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diff --git a/old/8914.txt b/old/8914.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c3e22e3 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8914.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8420 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of England, My England, by D.H. Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: England, My England + +Author: D.H. Lawrence + +Posting Date: August 18, 2011 [EBook #8914] +Release Date: September, 2005 +[This file was first posted on August 24, 2003] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND + + 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 _sangfroid_ 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 realized the difference between work and +romance. + +Godfrey Marshall, her father, was at first perfectly pleased with the +menage 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 +realize 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, realized 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 psycho-analyst 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 +_sangfroid_ 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 if 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 +recognize 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 realized 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 Thermopylae. + +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 depot. 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 coco-nut shies +there were no coco-nuts, 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 depot at half past nine: the last car would come +in at 10.15. So John Thomas was to wait for her there. + +At the depot 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 wartime. + +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, Isabell 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 _litterateur_ 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 mollusk 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 recognized +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 realize. 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 +realized 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 bebe_--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 +Elise.' 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--_Elise_. + +'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 Elise.' + +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 realized 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 +recognized 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?' + +'Elise.' + +'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 bebe_ 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 desolee_--' + +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 Elise,' 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 realize 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 realized 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 +unrecognizable. '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 sing-song 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 menage 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 +recognize 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 realized 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 +realize, 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 realize. The big man was running hard away from the horror of +realization. + +'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, _a 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 mesmerize +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 every thing. + +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--to-morrow 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 sympathize 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, Is'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 realized 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 naive 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 of England, My England, by D.H. 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