisoning me, to +get to th’ other chap—I’m certain of it.” + +“And what did you do?” + +“I cleared out—went to Sydney—” + +“And left her?” + +“Yes, I thought begod, I’d better clear out if I wanted to live.” + +“And you were all right in Sydney?” + +“Better in no time—I _know_ she was putting poison in my coffee.” + +“Hm!” + +There was a glum silence. The driver stared at the road ahead, fixedly, +managing the car as if it were a live thing. The nephew felt that his +uncle was afraid, quite stupefied with fear, fear of life, of death, of +himself. + +“You’re in rooms, then?” asked the nephew. + +“No, I’m in a house of my own,” said the uncle defiantly, “wi’ th’ best +little woman in th’ Midlands. She’s a marvel.—Why don’t you come an’ +see us?” + +“I will. Who is she?” + +“Oh, she’s a good girl—a beautiful little thing. I was clean gone on +her first time I saw her. An’ she was on me. Her mother lives with +us—respectable girl, none o’ your....” + +“And how old is she?” + +“—how old is she?—she’s twenty-one.” + +“Poor thing.” + +“_She’s_ right enough.” + +“You’d marry her—getting a divorce—?” + +“I shall marry her.” + +There was a little antagonism between the two men. + +“Where’s Aunt Maud?” asked the younger. + +“She’s at the Railway Arms—we passed it, just against Rollin’s Mill +Crossing.... They sent me a note this morning to go an’ see her when I +can spare time. She’s got consumption.” + +“Good Lord! Are you going?” + +“Yes—” + +But again Berry felt that his uncle was afraid. + +The young man got through his commission in the village, had a drink +with his uncle at the inn, and the two were returning home. The elder +man’s subject of conversation was Australia. As they drew near the town +they grew silent, thinking both of the public-house. At last they saw +the gates of the railway crossing were closed before them. + +“Shan’t you call?” asked Berry, jerking his head in the direction of +the inn, which stood at the corner between two roads, its sign hanging +under a bare horse-chestnut tree in front. + +“I might as well. Come in an’ have a drink,” said the uncle. + +It had been raining all the morning, so shallow pools of water lay +about. A brewer’s wagon, with wet barrels and warm-smelling horses, +stood near the door of the inn. Everywhere seemed silent, but for the +rattle of trains at the crossing. The two men went uneasily up the +steps and into the bar. The place was paddled with wet feet, empty. As +the bar-man was heard approaching, the uncle asked, his usual bluster +slightly hushed by fear: + +“What yer goin’ ta have, lad? Same as last time?” + +A man entered, evidently the proprietor. He was good-looking, with a +long, heavy face and quick, dark eyes. His glance at Sutton was swift, +a start, a recognition, and a withdrawal, into heavy neutrality. + +“How are yer, Dan?” he said, scarcely troubling to speak. + +“Are yer, George?” replied Sutton, hanging back. “My nephew, Dan +Berry.—Give us Red Seal, George.” + +The publican nodded to the younger man, and set the glasses on the bar. +He pushed forward the two glasses, then leaned back in the dark corner +behind the door, his arms folded, evidently preferring to get back from +the watchful eyes of the nephew. + +“—’s luck,” said Sutton. + +The publican nodded in acknowledgement. Sutton and his nephew drank. + +“Why the hell don’t you get that road mended in Cinder Hill—,” said +Sutton fiercely, pushing back his driver’s cap and showing his +short-cut, bristling hair. + +“They can’t find it in their hearts to pull it up,” replied the +publican, laconically. + +“Find in their hearts! They want settin’ in barrows an’ runnin’ up an’ +down it till they cried for mercy.” + +Sutton put down his glass. The publican renewed it with a sure hand, at +ease in whatsoever he did. Then he leaned back against the bar. He wore +no coat. He stood with arms folded, his chin on his chest, his long +moustache hanging. His back was round and slack, so that the lower part +of his abdomen stuck forward, though he was not stout. His cheek was +healthy, brown-red, and he was muscular. Yet there was about him this +physical slackness, a reluctance in his slow, sure movements. His eyes +were keen under his dark brows, but reluctant also, as if he were +gloomily apathetic. + +There was a halt. The publican evidently would say nothing. Berry +looked at the mahogany bar-counter, slopped with beer, at the +whisky-bottles on the shelves. Sutton, his cap pushed back, showing a +white brow above a weather-reddened face, rubbed his cropped hair +uneasily. + +The publican glanced round suddenly. It seemed that only his dark eyes +moved. + +“Going up?” he asked. + +And something, perhaps his eyes, indicated the unseen bed-chamber. + +“Ay—that’s what I came for,” replied Sutton, shifting nervously from +one foot to the other. “She’s been asking for me?” + +“This morning,” replied the publican, neutral. + +Then he put up a flap of the bar, and turned away through the dark +doorway behind. Sutton, pulling off his cap, showing a round, +short-cropped head which now was ducked forward, followed after him, +the buttons holding the strap of his great-coat behind glittering for a +moment. + +They climbed the dark stairs, the husband placing his feet carefully, +because of his big boots. Then he followed down the passage, trying +vaguely to keep a grip on his bowels, which seemed to be melting away, +and definitely wishing for a neat brandy. The publican opened a door. +Sutton, big and burly in his great-coat, went past him. + +The bedroom seemed light and warm after the passage. There was a red +eider-down on the bed. Then, making an effort, Sutton turned his eyes +to see the sick woman. He met her eyes direct, dark, dilated. It was +such a shock he almost started away. For a second he remained in +torture, as if some invisible flame were playing on him to reduce his +bones and fuse him down. Then he saw the sharp white edge of her jaw, +and the black hair beside the hollow cheek. With a start he went +towards the bed. + +“Hello, Maud!” he said. “Why, what ye been doin’?” + +The publican stood at the window with his back to the bed. The husband, +like one condemned but on the point of starting away, stood by the +bedside staring in horror at his wife, whose dilated grey eyes, nearly +all black now, watched him wearily, as if she were looking at something +a long way off. + +Going exceedingly pale, he jerked up his head and stared at the wall +over the pillows. There was a little coloured picture of a bird perched +on a bell, and a nest among ivy leaves beneath. It appealed to him, +made him wonder, roused a feeling of childish magic in him. They were +wonderfully fresh, green ivy leaves, and nobody had seen the nest among +them save him. + +Then suddenly he looked down again at the face on the bed, to try and +recognise it. He knew the white brow and the beautiful clear eyebrows. +That was his wife, with whom he had passed his youth, flesh of his +flesh, his, himself. Then those tired eyes, which met his again from a +long way off, disturbed him until he did not know where he was. Only +the sunken cheeks, and the mouth that seemed to protrude now were +foreign to him, and filled him with horror. It seemed he lost his +identity. He was the young husband of the woman with the clear brows; +he was the married man fighting with her whose eyes watched him, a +little indifferently, from a long way off; and he was a child in horror +of that protruding mouth. + +There came a crackling sound of her voice. He knew she had consumption +of the throat, and braced himself hard to bear the noise. + +“What was it, Maud?” he asked in panic. + +Then the broken, crackling voice came again. He was too terrified of +the sound of it to hear what was said. There was a pause. + +“You’ll take Winnie?” the publican’s voice interpreted from the window. + +“Don’t you bother, Maud, I’ll take her,” he said, stupefying his mind +so as not to understand. + +He looked curiously round the room. It was not a bad bedroom, light and +warm. There were many medicine bottles aggregated in a corner of the +washstand—and a bottle of Three Star brandy, half full. And there were +also photographs of strange people on the chest of drawers. It was not +a bad room. + +Again he started as if he were shot. She was speaking. He bent down, +but did not look at her. + +“Be good to her,” she whispered. + +When he realised her meaning, that he should be good to their child +when the mother was gone, a blade went through his flesh. + +“I’ll be good to her, Maud, don’t you bother,” he said, beginning to +feel shaky. + +He looked again at the picture of the bird. It perched cheerfully under +a blue sky, with robust, jolly ivy leaves near. He was gathering his +courage to depart. He looked down, but struggled hard not to take in +the sight of his wife’s face. + +“I s’ll come again, Maud,” he said. “I hope you’ll go on all right. Is +there anything as you want?” + +There was an almost imperceptible shake of the head from the sick +woman, making his heart melt swiftly again. Then, dragging his limbs, +he got out of the room and down the stairs. + +The landlord came after him. + +“I’ll let you know if anything happens,” the publican said, still +laconic, but with his eyes dark and swift. + +“Ay, a’ right,” said Sutton blindly. He looked round for his cap, which +he had all the time in his hand. Then he got out of doors. + +In a moment the uncle and nephew were in the car jolting on the level +crossing. The elder man seemed as if something tight in his brain made +him open his eyes wide, and stare. He held the steering wheel firmly. +He knew he could steer accurately, to a hair’s breadth. Glaring fixedly +ahead, he let the car go, till it bounded over the uneven road. There +were three coal-carts in a string. In an instant the car grazed past +them, almost biting the kerb on the other side. Sutton aimed his car +like a projectile, staring ahead. He did not want to know, to think, to +realise, he wanted to be only the driver of that quick taxi. + +The town drew near, suddenly. There were allotment-gardens with +dark-purple twiggy fruit-trees and wet alleys between the hedges. Then +suddenly the streets of dwelling-houses whirled close, and the car was +climbing the hill, with an angry whirr,—up—up—till they rode out on to +the crest and could see the tram-cars, dark-red and yellow, threading +their way round the corner below, and all the traffic roaring between +the shops. + +“Got anywhere to go?” asked Sutton of his nephew. + +“I was going to see one or two people.” + +“Come an’ have a bit o’ dinner with us,” said the other. + +Berry knew that his uncle wanted to be distracted, so that he should +not think nor realise. The big man was running hard away from the +horror of realisation. + +“All right,” Berry agreed. + +The car went quickly through the town. It ran up a long street nearly +into the country again. Then it pulled up at a house that stood alone, +below the road. + +“I s’ll be back in ten minutes,” said the uncle. + +The car went on to the garage. Berry stood curiously at the top of the +stone stairs that led from the highroad down to the level of the house, +an old stone place. The garden was dilapidated. Broken fruit-trees +leaned at a sharp angle down the steep bank. Right across the dim grey +atmosphere, in a kind of valley on the edge of the town, new +suburb-patches showed pinkish on the dark earth. It was a kind of +unresolved borderland. + +Berry went down the steps. Through the broken black fence of the +orchard, long grass showed yellow. The place seemed deserted. He +knocked, then knocked again. An elderly woman appeared. She looked like +a housekeeper. At first she said suspiciously that Mr. Sutton was not +in. + +“My uncle just put me down. He’ll be in in ten minutes,” replied the +visitor. + +“Oh, are you the Mr. Berry who is related to him?” exclaimed the +elderly woman. “Come in—come in.” + +She was at once kindly and a little bit servile. The young man entered. +It was an old house, rather dark, and sparsely furnished. The elderly +woman sat nervously on the edge of one of the chairs in a drawing-room +that looked as if it were furnished from dismal relics of dismal homes, +and there was a little straggling attempt at conversation. Mrs. +Greenwell was evidently a working class woman unused to service or to +any formality. + +Presently she gathered up courage to invite her visitor into the +dining-room. There from the table under the window rose a tall, slim +girl with a cat in her arms. She was evidently a little more lady-like +than was habitual to her, but she had a gentle, delicate, small nature. +Her brown hair almost covered her ears, her dark lashes came down in +shy awkwardness over her beautiful blue eyes. She shook hands in a +frank way, yet she was shrinking. Evidently she was not sure how her +position would affect her visitor. And yet she was assured in herself, +shrinking and timid as she was. + +“She must be a good deal in love with him,” thought Berry. + +Both women glanced shamefacedly at the roughly laid table. Evidently +they ate in a rather rough and ready fashion. + +Elaine—she had this poetic name—fingered her cat timidly, not knowing +what to say or to do, unable even to ask her visitor to sit down. He +noticed how her skirt hung almost flat on her hips. She was young, +scarce developed, a long, slender thing. Her colouring was warm and +exquisite. + +The elder woman bustled out to the kitchen. Berry fondled the terrier +dogs that had come curiously to his heels, and glanced out of the +window at the wet, deserted orchard. + +This room, too, was not well furnished, and rather dark. But there was +a big red fire. + +“He always has fox terriers,” he said. + +“Yes,” she answered, showing her teeth in a smile. + +“Do you like them, too?” + +“Yes”—she glanced down at the dogs. “I like Tam better than Sally—” + +Her speech always tailed off into an awkward silence. + +“We’ve been to see Aunt Maud,” said the nephew. + +Her eyes, blue and scared and shrinking, met his. + +“Dan had a letter,” he explained. “She’s very bad.” + +“Isn’t it horrible!” she exclaimed, her face crumbling up with fear. + +The old woman, evidently a hard-used, rather down-trodden workman’s +wife, came in with two soup-plates. She glanced anxiously to see how +her daughter was progressing with the visitor. + +“Mother, Dan’s been to see Maud,” said Elaine, in a quiet voice full of +fear and trouble. + +The old woman looked up anxiously, in question. + +“I think she wanted him to take the child. She’s very bad, I believe,” +explained Berry. + +“Oh, we should take Winnie!” cried Elaine. But both women seemed +uncertain, wavering in their position. Already Berry could see that his +uncle had bullied them, as he bullied everybody. But they were used to +unpleasant men, and seemed to keep at a distance. + +“Will you have some soup?” asked the mother, humbly. + +She evidently did the work. The daughter was to be a lady, more or +less, always dressed and nice for when Sutton came in. + +They heard him heavily running down the steps outside. The dogs got up. +Elaine seemed to forget the visitor. It was as if she came into life. +Yet she was nervous and afraid. The mother stood as if ready to +exculpate herself. + +Sutton burst open the door. Big, blustering, wet in his immense grey +coat, he came into the dining-room. + +“Hello!” he said to his nephew, “making yourself at home?” + +“Oh, yes,” replied Berry. + +“Hello, Jack,” he said to the girl. “Got owt to grizzle about?” + +“What for?” she asked, in a clear, half-challenging voice, that had +that peculiar twang, almost petulant, so female and so attractive. Yet +she was defiant like a boy. + +“It’s a wonder if you haven’t,” growled Sutton. And, with a really +intimate movement, he stooped down and fondled his dogs, though paying +no attention to them. Then he stood up, and remained with feet apart on +the hearthrug, his head ducked forward, watching the girl. He seemed +abstracted, as if he could only watch her. His great-coat hung open, so +that she could see his figure, simple and human in the great husk of +cloth. She stood nervously with her hands behind her, glancing at him, +unable to see anything else. And he was scarcely conscious but of her. +His eyes were still strained and staring, and as they followed the +girl, when, long-limbed and languid, she moved away, it was as if he +saw in her something impersonal, the female, not the woman. + +“Had your dinner?” he asked. + +“We were just going to have it,” she replied, with the same curious +little vibration in her voice, like the twang of a string. + +The mother entered, bringing a saucepan from which she ladled soup into +three plates. + +“Sit down, lad,” said Sutton. “You sit down, Jack, an’ give me mine +here.” + +“Oh, aren’t you coming to table?” she complained. + +“No, I tell you,” he snarled, almost pretending to be disagreeable. But +she was slightly afraid even of the pretence, which pleased and +relieved him. He stood on the hearthrug eating his soup noisily. + +“Aren’t you going to take your coat off?” she said. “It’s filling the +place full of steam.” + +He did not answer, but, with his head bent forward over the plate, he +ate his soup hastily, to get it done with. When he put down his empty +plate, she rose and went to him. + +“Do take your coat off, Dan,” she said, and she took hold of the breast +of his coat, trying to push it back over his shoulder. But she could +not. Only the stare in his eyes changed to a glare as her hand moved +over his shoulder. He looked down into her eyes. She became pale, +rather frightened-looking, and she turned her face away, and it was +drawn slightly with love and fear and misery. She tried again to put +off his coat, her thin wrists pulling at it. He stood solidly planted, +and did not look at her, but stared straight in front. She was playing +with passion, afraid of it, and really wretched because it left her, +the person, out of count. Yet she continued. And there came into his +bearing, into his eyes, the curious smile of passion, pushing away even +the death-horror. It was life stronger than death in him. She stood +close to his breast. Their eyes met, and she was carried away. + +“Take your coat off, Dan,” she said coaxingly, in a low tone meant for +no one but him. And she slid her hands on his shoulder, and he yielded, +so that the coat was pushed back. She had flushed, and her eyes had +grown very bright. She got hold of the cuff of his coat. Gently, he +eased himself, so that she drew it off. Then he stood in a thin suit, +which revealed his vigorous, almost mature form. + +“What a weight!” she exclaimed, in a peculiar penetrating voice, as she +went out hugging the overcoat. In a moment she came back. + +He stood still in the same position, a frown over his fiercely staring +eyes. The pain, the fear, the horror in his breast were all burning +away in the new, fiercest flame of passion. + +“Get your dinner,” he said roughly to her. + +“I’ve had all I want,” she said. “You come an’ have yours.” + +He looked at the table as if he found it difficult to see things. + +“I want no more,” he said. + +She stood close to his chest. She wanted to touch him and to comfort +him. There was something about him now that fascinated her. Berry felt +slightly ashamed that she seemed to ignore the presence of others in +the room. + +The mother came in. She glanced at Sutton, standing planted on the +hearthrug, his head ducked, the heavy frown hiding his eyes. There was +a peculiar braced intensity about him that made the elder woman afraid. +Suddenly he jerked his head round to his nephew. + +“Get on wi’ your dinner, lad,” he said, and he went to the door. The +dogs, which had continually lain down and got up again, uneasy, now +rose and watched. The girl went after him, saying, clearly: + +“What did you want, Dan?” + +Her slim, quick figure was gone, the door was closed behind her. + +There was silence. The mother, still more slave-like in her movement, +sat down in a low chair. Berry drank some beer. + +“That girl will leave him,” he said to himself. “She’ll hate him like +poison. And serve him right. Then she’ll go off with somebody else.” + +And she did. + + + + +THE HORSE DEALER’S DAUGHTER + + +“Well, Mabel, and what are you going to do with yourself?” asked Joe, +with foolish flippancy. He felt quite safe himself. Without listening +for an answer, he turned aside, worked a grain of tobacco to the tip of +his tongue, and spat it out. He did not care about anything, since he +felt safe himself. + +The three brothers and the sister sat round the desolate breakfast +table, attempting some sort of desultory consultation. The morning’s +post had given the final tap to the family fortunes, and all was over. +The dreary dining-room itself, with its heavy mahogany furniture, +looked as if it were waiting to be done away with. + +But the consultation amounted to nothing. There was a strange air of +ineffectuality about the three men, as they sprawled at table, smoking +and reflecting vaguely on their own condition. The girl was alone, a +rather short, sullen-looking young woman of twenty-seven. She did not +share the same life as her brothers. She would have been good-looking, +save for the impassive fixity of her face, “bull-dog”, as her brothers +called it. + +There was a confused tramping of horses’ feet outside. The three men +all sprawled round in their chairs to watch. Beyond the dark +holly-bushes that separated the strip of lawn from the highroad, they +could see a cavalcade of shire horses swinging out of their own yard, +being taken for exercise. This was the last time. These were the last +horses that would go through their hands. The young men watched with +critical, callous look. They were all frightened at the collapse of +their lives, and the sense of disaster in which they were involved left +them no inner freedom. + +Yet they were three fine, well-set fellows enough. Joe, the eldest, was +a man of thirty-three, broad and handsome in a hot, flushed way. His +face was red, he twisted his black moustache over a thick finger, his +eyes were shallow and restless. He had a sensual way of uncovering his +teeth when he laughed, and his bearing was stupid. Now he watched the +horses with a glazed look of helplessness in his eyes, a certain stupor +of downfall. + +The great draught-horses swung past. They were tied head to tail, four +of them, and they heaved along to where a lane branched off from the +highroad, planting their great hoofs floutingly in the fine black mud, +swinging their great rounded haunches sumptuously, and trotting a few +sudden steps as they were led into the lane, round the corner. Every +movement showed a massive, slumbrous strength, and a stupidity which +held them in subjection. The groom at the head looked back, jerking the +leading rope. And the calvalcade moved out of sight up the lane, the +tail of the last horse, bobbed up tight and stiff, held out taut from +the swinging great haunches as they rocked behind the hedges in a +motionlike sleep. + +Joe watched with glazed hopeless eyes. The horses were almost like his +own body to him. He felt he was done for now. Luckily he was engaged to +a woman as old as himself, and therefore her father, who was steward of +a neighbouring estate, would provide him with a job. He would marry and +go into harness. His life was over, he would be a subject animal now. + +He turned uneasily aside, the retreating steps of the horses echoing in +his ears. Then, with foolish restlessness, he reached for the scraps of +bacon-rind from the plates, and making a faint whistling sound, flung +them to the terrier that lay against the fender. He watched the dog +swallow them, and waited till the creature looked into his eyes. Then a +faint grin came on his face, and in a high, foolish voice he said: + +“You won’t get much more bacon, shall you, you little b——?” + +The dog faintly and dismally wagged its tail, then lowered his +haunches, circled round, and lay down again. + +There was another helpless silence at the table. Joe sprawled uneasily +in his seat, not willing to go till the family conclave was dissolved. +Fred Henry, the second brother, was erect, clean-limbed, alert. He had +watched the passing of the horses with more _sang-froid_. If he was an +animal, like Joe, he was an animal which controls, not one which is +controlled. He was master of any horse, and he carried himself with a +well-tempered air of mastery. But he was not master of the situations +of life. He pushed his coarse brown moustache upwards, off his lip, and +glanced irritably at his sister, who sat impassive and inscrutable. + +“You’ll go and stop with Lucy for a bit, shan’t you?” he asked. The +girl did not answer. + +“I don’t see what else you can do,” persisted Fred Henry. + +“Go as a skivvy,” Joe interpolated laconically. + +The girl did not move a muscle. + +“If I was her, I should go in for training for a nurse,” said Malcolm, +the youngest of them all. He was the baby of the family, a young man of +twenty-two, with a fresh, jaunty _museau_. + +But Mabel did not take any notice of him. They had talked at her and +round her for so many years, that she hardly heard them at all. + +The marble clock on the mantel-piece softly chimed the half-hour, the +dog rose uneasily from the hearthrug and looked at the party at the +breakfast table. But still they sat on in ineffectual conclave. + +“Oh, all right,” said Joe suddenly, _à propos_ of nothing. “I’ll get a +move on.” + +He pushed back his chair, straddled his knees with a downward jerk, to +get them free, in horsy fashion, and went to the fire. Still he did not +go out of the room; he was curious to know what the others would do or +say. He began to charge his pipe, looking down at the dog and saying, +in a high, affected voice: + +“Going wi’ me? Going wi’ me are ter? Tha’rt goin’ further than tha +counts on just now, dost hear?” + +The dog faintly wagged its tail, the man stuck out his jaw and covered +his pipe with his hands, and puffed intently, losing himself in the +tobacco, looking down all the while at the dog with an absent brown +eye. The dog looked up at him in mournful distrust. Joe stood with his +knees stuck out, in real horsy fashion. + +“Have you had a letter from Lucy?” Fred Henry asked of his sister. + +“Last week,” came the neutral reply. + +“And what does she say?” + +There was no answer. + +“Does she _ask_ you to go and stop there?” persisted Fred Henry. + +“She says I can if I like.” + +“Well, then, you’d better. Tell her you’ll come on Monday.” + +This was received in silence. + +“That’s what you’ll do then, is it?” said Fred Henry, in some +exasperation. + +But she made no answer. There was a silence of futility and irritation +in the room. Malcolm grinned fatuously. + +“You’ll have to make up your mind between now and next Wednesday,” said +Joe loudly, “or else find yourself lodgings on the kerbstone.” + +The face of the young woman darkened, but she sat on immutable. + +“Here’s Jack Fergusson!” exclaimed Malcolm, who was looking aimlessly +out of the window. + +“Where?” exclaimed Joe, loudly. + +“Just gone past.” + +“Coming in?” + +Malcolm craned his neck to see the gate. + +“Yes,” he said. + +There was a silence. Mabel sat on like one condemned, at the head of +the table. Then a whistle was heard from the kitchen. The dog got up +and barked sharply. Joe opened the door and shouted: + +“Come on.” + +After a moment a young man entered. He was muffled up in overcoat and a +purple woollen scarf, and his tweed cap, which he did not remove, was +pulled down on his head. He was of medium height, his face was rather +long and pale, his eyes looked tired. + +“Hello, Jack! Well, Jack!” exclaimed Malcolm and Joe. Fred Henry merely +said, “Jack.” + +“What’s doing?” asked the newcomer, evidently addressing Fred Henry. + +“Same. We’ve got to be out by Wednesday.—Got a cold?” + +“I have—got it bad, too.” + +“Why don’t you stop in?” + +“_Me_ stop in? When I can’t stand on my legs, perhaps I shall have a +chance.” The young man spoke huskily. He had a slight Scotch accent. + +“It’s a knock-out, isn’t it,” said Joe, boisterously, “if a doctor goes +round croaking with a cold. Looks bad for the patients, doesn’t it?” + +The young doctor looked at him slowly. + +“Anything the matter with _you_, then?” he asked sarcastically. + +“Not as I know of. Damn your eyes, I hope not. Why?” + +“I thought you were very concerned about the patients, wondered if you +might be one yourself.” + +“Damn it, no, I’ve never been patient to no flaming doctor, and hope I +never shall be,” returned Joe. + +At this point Mabel rose from the table, and they all seemed to become +aware of her existence. She began putting the dishes together. The +young doctor looked at her, but did not address her. He had not greeted +her. She went out of the room with the tray, her face impassive and +unchanged. + +“When are you off then, all of you?” asked the doctor. + +“I’m catching the eleven-forty,” replied Malcolm. “Are you goin’ down +wi’ th’ trap, Joe?” + +“Yes, I’ve told you I’m going down wi’ th’ trap, haven’t I?” + +“We’d better be getting her in then.—So long, Jack, if I don’t see you +before I go,” said Malcolm, shaking hands. + +He went out, followed by Joe, who seemed to have his tail between his +legs. + +“Well, this is the devil’s own,” exclaimed the doctor, when he was left +alone with Fred Henry. “Going before Wednesday, are you?” + +“That’s the orders,” replied the other. + +“Where, to Northampton?” + +“That’s it.” + +“The devil!” exclaimed Fergusson, with quiet chagrin. + +And there was silence between the two. + +“All settled up, are you?” asked Fergusson. + +“About.” + +There was another pause. + +“Well, I shall miss yer, Freddy, boy,” said the young doctor. + +“And I shall miss thee, Jack,” returned the other. + +“Miss you like hell,” mused the doctor. + +Fred Henry turned aside. There was nothing to say. Mabel came in again, +to finish clearing the table. + +“What are _you_ going to do, then, Miss Pervin?” asked Fergusson. +“Going to your sister’s, are you?” + +Mabel looked at him with her steady, dangerous eyes, that always made +him uncomfortable, unsettling his superficial ease. + +“No,” she said. + +“Well, what in the name of fortune _are_ you going to do? Say what you +mean to do,” cried Fred Henry, with futile intensity. + +But she only averted her head, and continued her work. She folded the +white table-cloth, and put on the chenille cloth. + +“The sulkiest bitch that ever trod!” muttered her brother. + +But she finished her task with perfectly impassive face, the young +doctor watching her interestedly all the while. Then she went out. + +Fred Henry stared after her, clenching his lips, his blue eyes fixing +in sharp antagonism, as he made a grimace of sour exasperation. + +“You could bray her into bits, and that’s all you’d get out of her,” he +said, in a small, narrowed tone. + +The doctor smiled faintly. + +“What’s she _going_ to do, then?” he asked. + +“Strike me if I know!” returned the other. + +There was a pause. Then the doctor stirred. + +“I’ll be seeing you tonight, shall I?” he said to his friend. + +“Ay—where’s it to be? Are we going over to Jessdale?” + +“I don’t know. I’ve got such a cold on me. I’ll come round to the Moon +and Stars, anyway.” + +“Let Lizzie and May miss their night for once, eh?” + +“That’s it—if I feel as I do now.” + +“All’s one—” + +The two young men went through the passage and down to the back door +together. The house was large, but it was servantless now, and +desolate. At the back was a small bricked house-yard, and beyond that a +big square, gravelled fine and red, and having stables on two sides. +Sloping, dank, winter-dark fields stretched away on the open sides. + +But the stables were empty. Joseph Pervin, the father of the family, +had been a man of no education, who had become a fairly large horse +dealer. The stables had been full of horses, there was a great turmoil +and come-and-go of horses and of dealers and grooms. Then the kitchen +was full of servants. But of late things had declined. The old man had +married a second time, to retrieve his fortunes. Now he was dead and +everything was gone to the dogs, there was nothing but debt and +threatening. + +For months, Mabel had been servantless in the big house, keeping the +home together in penury for her ineffectual brothers. She had kept +house for ten years. But previously, it was with unstinted means. Then, +however brutal and coarse everything was, the sense of money had kept +her proud, confident. The men might be foul-mouthed, the women in the +kitchen might have bad reputations, her brothers might have +illegitimate children. But so long as there was money, the girl felt +herself established, and brutally proud, reserved. + +No company came to the house, save dealers and coarse men. Mabel had no +associates of her own sex, after her sister went away. But she did not +mind. She went regularly to church, she attended to her father. And she +lived in the memory of her mother, who had died when she was fourteen, +and whom she had loved. She had loved her father, too, in a different +way, depending upon him, and feeling secure in him, until at the age of +fifty-four he married again. And then she had set hard against him. Now +he had died and left them all hopelessly in debt. + +She had suffered badly during the period of poverty. Nothing, however, +could shake the curious sullen, animal pride that dominated each member +of the family. Now, for Mabel, the end had come. Still she would not +cast about her. She would follow her own way just the same. She would +always hold the keys of her own situation. Mindless and persistent, she +endured from day to day. Why should she think? Why should she answer +anybody? It was enough that this was the end, and there was no way out. +She need not pass any more darkly along the main street of the small +town, avoiding every eye. She need not demean herself any more, going +into the shops and buying the cheapest food. This was at an end. She +thought of nobody, not even of herself. Mindless and persistent, she +seemed in a sort of ecstasy to be coming nearer to her fulfilment, her +own glorification, approaching her dead mother, who was glorified. + +In the afternoon she took a little bag, with shears and sponge and a +small scrubbing brush, and went out. It was a grey, wintry day, with +saddened, dark-green fields and an atmosphere blackened by the smoke of +foundries not far off. She went quickly, darkly along the causeway, +heeding nobody, through the town to the churchyard. + +There she always felt secure, as if no one could see her, although as a +matter of fact she was exposed to the stare of everyone who passed +along under the churchyard wall. Nevertheless, once under the shadow of +the great looming church, among the graves, she felt immune from the +world, reserved within the thick churchyard wall as in another country. + +Carefully she clipped the grass from the grave, and arranged the +pinky-white, small chrysanthemums in the tin cross. When this was done, +she took an empty jar from a neighbouring grave, brought water, and +carefully, most scrupulously sponged the marble headstone and the +coping-stone. + +It gave her sincere satisfaction to do this. She felt in immediate +contact with the world of her mother. She took minute pains, went +through the park in a state bordering on pure happiness, as if in +performing this task she came into a subtle, intimate connexion with +her mother. For the life she followed here in the world was far less +real than the world of death she inherited from her mother. + +The doctor’s house was just by the church. Fergusson, being a mere +hired assistant, was slave to the countryside. As he hurried now to +attend to the outpatients in the surgery, glancing across the graveyard +with his quick eye, he saw the girl at her task at the grave. She +seemed so intent and remote, it was like looking into another world. +Some mystical element was touched in him. He slowed down as he walked, +watching her as if spell-bound. + +She lifted her eyes, feeling him looking. Their eyes met. And each +looked again at once, each feeling, in some way, found out by the +other. He lifted his cap and passed on down the road. There remained +distinct in his consciousness, like a vision, the memory of her face, +lifted from the tombstone in the churchyard, and looking at him with +slow, large, portentous eyes. It _was_ portentous, her face. It seemed +to mesmerise him. There was a heavy power in her eyes which laid hold +of his whole being, as if he had drunk some powerful drug. He had been +feeling weak and done before. Now the life came back into him, he felt +delivered from his own fretted, daily self. + +He finished his duties at the surgery as quickly as might be, hastily +filling up the bottles of the waiting people with cheap drugs. Then, in +perpetual haste, he set off again to visit several cases in another +part of his round, before teatime. At all times he preferred to walk, +if he could, but particularly when he was not well. He fancied the +motion restored him. + +The afternoon was falling. It was grey, deadened, and wintry, with a +slow, moist, heavy coldness sinking in and deadening all the faculties. +But why should he think or notice? He hastily climbed the hill and +turned across the dark-green fields, following the black cinder-track. +In the distance, across a shallow dip in the country, the small town +was clustered like smouldering ash, a tower, a spire, a heap of low, +raw, extinct houses. And on the nearest fringe of the town, sloping +into the dip, was Oldmeadow, the Pervins’ house. He could see the +stables and the outbuildings distinctly, as they lay towards him on the +slope. Well, he would not go there many more times! Another resource +would be lost to him, another place gone: the only company he cared for +in the alien, ugly little town he was losing. Nothing but work, +drudgery, constant hastening from dwelling to dwelling among the +colliers and the iron-workers. It wore him out, but at the same time he +had a craving for it. It was a stimulant to him to be in the homes of +the working people, moving as it were through the innermost body of +their life. His nerves were excited and gratified. He could come so +near, into the very lives of the rough, inarticulate, powerfully +emotional men and women. He grumbled, he said he hated the hellish +hole. But as a matter of fact it excited him, the contact with the +rough, strongly-feeling people was a stimulant applied direct to his +nerves. + +Below Oldmeadow, in the green, shallow, soddened hollow of fields, lay +a square, deep pond. Roving across the landscape, the doctor’s quick +eye detected a figure in black passing through the gate of the field, +down towards the pond. He looked again. It would be Mabel Pervin. His +mind suddenly became alive and attentive. + +Why was she going down there? He pulled up on the path on the slope +above, and stood staring. He could just make sure of the small black +figure moving in the hollow of the failing day. He seemed to see her in +the midst of such obscurity, that he was like a clairvoyant, seeing +rather with the mind’s eye than with ordinary sight. Yet he could see +her positively enough, whilst he kept his eye attentive. He felt, if he +looked away from her, in the thick, ugly falling dusk, he would lose +her altogether. + +He followed her minutely as she moved, direct and intent, like +something transmitted rather than stirring in voluntary activity, +straight down the field towards the pond. There she stood on the bank +for a moment. She never raised her head. Then she waded slowly into the +water. + +He stood motionless as the small black figure walked slowly and +deliberately towards the centre of the pond, very slowly, gradually +moving deeper into the motionless water, and still moving forward as +the water got up to her breast. Then he could see her no more in the +dusk of the dead afternoon. + +“There!” he exclaimed. “Would you believe it?” + +And he hastened straight down, running over the wet, soddened fields, +pushing through the hedges, down into the depression of callous wintry +obscurity. It took him several minutes to come to the pond. He stood on +the bank, breathing heavily. He could see nothing. His eyes seemed to +penetrate the dead water. Yes, perhaps that was the dark shadow of her +black clothing beneath the surface of the water. + +He slowly ventured into the pond. The bottom was deep, soft clay, he +sank in, and the water clasped dead cold round his legs. As he stirred +he could smell the cold, rotten clay that fouled up into the water. It +was objectionable in his lungs. Still, repelled and yet not heeding, he +moved deeper into the pond. The cold water rose over his thighs, over +his loins, upon his abdomen. The lower part of his body was all sunk in +the hideous cold element. And the bottom was so deeply soft and +uncertain, he was afraid of pitching with his mouth underneath. He +could not swim, and was afraid. + +He crouched a little, spreading his hands under the water and moving +them round, trying to feel for her. The dead cold pond swayed upon his +chest. He moved again, a little deeper, and again, with his hands +underneath, he felt all around under the water. And he touched her +clothing. But it evaded his fingers. He made a desperate effort to +grasp it. + +And so doing he lost his balance and went under, horribly, suffocating +in the foul earthy water, struggling madly for a few moments. At last, +after what seemed an eternity, he got his footing, rose again into the +air and looked around. He gasped, and knew he was in the world. Then he +looked at the water. She had risen near him. He grasped her clothing, +and drawing her nearer, turned to take his way to land again. + +He went very slowly, carefully, absorbed in the slow progress. He rose +higher, climbing out of the pond. The water was now only about his +legs; he was thankful, full of relief to be out of the clutches of the +pond. He lifted her and staggered on to the bank, out of the horror of +wet, grey clay. + +He laid her down on the bank. She was quite unconscious and running +with water. He made the water come from her mouth, he worked to restore +her. He did not have to work very long before he could feel the +breathing begin again in her; she was breathing naturally. He worked a +little longer. He could feel her live beneath his hands; she was coming +back. He wiped her face, wrapped her in his overcoat, looked round into +the dim, dark-grey world, then lifted her and staggered down the bank +and across the fields. + +It seemed an unthinkably long way, and his burden so heavy he felt he +would never get to the house. But at last he was in the stable-yard, +and then in the house-yard. He opened the door and went into the house. +In the kitchen he laid her down on the hearthrug, and called. The house +was empty. But the fire was burning in the grate. + +Then again he kneeled to attend to her. She was breathing regularly, +her eyes were wide open and as if conscious, but there seemed something +missing in her look. She was conscious in herself, but unconscious of +her surroundings. + +He ran upstairs, took blankets from a bed, and put them before the fire +to warm. Then he removed her saturated, earthy-smelling clothing, +rubbed her dry with a towel, and wrapped her naked in the blankets. +Then he went into the dining-room, to look for spirits. There was a +little whisky. He drank a gulp himself, and put some into her mouth. + +The effect was instantaneous. She looked full into his face, as if she +had been seeing him for some time, and yet had only just become +conscious of him. + +“Dr. Fergusson?” she said. + +“What?” he answered. + +He was divesting himself of his coat, intending to find some dry +clothing upstairs. He could not bear the smell of the dead, clayey +water, and he was mortally afraid for his own health. + +“What did I do?” she asked. + +“Walked into the pond,” he replied. He had begun to shudder like one +sick, and could hardly attend to her. Her eyes remained full on him, he +seemed to be going dark in his mind, looking back at her helplessly. +The shuddering became quieter in him, his life came back in him, dark +and unknowing, but strong again. + +“Was I out of my mind?” she asked, while her eyes were fixed on him all +the time. + +“Maybe, for the moment,” he replied. He felt quiet, because his +strength had come back. The strange fretful strain had left him. + +“Am I out of my mind now?” she asked. + +“Are you?” he reflected a moment. “No,” he answered truthfully, “I +don’t see that you are.” He turned his face aside. He was afraid now, +because he felt dazed, and felt dimly that her power was stronger than +his, in this issue. And she continued to look at him fixedly all the +time. “Can you tell me where I shall find some dry things to put on?” +he asked. + +“Did you dive into the pond for me?” she asked. + +“No,” he answered. “I walked in. But I went in overhead as well.” + +There was silence for a moment. He hesitated. He very much wanted to go +upstairs to get into dry clothing. But there was another desire in him. +And she seemed to hold him. His will seemed to have gone to sleep, and +left him, standing there slack before her. But he felt warm inside +himself. He did not shudder at all, though his clothes were sodden on +him. + +“Why did you?” she asked. + +“Because I didn’t want you to do such a foolish thing,” he said. + +“It wasn’t foolish,” she said, still gazing at him as she lay on the +floor, with a sofa cushion under her head. “It was the right thing to +do. _I_ knew best, then.” + +“I’ll go and shift these wet things,” he said. But still he had not the +power to move out of her presence, until she sent him. It was as if she +had the life of his body in her hands, and he could not extricate +himself. Or perhaps he did not want to. + +Suddenly she sat up. Then she became aware of her own immediate +condition. She felt the blankets about her, she knew her own limbs. For +a moment it seemed as if her reason were going. She looked round, with +wild eye, as if seeking something. He stood still with fear. She saw +her clothing lying scattered. + +“Who undressed me?” she asked, her eyes resting full and inevitable on +his face. + +“I did,” he replied, “to bring you round.” + +For some moments she sat and gazed at him awfully, her lips parted. + +“Do you love me then?” she asked. + +He only stood and stared at her, fascinated. His soul seemed to melt. + +She shuffled forward on her knees, and put her arms round him, round +his legs, as he stood there, pressing her breasts against his knees and +thighs, clutching him with strange, convulsive certainty, pressing his +thighs against her, drawing him to her face, her throat, as she looked +up at him with flaring, humble eyes, of transfiguration, triumphant in +first possession. + +“You love me,” she murmured, in strange transport, yearning and +triumphant and confident. “You love me. I know you love me, I know.” + +And she was passionately kissing his knees, through the wet clothing, +passionately and indiscriminately kissing his knees, his legs, as if +unaware of everything. + +He looked down at the tangled wet hair, the wild, bare, animal +shoulders. He was amazed, bewildered, and afraid. He had never thought +of loving her. He had never wanted to love her. When he rescued her and +restored her, he was a doctor, and she was a patient. He had had no +single personal thought of her. Nay, this introduction of the personal +element was very distasteful to him, a violation of his professional +honour. It was horrible to have her there embracing his knees. It was +horrible. He revolted from it, violently. And yet—and yet—he had not +the power to break away. + +She looked at him again, with the same supplication of powerful love, +and that same transcendent, frightening light of triumph. In view of +the delicate flame which seemed to come from her face like a light, he +was powerless. And yet he had never intended to love her. He had never +intended. And something stubborn in him could not give way. + +“You love me,” she repeated, in a murmur of deep, rhapsodic assurance. +“You love me.” + +Her hands were drawing him, drawing him down to her. He was afraid, +even a little horrified. For he had, really, no intention of loving +her. Yet her hands were drawing him towards her. He put out his hand +quickly to steady himself, and grasped her bare shoulder. A flame +seemed to burn the hand that grasped her soft shoulder. He had no +intention of loving her: his whole will was against his yielding. It +was horrible. And yet wonderful was the touch of her shoulders, +beautiful the shining of her face. Was she perhaps mad? He had a horror +of yielding to her. Yet something in him ached also. + +He had been staring away at the door, away from her. But his hand +remained on her shoulder. She had gone suddenly very still. He looked +down at her. Her eyes were now wide with fear, with doubt, the light +was dying from her face, a shadow of terrible greyness was returning. +He could not bear the touch of her eyes’ question upon him, and the +look of death behind the question. + +With an inward groan he gave way, and let his heart yield towards her. +A sudden gentle smile came on his face. And her eyes, which never left +his face, slowly, slowly filled with tears. He watched the strange +water rise in her eyes, like some slow fountain coming up. And his +heart seemed to burn and melt away in his breast. + +He could not bear to look at her any more. He dropped on his knees and +caught her head with his arms and pressed her face against his throat. +She was very still. His heart, which seemed to have broken, was burning +with a kind of agony in his breast. And he felt her slow, hot tears +wetting his throat. But he could not move. + +He felt the hot tears wet his neck and the hollows of his neck, and he +remained motionless, suspended through one of man’s eternities. Only +now it had become indispensable to him to have her face pressed close +to him; he could never let her go again. He could never let her head go +away from the close clutch of his arm. He wanted to remain like that +for ever, with his heart hurting him in a pain that was also life to +him. Without knowing, he was looking down on her damp, soft brown hair. + +Then, as it were suddenly, he smelt the horrid stagnant smell of that +water. And at the same moment she drew away from him and looked at him. +Her eyes were wistful and unfathomable. He was afraid of them, and he +fell to kissing her, not knowing what he was doing. He wanted her eyes +not to have that terrible, wistful, unfathomable look. + +When she turned her face to him again, a faint delicate flush was +glowing, and there was again dawning that terrible shining of joy in +her eyes, which really terrified him, and yet which he now wanted to +see, because he feared the look of doubt still more. + +“You love me?” she said, rather faltering. + +“Yes.” The word cost him a painful effort. Not because it wasn’t true. +But because it was too newly true, the _saying_ seemed to tear open +again his newly-torn heart. And he hardly wanted it to be true, even +now. + +She lifted her face to him, and he bent forward and kissed her on the +mouth, gently, with the one kiss that is an eternal pledge. And as he +kissed her his heart strained again in his breast. He never intended to +love her. But now it was over. He had crossed over the gulf to her, and +all that he had left behind had shrivelled and become void. + +After the kiss, her eyes again slowly filled with tears. She sat still, +away from him, with her face drooped aside, and her hands folded in her +lap. The tears fell very slowly. There was complete silence. He too sat +there motionless and silent on the hearthrug. The strange pain of his +heart that was broken seemed to consume him. That he should love her? +That this was love! That he should be ripped open in this way!—Him, a +doctor!—How they would all jeer if they knew!—It was agony to him to +think they might know. + +In the curious naked pain of the thought he looked again to her. She +was sitting there drooped into a muse. He saw a tear fall, and his +heart flared hot. He saw for the first time that one of her shoulders +was quite uncovered, one arm bare, he could see one of her small +breasts; dimly, because it had become almost dark in the room. + +“Why are you crying?” he asked, in an altered voice. + +She looked up at him, and behind her tears the consciousness of her +situation for the first time brought a dark look of shame to her eyes. + +“I’m not crying, really,” she said, watching him half frightened. + +He reached his hand, and softly closed it on her bare arm. + +“I love you! I love you!” he said in a soft, low vibrating voice, +unlike himself. + +She shrank, and dropped her head. The soft, penetrating grip of his +hand on her arm distressed her. She looked up at him. + +“I want to go,” she said. “I want to go and get you some dry things.” + +“Why?” he said. “I’m all right.” + +“But I want to go,” she said. “And I want you to change your things.” + +He released her arm, and she wrapped herself in the blanket, looking at +him rather frightened. And still she did not rise. + +“Kiss me,” she said wistfully. + +He kissed her, but briefly, half in anger. + +Then, after a second, she rose nervously, all mixed up in the blanket. +He watched her in her confusion, as she tried to extricate herself and +wrap herself up so that she could walk. He watched her relentlessly, as +she knew. And as she went, the blanket trailing, and as he saw a +glimpse of her feet and her white leg, he tried to remember her as she +was when he had wrapped her in the blanket. But then he didn’t want to +remember, because she had been nothing to him then, and his nature +revolted from remembering her as she was when she was nothing to him. + +A tumbling, muffled noise from within the dark house startled him. Then +he heard her voice:—“There are clothes.” He rose and went to the foot +of the stairs, and gathered up the garments she had thrown down. Then +he came back to the fire, to rub himself down and dress. He grinned at +his own appearance when he had finished. + +The fire was sinking, so he put on coal. The house was now quite dark, +save for the light of a street-lamp that shone in faintly from beyond +the holly trees. He lit the gas with matches he found on the +mantel-piece. Then he emptied the pockets of his own clothes, and threw +all his wet things in a heap into the scullery. After which he gathered +up her sodden clothes, gently, and put them in a separate heap on the +copper-top in the scullery. + +It was six o’clock on the clock. His own watch had stopped. He ought to +go back to the surgery. He waited, and still she did not come down. So +he went to the foot of the stairs and called: + +“I shall have to go.” + +Almost immediately he heard her coming down. She had on her best dress +of black voile, and her hair was tidy, but still damp. She looked at +him—and in spite of herself, smiled. + +“I don’t like you in those clothes,” she said. + +“Do I look a sight?” he answered. + +They were shy of one another. + +“I’ll make you some tea,” she said. + +“No, I must go.” + +“Must you?” And she looked at him again with the wide, strained, +doubtful eyes. And again, from the pain of his breast, he knew how he +loved her. He went and bent to kiss her, gently, passionately, with his +heart’s painful kiss. + +“And my hair smells so horrible,” she murmured in distraction. “And I’m +so awful, I’m so awful! Oh, no, I’m too awful.” And she broke into +bitter, heart-broken sobbing. “You can’t want to love me, I’m +horrible.” + +“Don’t be silly, don’t be silly,” he said, trying to comfort her, +kissing her, holding her in his arms. “I want you, I want to marry you, +we’re going to be married, quickly, quickly—tomorrow if I can.” + +But she only sobbed terribly, and cried: + +“I feel awful. I feel awful. I feel I’m horrible to you.” + +“No, I want you, I want you,” was all he answered, blindly, with that +terrible intonation which frightened her almost more than her horror +lest he should _not_ want her. + + + + +FANNY AND ANNIE + + +Flame-lurid his face as he turned among the throng of flame-lit and +dark faces upon the platform. In the light of the furnace she caught +sight of his drifting countenance, like a piece of floating fire. And +the nostalgia, the doom of homecoming went through her veins like a +drug. His eternal face, flame-lit now! The pulse and darkness of red +fire from the furnace towers in the sky, lighting the desultory, +industrial crowd on the wayside station, lit him and went out. + +Of course he did not see her. Flame-lit and unseeing! Always the same, +with his meeting eyebrows, his common cap, and his red-and-black scarf +knotted round his throat. Not even a collar to meet her! The flames had +sunk, there was shadow. + +She opened the door of her grimy, branch-line carriage, and began to +get down her bags. The porter was nowhere, of course, but there was +Harry, obscure, on the outer edge of the little crowd, missing her, of +course. + +“Here! Harry!” she called, waving her umbrella in the twilight. He +hurried forward. + +“Tha’s come, has ter?” he said, in a sort of cheerful welcome. She got +down, rather flustered, and gave him a peck of a kiss. + +“Two suit-cases!” she said. + +Her soul groaned within her, as he clambered into the carriage after +her bags. Up shot the fire in the twilight sky, from the great furnace +behind the station. She felt the red flame go across her face. She had +come back, she had come back for good. And her spirit groaned dismally. +She doubted if she could bear it. + +There, on the sordid little station under the furnaces, she stood, tall +and distinguished, in her well-made coat and skirt and her broad grey +velour hat. She held her umbrella, her bead chatelaine, and a little +leather case in her grey-gloved hands, while Harry staggered out of the +ugly little train with her bags. + +“There’s a trunk at the back,” she said in her bright voice. But she +was not feeling bright. The twin black cones of the iron foundry +blasted their sky-high fires into the night. The whole scene was lurid. +The train waited cheerfully. It would wait another ten minutes. She +knew it. It was all so deadly familiar. + +Let us confess it at once. She was a lady’s maid, thirty years old, +come back to marry her first-love, a foundry worker: after having kept +him dangling, off and on, for a dozen years. Why had she come back? Did +she love him? No. She didn’t pretend to. She had loved her brilliant +and ambitious cousin, who had jilted her, and who had died. She had had +other affairs which had come to nothing. So here she was, come back +suddenly to marry her first-love, who had waited—or remained single—all +these years. + +“Won’t a porter carry those?” she said, as Harry strode with his +workman’s stride down the platform towards the guard’s van. + +“I can manage,” he said. + +And with her umbrella, her chatelaine, and her little leather case, she +followed him. + +The trunk was there. + +“We’ll get Heather’s greengrocer’s cart to fetch it up,” he said. + +“Isn’t there a cab?” said Fanny, knowing dismally enough that there +wasn’t. + +“I’ll just put it aside o’ the penny-in-the-slot, and Heather’s +greengrocers’ll fetch it about half past eight,” he said. + +He seized the box by its two handles and staggered with it across the +level-crossing, bumping his legs against it as he waddled. Then he +dropped it by the red sweet-meats machine. + +“Will it be safe there?” she said. + +“Ay—safe as houses,” he answered. He returned for the two bags. Thus +laden, they started to plod up the hill, under the great long black +building of the foundry. She walked beside him—workman of workmen he +was, trudging with that luggage. The red lights flared over the +deepening darkness. From the foundry came the horrible, slow clang, +clang, clang of iron, a great noise, with an interval just long enough +to make it unendurable. + +Compare this with the arrival at Gloucester: the carriage for her +mistress, the dog-cart for herself with the luggage; the drive out past +the river, the pleasant trees of the carriage-approach; and herself +sitting beside Arthur, everybody so polite to her. + +She had come home—for good! Her heart nearly stopped beating as she +trudged up that hideous and interminable hill, beside the laden figure. +What a come-down! What a come-down! She could not take it with her +usual bright cheerfulness. She knew it all too well. It is easy to bear +up against the unusual, but the deadly familiarity of an old stale +past! + +He dumped the bags down under a lamp-post, for a rest. There they +stood, the two of them, in the lamplight. Passers-by stared at her, and +gave good-night to Harry. Her they hardly knew, she had become a +stranger. + +“They’re too heavy for you, let me carry one,” she said. + +“They begin to weigh a bit by the time you’ve gone a mile,” he +answered. + +“Let me carry the little one,” she insisted. + +“Tha can ha’e it for a minute, if ter’s a mind,” he said, handing over +the valise. + +And thus they arrived in the streets of shops of the little ugly town +on top of the hill. How everybody stared at her; my word, how they +stared! And the cinema was just going in, and the queues were tailing +down the road to the corner. And everybody took full stock of her. +“Night, Harry!” shouted the fellows, in an interested voice. + +However, they arrived at her aunt’s—a little sweet-shop in a side +street. They “pinged” the door-bell, and her aunt came running forward +out of the kitchen. + +“There you are, child! Dying for a cup of tea, I’m sure. How are you?” + +Fanny’s aunt kissed her, and it was all Fanny could do to refrain from +bursting into tears, she felt so low. Perhaps it was her tea she +wanted. + +“You’ve had a drag with that luggage,” said Fanny’s aunt to Harry. + +“Ay—I’m not sorry to put it down,” he said, looking at his hand which +was crushed and cramped by the bag handle. + +Then he departed to see about Heather’s greengrocery cart. + +When Fanny sat at tea, her aunt, a grey-haired, fair-faced little +woman, looked at her with an admiring heart, feeling bitterly sore for +her. For Fanny was beautiful: tall, erect, finely coloured, with her +delicately arched nose, her rich brown hair, her large lustrous grey +eyes. A passionate woman—a woman to be afraid of. So proud, so inwardly +violent! She came of a violent race. + +It needed a woman to sympathise with her. Men had not the courage. Poor +Fanny! She was such a lady, and so straight and magnificent. And yet +everything seemed to do her down. Every time she seemed to be doomed to +humiliation and disappointment, this handsome, brilliantly sensitive +woman, with her nervous, overwrought laugh. + +“So you’ve really come back, child?” said her aunt. + +“I really have, Aunt,” said Fanny. + +“Poor Harry! I’m not sure, you know, Fanny, that you’re not taking a +bit of an advantage of him.” + +“Oh, Aunt, he’s waited so long, he may as well have what he’s waited +for.” Fanny laughed grimly. + +“Yes, child, he’s waited so long, that I’m not sure it isn’t a bit hard +on him. You know, I _like_ him, Fanny—though as you know quite well, I +don’t think he’s good enough for you. And I think he thinks so himself, +poor fellow.” + +“Don’t you be so sure of that, Aunt. Harry is common, but he’s not +humble. He wouldn’t think the Queen was any too good for him, if he’d a +mind to her.” + +“Well—It’s as well if he has a proper opinion of himself.” + +“It depends what you call proper,” said Fanny. “But he’s got his good +points—” + +“Oh, he’s a nice fellow, and I like him, I do like him. Only, as I tell +you, he’s not good enough for you.” + +“I’ve made up my mind, Aunt,” said Fanny, grimly. + +“Yes,” mused the aunt. “They say all things come to him who waits—” + +“More than he’s bargained for, eh, Aunt?” laughed Fanny rather +bitterly. + +The poor aunt, this bitterness grieved her for her niece. + +They were interrupted by the ping of the shop-bell, and Harry’s call of +“Right!” But as he did not come in at once, Fanny, feeling solicitous +for him presumably at the moment, rose and went into the shop. She saw +a cart outside, and went to the door. + +And the moment she stood in the doorway, she heard a woman’s common +vituperative voice crying from the darkness of the opposite side of the +road: + +“Tha’rt theer, ar ter? I’ll shame thee, Mester. I’ll shame thee, see if +I dunna.” + +Startled, Fanny stared across the darkness, and saw a woman in a black +bonnet go under one of the lamps up the side street. + +Harry and Bill Heather had dragged the trunk off the little dray, and +she retreated before them as they came up the shop step with it. + +“Wheer shalt ha’e it?” asked Harry. + +“Best take it upstairs,” said Fanny. + +She went up first to light the gas. + +When Heather had gone, and Harry was sitting down having tea and pork +pie, Fanny asked: + +“Who was that woman shouting?” + +“Nay, I canna tell thee. To somebody, I’s’d think,” replied Harry. +Fanny looked at him, but asked no more. + +He was a fair-haired fellow of thirty-two, with a fair moustache. He +was broad in his speech, and looked like a foundry-hand, which he was. +But women always liked him. There was something of a mother’s lad about +him—something warm and playful and really sensitive. + +He had his attractions even for Fanny. What she rebelled against so +bitterly was that he had no sort of ambition. He was a moulder, but of +very commonplace skill. He was thirty-two years old, and hadn’t saved +twenty pounds. She would have to provide the money for the home. He +didn’t care. He just didn’t care. He had no initiative at all. He had +no vices—no obvious ones. But he was just indifferent, spending as he +went, and not caring. Yet he did not look happy. She remembered his +face in the fire-glow: something haunted, abstracted about it. As he +sat there eating his pork pie, bulging his cheek out, she felt he was +like a doom to her. And she raged against the doom of him. It wasn’t +that he was gross. His way was common, almost on purpose. But he +himself wasn’t really common. For instance, his food was not +particularly important to him, he was not greedy. He had a charm, too, +particularly for women, with his blondness and his sensitiveness and +his way of making a woman feel that she was a higher being. But Fanny +knew him, knew the peculiar obstinate limitedness of him, that would +nearly send her mad. + +He stayed till about half past nine. She went to the door with him. + +“When are you coming up?” he said, jerking his head in the direction, +presumably, of his own home. + +“I’ll come tomorrow afternoon,” she said brightly. Between Fanny and +Mrs. Goodall, his mother, there was naturally no love lost. + +Again she gave him an awkward little kiss, and said good-night. + +“You can’t wonder, you know, child, if he doesn’t seem so very keen,” +said her aunt. “It’s your own fault.” + +“Oh, Aunt, I couldn’t stand him when he was keen. I can do with him a +lot better as he is.” + +The two women sat and talked far into the night. They understood each +other. The aunt, too, had married as Fanny was marrying: a man who was +no companion to her, a violent man, brother of Fanny’s father. He was +dead, Fanny’s father was dead. + +Poor Aunt Lizzie, she cried woefully over her bright niece, when she +had gone to bed. + +Fanny paid the promised visit to his people the next afternoon. Mrs. +Goodall was a large woman with smooth-parted hair, a common, obstinate +woman, who had spoiled her four lads and her one vixen of a married +daughter. She was one of those old-fashioned powerful natures that +couldn’t do with looks or education or any form of showing off. She +fairly hated the sound of correct English. She _thee’d_ and _tha’d_ her +prospective daughter-in-law, and said: + +“I’m none as ormin’ as I look, seest ta.” + +Fanny did not think her prospective mother-in-law looked at all orming, +so the speech was unnecessary. + +“I towd him mysen,” said Mrs. Goodall, “’Er’s held back all this long, +let ’er stop as ’er is. ’E’d none ha’ had thee for _my_ tellin’—tha +hears. No, ’e’s a fool, an’ I know it. I says to him, ‘Tha looks a man, +doesn’t ter, at thy age, goin’ an’ openin’ to her when ter hears her +scrat’ at th’ gate, after she’s done gallivantin’ round wherever she’d +a mind. That looks rare an’ soft.’ But it’s no use o’ any talking: he +answered that letter o’ thine and made his own bad bargain.” + +But in spite of the old woman’s anger, she was also flattered at +Fanny’s coming back to Harry. For Mrs. Goodall was impressed by Fanny—a +woman of her own match. And more than this, everybody knew that Fanny’s +Aunt Kate had left her two hundred pounds: this apart from the girl’s +savings. + +So there was high tea in Princes Street when Harry came home black from +work, and a rather acrid odour of cordiality, the vixen Jinny darting +in to say vulgar things. Of course Jinny lived in a house whose garden +end joined the paternal garden. They were a clan who stuck together, +these Goodalls. + +It was arranged that Fanny should come to tea again on the Sunday, and +the wedding was discussed. It should take place in a fortnight’s time +at Morley Chapel. Morley was a hamlet on the edge of the real country, +and in its little Congregational Chapel Fanny and Harry had first met. + +What a creature of habit he was! He was still in the choir of Morley +Chapel—not very regular. He belonged just because he had a tenor voice, +and enjoyed singing. Indeed his solos were only spoilt to local fame +because when he sang he handled his aitches so hopelessly. + +“And I saw ’eaven hopened +And be’old, a wite ’orse——” + + +This was one of Harry’s classics, only surpassed by the fine outburst +of his heaving: + +“Hangels—hever bright an’ fair——” + + +It was a pity, but it was inalterable. He had a good voice, and he sang +with a certain lacerating fire, but his pronunciation made it all +funny. And nothing could alter him. + +So he was never heard save at cheap concerts and in the little, poorer +chapels. The others scoffed. + +Now the month was September, and Sunday was Harvest Festival at Morley +Chapel, and Harry was singing solos. So that Fanny was to go to +afternoon service, and come home to a grand spread of Sunday tea with +him. Poor Fanny! One of the most wonderful afternoons had been a Sunday +afternoon service, with her cousin Luther at her side, Harvest Festival +in Morley Chapel. Harry had sung solos then—ten years ago. She +remembered his pale blue tie, and the purple asters and the great +vegetable marrows in which he was framed, and her cousin Luther at her +side, young, clever, come down from London, where he was getting on +well, learning his Latin and his French and German so brilliantly. + +However, once again it was Harvest Festival at Morley Chapel, and once +again, as ten years before, a soft, exquisite September day, with the +last roses pink in the cottage gardens, the last dahlias crimson, the +last sunflowers yellow. And again the little old chapel was a bower, +with its famous sheaves of corn and corn-plaited pillars, its great +bunches of grapes, dangling like tassels from the pulpit corners, its +marrows and potatoes and pears and apples and damsons, its purple +asters and yellow Japanese sunflowers. Just as before, the red dahlias +round the pillars were dropping, weak-headed among the oats. The place +was crowded and hot, the plates of tomatoes seemed balanced perilously +on the gallery front, the Rev. Enderby was weirder than ever to look +at, so long and emaciated and hairless. + +The Rev. Enderby, probably forewarned, came and shook hands with her +and welcomed her, in his broad northern, melancholy singsong before he +mounted the pulpit. Fanny was handsome in a gauzy dress and a beautiful +lace hat. Being a little late, she sat in a chair in the side-aisle +wedged in, right in front of the chapel. Harry was in the gallery +above, and she could only see him from the eyes upwards. She noticed +again how his eyebrows met, blond and not very marked, over his nose. +He was attractive too: physically lovable, very. If only—if only her +_pride_ had not suffered! She felt he dragged her down. + +“Come, ye thankful people come, +Raise the song of harvest-home. +All is safely gathered in +Ere the winter storms begin——” + + +Even the hymn was a falsehood, as the season had been wet, and half the +crops were still out, and in a poor way. + +Poor Fanny! She sang little, and looked beautiful through that +inappropriate hymn. Above her stood Harry—mercifully in a dark suit and +dark tie, looking almost handsome. And his lacerating, pure tenor +sounded well, when the words were drowned in the general commotion. +Brilliant she looked, and brilliant she felt, for she was hot and +angrily miserable and inflamed with a sort of fatal despair. Because +there was about him a physical attraction which she really hated, but +which she could not escape from. He was the first man who had ever +kissed her. And his kisses, even while she rebelled from them, had +lived in her blood and sent roots down into her soul. After all this +time she had come back to them. And her soul groaned, for she felt +dragged down, dragged down to earth, as a bird which some dog has got +down in the dust. She knew her life would be unhappy. She knew that +what she was doing was fatal. Yet it was her doom. She had to come back +to him. + +He had to sing two solos this afternoon: one before the “address” from +the pulpit and one after. Fanny looked at him, and wondered he was not +too shy to stand up there in front of all the people. But no, he was +not shy. He had even a kind of assurance on his face as he looked down +from the choir gallery at her: the assurance of a common man +deliberately entrenched in his commonness. Oh, such a rage went through +her veins as she saw the air of triumph, laconic, indifferent triumph +which sat so obstinately and recklessly on his eyelids as he looked +down at her. Ah, she despised him! But there he stood up in that choir +gallery like Balaam’s ass in front of her, and she could not get beyond +him. A certain winsomeness also about him. A certain physical +winsomeness, and as if his flesh were new and lovely to touch. The +thorn of desire rankled bitterly in her heart. + +He, it goes without saying, sang like a canary this particular +afternoon, with a certain defiant passion which pleasantly crisped the +blood of the congregation. Fanny felt the crisp flames go through her +veins as she listened. Even the curious loud-mouthed vernacular had a +certain fascination. But, oh, also, it was so repugnant. He would +triumph over her, obstinately he would drag her right back into the +common people: a doom, a vulgar doom. + +The second performance was an anthem, in which Harry sang the solo +parts. It was clumsy, but beautiful, with lovely words. + +“They that sow in tears shall reap in joy, +He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed +Shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with +him—” + + +“Shall doubtless come, Shall doubtless come—” softly intoned the +altos—“Bringing his she-e-eaves with him,” the trebles flourished +brightly, and then again began the half-wistful solo: + +“They that sow in tears shall reap in joy—” + + +Yes, it was effective and moving. + +But at the moment when Harry’s voice sank carelessly down to his close, +and the choir, standing behind him, were opening their mouths for the +final triumphant outburst, a shouting female voice rose up from the +body of the congregation. The organ gave one startled trump, and went +silent; the choir stood transfixed. + +“You look well standing there, singing in God’s holy house,” came the +loud, angry female shout. Everybody turned electrified. A stoutish, +red-faced woman in a black bonnet was standing up denouncing the +soloist. Almost fainting with shock, the congregation realised it. “You +look well, don’t you, standing there singing solos in God’s holy house, +you, Goodall. But I said I’d shame you. You look well, bringing your +young woman here with you, don’t you? I’ll let her know who she’s +dealing with. A scamp as won’t take the consequences of what he’s +done.” The hard-faced, frenzied woman turned in the direction of Fanny. +“_That’s_ what Harry Goodall is, if you want to know.” + +And she sat down again in her seat. Fanny, startled like all the rest, +had turned to look. She had gone white, and then a burning red, under +the attack. She knew the woman: a Mrs. Nixon, a devil of a woman, who +beat her pathetic, drunken, red-nosed second husband, Bob, and her two +lanky daughters, grown-up as they were. A notorious character. Fanny +turned round again, and sat motionless as eternity in her seat. + +There was a minute of perfect silence and suspense. The audience was +open-mouthed and dumb; the choir stood like Lot’s wife; and Harry, with +his music-sheet, stood there uplifted, looking down with a dumb sort of +indifference on Mrs. Nixon, his face naïve and faintly mocking. Mrs. +Nixon sat defiant in her seat, braving them all. + +Then a rustle, like a wood when the wind suddenly catches the leaves. +And then the tall, weird minister got to his feet, and in his strong, +bell-like, beautiful voice—the only beautiful thing about him—he said +with infinite mournful pathos: + +“Let us unite in singing the last hymn on the hymn-sheet; the last hymn +on the hymn-sheet, number eleven. + +‘Fair waved the golden corn, +In Canaan’s pleasant land.’” + + +The organ tuned up promptly. During the hymn the offertory was taken. +And after the hymn, the prayer. + +Mr. Enderby came from Northumberland. Like Harry, he had never been +able to conquer his accent, which was very broad. He was a little +simple, one of God’s fools, perhaps, an odd bachelor soul, emotional, +ugly, but very gentle. + +“And if, O our dear Lord, beloved Jesus, there should fall a shadow of +sin upon our harvest, we leave it to Thee to judge, for Thou art judge. +We lift our spirits and our sorrow, Jesus, to Thee, and our mouths are +dumb. O, Lord, keep us from forward speech, restrain us from foolish +words and thoughts, we pray Thee, Lord Jesus, who knowest all and +judgest all.” + +Thus the minister said in his sad, resonant voice, washed his hands +before the Lord. Fanny bent forward open-eyed during the prayer. She +could see the roundish head of Harry, also bent forward. His face was +inscrutable and expressionless. The shock left her bewildered. Anger +perhaps was her dominating emotion. + +The audience began to rustle to its feet, to ooze slowly and excitedly +out of the chapel, looking with wildly-interested eyes at Fanny, at +Mrs. Nixon, and at Harry. Mrs. Nixon, shortish, stood defiant in her +pew, facing the aisle, as if announcing that, without rolling her +sleeves up, she was ready for anybody. Fanny sat quite still. Luckily +the people did not have to pass her. And Harry, with red ears, was +making his way sheepishly out of the gallery. The loud noise of the +organ covered all the downstairs commotion of exit. + +The minister sat silent and inscrutable in his pulpit, rather like a +death’s-head, while the congregation filed out. When the last lingerers +had unwillingly departed, craning their necks to stare at the still +seated Fanny, he rose, stalked in his hooked fashion down the little +country chapel and fastened the door. Then he returned and sat down by +the silent young woman. + +“This is most unfortunate, most unfortunate!” he moaned. “I am so +sorry, I am so sorry, indeed, indeed, ah, indeed!” he sighed himself to +a close. + +“It’s a sudden surprise, that’s one thing,” said Fanny brightly. + +“Yes—yes—indeed. Yes, a surprise, yes. I don’t know the woman, I don’t +know her.” + +“I know her,” said Fanny. “She’s a bad one.” + +“Well! Well!” said the minister. “I don’t know her. I don’t understand. +I don’t understand at all. But it is to be regretted, it is very much +to be regretted. I am very sorry.” + +Fanny was watching the vestry door. The gallery stairs communicated +with the vestry, not with the body of the chapel. She knew the choir +members had been peeping for information. + +At last Harry came—rather sheepishly—with his hat in his hand. + +“Well!” said Fanny, rising to her feet. + +“We’ve had a bit of an extra,” said Harry. + +“I should think so,” said Fanny. + +“A most unfortunate circumstance—a most _unfortunate_ circumstance. Do +you understand it, Harry? I don’t understand it at all.” + +“Ah, I understand it. The daughter’s goin’ to have a childt, an’ ’er +lays it on to me.” + +“And has she no occasion to?” asked Fanny, rather censorious. + +“It’s no more mine than it is some other chap’s,” said Harry, looking +aside. + +There was a moment of pause. + +“Which girl is it?” asked Fanny. + +“Annie—the young one—” + +There followed another silence. + +“I don’t think I know them, do I?” asked the minister. + +“I shouldn’t think so. Their name’s Nixon—mother married old Bob for +her second husband. She’s a tanger—’s driven the gel to what she is. +They live in Manners Road.” + +“Why, what’s amiss with the girl?” asked Fanny sharply. “She was all +right when I knew her.” + +“Ay—she’s all right. But she’s always in an’ out o’ th’ pubs, wi’ th’ +fellows,” said Harry. + +“A nice thing!” said Fanny. + +Harry glanced towards the door. He wanted to get out. + +“Most distressing, indeed!” The minister slowly shook his head. + +“What about tonight, Mr. Enderby?” asked Harry, in rather a small +voice. “Shall you want me?” + +Mr. Enderby looked up painedly, and put his hand to his brow. He +studied Harry for some time, vacantly. There was the faintest sort of a +resemblance between the two men. + +“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think. I think we must take no notice, and +cause as little remark as possible.” + +Fanny hesitated. Then she said to Harry. + +“But _will_ you come?” + +He looked at her. + +“Ay, I s’ll come,” he said. + +Then he turned to Mr. Enderby. + +“Well, good-afternoon, Mr. Enderby,” he said. + +“Good-afternoon, Harry, good-afternoon,” replied the mournful minister. +Fanny followed Harry to the door, and for some time they walked in +silence through the late afternoon. + +“And it’s yours as much as anybody else’s?” she said. + +“Ay,” he answered shortly. + +And they went without another word, for the long mile or so, till they +came to the corner of the street where Harry lived. Fanny hesitated. +Should she go on to her aunt’s? Should she? It would mean leaving all +this, for ever. Harry stood silent. + +Some obstinacy made her turn with him along the road to his own home. +When they entered the house-place, the whole family was there, mother +and father and Jinny, with Jinny’s husband and children and Harry’s two +brothers. + +“You’ve been having yours ears warmed, they tell me,” said Mrs. Goodall +grimly. + +“Who telled thee?” asked Harry shortly. + +“Maggie and Luke’s both been in.” + +“You look well, don’t you!” said interfering Jinny. + +Harry went and hung his hat up, without replying. + +“Come upstairs and take your hat off,” said Mrs. Goodall to Fanny, +almost kindly. It would have annoyed her very much if Fanny had dropped +her son at this moment. + +“What’s ’er say, then?” asked the father secretly of Harry, jerking his +head in the direction of the stairs whence Fanny had disappeared. + +“Nowt yet,” said Harry. + +“Serve you right if she chucks you now,” said Jinny. “I’ll bet it’s +right about Annie Nixon an’ you.” + +“Tha bets so much,” said Harry. + +“Yi—but you can’t deny it,” said Jinny. + +“I can if I’ve a mind.” + +His father looked at him inquiringly. + +“It’s no more mine than it is Bill Bower’s, or Ted Slaney’s, or six or +seven on ’em,” said Harry to his father. + +And the father nodded silently. + +“That’ll not get you out of it, in court,” said Jinny. + +Upstairs Fanny evaded all the thrusts made by his mother, and did not +declare her hand. She tidied her hair, washed her hands, and put the +tiniest bit of powder on her face, for coolness, there in front of Mrs. +Goodall’s indignant gaze. It was like a declaration of independence. +But the old woman said nothing. + +They came down to Sunday tea, with sardines and tinned salmon and +tinned peaches, besides tarts and cakes. The chatter was general. It +concerned the Nixon family and the scandal. + +“Oh, she’s a foul-mouthed woman,” said Jinny of Mrs. Nixon. “She may +well talk about God’s holy house, _she_ had. It’s first time she’s set +foot in it, ever since she dropped off from being converted. She’s a +devil and she always was one. Can’t you remember how she treated Bob’s +children, mother, when we lived down in the Buildings? I can remember +when I was a little girl she used to bathe them in the yard, in the +cold, so that they shouldn’t splash the house. She’d half kill them if +they made a mark on the floor, and the language she’d use! And one +Saturday I can remember Garry, that was Bob’s own girl, she ran off +when her stepmother was going to bathe her—ran off without a rag of +clothes on—can you remember, mother? And she hid in Smedley’s closes—it +was the time of mowing-grass—and nobody could find her. She hid out +there all night, didn’t she, mother? Nobody could find her. My word, +there was a talk. They found her on Sunday morning—” + +“Fred Coutts threatened to break every bone in the woman’s body, if she +touched the children again,” put in the father. + +“Anyhow, they frightened her,” said Jinny. “But she was nearly as bad +with her own two. And anybody can see that she’s driven old Bob till +he’s gone soft.” + +“Ah, soft as mush,” said Jack Goodall. “’E’d never addle a week’s wage, +nor yet a day’s if th’ chaps didn’t make it up to him.” + +“My word, if he didn’t bring her a week’s wage, she’d pull his head +off,” said Jinny. + +“But a clean woman, and respectable, except for her foul mouth,” said +Mrs. Goodall. “Keeps to herself like a bull-dog. Never lets anybody +come near the house, and neighbours with nobody.” + +“Wanted it thrashed out of her,” said Mr. Goodall, a silent, evasive +sort of man. + +“Where Bob gets the money for his drink from is a mystery,” said Jinny. + +“Chaps treats him,” said Harry. + +“Well, he’s got the pair of frightenedest rabbit-eyes you’d wish to +see,” said Jinny. + +“Ay, with a drunken man’s murder in them, _I_ think,” said Mrs. +Goodall. + +So the talk went on after tea, till it was practically time to start +off to chapel again. + +“You’ll have to be getting ready, Fanny,” said Mrs. Goodall. + +“I’m not going tonight,” said Fanny abruptly. And there was a sudden +halt in the family. “I’ll stop with _you_ tonight, Mother,” she added. + +“Best you had, my gel,” said Mrs. Goodall, flattered and assured. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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