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 ranin the dip at the bottom of the garden, carrying the garden path incontinuation from the plank bridge on to the common. He had cut the roughturf and bracken, leaving the grey, dryish soil bare. But he was worriedbecause he could not get the path straight, there was a pleat between hisbrows. He had set up his sticks, and taken the sights between the bigpine 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-grassedgarden-path rising from the shadow of alders by the log bridge up to thesunlit flowers. Tall white and purple columbines, and the butt-end of theold 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 aresnakes. ' And nobody had the _sangfroid_ to reply: 'Run then, littlefool. ' 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 flamyvegetation, of fierce seclusion amid the savage peace of the commons. Strange how the savage England lingers in patches: as here, amid theseshaggy gorse commons, and marshy, snake infested places near the foot ofthe south downs. The spirit of place lingering on primeval, as when theSaxons 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 theirblack chaps and mulleins tall and yellow, this flamy garden which hadbeen a garden for a thousand years, scooped out in the little hollowamong the snake-infested commons. He had made it flame with flowers, in asun cup under its hedges and trees. So old, so old a place! And yet hehad re-created it. 

The timbered cottage with its sloping, cloak-like roof was old andforgotten. It belonged to the old England of hamlets and yeomen. Lostall 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 oftoday. Not till Egbert came with his bride. And he had come to fill itwith flowers. 

The house was ancient and very uncomfortable. But he did not want toalter it. Ah, marvellous to sit there in the wide, black, time-oldchimney, at night when the wind roared overhead, and the wood which hehad chopped himself sputtered on the hearth! Himself on one side theangle, and Winifred on the other. 

Ah, how he had wanted her: Winifred! She was young and beautiful andstrong with life, like a flame in sunshine. She moved with a slow graceof energy like a blossoming, red-flowered bush in motion. She, too, seemed to come out of the old England, ruddy, strong, with a certaincrude, passionate quiescence and a hawthorn robustness. And he, he wastall and slim and agile, like an English archer with his long supple legsand fine movements. Her hair was nut-brown and all in energic curls andtendrils. Her eyes were nut-brown, too, like a robin's for brightness. And he was white-skinned with fine, silky hair that had darkened fromfair, and a slightly arched nose of an old country family. They were abeautiful couple. 

The house was Winifred's. Her father was a man of energy, too. He hadcome from the north poor. Now he was moderately rich. He had bought thisfair stretch of inexpensive land, down in Hampshire. Not far from thetiny church of the almost extinct hamlet stood his own house, acommodious old farmhouse standing back from the road across a baregrassed yard. On one side of this quadrangle was the long, long barn orshed which he had made into a cottage for his youngest daughterPriscilla. One saw little blue-and-white check curtains at the longwindows, and inside, overhead, the grand old timbers of the high-pitchedshed. This was Prissy's house. Fifty yards away was the pretty little newcottage which he had built for his daughter Magdalen, with the vegetablegarden stretching away to the oak copse. And then away beyond the lawnsand rose trees of the house-garden went the track across a shaggy, wildgrass space, towards the ridge of tall black pines that grew on adyke-bank, through the pines and above the sloping little bog, under thewide, desolate oak trees, till there was Winifred's cottage crouchingunexpectedly in front, so much alone, and so primitive. 

It was Winifred's own house, and the gardens and the bit of common andthe boggy slope were hers: her tiny domain. She had married just at thetime when her father had bought the estate, about ten years before thewar, so she had been able to come to Egbert with this for a marriageportion. 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 abouta hundred and fifty pounds a year of his own--and nothing else but hisvery considerable personal attractions. He had no profession: he earnednothing. But he talked of literature and music, he had a passion forold folk-music, collecting folk-songs and folk-dances, studying theMorris-dance and the old customs. Of course in time he would make moneyin these ways. 

Meanwhile youth and health and passion and promise. Winifred's father wasalways generous: but still, he was a man from the north with a hard headand a hard skin too, having received a good many knocks. At home he keptthe hard head out of sight, and played at poetry and romance with hisliterary wife and his sturdy, passionate girls. He was a man of courage, not given to complaining, bearing his burdens by himself. No, he did notlet the world intrude far into his home. He had a delicate, sensitivewife whose poetry won some fame in the narrow world of letters. Hehimself, with his tough old barbarian fighting spirit, had an almostchild-like delight in verse, in sweet poetry, and in the delightful gameof a cultured home. His blood was strong even to coarseness. But thatonly made the home more vigorous, more robust and Christmassy. There wasalways a touch of Christmas about him, now he was well off. If there waspoetry after dinner, there were also chocolates and nuts, and good littleout-of-the-way things to be munching. 

Well then, into this family came Egbert. He was made of quite a differentpaste. The girls and the father were strong-limbed, thick-blooded people, true English, as holly-trees and hawthorn are English. Their culture wasgrafted on to them, as one might perhaps graft a common pink rose on to athornstem. 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 adelightful 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 slightarch of his nose, the quickness of his blue eyes would easily take theplace of poetry. Winifred loved him, loved him, this southerner, as ahigher 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 warmstuff of life to him. 

Wonderful then, those days at Crockham Cottage, the first days, all alonesave for the woman who came to work in the mornings. Marvellous days, when she had all his tall, supple, fine-fleshed youth to herself, forherself, and he had her like a ruddy fire into which he could casthimself for rejuvenation. Ah, that it might never end, this passion, thismarriage! The flame of their two bodies burnt again into that oldcottage, that was haunted already by so much by-gone, physical desire. You could not be in the dark room for an hour without the influencescoming over you. The hot blood-desire of by-gone yeomen, there in thisold den where they had lusted and bred for so many generations. Thesilent house, dark, with thick, timbered walls and the big blackchimney-place, and the sense of secrecy. Dark, with low, little windows, sunk into the earth. Dark, like a lair where strong beasts had lurked andmated, lonely at night and lonely by day, left to themselves and theirown intensity for so many generations. It seemed to cast a spell on thetwo young people. They became different. There was a curious secret glowabout them, a certain slumbering flame hard to understand, that envelopedthem both. They too felt that they did not belong to the London world anymore. Crockham had changed their blood: the sense of the snakes thatlived and slept even in their own garden, in the sun, so that he, goingforward with the spade, would see a curious coiled brownish pile on theblack soil, which suddenly would start up, hiss, and dazzle rapidly away, hissing. One day Winifred heard the strangest scream from the flower-bedunder the low window of the living room: ah, the strangest scream, likethe very soul of the dark past crying aloud. She ran out, and saw a longbrown snake on the flower-bed, and in its flat mouth the one hind leg ofa frog was striving to escape, and screaming its strange, tiny, bellowingscream. She looked at the snake, and from its sullen flat head it lookedat her, obstinately. She gave a cry, and it released the frog and slidangrily away. 

That was Crockham. The spear of modern invention had not passed throughit, and it lay there secret, primitive, savage as when the Saxons firstcame. 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, thehouse to be put into final repair after the workmen had gone, cushionsand 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, toterrace with little terraces and paths, and to fill with flowers. Heworked away, in his shirt-sleeves, worked all day intermittently doingthis thing and the other. And she, quiet and rich in herself, seeing himstooping and labouring away by himself, would come to help him, to benear 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 longnarrow planks that soon began to bend with the pressure from behind, andwould not need many years to rot through and break and let the soilslither all down again in a heap towards the stream-bed. But there youare. He had not been brought up to come to grips with anything, and hethought it would do. Nay, he did not think there was anything else exceptlittle temporary contrivances possible, he who had such a passion for hisold enduring cottage, and for the old enduring things of the bygoneEngland. Curious that the sense of permanency in the past had such a holdover him, whilst in the present he was all amateurish and sketchy. 

Winifred could not criticize him. Town-bred, everything seemed to hersplendid, and the very digging and shovelling itself seemed romantic. Butneither Egbert nor she yet realized the difference between work andromance. 

Godfrey Marshall, her father, was at first perfectly pleased with theménage down at Crockham Cottage. He thought Egbert was wonderful, themany things he accomplished, and he was gratified by the glow of physicalpassion between the two young people. To the man who in London stillworked hard to keep steady his modest fortune, the thought of this youngcouple digging away and loving one another down at Crockham Cottage, buried deep among the commons and marshes, near the pale-showing bulk ofthe downs, was like a chapter of living romance. And they drew thesustenance for their fire of passion from him, from the old man. It washe who fed their flame. He triumphed secretly in the thought. And it wasto her father that Winifred still turned, as the one source of all suretyand life and support. She loved Egbert with passion. But behind her wasthe 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 toEgbert, 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 noambition whatsoever. He came from a decent family, from a pleasantcountry home, from delightful surroundings. He should, of course, havehad a profession. He should have studied law or entered business in someway. But no--that fatal three pounds a week would keep him from starvingas long as he lived, and he did not want to give himself into bondage. Itwas not that he was idle. He was always doing something, in hisamateurish way. But he had no desire to give himself to the world, andstill less had he any desire to fight his way in the world. No, no, theworld 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 ofepicurean hermit. He loved the past, the old music and dances and customsof old England. He would try and live in the spirit of these, not in thespirit of the world of business. 

But often Winifred's father called her to London: for he loved to havehis 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 thecountry to the city. In town Egbert had plenty of friends, of the sameineffectual 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'sfather 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 bothlooked on the old man as the mainstay. Egbert didn't mind beingpatronized 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 headof thistle-down. Everybody adored the child. It was the first exquisiteblonde 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 Marshallsall loved the child: they called her Joyce. They themselves had their owngrace, but it was slow, rather heavy. They had everyone of them strong, heavy limbs and darkish skins, and they were short in stature. And nowthey had for one of their own this light little cowslip child. She waslike a little poem in herself. 

But nevertheless, she brought a new difficulty. Winifred must have anurse 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 himselfearned no money. Yes, the grandfather would pay, as he had paid all thelying-in expenses. There came a slight sense of money-strain. Egbert wasliving on his father-in-law. 

After the child was born, it was never quite the same between him andWinifred. The difference was at first hardly perceptible. But it wasthere. In the first place Winifred had a new centre of interest. She wasnot going to adore her child. But she had what the modern mother so oftenhas in the place of spontaneous love: a profound sense of duty towardsher child. Winifred appreciated her darling little girl, and felt a deepsense of duty towards her. Strange, that this sense of duty should godeeper than the love for her husband. But so it was. And so it often is. The responsibility of motherhood was the prime responsibility inWinifred'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 trinityfor 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, thesource of life, the everlasting support. Now another link was added tothe 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 theaffair. He could not complain of Winifred. She still did her duty towardshim. She still had a physical passion for him, that physical passion onwhich he had put all his life and soul. But--but--

It was for a long while an ever-recurring _but_. And then, after thesecond child, another blonde, winsome touching little thing, not so proudand flame-like as Joyce--after Annabel came, then Egbert began truly torealize how it was. His wife still loved him. But--and now the but hadgrown enormous--her physical love for him was of secondary importance toher. It became ever less important. After all, she had had it, thisphysical 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 beganto despise it. For after all there he was, he was charming, he waslovable, he was terribly desirable. But--but--oh, the awful looming cloudof that _but!_--he did not stand firm in the landscape of her life like atower of strength, like a great pillar of significance. No, he was like acat one has about the house, which will one day disappear and leave notrace. 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 allher life, the most beautiful and desirable of all her possessions. ButWinifred belonged to another school. 

The years went by, and instead of coming more to grips with life, herelaxed more. He was of a subtle, sensitive, passionate nature. But hesimply _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 herlook-out. 

And Winifred did not really want him to go out into the world to work formoney. Money became, alas, a word like a firebrand between them, settingthem 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 heearned or did not earn anything. Only she knew she was dependent on herfather for three-fourths of the money spent for herself and her children, that she let that be the _casus belli_, the drawn weapon between herselfand Egbert. 

What did she want--what did she want? Her mother once said to her, withthat characteristic touch of irony: 'Well, dear, if it is your fate toconsider the lilies, that toil not, neither do they spin, that is onedestiny among many others, and perhaps not so unpleasant as most. Why doyou take it amiss, my child?'

The mother was subtler than her children, they very rarely knew how toanswer her. So Winifred was only more confused. It was not a question oflilies. At least, if it were a question of lilies, then her children werethe little blossoms. They at least _grew_. Doesn't Jesus say: 'Considerthe lilies _how they grow_. ' Good then, she had her growing babies. Butas for that other tall, handsome flower of a father of theirs, he wasfull grown already, so she did not want to spend her life considering himin the flower of his days. 

No, it was not that he didn't earn money. It was not that he was idle. Hewas _not_ idle. He was always doing something, always working away, downat Crockham, doing little jobs. But, oh dear, the little jobs--the gardenpaths--the gorgeous flowers--the chairs to mend, old chairs to mend!

It was that he stood for nothing. If he had done somethingunsuccessfully, and _lost_ what money they had! If he had but strivenwith something. Nay, even if he had been wicked, a waster, she would havebeen more free. She would have had something to resist, at least. Awaster stands for something, really. He says: 'No, I will not aid andabet society in this business of increase and hanging together, I willupset 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 finalcastigation: 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 beenweak Winifred could have been kind to him. But he did not even give herthat consolation. He was not weak, and he did not want her consolation orher kindness. No, thank you. He was of a fine passionate temper, and of ararer steel than she. He knew it, and she knew it. Hence she was only themore baffled and maddened, poor thing. He, the higher, the finer, in hisway the stronger, played with his garden, and his old folk-songs andMorris-dances, just played, and let her support the pillars of the futureon 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 hislong, 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 shewould not take it from him. Or rather, now that she only took itoccasionally. For she had to yield at times. She loved him so, shedesired him so, he was so exquisite to her, the fine creature that hewas, finer than herself. Yes, with a groan she had to give in to her ownunquenched passion for him. And he came to her then--ah, terrible, ah, wonderful, sometimes she wondered how either of them could live after theterror of the passion that swept between them. It was to her as if purelightning, flash after flash, went through every fibre of her, tillextinction came. 

But it is the fate of human beings to live on. And it is the fate ofclouds that seem nothing but bits of vapour slowly to pile up, to pile upand fill the heavens and blacken the sun entirely. 

So it was. The love came back, the lightning of passion flashedtremendously between them. And there was blue sky and gorgeousness for alittle while. And then, as inevitably, as inevitably, slowly the cloudsbegan to edge up again above the horizon, slowly, slowly to lurk aboutthe 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 morerarely, less and less the blue showed. Gradually the grey lid sank downupon them, as if it would be permanent. 

Why didn't Egbert do something, then? Why didn't he come to grips withlife? Why wasn't he like Winifred's father, a pillar of society, even ifa 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 workfor his bread and butter, he would not work for work's sake. You can'tmake the columbine flowers nod in January, nor make the cuckoo sing inEngland 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 himhe had an even stronger desire: to hold aloof. To hold aloof. To donobody any damage. But to hold aloof. It was not his season. 

Perhaps he should not have married and had children. But you can't stopthe waters flowing. 

Which held true for Winifred, too. She was not made to endure aloof. Herfamily tree was a robust vegetation that had to be stirring andbelieving. In one direction or another her life _had_ to go. In her ownhome 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 terriblediffidence?

It was all so different in her own home. Her father may have had his ownmisgivings, but he kept them to himself. Perhaps he had no very profoundbelief in this world of ours, this society which we have elaborated withso much effort, only to find ourselves elaborated to death at last. ButGodfrey Marshall was of tough, rough fibre, not without a vein ofhealthy cunning through it all. It was for him a question of winningthrough, and leaving the rest to heaven. Without having many illusionsto grace him, he still _did_ believe in heaven. In a dark andunquestioning way, he had a sort of faith: an acrid faith like the sap ofsome not-to-be-exterminated tree. Just a blind acrid faith as sap isblind and acrid, and yet pushes on in growth and in faith. Perhaps he wasunscrupulous, but only as a striving tree is unscrupulous, pushing itssingle 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 socialestablishment which he has erected for himself, as pear-trees and currantbushes would go on bearing fruit for many seasons, inside a walledgarden, even if the race of man were suddenly exterminated. But bit bybit the wall-fruit-trees would gradually pull down the very walls thatsustained them. Bit by bit every establishment collapses, unless it isrenewed or restored by living hands, all the while. 

Egbert could not bring himself to any more of this restoring or renewingbusiness. 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 hisold, fine breeding. His father-in-law, however, though he was not one bitmore of a fool than Egbert, realized that since we are here we may aswell live. And so he applied himself to his own tiny section of thesocial work, and to doing the best for his family, and to leaving therest to the ultimate will of heaven. A certain robustness of blood madehim able to go on. But sometimes even from him spurted a sudden gall ofbitterness against the world and its make-up. And yet--he had his ownwill-to-succeed, and this carried him through. He refused to ask himselfwhat the success would amount to. It amounted to the estate down inHampshire, and his children lacking for nothing, and himself of someimportance in the world: and _basta!--Basta! Basta!_

Nevertheless do not let us imagine that he was a common pusher. He wasnot. He knew as well as Egbert what disillusion meant. Perhaps in hissoul he had the same estimation of success. But he had a certain acridcourage, and a certain will-to-power. In his own small circle he wouldemanate power, the single power of his own blind self. With all hisspoiling of his children, he was still the father of the old Englishtype. He was too wise to make laws and to domineer in the abstract. Buthe had kept, and all honour to him, a certain primitive dominion over thesouls of his children, the old, almost magic prestige of paternity. Thereit 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 reallylet them go beyond his power. And they, venturing out into the hard whitelight of our fatherless world, learned to see with the eyes of the world. They learned to criticize their father, even, from some effulgence ofworldly white light, to see him as inferior. But this was all very wellin the head. The moment they forgot their tricks of criticism, the oldred glow of his authority came over them again. He was not to bequenched. 

Let the psycho-analyst talk about father complex. It is just a wordinvented. Here was a man who had kept alive the old red flame offatherhood, fatherhood that had even the right to sacrifice the child toGod, like Isaac. Fatherhood that had life-and-death authority over thechildren: a great natural power. And till his children could be broughtunder some other great authority as girls; or could arrive at manhood andbecome themselves centres of the same power, continuing the same malemystery as men; until such time, willy-nilly, Godfrey Marshall would keephis children. 

It had seemed as if he might lose Winifred. Winifred had _adored_ herhusband, and looked up to him as to something wonderful. Perhaps she hadexpected in him another great authority, a male authority greater, finerthan her father's. For having once known the glow of male power, shewould not easily turn to the cold white light of feminine independence. She would hunger, hunger all her life for the warmth and shelter of truemale 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. Forthe negation of power at last means the negation of responsibility. Asfar as these things went, he would confine himself to himself. He wouldtry to confine his own _influence_ even to himself. He would try, as faras possible, to abstain from influencing his children by assuming anyresponsibility for them. 'A little child shall lead them--' His childshould lead, then. He would try not to make it go in any directionwhatever. He would abstain from influencing it. Liberty!--

Poor Winifred was like a fish out of water in this liberty, gasping forthe denser element which should contain her. Till her child came. Andthen she knew that she must be responsible for it, that she must haveauthority 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 nomore children. Her soul was turning to salt. 

So she had charge of the children, they were her responsibility. Themoney for them had come from her father. She would do her very best forthem, and have command over their life and death. But no! Egbert wouldnot take the responsibility. He would not even provide the money. But hewould not let her have her way. Her dark, silent, passionate authority hewould not allow. It was a battle between them, the battle between libertyand the old blood-power. And of course he won. The little girls loved himand adored him. 'Daddy! Daddy!' They could do as they liked with him. Their mother would have ruled them. She would have ruled thempassionately, with indulgence, with the old dark magic of parentalauthority, something looming and unquestioned and, after all, divine: ifwe believe in divine authority. The Marshalls did, being Catholic. 

And Egbert, he turned her old dark, Catholic blood-authority into a sortof 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. Athankless lot for a mother. And her children adored him, adored him, little knowing the empty bitterness they were preparing for themselveswhen they too grew up to have husbands: husbands such as Egbert, adorableand null. 

Joyce, the eldest, was still his favourite. She was now a quicksilverlittle thing of six years old. Barbara, the youngest, was a toddler oftwo years. They spent most of their time down at Crockham, because hewanted to be there. And even Winifred loved the place really. But now, inher frustrated and blinded state, it was full of menace for her children. The adders, the poison-berries, the brook, the marsh, the water thatmight not be pure--one thing and another. From mother and nurse it was aguerilla gunfire of commands, and blithe, quicksilver disobedience fromthe three blonde, never-still little girls. Behind the girls was thefather, against mother and nurse. And so it was. 

'If you don't come quick, nurse, I shall run out there to where there aresnakes. '

'Joyce, you _must_ be patient. I'm just changing Annabel. '

There you are. There it was: always the same. Working away on the commonacross 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 startedfor the bridge, looking up like a startled deer. Ah, there wasWinifred--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 theknee. 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 cuttingthe grass, ' said Winifred, looking into his face with bitter accusationas he bent near. 

He had taken his handkerchief and tied it round the knee. Then he liftedthe still sobbing child in his arms, and carried her into the house andupstairs to her bed. In his arms she became quiet. But his heart wasburning with pain and with guilt. He had left the sickle there lying onthe edge of the grass, and so his first-born child whom he loved sodearly 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 orthree 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 whitenow after the shock, Nurse had come carrying the youngest child: andlittle Annabel stood holding her skirt. Winifred, terribly serious andwooden-seeming, was bending over the knee, from which she had taken hisblood-soaked handkerchief. Egbert bent forward, too, keeping more_sangfroid_ in his face than in his heart. Winifred went all of a lump ofseriousness, so he had to keep some reserve. The child moaned andwhimpered. 

The knee was still bleeding profusely--it was a deep cut right in thejoint. 

'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 thelittle girl to her breast in a strange tragic anguish, the _MaterDolorata_. Even the child was frightened into silence. Egbert looked atthe tragic figure of his wife with the child at her breast, and turnedaway. Only Annabel started suddenly to cry: 'Joycey, Joycey, don't haveyour leg bleeding!'

Egbert rode four miles to the village for the doctor. He could not helpfeeling that Winifred was laying it on rather. Surely the knee itselfwasn't hurt! Surely not. It was only a surface cut. 

The doctor was out. Egbert left the message and came cycling swiftlyhome, his heart pinched with anxiety. He dropped sweating off his bicycleand went into the house, looking rather small, like a man who is atfault. Winifred was upstairs sitting by Joyce, who was looking pale andimportant 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'thurt you. But he will tell us what to do to make your knee betterquickly. That is why he must come. '

Winifred always explained carefully to her little girls: and it alwaystook 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 hisface. He turned to the child. 

'Eat your pudding, Joyce, ' he said. 'It won't be anything. You've onlygot 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 pushingthe blonde hair off her brow. She smiled back winsomely into his face. 

He went downstairs and ate his meal alone. Nurse served him. She likedwaiting 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 bedoing, 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, nevermind, soon be better. Let us look at it. Won't hurt you. Not the least inlife. Bring a bowl with a little warm water, nurse. Soon have it allright 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 thechild. Egbert bent over him. 

'Oh, dear, oh, dear! Quite a deep little cut. Nasty little cut. Nastylittle cut. But, never mind. Never mind, little lady. We'll soon have itbetter. 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, inmy opinion. Joyce, eh?--And how old might Miss Joyce be? Can she tell methat?'

'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 aclever little girl, a clever little girl. And if she has to drink aspoonful 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 alittle lady in bed because she's cut her knee. That's the style--'

The comfortable and prolix doctor dressed and bandaged the knee andrecommended bed and a light diet for the little lady. He thoughta week or a fortnight would put it right. No bones or ligaturesdamaged--fortunately. Only a flesh cut. He would come again in a day ortwo. 

So Joyce was reassured and stayed in bed and had all her toys up. Herfather often played with her. The doctor came the third day. He wasfairly 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. Winifredwas a trifle uneasy. The wound seemed to be healing on the top, but ithurt the child too much. It didn't look quite right. She said so toEgbert. 

'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 DoctorWing now. '

The doctor came next day. He examined the knee. Yes, there wasinflammation. Yes, there _might_ be a little septic poisoning--theremight. There might. Was the child feverish?

So a fortnight passed by, and the child _was_ feverish, and the knee wasmore inflamed and grew worse and was painful, painful. She cried in thenight, and her mother had to sit up with her. Egbert still insisted itwas 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 greysuit than a great yearning came over her. 

'Father, I'm not satisfied with Joyce. I'm not satisfied with DoctorWing. '

'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 soundingrather 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 hurtyou? 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 nottrouble 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. Andif we're going to have it, we had better have it at once. Egbert, do youthink you might cycle in to Bingham for Doctor Wayne? I found him verysatisfactory 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 havepeace of mind. Certainly I think it necessary. I should like Doctor Wayneto come this evening if possible. '

So Egbert set off on his bicycle through the wind, like a boy sent on anerrand, leaving his father-in-law a pillar of assurance, with Winifred. 

Doctor Wayne came, and looked grave. Yes, the knee was certainly takingthe wrong way. The child might be lame for life. 

Up went the fire and fear and anger in every heart. Doctor Wayne cameagain the next day for a proper examination. And, yes, the knee hadreally taken bad ways. It should be X-rayed. It was very important. 

Godfrey Marshall walked up and down the lane with the doctor, beside thestanding motor-car: up and down, up and down in one of thoseconsultations 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 thisknee has been allowed to go wrong. And apparently there is a risk thatthe child may even lose her leg. What do you think, dear? You agree toour 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 thisunfortunate delay already. I can't think what Doctor Wing was doing. Apparently the child is in danger of losing her leg. Well then, if youwill have everything ready, we will take her up to town tomorrow. I willorder the large car from Denley's to be here at ten. Egbert, will youtake a telegram at once to Doctor Jackson? It is a small nursing home forchildren and for surgical cases, not far from Baker Street. I'm sureJoyce 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 ahome. The X-ray treatment, and the electric treatment, and whatever isnecessary. '

'It will cost a great deal--' said Winifred. 

'We can't think of cost, if the child's leg is in danger--or even herlife. No use speaking of cost, ' said the elder man impatiently. 

And so it was. Poor Joyce, stretched out on a bed in the big closedmotor-car--the mother sitting by her head, the grandfather in his shortgrey beard and a bowler hat, sitting by her feet, thick, and implacablein his responsibility--they rolled slowly away from Crockham, and fromEgbert 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 totown, 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. Asshe sat by the bed of her poor, tortured little child, tortured with theagony of the knee, and the still worse agony of these diabolic, butperhaps necessary modern treatments, she felt her heart killed and goingcold in her breast. Her little Joyce, her frail, brave, wonderful, littleJoyce, 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 myheart die. And save my child. Let my heart die from the world and fromthe flesh. Oh, destroy my heart that is so wayward. Let my heart of pridedie. Let my heart die. '

So she prayed beside the bed of her child. And like the Mother with theseven swords in her breast, slowly her heart of pride and passion died inher breast, bleeding away. Slowly it died, bleeding away, and she turnedto the Church for comfort, to Jesus, to the Mother of God, but most ofall, to that great and enduring institution, the Roman Catholic Church. She withdrew into the shadow of the Church. She was a mother with threechildren. But in her soul she died, her heart of pride and passion anddesire bled to death, her soul belonged to her church, her body belongedto 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 suchsensuality and distraction. She was purely the _Mater Dolorata_. To theman she was closed as a tomb. 

Egbert came to see his child. But Winifred seemed to be always seatedthere, like the tomb of his manhood and his fatherhood. Poor Winifred:she was still young, still strong and ruddy and beautiful like a ruddyhard 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 togo into a convent. Her will had done it. 

And between this young mother and this young father lay the crippledchild, like a bit of pale silk floss on the pillow, and a little whitepain-quenched face. He could not bear it. He just could not bear it. Heturned aside. There was nothing to do but to turn aside. He turned aside, and went hither and thither, desultory. He was still attractive anddesirable. But there was a little frown between his brow as if he hadbeen cleft there with a hatchet: cleft right in, for ever, and that wasthe stigma. 

The child's leg was saved: but the knee was locked stiff. The fear nowwas lest the lower leg should wither, or cease to grow. There must belong-continued massage and treatment, daily treatment, even when thechild left the nursing home. And the whole of the expense was borne bythe grandfather. 

Egbert now had no real home. Winifred with the children and nurse wastied to the little flat in London. He could not live there: he could notcontain himself. The cottage was shut-up--or lent to friends. He wentdown sometimes to work in his garden and keep the place in order. Thenwith the empty house around him at night, all the empty rooms, he felthis heart go wicked. The sense of frustration and futility, like someslow, torpid snake, slowly bit right through his heart. Futility, futility: the horrible marsh-poison went through his veins and killedhim. 

As he worked in the garden in the silence of day he would listen for asound. No sound. No sound of Winifred from the dark inside of thecottage: no sound of children's voices from the air, from the common, from the near distance. No sound, nothing but the old dark marsh-venomousatmosphere of the place. So he worked spasmodically through the day, andat night made a fire and cooked some food alone. 

He was alone. He himself cleaned the cottage and made his bed. But hismending he did not do. His shirts were slit on the shoulders, when he hadbeen working, and the white flesh showed through. He would feel the airand the spots of rain on his exposed flesh. And he would look againacross the common, where the dark, tufted gorse was dying to seed, andthe bits of cat-heather were coming pink in tufts, like a sprinkling ofsacrificial blood. 

His heart went back to the savage old spirit of the place: the desirefor old gods, old, lost passions, the passion of the cold-blooded, darting snakes that hissed and shot away from him, the mystery ofblood-sacrifices, all the lost, intense sensations of the primeval peopleof the place, whose passions seethed in the air still, from those longdays before the Romans came. The seethe of a lost, dark passion in theair. The presence of unseen snakes. 

A queer, baffled, half-wicked look came on his face. He could notstay long at the cottage. Suddenly he must swing on to his bicycle andgo--anywhere. Anywhere, away from the place. He would stay a few dayswith his mother in the old home. His mother adored him and grieved as amother would. But the little, baffled, half-wicked smile curled on hisface, and he swung away from his mother's solicitude as from everythingelse. 

Always moving on--from place to place, friend to friend: and alwaysswinging away from sympathy. As soon as sympathy, like a soft hand, wasreached out to touch him, away he swerved, instinctively, as a harmlesssnake 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 toher 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 strangehow she had grown into a long, pallid, wild little thing. Strange thatthe 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 andthin, but by no means subdued. Her blonde hair was darkening. She stillhad long sufferings to face, and, in her own childish consciousness, thestigma of her lameness to bear. 

And she bore it. An almost maenad courage seemed to possess her, as ifshe were a long, thin, young weapon of life. She acknowledged all hermother's care. She would stand by her mother for ever. But some of herfather's fine-tempered desperation flashed in her. 

When Egbert saw his little girl limping horribly--not only limping butlurching horribly in crippled, childish way, his heart again hardenedwith chagrin, like steel that is tempered again. There was a tacitunderstanding between him and his little girl: not what we would calllove, but a weapon-like kinship. There was a tiny touch of irony in hismanner towards her, contrasting sharply with Winifred's heavy, unleavenedsolicitude and care. The child flickered back to him with an answeringlittle smile of irony and recklessness: an odd flippancy which madeWinifred only the more sombre and earnest. 

The Marshalls took endless thought and trouble for the child, searchingout every means to save her limb and her active freedom. They spared noeffort and no money, they spared no strength of will. With all theirslow, heavy power of will they willed that Joyce should save her libertyof movement, should win back her wild, free grace. Even if it took a longtime to recover, it should be recovered. 

So the situation stood. And Joyce submitted, week after week, month aftermonth to the tyranny and pain of the treatment. She acknowledged thehonourable effort on her behalf. But her flamy reckless spirit was herfather's. It was he who had all the glamour for her. He and she were likemembers of some forbidden secret society who know one another but may notrecognize one another. Knowledge they had in common, the same secret oflife, the father and the child. But the child stayed in the camp of hermother, honourably, and the father wandered outside like Ishmael, onlycoming sometimes to sit in the home for an hour or two, an evening or twobeside the camp fire, like Ishmael, in a curious silence and tension, with the mocking answer of the desert speaking out of his silence, andannulling 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 smilethat seemed to haunt his face, and above all, the triumphant loneliness, the Ishmael quality. And then the erectness of his supple body, like asymbol. 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 hereyes, and she felt if she watched him she was damned. 

And he came and made himself at home in her little home. When he wasthere, moving in his own quiet way, she felt as if the whole great law ofsacrifice, by which she had elected to live, were annulled. He annulledby 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 hisshirt-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. Buteven the nurse, when she saw his white shoulder of flesh through theslits 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 betraythem, submitting to his Baal and Ashtaroth? And it was terrible to her, his unsheathed presence, that seemed to annul her and her faith, likeanother revelation. Like a gleaming idol evoked against her, a vividlife-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 dissipatehimself. He was pure-bred in his Englishness, and even when he would havekilled 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 intheir death. He had no conception of Imperial England, and Rule Britanniawas just a joke to him. He was a pure-blooded Englishman, perfect in hisrace, and when he was truly himself he could no more have been aggressiveon the score of his Englishness than a rose can be aggressive on thescore of its rosiness. 

No, he had no desire to defy Germany and to exalt England. Thedistinction between German and English was not for him the distinctionbetween good and bad. It was the distinction between blue water-flowersand red or white bush-blossoms: just difference. The difference betweenthe wild boar and the wild bear. And a man was good or bad according tohis nature, not according to his nationality. 

Egbert was well-bred, and this was part of his natural understanding. Itwas merely unnatural to him to hate a nation _en bloc_. Certainindividuals he disliked, and others he liked, and the mass he knewnothing about. Certain deeds he disliked, certain deeds seemed natural tohim, and about most deeds he had no particular feeling. 

He had, however, the one deepest pure-bred instinct. He recoiledinevitably from having his feelings dictated to him by the mass feeling. His feelings were his own, his understanding was his own, and he wouldnever go back on either, willingly. Shall a man become inferior to hisown true knowledge and self, just because the mob expects it of him?

What Egbert felt subtly and without question, his father-in-law felt alsoin a rough, more combative way. Different as the two men were, they weretwo real Englishmen, and their instincts were almost the same. 

And Godfrey Marshall had the world to reckon with. There was Germanmilitary aggression, and the English non-military idea of liberty and the'conquests of peace'--meaning industrialism. Even if the choice betweenmilitarism and industrialism were a choice of evils, the elderly manasserted his choice of the latter, perforce. He whose soul was quick withthe instinct of power. 

Egbert just refused to reckon with the world. He just refused even todecide between German militarism and British industrialism. He choseneither. As for atrocities, he despised the people who committed them asinferior 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 inhis mind for some weeks. Not because he thought England was right andGermany wrong. Probably Germany was wrong, but he refused to make achoice. 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 givehimself over? Should he make over his own life and body to the control ofsomething which he _knew_ was inferior, in spirit, to his own self?Should he commit himself into the power of an inferior control? Shouldhe? Should he betray himself?

He was going to put himself into the power of his inferiors, and he knewit. He was going to subjugate himself. He was going to be ordered aboutby petty _canaille_ of non-commissioned officers--and even commissionedofficers. 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 certainprofound resentment made her answer:

'You have three children dependent on you. I don't know whether you havethought of that. '

It was still only the third month of the war, and the old pre-war ideaswere still alive. 

'Of course. But it won't make much difference to them. I shall be earninga 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 ofresentment. 

'I should say, ' he said rather sourly, 'it is the best thing you coulddo. '

Egbert went and joined up immediately, as a private soldier. He wasdrafted into the light artillery. 

Winifred now had a new duty towards him: the duty of a wife towards ahusband who is himself performing his duty towards the world. She lovedhim still. She would always love him, as far as earthly love went. But itwas 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 shecould never again fully submit. Something prevented her, for ever: evenher 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 extinguishedas if he had been killed. In the ugly intimacy of the camp histhoroughbred sensibilities were just degraded. But he had chosen, so heaccepted. An ugly little look came on to his face, of a man who hasaccepted his own degradation. 

In the early spring Winifred went down to Crockham to be there whenprimroses were out, and the tassels hanging on the hazel-bushes. She feltsomething like a reconciliation towards Egbert, now he was a prisoner incamp most of his days. Joyce was wild with delight at seeing the gardenand the common again, after the eight or nine months of London andmisery. She was still lame. She still had the irons up her leg. But shelurched about with a wild, crippled agility. 

Egbert came for a week-end, in his gritty, thick, sand-paper khaki andputtees and the hideous cap. Nay, he looked terrible. And on his face aslightly impure look, a little sore on his lip, as if he had eaten toomuch or drunk too much or let his blood become a little unclean. He wasalmost 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 alittle more ugly inside. The week-end was torment to him: the memory ofthe camp, the knowledge of the life he led there; even the sight of hisown legs in that abhorrent khaki. He felt as if the hideous cloth wentinto his blood and made it gritty and dirty. Then Winifred so ready toserve the _soldier_, when she repudiated the man. And this made the gritworse between his teeth. And the children running around playing andcalling in the rather mincing fashion of children who have nurses andgovernesses and literature in the family. And Joyce so lame! It had allbecome unreal to him, after the camp. It only set his soul on edge. Heleft at dawn on the Monday morning, glad to get back to the realness andvulgarity of the camp. 

Winifred would never meet him again at the cottage--only in London, wherethe world was with them. But sometimes he came alone to Crockham perhapswhen friends were staying there. And then he would work awhile in hisgarden. This summer still it would flame with blue anchusas and big redpoppies, the mulleins would sway their soft, downy erections in the air:he loved mulleins: and the honeysuckle would stream out scent likememory, when the owl was whooing. Then he sat by the fire with thefriends and with Winifred's sisters, and they sang the folk-songs. He puton thin civilian clothes and his charm and his beauty and the suppledominancy of his body glowed out again. But Winifred was not there. 

At the end of the summer he went to Flanders, into action. He seemedalready to have gone out of life, beyond the pale of life. He hardlyremembered his life any more, being like a man who is going to take ajump 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 himoff duty for more than a day or two. They were retiring again, holdingthe enemy back. He was in the rear--three machine-guns. The country wasall pleasant, war had not yet trampled it. Only the air seemed shattered, and the land awaiting death. It was a small, unimportant action in whichhe 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 thesharp crackle of rifle-fire, and beyond, the far-off thud of cannon. Theafternoon 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 thegun sprang back, there was a sharp explosion, and a very faint film ofsmoke 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 ofhorse-chestnut trees below was without change. Only in the far distancethe sound of heavy firing continued, so far off as to give a sense ofpeace. 

The gorse bushes on either hand were dark, but a few sparks of flowersshowed yellow. He noticed them almost unconsciously as he waited, in thelull. 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 outof consciousness before we come to the end of consciousness. 

Before him, below, was the highroad, running between high banks of grassand 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. Soundsthat came, came from the outside. The place where he stood was stillsilent, chill, serene: the white church among the trees beyond seemedlike a thought only. 

He moved into a lightning-like mechanical response at the sharp cry fromthe officer overhead. Mechanism, the pure mechanical action of obedienceat the guns. Pure mechanical action at the guns. It left the soulunburdened, 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 andthe dark, autumnal fields and woods. There appeared three horsemen on alittle eminence, very small, on the crest of a ploughed field. They wereour own men. Of the enemy, nothing. 

The lull continued. Then suddenly came sharp orders, and a new directionof the guns, and an intense, exciting activity. Yet at the centre thesoul 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 therapid activity at the machine-gun, sweating. But in his soul was the echoof the new, deep sound, deeper than life. 

And in confirmation came the awful faint whistling of a shell, advancingalmost suddenly into a piercing, tearing shriek that would tear throughthe membrane of life. He heard it in his ears, but he heard it also inhis soul, in tension. There was relief when the thing had swung by andstruck, away beyond. He heard the hoarseness of its explosion, and thevoice of the soldier calling to the horses. But he did not turn round tolook. He only noticed a twig of holly with red berries fall like a gifton to the road below. 

Not this time, not this time. Whither thou goest I will go. Did he say itto the shell, or to whom? Whither thou goest I will go. Then, the faintwhistling of another shell dawned, and his blood became small and stillto receive it. It drew nearer, like some horrible blast of wind; hisblood lost consciousness. But in the second of suspension he saw theheavy shell swoop to earth, into the rocky bushes on the right, and earthand stones poured up into the sky. It was as if he heard no sound. Theearth and stones and fragments of bush fell to earth again, and there wasthe same unchanging peace. The Germans had got the aim. 

Would they move now? Would they retire? Yes. The officer was giving thelast lightning-rapid orders to fire before withdrawing. A shell passedunnoticed in the rapidity of action. And then, into the silence, into thesuspense where the soul brooded, finally crashed a noise and a darknessand a moment's flaming agony and horror. Ah, he had seen the dark birdflying towards him, flying home this time. In one instant life andeternity went up in a conflagration of agony, then there was a weight ofdarkness. 

When faintly something began to struggle in the darkness, a consciousnessof himself, he was aware of a great load and a clanging sound. To haveknown 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 ofhis consciousness: like a loud bell clanging very near. Yet he knew itwas himself. He must associate himself with it. After a lapse and a neweffort, he identified a pain in his head, a large pain that clanged andresounded. So far he could identify himself with himself. Then there wasa lapse. 

After a time he seemed to wake up again, and waking, to know that he wasat the front, and that he was killed. He did not open his eyes. Light wasnot yet his. The clanging pain in his head rang out the rest of hisconsciousness. So he lapsed away from consciousness, in unutterable sickabandon of life. 

Bit by bit, like a doom came the necessity to know. He was hit in thehead. It was only a vague surmise at first. But in the swinging of thependulum of pain, swinging ever nearer and nearer, to touch him into anagony of consciousness and a consciousness of agony, gradually theknowledge emerged--he must be hit in the head--hit on the left brow; ifso, there would be blood--was there blood?--could he feel blood in hisleft 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 bloodcongealing 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 seeingsomething--something, something, but the effort to recall what was toogreat. No, no; no recall!

Were they the stars in the dark sky? Was it possible it was stars in thedark sky? Stars? The world? Ah, no, he could not know it! Stars and theworld 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 lapseinto the thick darkness of blood in agony. 

Death, oh, death! The world all blood, and the blood all writhing withdeath. The soul like the tiniest little light out on a dark sea, the seaof 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 thefrail death-agony effort to catch at straws of memory, straws of lifefrom the past, brought on too great a nausea. No, No! No Winifred, nochildren. No world, no people. Better the agony of dissolution ahead thanthe nausea of the effort backwards. Better the terrible work should goforward, the dissolving into the black sea of death, in the extremity ofdissolution, than that there should be any reaching back towards life. Toforget! To forget! Utterly, utterly to forget, in the great forgetting ofdeath. To break the core and the unit of life, and to lapse out on thegreat darkness. Only that. To break the clue, and mingle and comminglewith the one darkness, without afterwards or forwards. Let the black seaof death itself solve the problem of futurity. Let the will of man breakand give up. 

What was that? A light! A terrible light! Was it figures? Was it legs ofa horse colossal--colossal above him: huge, huge?

The Germans heard a slight noise, and started. Then, in the glare of alight-bomb, by the side of the heap of earth thrown up by the shell, theysaw the dead face. 

_Tickets, Please_

There is in the Midlands a single-line tramway system which boldlyleaves the county town and plunges off into the black, industrialcountryside, up hill and down dale, through the long ugly villages ofworkmen's houses, over canals and railways, past churches perched highand nobly over the smoke and shadows, through stark, grimy cold littlemarket-places, tilting away in a rush past cinemas and shops down to thehollow where the collieries are, then up again, past a little ruralchurch, under the ash trees, on in a rush to the terminus, the lastlittle ugly place of industry, the cold little town that shivers on theedge of the wild, gloomy country beyond. There the green and creamycoloured tram-car seems to pause and purr with curious satisfaction. Butin a few minutes--the clock on the turret of the Co-operative WholesaleSociety's Shops gives the time--away it starts once more on theadventure. Again there are the reckless swoops downhill, bouncing theloops: again the chilly wait in the hill-top market-place: again thebreathless slithering round the precipitous drop under the church: againthe patient halts at the loops, waiting for the outcoming car: so on andon, for two long hours, till at last the city looms beyond the fatgas-works, the narrow factories draw near, we are in the sordid streetsof the great town, once more we sidle to a standstill at our terminus, abashed by the great crimson and cream-coloured city cars, but stillperky, jaunty, somewhat dare-devil, green as a jaunty sprig of parsleyout 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 asteeple-chase. Hurray! we have leapt in a clear jump over the canalbridges--now for the four-lane corner. With a shriek and a trail ofsparks we are clear again. To be sure, a tram often leaps the rails--butwhat matter! It sits in a ditch till other trams come to haul it out. Itis 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 ofnowhere on a dark night, and for the driver and the girl conductor tocall, 'All get off--car's on fire!' Instead, however, of rushing out in apanic, the passengers stolidly reply: 'Get on--get on! We're not comingout. We're stopping where we are. Push on, George. ' So till flamesactually appear. 

The reason for this reluctance to dismount is that the nights arehowlingly cold, black, and windswept, and a car is a haven of refuge. From village to village the miners travel, for a change of cinema, ofgirl, of pub. The trams are desperately packed. Who is going to riskhimself in the black gulf outside, to wait perhaps an hour for anothertram, then to see the forlorn notice 'Depot Only', because there issomething wrong! Or to greet a unit of three bright cars all so tightwith people that they sail past with a howl of derision. Trams that passin the night. 

This, the most dangerous tram-service in England, as the authoritiesthemselves declare, with pride, is entirely conducted by girls, anddriven by rash young men, a little crippled, or by delicate young men, who creep forward in terror. The girls are fearless young hussies. Intheir ugly blue uniform, skirts up to their knees, shapeless oldpeaked caps on their heads, they have all the _sang-froid_ of an oldnon-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 tryto evade their ticket-machine. They push off the men at the end of theirdistance. They are not going to be done in the eye--not they. They fearnobody--and everybody fears them. 

'Hello, Annie!'

'Hello, Ted!'

'Oh, mind my corn, Miss Stone. It's my belief you've got a heart ofstone, for you've trod on it again. '

'You should keep it in your pocket, ' replies Miss Stone, and she goessturdily upstairs in her high boots. 

'Tickets, please. '

She is peremptory, suspicious, and ready to hit first. She can hold herown against ten thousand. The step of that tram-car is her Thermopylae. 

Therefore, there is a certain wild romance aboard these cars--and in thesturdy bosom of Annie herself. The time for soft romance is in themorning, between ten o'clock and one, when things are rather slack: thatis, except market-day and Saturday. Thus Annie has time to look abouther. Then she often hops off her car and into a shop where she has spiedsomething, while the driver chats in the main road. There is very goodfeeling between the girls and the drivers. Are they not companions inperil, shipments aboard this careering vessel of a tram-car, for everrocking 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: thereare no grey heads. It would not do. Therefore the inspectors are of theright age, and one, the chief, is also good-looking. See him stand on awet, gloomy morning, in his long oil-skin, his peaked cap well down overhis eyes, waiting to board a car. His face is ruddy, his small brownmoustache is weathered, he has a faint impudent smile. Fairly tall andagile, 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 along 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 isaddressed, from a distance, with this abbreviation. There is considerablescandal about John Thomas in half a dozen villages. He flirts with thegirl conductors in the morning, and walks out with them in the darknight, when they leave their tram-car at the depot. Of course, the girlsquit the service frequently. Then he flirts and walks out with thenewcomer: always providing she is sufficiently attractive, and that shewill consent to walk. It is remarkable, however, that most of the girlsare quite comely, they are all young, and this roving life aboard the cargives them a sailor's dash and recklessness. What matter how they behavewhen the ship is in port. Tomorrow they will be aboard again. 

Annie, however, was something of a Tartar, and her sharp tongue had keptJohn Thomas at arm's length for many months. Perhaps, therefore, sheliked him all the more: for he always came up smiling, with impudence. She watched him vanquish one girl, then another. She could tell by themovement 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 nightbefore. 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, theywere as shrewd with one another almost as man and wife. But Annie hadalways kept him sufficiently at arm's length. Besides, she had a boy ofher own. 

The Statutes fair, however, came in November, at Bestwood. It happenedthat Annie had the Monday night off. It was a drizzling ugly night, yetshe dressed herself up and went to the fair ground. She was alone, butshe expected soon to find a pal of some sort. 

The roundabouts were veering round and grinding out their music, the sideshows were making as much commotion as possible. In the coco-nut shiesthere were no coco-nuts, but artificial war-time substitutes, which thelads declared were fastened into the irons. There was a sad decline inbrilliance and luxury. None the less, the ground was muddy as ever, therewas the same crush, the press of faces lighted up by the flares and theelectric lights, the same smell of naphtha and a few fried potatoes, andof electricity. 

Who should be the first to greet Miss Annie on the showground but JohnThomas? He had a black overcoat buttoned up to his chin, and a tweed cappulled down over his brows, his face between was ruddy and smiling andhandy 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 fellowwas no fun. Instantly, like the gallant he was, he took her on thedragons, grim-toothed, round-about switchbacks. It was not nearly soexciting as a tram-car actually. But, then, to be seated in a shaking, green dragon, uplifted above the sea of bubble faces, careering in arickety fashion in the lower heavens, whilst John Thomas leaned over her, his cigarette in his mouth, was after all the right style. She was aplump, quick, alive little creature. So she was quite excited and happy. 

John Thomas made her stay on for the next round. And therefore she couldhardly for shame repulse him when he put his arm round her and drew her alittle nearer to him, in a very warm and cuddly manner. Besides, he wasfairly discreet, he kept his movement as hidden as possible. She lookeddown, and saw that his red, clean hand was out of sight of the crowd. Andthey 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, soshe could but be complaisant. He, of course, sat astride on the outerhorse--named 'Black Bess'--and she sat sideways, towards him, on theinner horse--named 'Wildfire'. But of course John Thomas was not going tosit discreetly on 'Black Bess', holding the brass bar. Round they spunand 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 perfectlyhappy; 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-bluehat-pins. And then, hearing the noise of the cinemas, announcing anotherperformance, they climbed the boards and went in. 

Of course, during these performances pitch darkness falls from time totime, when the machine goes wrong. Then there is a wild whooping, and aloud smacking of simulated kisses. In these moments John Thomas drewAnnie towards him. After all, he had a wonderfully warm, cosy way ofholding 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 andnice. He leaned over her and she felt his breath on her hair; she knew hewanted to kiss her on the lips. And, after all, he was so warm and shefitted 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 hatstraight. He left his arm lying nonchalantly behind her. Well, it wasfun, it was exciting to be at the Statutes with John Thomas. 

When the cinema was over they went for a walk across the dark, dampfields. He had all the arts of love-making. He was especially good atholding a girl, when he sat with her on a stile in the black, drizzlingdarkness. He seemed to be holding her in space, against his own warmthand gratification. And his kisses were soft and slow and searching. 

So Annie walked out with John Thomas, though she kept her own boydangling in the distance. Some of the tram-girls chose to be huffy. Butthere, you must take things as you find them, in this life. 

There was no mistake about it, Annie liked John Thomas a good deal. Shefelt so rich and warm in herself whenever he was near. And John Thomasreally liked Annie, more than usual. The soft, melting way in which shecould flow into a fellow, as if she melted into his very bones, wassomething 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 anintelligent interest in him, and to have an intelligent response. She didnot want a mere nocturnal presence, which was what he was so far. And sheprided herself that he could not leave her. 

Here she made a mistake. John Thomas intended to remain a nocturnalpresence; he had no idea of becoming an all-round individual to her. Whenshe started to take an intelligent interest in him and his life and hischaracter, he sheered off. He hated intelligent interest. And he knewthat the only way to stop it was to avoid it. The possessive female wasaroused 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 shehad a spasm of despair. And then, when he came, still impudently, on toher car, still familiar, but letting her see by the movement of his headthat he had gone away to somebody else for the time being, and wasenjoying pastures new, then she determined to have her own back. 

She had a very shrewd idea what girls John Thomas had taken out. She wentto Nora Purdy. Nora was a tall, rather pale, but well-built girl, withbeautiful yellow hair. She was rather secretive. 

'Hey!' said Annie, accosting her; then softly, 'Who's John Thomas on withnow?'

'I don't know, ' said Nora. 

'Why tha does, ' said Annie, ironically lapsing into dialect. 'Tha knowsas 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. Ishould 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'lldrop 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 thatCissy Meakin left the tramway service in quite a short time. Her mothermade her leave. Then John Thomas was on the _qui-vive_. He cast his eyesover his old flock. And his eyes lighted on Annie. He thought she wouldbe safe now. Besides, he liked her. 

She arranged to walk home with him on Sunday night. It so happened thather car would be in the depot at half past nine: the last car would comein 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 wasquite rough, but cosy, with a fire and an oven and a mirror, and tableand wooden chairs. The half dozen girls who knew John Thomas only toowell had arranged to take service this Sunday afternoon. So, as the carsbegan to come in, early, the girls dropped into the waiting-room. Andinstead of hurrying off home, they sat around the fire and had a cup oftea. Outside was the darkness and lawlessness of wartime. 

John Thomas came on the car after Annie, at about a quarter to ten. Hepoked 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 theircircle, to make a place for him near the fire. He took off his great-coatand 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 seemedto be sunning himself in the presence of so many damsels. 

'Especially if you're not afraid to go home in the dark, ' said LauraSharp. 

'Me! By myself I am. '

They sat till they heard the last tram come in. In a few minutes EmmaHouselay 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 tunehaving 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--allon 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 thebenevolent 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 ofa good thing. '

'Nay--take one, ' said Laura. 'Fair and square, all above board, and saywhich. '

'Ay, ' cried Annie, speaking for the first time. 'Pick, John Thomas; let'shear 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 takeone of us!'

'Nay, how can I take one, ' he said, laughing uneasily. 'I don't want tomake 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 toescape. 'Well--good-night. '

'Nay, you've got to make your pick, ' said Muriel. 'Turn your face to thewall, and say which one touches you. Go on--we shall only just touch yourback--one of us. Go on--turn your face to the wall, and don't look, andsay which one touches you. '

He was uneasy, mistrusting them. Yet he had not the courage to breakaway. 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. Helooked 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 thatsent 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 hebutted 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, atbay. At that moment they were rather horrifying to him, as they stood intheir 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 spokewith 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 swingingit, she fetched him a sharp blow over the head with the buckle end. Hesprang 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 ofhim. Strange, wild creatures, they hung on him and rushed at him to bearhim down. His tunic was torn right up the back, Nora had hold at the backof his collar, and was actually strangling him. Luckily the button burst. He struggled in a wild frenzy of fury and terror, almost mad terror. Histunic was simply torn off his back, his shirt-sleeves were torn away, hisarms were naked. The girls rushed at him, clenched their hands on him andpulled at him: or they rushed at him and pushed him, butted him with alltheir might: or they struck him wild blows. He ducked and cringed andstruck sideways. They became more intense. 

At last he was down. They rushed on him, kneeling on him. He had neitherbreath 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 faceswere flushed, their hair wild, their eyes were all glittering strangely. He lay at last quite still, with face averted, as an animal lies when itis defeated and at the mercy of the captor. Sometimes his eye glancedback at the wild faces of the girls. His breast rose heavily, his wristswere torn. 

'Now, then, my fellow!' gasped Annie at length. 'Now then--now--'

At the sound of her terrifying, cold triumph, he suddenly started tostruggle as an animal might, but the girls threw themselves upon him withunnatural 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 tobe 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 oftrance of fear and antagonism. They felt themselves filled withsupernatural strength. 

Suddenly Polly started to laugh--to giggle wildly--helplessly--and Emmaand 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'vegot it now! You know what you've done, don't you? You know what you'vedone. '

He made no sound nor sign, but lay with bright, averted eyes, andaverted, 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 asshe 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, thatmade 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. Hestarted, 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 getyour neck broken if you play any more of your tricks, my boy. You'resettled now. '

There was a pause. Again he averted his face. He was cunning in hisoverthrow. He did not give in to them really--no, not if they tore him tobits. 

'All right, then, ' he said, 'I choose Annie. ' His voice was strange andfull 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 wasstill lying prostrate, with averted face. The girls grouped uneasilyaround. 

'Me!' repeated Annie, with a terrible bitter accent. 

Then she got up, drawing away from him with strange disgust andbitterness. 

'I wouldn't touch him, ' she said. 

But her face quivered with a kind of agony, she seemed as if she wouldfall. The other girls turned aside. He remained lying on the floor, withhis 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 ratherbitter hopelessness. 

'Get up, ' said Polly, lifting his shoulder. 'Get up. '

He rose slowly, a strange, ragged, dazed creature. The girls eyed himfrom a distance, curiously, furtively, dangerously. 

'Who wants him?' cried Laura, roughly. 

'Nobody, ' they answered, with contempt. Yet each one of them waited forhim to look at her, hoped he would look at her. All except Annie, andsomething was broken in her. 

He, however, kept his face closed and averted from them all. There was asilence of the end. He picked up the torn pieces of his tunic, withoutknowing what to do with them. The girls stood about uneasily, flushed, panting, tidying their hair and their dress unconsciously, and watchinghim. He looked at none of them. He espied his cap in a corner, and wentand picked it up. He put it on his head, and one of the girls burst intoa shrill, hysteric laugh at the sight he presented. He, however, took noheed, but went straight to where his overcoat hung on a peg. The girlsmoved away from contact with him as if he had been an electric wire. Heput on his coat and buttoned it down. Then he rolled his tunic-rags intoa 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 agrudge. '

But without a word or sign he had opened the door and gone, his faceclosed, 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 themselveshurriedly, with mute, stupefied faces. 

_The Blind Man_

Isabel Pervin was listening for two sounds--for the sound of wheels onthe drive outside and for the noise of her husband's footsteps in thehall. Her dearest and oldest friend, a man who seemed almostindispensable to her living, would drive up in the rainy dusk of theclosing November day. The trap had gone to fetch him from the station. And her husband, who had been blinded in Flanders, and who had adisfiguring 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 beenvery 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 hehad been almost entirely alone together since he was wounded. They talkedand sang and read together in a wonderful and unspeakable intimacy. Thenshe reviewed books for a Scottish newspaper, carrying on her oldinterest, and he occupied himself a good deal with the farm. Sightless, he could still discuss everything with Wernham, and he could also do agood deal of work about the place--menial work, it is true, but it gavehim satisfaction. He milked the cows, carried in the pails, turned theseparator, attended to the pigs and horses. Life was still very full andstrangely serene for the blind man, peaceful with the almostincomprehensible peace of immediate contact in darkness. With his wife hehad a whole world, rich and real and invisible. 

They were newly and remotely happy. He did not even regret the loss ofhis sight in these times of dark, palpable joy. A certain exultanceswelled his soul. 

But as time wore on, sometimes the rich glamour would leave them. Sometimes, after months of this intensity, a sense of burden overcameIsabel, a weariness, a terrible _ennui_, in that silent house approachedbetween a colonnade of tall-shafted pines. Then she felt she would gomad, for she could not bear it. And sometimes he had devastating fits ofdepression, which seemed to lay waste his whole being. It was worse thandepression--a black misery, when his own life was a torture to him, andwhen his presence was unbearable to his wife. The dread went down to theroots of her soul as these black days recurred. In a kind of panic shetried to wrap herself up still further in her husband. She forced the oldspontaneous cheerfulness and joy to continue. But the effort it cost herwas almost too much. She knew she could not keep it up. She felt shewould scream with the strain, and would give anything, anything, toescape. She longed to possess her husband utterly; it gave her inordinatejoy to have him entirely to herself. And yet, when again he was gone in ablack and massive misery, she could not bear him, she could not bearherself; 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 givehim some further connexion with the outer world. But it was no good. After all their joy and suffering, after their dark, great year ofblindness and solitude and unspeakable nearness, other people seemed tothem both shallow, prattling, rather impertinent. Shallow prattle seemedpresumptuous. He became impatient and irritated, she was wearied. And sothey lapsed into their solitude again. For they preferred it. 

But now, in a few weeks' time, her second baby would be born. The firsthad died, an infant, when her husband first went out to France. Shelooked with joy and relief to the coming of the second. It would be hersalvation. But also she felt some anxiety. She was thirty years old, herhusband was a year younger. They both wanted the child very much. Yet shecould not help feeling afraid. She had her husband on her hands, aterrible joy to her, and a terrifying burden. The child would occupy herlove and attention. And then, what of Maurice? What would he do? If onlyshe could feel that he, too, would be at peace and happy when the childcame! She did so want to luxuriate in a rich, physical satisfaction ofmaternity. 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. Hewas her old friend, a second or third cousin, a Scotchman, as she was aScotchwoman. They had been brought up near to one another, and all herlife he had been her friend, like a brother, but better than her ownbrothers. She loved him--though not in the marrying sense. There was asort of kinship between them, an affinity. They understood one anotherinstinctively. But Isabel would never have thought of marrying Bertie. Itwould have seemed like marrying in her own family. 

Bertie was a barrister and a man of letters, a Scotchman of theintellectual type, quick, ironical, sentimental, and on his knees beforethe woman he adored but did not want to marry. Maurice Pervin wasdifferent. He came of a good old country family--the Grange was not avery great distance from Oxford. He was passionate, sensitive, perhapsover-sensitive, wincing--a big fellow with heavy limbs and a foreheadthat flushed painfully. For his mind was slow, as if drugged by thestrong provincial blood that beat in his veins. He was very sensitive tohis own mental slowness, his feelings being quick and acute. So that hewas just the opposite to Bertie, whose mind was much quicker than hisemotions, 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 eachcould have the clue to the other there would be such a rare understandingbetween them. It did not come off, however. Bertie adopted a slightlyironical attitude, very offensive to Maurice, who returned the Scotchirony with English resentment, a resentment which deepened sometimes intostupid hatred. 

This was a little puzzling to Isabel. However, she accepted it in thecourse 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 repliedthat in this, as in all other matters, he must obey her wishes, if thesewere indeed her wishes. 

For nearly two years nothing had passed between the two friends. Isabelrather gloried in the fact; she had no compunction. She had one greatarticle of faith, which was, that husband and wife should be so importantto one another, that the rest of the world simply did not count. She andMaurice were husband and wife. They loved one another. They would havechildren. Then let everybody and everything else fade into insignificanceoutside this connubial felicity. She professed herself quite happy andready to receive Maurice's friends. She was happy and ready: the happywife, the ready woman in possession. Without knowing why, the friendsretired abashed and came no more. Maurice, of course, took as muchsatisfaction in this connubial absorption as Isabel did. 

He shared in Isabel's literary activities, she cultivated a real interestin agriculture and cattle-raising. For she, being at heart perhaps anemotional enthusiast, always cultivated the practical side of life, andprided herself on her mastery of practical affairs. Thus the husband andwife had spent the five years of their married life. The last had beenone of blindness and unspeakable intimacy. And now Isabel felt a greatindifference coming over her, a sort of lethargy. She wanted to beallowed 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 atombstone to their dead friendship, and speaking of the real pain he felton account of her husband's loss of sight, she felt a pang, a flutteringagitation 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 aboutyou, 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 manreplied. 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 anddarkness. Isabel was agitated, racked with her old restlessness andindecision. She had always suffered from this pain of doubt, just anagonizing sense of uncertainty. It had begun to pass off, in the lethargyof maternity. Now it returned, and she resented it. She struggled asusual to maintain her calm, composed, friendly bearing, a sort of maskshe 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 piecesof old furniture. Only the round table glowed softly under the light. Ithad a rich, beautiful effect. The white cloth glistened and dropped itsheavy, pointed lace corners almost to the carpet, the china was old andhandsome, creamy-yellow, with a blotched pattern of harsh red and deepblue, the cups large and bell-shaped, the teapot gallant. Isabel lookedat 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 ahuge fir-tree swaying its boughs: it was as if she thought it ratherthan saw it. The rain came flying on the window panes. Ah, why had sheno peace? These two men, why did they tear at her? Why did they notcome--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 toher feet. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she glanced atherself with a slight smile of recognition, as if she were an old friendto herself. Her face was oval and calm, her nose a little arched. Herneck made a beautiful line down to her shoulder. With hair knottedloosely behind, she had something of a warm, maternal look. Thinking thisof herself, she arched her eyebrows and her rather heavy eyelids, with alittle flicker of a smile, and for a moment her grey eyes looked amusedand wicked, a little sardonic, out of her transfigured Madonna face. 

Then, resuming her air of womanly patience--she was really fatallyself-determined--she went with a little jerk towards the door. Her eyeswere slightly reddened. 

She passed down the wide hall, and through a door at the end. Then shewas in the farm premises. The scent of dairy, and of farm-kitchen, and offarm-yard and of leather almost overcame her: but particularly the scentof dairy. They had been scalding out the pans. The flagged passage infront of her was dark, puddled and wet. Light came out from the openkitchen door. She went forward and stood in the doorway. The farm-peoplewere at tea, seated at a little distance from her, round a long, narrowtable, in the centre of which stood a white lamp. Ruddy faces, ruddyhands holding food, red mouths working, heads bent over the tea-cups:men, land-girls, boys: it was tea-time, feeding-time. Some faces caughtsight of her. Mrs. Wernham, going round behind the chairs with a largeblack teapot, halting slightly in her walk, was not aware of her for amoment. 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 scrapeto 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 alongwi' ye, boy, ' said Mrs. Wernham. 

'No, no, ' said Isabel, with a decision that was always obeyed. 'Go onwith 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, dimclock. '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, puton a man's felt hat, and ventured out along the causeways of the firstyard. It was very dark. The wind was roaring in the great elms behind theouthouses. When she came to the second yard the darkness seemed deeper. She was unsure of her footing. She wished she had brought a lantern. Rainblew 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 nosign of a light anywhere. Opening the upper half, she looked in: into asimple well of darkness. The smell of horses, and ammonia, and of warmthwas 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 uponthe horses, the hot animal life. Feeling it wrong, she entered thestable, and drew the lower half of the door shut, holding the upper partclose. She did not stir, because she was aware of the presence of thedark hindquarters of the horses, though she could not see them, and shewas afraid. Something wild stirred in her heart. 

She listened intensely. Then she heard a small noise in the distance--faraway, it seemed--the chink of a pan, and a man's voice speaking a briefword. It would be Maurice, in the other part of the stable. She stoodmotionless, waiting for him to come through the partition door. Thehorses were so terrifyingly near to her, in the invisible. 

The loud jarring of the inner door-latch made her start; the door wasopened. She could hear and feel her husband entering and invisiblypassing among the horses near to her, in darkness as they were, activelyintermingled. The rather low sound of his voice as he spoke to the horsescame velvety to her nerves. How near he was, and how invisible! Thedarkness 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 wasstill 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 ofthe stable to her. She wished he would come away. Whilst he was soutterly 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, feelingfor 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 thedoor. 

'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 ratherlifted, but with a curious tentative movement of his powerful, muscularlegs. She could feel the clever, careful, strong contact of his feet withthe earth, as she balanced against him. For a moment he was a tower ofdarkness to her, as if he rose out of the earth. 

In the house-passage he wavered, and went cautiously, with a curious lookof 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, usuallycarried high and light. As he bent down to unfasten his gaiters and bootshe did not look blind. His hair was brown and crisp, his hands werelarge, reddish, intelligent, the veins stood out in the wrists; and histhighs and knees seemed massive. When he stood up his face and neck weresurcharged with blood, the veins stood out on his temples. She did notlook at his blindness. 

Isabel was always glad when they had passed through the dividing doorinto their own regions of repose and beauty. She was a little afraid ofhim, out there in the animal grossness of the back. His bearing alsochanged, as he smelt the familiar, indefinable odour that pervaded hiswife'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 _quivive_. '

'I can see you are, ' she answered. And she reached up and kissed hischeek. 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 eachother--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 littletroubled about, at times. '

'Why me?' he said, touching her cheeks delicately with the tips of hisfingers. The touch had an almost hypnotizing effect on her. 

He went away upstairs. She saw him mount into the darkness, unseeing andunchanging. He did not know that the lamps on the upper corridor wereunlighted. He went on into the darkness with unchanging step. She heardhim in the bathroom. 

Pervin moved about almost unconsciously in his familiar surroundings, dark though everything was. He seemed to know the presence of objectsbefore he touched them. It was a pleasure to him to rock thus through aworld of things, carried on the flood in a sort of blood-prescience. Hedid not think much or trouble much. So long as he kept this sheerimmediacy of blood-contact with the substantial world he was happy, hewanted no intervention of visual consciousness. In this state there was acertain rich positivity, bordering sometimes on rapture. Life seemed tomove in him like a tide lapping, and advancing, enveloping all thingsdarkly. It was a pleasure to stretch forth the hand and meet the unseenobject, clasp it, and possess it in pure contact. He did not try toremember, to visualize. He did not want to. The new way of consciousnesssubstituted itself in him. 

The rich suffusion of this state generally kept him happy, reaching itsculmination in the consuming passion for his wife. But at times the flowwould seem to be checked and thrown back. Then it would beat inside himlike a tangled sea, and he was tortured in the shattered chaos of his ownblood. He grew to dread this arrest, this throw-back, this chaos insidehimself, when he seemed merely at the mercy of his own powerful andconflicting elements. How to get some measure of control or surety, thiswas the question. And when the question rose maddening in him, he wouldclench his fists as if he would _compel_ the whole universe to submit tohim. But it was in vain. He could not even compel himself. 

Tonight, however, he was still serene, though little tremors ofunreasonable exasperation ran through him. He had to handle the razorvery carefully, as he shaved, for it was not at one with him, he wasafraid of it. His hearing also was too much sharpened. He heard the womanlighting the lamps on the corridor, and attending to the fire in thevisitor's room. And then, as he went to his room he heard the traparrive. Then came Isabel's voice, lifted and calling, like a bellringing:

'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 closedcarriage. I can't see you at all, you know. '

'I'm coming. No, I liked the drive--it was like Perthshire. Well, how areyou? 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'sPervin?--isn't he here?'

'Oh, yes, he's upstairs changing. Yes, he's awfully well. Take off yourwet 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 wonderfullyhappy, incredibly. It's more than I can understand--so wonderful: thenearness, and the peace--'

'Ah! Well, that's awfully good news--'

They moved away. Pervin heard no more. But a childish sense of desolationhad come over him, as he heard their brisk voices. He seemed shutout--like a child that is left out. He was aimless and excluded, he didnot know what to do with himself. The helpless desolation came over him. He fumbled nervously as he dressed himself, in a state almost ofchildishness. He disliked the Scotch accent in Bertie's speech, and theslight response it found on Isabel's tongue. He disliked the slight purrof complacency in the Scottish speech. He disliked intensely the glib wayin which Isabel spoke of their happiness and nearness. It made himrecoil. He was fretful and beside himself like a child, he had almost achildish nostalgia to be included in the life circle. And at the sametime 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 thesupport of another. And this very dependence enraged him. He hated BertieReid, and at the same time he knew the hatred was nonsense, he knew itwas the outcome of his own weakness. 

He went downstairs. Isabel was alone in the dining-room. She watched himenter, head erect, his feet tentative. He looked so strong-blooded andhealthy, and, at the same time, cancelled. Cancelled--that was the wordthat 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. Hewas a little dark man, with a very big forehead, thin, wispy hair, andsad, large eyes. His expression was inordinately sad--almost funny. Hehad odd, short legs. 

Isabel watched him hesitate under the door, and glance nervously at herhusband. 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 seethem. 

'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 anddistant. 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'rehaving a sort of high tea, not dinner. Do you mind? It gives us such anice long evening, uninterrupted. '

'I like it, ' said Bertie. 

Maurice was feeling, with curious little movements, almost like a catkneading her bed, for his place, his knife and fork, his napkin. He wasgetting the whole geography of his cover into his consciousness. He saterect and inscrutable, remote-seeming Bertie watched the static figure ofthe blind man, the delicate tactile discernment of the large, ruddyhands, and the curious mindless silence of the brow, above the scar. Withdifficulty he looked away, and without knowing what he did, picked up alittle 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 underAunt Bell's south wall?'

The two friends looked at each other and exchanged a smile, Isabel's eyeslighting up. 

'Don't I?' she replied. '_Wasn't_ she queer!'

'A curious old girl, ' laughed Bertie. 'There's a streak of freakishnessin 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 yousmelled the violets, dear? Do!--they are so scented. '

Maurice held out his hand, and Bertie placed the tiny bowl against hislarge, warm-looking fingers. Maurice's hand closed over the thin whitefingers of the barrister. Bertie carefully extricated himself. Then thetwo watched the blind man smelling the violets. He bent his head andseemed 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 andIsabel were a little afraid, and deeply disturbed. 

The meal continued. Isabel and Bertie chatted spasmodically. The blindman was silent. He touched his food repeatedly, with quick, delicatetouches of his knife-point, then cut irregular bits. He could not bear tobe helped. Both Isabel and Bertie suffered: Isabel wondered why. She didnot suffer when she was alone with Maurice. Bertie made her conscious ofa strangeness. 

After the meal the three drew their chairs to the fire, and sat down totalk. The decanters were put on a table near at hand. Isabel knocked thelogs 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, Ishall 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 inbeautiful rooms overlooking the river, guarded by a faithful Scottishman-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 waschivalrously fond of quite a number. But if they seemed to encroach onhim, 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 intoclose contact of any sort. He was ashamed of himself, because he couldnot marry, could not approach women physically. He wanted to do so. Buthe could not. At the centre of him he was afraid, helplessly and evenbrutally afraid. He had given up hope, had ceased to expect any more thathe could escape his own weakness. Hence he was a brilliant and successfulbarrister, also _littérateur_ of high repute, a rich man, and a greatsocial success. At the centre he felt himself neuter, nothing. 

Isabel knew him well. She despised him even while she admired him. Shelooked at his sad face, his little short legs, and felt contempt of him. She looked at his dark grey eyes, with their uncanny, almost childlikeintuition, and she loved him. He understood amazingly--but she had nofear of his understanding. As a man she patronized him. 

And she turned to the impassive, silent figure of her husband. He satleaning back, with folded arms, and face a little uptilted. His kneeswere straight and massive. She sighed, picked up the poker, and againbegan to prod the fire, to rouse the clouds of soft, brilliant sparks. 

'Isabel tells me, ' Bertie began suddenly, 'that you have not sufferedunbearably 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, toMaurice. 

'Yes. You cease to bother about a great many things. ' Again Mauricestretched his figure, stretched the strong muscles of his back, andleaned backwards, with uplifted face. 

'And that is a relief, ' said Bertie. 'But what is there in place of thebothering? What replaces the activity?'

There was a pause. At length the blind man replied, as out of anegligent, 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 whenthere 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 andreminiscence, the blind man silent. 

At length Maurice rose restlessly, a big, obtrusive figure. He felt tightand 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 Bertiesaid:

'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 somethingelse, something _there_, which you never knew was there, and which youcan't express. '

'What is there?' asked Bertie. 

'I don't know--it's awfully hard to define it--but somethingstrong and immediate. There's something strange in Maurice'spresence--indefinable--but I couldn't do without it. I agree that itseems to put one's mind to sleep. But when we're alone I miss nothing; itseems 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 onthe window-panes, making a sharp, drum-sound, because of the closed, mellow-golden shutters inside. The logs burned slowly, with hot, almostinvisible small flames. Bertie seemed uneasy, there were dark circlesround his eyes. Isabel, rich with her approaching maternity, leanedlooking into the fire. Her hair curled in odd, loose strands, verypleasing to the man. But she had a curious feeling of old woe in herheart, 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, youknow. The child coming seems to make me indifferent to everything, justplacid. 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'ttrouble 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 inbed 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. Hemust 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 thephysical effort. 

Bertie put on an old overcoat and took a lantern. He went out from theside door. He shrank from the wet and roaring night. Such weather had anervous effect on him: too much moisture everywhere made him feel almostimbecile. Unwilling, he went through it all. A dog barked violently athim. He peered in all the buildings. At last, as he opened the upper doorof a sort of intermediate barn, he heard a grinding noise, and lookingin, holding up his lantern, saw Maurice, in his shirt-sleeves, standinglistening, holding the handle of a turnip-pulper. He had been pulpingsweet 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 blindman stooped to rub its sides. Bertie watched the scene, thenunconsciously entered and shut the door behind him, He was in a high sortof barn-place, from which, right and left, ran off the corridors in frontof the stalled cattle. He watched the slow, stooping motion of the otherman, 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, clawingat 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'mafraid 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 flattenedgrey head of the cat with his fingers. 'What I am a bit afraid of, ' heresumed, 'is that she'll find me a dead weight, always alone with me downhere. '

'I don't think you need think that, ' said Bertie, though this was what hefeared himself. 

'I don't know, ' said Maurice. 'Sometimes I feel it isn't fair that she'ssaddled with me. ' Then he dropped his voice curiously. 'I say, ' he asked, secretly struggling, 'is my face much disfigured? Do you mind tellingme?'

'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, talkingas 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: 'Idon'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 tohim. Maurice accidentally knocked off Bertie's hat. 

'I thought you were taller, ' he said, starting. Then he laid his hand onBertie 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 closingagain, with a fine, close pressure, till he had covered the skull and theface of the smaller man, tracing the brows, and touching the full, closedeyes, touching the small nose and the nostrils, the rough, shortmoustache, the mouth, the rather strong chin. The hand of the blind mangrasped the shoulder, the arm, the hand of the other man. He seemed totake 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 doyour hands. Touch my eyes, will you?--touch my scar. '

Now Bertie quivered with revulsion. Yet he was under the power of theblind man, as if hypnotized. He lifted his hand, and laid the fingerson the scar, on the scarred eyes. Maurice suddenly covered them withhis own hand, pressed the fingers of the other man upon his disfiguredeye-sockets, trembling in every fibre, and rocking slightly, slowly, fromside to side. He remained thus for a minute or more, whilst Bertie stoodas 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 shallknow each other now. '

Bertie could not answer. He gazed mute and terror-struck, overcome by hisown weakness. He knew he could not answer. He had an unreasonable fear, lest the other man should suddenly destroy him. Whereas Maurice wasactually filled with hot, poignant love, the passion of friendship. Perhaps it was this very passion of friendship which Bertie shrank frommost. 

'We're all right together now, aren't we?' said Maurice. 'It's all rightnow, 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 delicatefulfilment of mortal friendship had come as a revelation and surprise tohim, something exquisite and unhoped-for. He seemed to be listening tohear 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 twomen went in silence along the causeways. Isabel, as they came, thoughttheir footsteps sounded strange. She looked up pathetically and anxiouslyfor their entrance. There seemed a curious elation about Maurice. Bertiewas haggard, with sunken eyes. 

'What is it?' she asked. 

'We've become friends, ' said Maurice, standing with his feet apart, likea strange colossus. 

'Friends!' re-echoed Isabel. And she looked again at Bertie. He met hereyes with a furtive, haggard look; his eyes were as if glazed withmisery. 

'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 itfast. 

'You'll be happier now, dear, ' she said. 

But she was watching Bertie. She knew that he had one desire--to escapefrom this intimacy, this friendship, which had been thrust upon him. Hecould not bear it that he had been touched by the blind man, his insanereserve 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, alongwith Albert, the corporal. The two men were pleasantly billeted in acottage not far from the station: they were their own masters, for Joenever thought of Albert as a master. And the little sidings of the tinyvillage station was as pleasant a place as you could wish for. On oneside, beyond the line, stretched the woods: on the other, the near side, across a green smooth field red houses were dotted among flowering appletrees. 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 aboutforty. He seemed to think his one aim in life was to be full of fun andnonsense. In repose, his face looked a little withered, old. He was avery 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 hiscorporal, more personable. Careful about his appearance, he shaved everyday. 'I haven't got much of a face, ' said Albert. 'If I was to shaveevery 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 timberfrom the woods, coal carts loading at the trucks. The black coal seemedto make the place sleepier, hotter. Round the big white gate thestation-master's children played and his white chickens walked, whilstthe stationmaster himself, a young man getting too fat, helped his wifeto peg out the washing on the clothes line in the meadow. 

The great boat-shaped wagons came up from Playcross with the hay. Atfirst the farm-men waggoned it. On the third day one of the land-girlsappeared with the first load, drawing to a standstill easily at the headof her two great horses. She was a buxom girl, young, in linen overallsand 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 doyou mean?'

'We are the pick of the bunch. That's Joe, my pal. Don't you let on thatmy 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 boysyou 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 tothe elbow, and whose shirt was open at the breast, looked modestly asideas 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 waspretty, moderately blonde, with crisp hair, a good skin, and large blueeyes. She was strong, too, and the work went on leisurely and easily. 

'Now!' said the corporal, stopping as usual to look round, 'pleasantcompany makes work a pleasure--don't hurry it, boys. ' He stood on thetruck surveying the world. That was one of his great and absorbingoccupations: to stand and look out on things in general. Joe, alsostanding on the truck, also turned round to look what was to be seen. Buthe could not become blankly absorbed, as Albert could. 

Miss Stokes watched the two men from under her broad felt hat. She hadseen hundreds of Alberts, khaki soldiers standing in loose attitudes, absorbed in watching nothing in particular. She had seen also a good manyJoes, quiet, good-looking young soldiers with half-averted faces. Butthere was something in the turn of Joe's head, and something in hisquiet, tender-looking form, young and fresh--which attracted her eye. Asshe watched him closely from below, he turned as if he felt her, and hisdark-blue eye met her straight, light-blue gaze. He faltered and turnedaside again and looked as if he were going to fall off the truck. Aslight 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 wasJoe she looked for. She acknowledged to herself that she was sweet onhim. 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. MissStokes was driven to indulge in repartee with Albert, but she fixed hermagnetic attention on the younger fellow. Joe would talk with Albert, andlaugh at his jokes. But Miss Stokes could get little out of him. She hadto depend on her silent forces. They were more effective than might beimagined. 

Suddenly, on Saturday afternoon, at about two o'clock, Joe received abolt 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 ifhe 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 inconfusion towards his corporal. 

'Meet somebody!' repeated the corporal, watching his young pal with keenblue 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 saidbefore the housewife. He also saw that Joe did not want to take him intoconfidence. So he held his peace, though he was piqued. 

The two soldiers went into town, smartened up. Albert knew a fairnumber of the boys round about; there would be plenty of gossip in themarket-place, plenty of lounging in groups on the Bath Road, watching theSaturday evening shoppers. Then a modest drink or two, and the movies. They passed an agreeable, casual, nothing-in-particular evening, withwhich Joe was quite satisfied. He thought of Belbury Station, and ofM. S. Waiting there. He had not the faintest intention of meeting her. Andhe had not the faintest intention of telling Albert. 

And yet, when the two men were in their bedroom, half undressed, Joesuddenly held out the telegram to his corporal, saying: 'What d'you thinkof that?'

Albert was just unbuttoning his braces. He desisted, took the telegramform, 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 disturbingthe householders. 

'I don't know, ' said Joe, turning. He looked full at Albert, the two menlooked straight into each other's eyes. There was a lurking grin in eachof them. 

'Well, I'm--_blamed_!' said Albert at last, throwing the telegram downemphatically on the bed. 

'Wha-at?' said Joe, grinning rather sheepishly, his eyes clouded none theless. 

Albert sat on the bed and proceeded to undress, nodding his head withmock 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 heproceeded to pull off his stockings. 

Joe turned away, looking at himself in the mirror as he unbuttoned histunic. 

'You didn't want to keep the appointment?' Albert asked, in a changedvoice, 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'twant 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 hisback in bed. 

'Oh, ' said Joe, suddenly looking round rather haughtily. 'I didn't wantto. ' He had a well-balanced head, and could take on a sudden distantbearing. 

'Didn't want to--didn't cotton on, like. Well--_they be artful, thewomen_--' he mimicked his landlord. 'Come on into bed, boy. Don't loiterabout 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 hersteeds came to a standstill. Joe had turned aside, and had his faceaverted from her. She glanced him over--save for his slender succulenttenderness she would have despised him. She sized him up in a steadylook. Then she turned to Albert, who was looking down at her and smilingin his mischievous turn. She knew his aspects by now. She looked straightback 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 ladieswaiting--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 remainedsilent, averted, neutral, a little on his dignity. Miss Stokes wasoff-hand and masterful. Albert was full of mischief. 

The great theme was a circus, which was coming to the market town on thefollowing 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 youhave 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 ofuncouth 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, andcursed Albert in his heart. 

On the Saturday afternoon the two soldiers took the train into town. Theywould have to walk home. They had tea at six o'clock, and lounged abouttill half past seven. The circus was in a meadow near the river--a greatred-and-white striped tent. Caravans stood at the side. A great crowd ofpeople was gathered round the ticket-caravan. 

Inside the tent the lamps were lighted, shining on a ring of faces, agreat circular bank of faces round the green grassy centre. Along withsome comrades, the two soldiers packed themselves on a thin plank seat, rather high. They were delighted with the flaring lights, the wildeffect. But the circus performance did not affect them deeply. Theyadmired the lady in black velvet with rose-purple legs who leapt soneatly on to the galloping horse; they watched the feats of strength andlaughed at the clown. But they felt a little patronizing, they missed thesensational drama of the cinema. 

Half-way through the performance Joe was electrified to see the face ofMiss Stokes not very far from him. There she was, in her khaki and herfelt hat, as usual; he pretended not to see her. She was laughing at theclown; she also pretended not to see him. It was a blow to him, and itmade 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 amoon and tall, dark, noble trees: a magnificent May night. Joe and Albertlaughed and chaffed with the boys. Joe looked round frequently to see ifhe 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, otherstragglers were passing out of the town towards the villages; the air wasfull 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; aland girl; Miss Stokes. Albert was ready with his nonsense. Miss Stokeshad 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 asmuch 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 thebranch road, was very near. Miss Stokes put out her fingers and felt forJoe's hand as it swung at his side. To say he was staggered is to put itmildly. 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 hadanother 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 toBaker'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 mypal. 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 hewas uncomfortable. 'Well, Miss Stokes, have me, ' he added. 

Miss Stokes stood quite still, neither moved nor spoke. And so the threeremained for some time at the lane end. At last Joe began kicking theground--then he suddenly lifted his face. At that moment Miss Stokes wasat his side. She put her arm delicately round his waist. 

'Seems I'm the one extra, don't you think?' Albert inquired of the highbland moon. 

Joe had dropped his head and did not answer. Miss Stokes stood with herarm 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 theroad. They walked in silence. The night was full of scent--wild cherry, the first bluebells. Still they walked in silence. A nightingale wassinging. They approached nearer and nearer, till they stood close by hisdark bush. The powerful notes sounded from the cover, almost like flashesof light--then the interval of silence--then the moaning notes, almostlike a dog faintly howling, followed by the long, rich trill, andflashing notes. Then a short silence again. 

Miss Stokes turned at last to Joe. She looked up at him, and in themoonlight he saw her faintly smiling. He felt maddened, but helpless. Herarm was round his waist, she drew him closely to her with a soft pressurethat made all his bones rotten. 

Meanwhile Albert was waiting at home. He put on his overcoat, for thefire 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 along 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 facesullen. 

'All right, boy?' asked Albert. 

Joe merely grunted for a reply. There was nothing more to be got out ofhim. So they went to bed. 

Next day Joe was silent, sullen. Albert could make nothing of him. Heproposed a walk after tea. 

'I'm going somewhere, ' said Joe. 

'Where--Monkey nuts?' asked the corporal. But Joe's brow only becamedarker. 

So the days went by. Almost every evening Joe went off alone, returninglate. He was sullen, taciturn and had a hang-dog look, a curious way ofdropping his head and looking dangerously from under his brows. And heand Albert did not get on so well any more with one another. For all hisfun and nonsense, Albert was really irritable, soon made angry. And Joe'sstand-offish sulkiness and complete lack of confidence riled him, got onhis nerves. His fun and nonsense took a biting, sarcastic turn, at whichJoe's eyes glittered occasionally, though the young man turned unheedingaside. Then again Joe would be full of odd, whimsical fun, outshiningAlbert 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 andgood-looking, almost she seemed to gleam. And Albert was a tiny bitafraid of her. She very rarely addressed Joe whilst the hay-loading wasgoing on, and that young man always turned his back to her. He seemedthinner, and his limber figure looked more slouching. But still it hadthe tender, attractive appearance, especially from behind. His tannedface, a little thinned and darkened, took a handsome, slightly sinisterlook. 

'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 theyoung woman. 'What's got him? Is it Monkey nuts that don't suit him, doyou think?'

'Choked with chaff, more like, ' she retorted. 'It's as bad as feeding athreshing 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. Hewould 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 closedthe door behind him carefully, sat on the bed and watched the younger manundressing. And for once he spoke in a natural voice, neither chaffingnor commanding. 

'What's gone wrong, boy?'

Joe stopped a moment as if he had been shot. Then he went on unwindinghis 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 waspurple. 

'Then why don't you answer?'

Joe sat up. He gave a long, sideways look at the corporal. Then he liftedhis 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 veryslightly, 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, satdown 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 themurdering?--me or you--which is it, boy?' He smiled gently at the stupidyouth, looking straight at him all the while, into his eyes. Graduallythe stupid, hunted, glowering look died out of Joe's eyes. He turned hishead 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 havethought 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. Therewas 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 mettledipping 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 timethere 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. Albertwalked briskly down the white road towards Beeley. He crossed a larchplantation, and followed a narrow by-road, where blue speedwell flowersfell from the banks into the dust. He walked swinging his cane, withmixed sensations. Then having gone a certain length, he turned and beganto walk in the opposite direction. 

So he saw a young woman approaching him. She was wearing a wide hat ofgrey straw, and a loose, swinging dress of nigger-grey velvet. She walkedwith slow inevitability. Albert faltered a little as he approached her. Then he saluted her, and his roguish, slightly withered skin flushed. Shewas 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. 'Perhapsyou never noticed me. Oh, I'm quite nice looking, in a quiet way, youknow. What--?'

But Miss Stokes did not speak: she only stared with large, icy blue eyesat him. He became self-conscious, lifted up his chin, walked with hisnose 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 oflife--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, butmaintained 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 shouldget 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 hercheeks. 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 hisheel, cursing silently, puzzled, lifting off his cap to scratch his head. 

That night, when they were in bed, he remarked: 'Say, Joe, boy; strikesme 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, andthreatening rain. They watched the wagon come up the road and through theyard gates. Miss Stokes was with her team as usual; her 'Whoa!' rang outlike 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 tojump 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, detaininghim. 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 hisface. 

'Monkey nuts!' he replied, in a tone mocking her call. 

She turned white--dead white. The men thought she would fall. Albertbegan 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 hiscorporal looked at one another and smiled slowly. But they had a weighton their minds, they were afraid. 

They were reassured, however, when they found that Miss Stokes came nomore with the hay. As far as they were concerned, she had vanished intooblivion. And Joe felt more relieved even than he had felt when he heardthe 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 verycold, the air clear. Farmers were just turning out the cows for an houror so in the midday, and the smell of cow-sheds was unendurable as Ientered Tible. I noticed the ash-twigs up in the sky were pale andluminous, passing into the blue. And then I saw the peacocks. There theywere in the road before me, three of them, and tailless, brown, speckledbirds, with dark-blue necks and ragged crests. They stepped archly overthe filigree snow, and their bodies moved with slow motion, like small, light, flat-bottomed boats. I admired them, they were curious. Then agust of wind caught them, heeled them over as if they were three frailboats opening their feathers like ragged sails. They hopped and skippedwith discomfort, to get out of the draught of the wind. And then, in thelee of the walls, they resumed their arch, wintry motion, light andunballasted now their tails were gone, indifferent. They were indifferentto my presence. I might have touched them. They turned off to the shelterof an open shed. 

As I passed the end of the upper house, I saw a young woman just comingout of the back door. I had spoken to her in the summer. She recognizedme at once, and waved to me. She was carrying a pail, wearing a whiteapron that was longer than her preposterously short skirt, and she had onthe cotton bonnet. I took off my hat to her and was going on. But she putdown 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 andsallow and her nose rather red. But her gloomy black eyes softenedcaressively to me for a moment, with that momentary humility which makesa man lord of the earth. 

I stood in the road, looking at the fluffy, dark-red young cattle thatmooed and seemed to bark at me. They seemed happy, frisky cattle, alittle impudent, and either determined to go back into the warm shed, ordetermined not to go back, I could not decide which. 

Presently the woman came forward again, her head rather ducked. But shelooked up at me and smiled, with that odd, immediate intimacy, somethingwitch-like and impossible. 

'Sorry to keep you waiting, ' she said. 'Shall we stand in thiscart-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 asmall black frown on her brows. She seemed to brood for a moment. Thenshe looked straight into my eyes, so that I blinked and wanted to turn myface 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 aword. ' She ducked her head and laughed, with a slightly ugly grimace anda 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 Isaid. Suddenly again she looked at me. She was searching. And at the sametime she smiled at me, and her eyes looked softly, darkly, with infinitetrustful humility into mine. I was being cajoled. 

'Would you mind reading a letter for me, in French, ' she said, her faceimmediately 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, mywits were gone. She glanced round. Then she looked at me shrewdly. Shedrew a letter from her pocket, and handed it to me. It was addressed fromFrance to Lance-Corporal Goyte, at Tible. I took out the letter and beganto read it, as mere words. '_Mon cher Alfred_'--it might have been a bitof a torn newspaper. So I followed the script: the trite phrases of aletter from a French-speaking girl to an English soldier. 'I think of youalways, always. Do you think sometimes of me?' And then I vaguelyrealized that I was reading a man's private correspondence. And yet, howcould one consider these trivial, facile French phrases private! Nothingmore trite and vulgar in the world, than such a love-letter--no newspapermore obvious. 

Therefore I read with a callous heart the effusions of the Belgiandamsel. But then I gathered my attention. For the letter went on, '_Notrecher petit bébé_--our dear little baby was born a week ago. Almost Idied, knowing you were far away, and perhaps forgetting the fruit of ourperfect love. But the child comforted me. He has the smiling eyes andvirile air of his English father. I pray to the Mother of Jesus to sendme the dear father of my child, that I may see him with my child in hisarms, and that we may be united in holy family love. Ah, my Alfred, can Itell you how I miss you, how I weep for you. My thoughts are with youalways, I think of nothing but you, I live for nothing but you and ourdear baby. If you do not come back to me soon, I shall die, and our childwill die. But no, you cannot come back to me. But I can come to you, cometo England with our child. If you do not wish to present me to your goodmother and father, you can meet me in some town, some city, for I shallbe so frightened to be alone in England with my child, and no one to takecare of us. Yet I must come to you, I must bring my child, my littleAlfred 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 apenniless creature. I have money for myself and my dear baby--'

I read to the end. It was signed: 'Your very happy and still more unhappyÉlise. ' I suppose I must have been smiling. 

'I can see it makes you laugh, ' said Mrs. Goyte, sardonically. I lookedup 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'sanother thing. ' She grimaced a little, looking up at me with a mockinglaugh. 

'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 beenapplying for him home. He was home about six weeks ago--he's been inScotland 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'llget his discharge--but I don't think he will. We married? We've beenmarried six years--and he joined up the first day of the war. Oh, hethought 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 nohome of my own now. My people had a big farm--over a thousand acres--inOxfordshire. Not like here--no. Oh, they're very good to me, his fatherand mother. Oh, yes, they couldn't be better. They think more of me thanof 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 hisfather and mother at home. Before the war? Oh, he was anything. He's hada good education--but he liked the farming better. Then he was achauffeur. That's how he knew French. He was driving a gentleman inFrance 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 delicatelegs. Its grey speckled back was very elegant, it rolled its full, dark-blue neck as it moved to her. She crouched down. 'Joey, dear, ' shesaid, 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 Ilove Joey, don't I. I _do_ love Joey. ' And she smoothed his feathers fora 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 sevenyears ago. Those others are his descendants--but they're not likeJoey--_are they, dee-urr?_' Her voice rose at the end with a witch-likecry. 

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 itsays. '

'It's rather behind his back, ' I said. 

'Oh, never mind him, ' she cried. 'He's been behind my back longenough--all these four years. If he never did no worse things behind myback than I do behind his, he wouldn't have cause to grumble. You read mewhat it says. '

Now I felt a distinct reluctance to do as she bid, and yet I began--'Mydear Alfred. '

'I guessed that much, ' she said. 'Eliza's dear Alfred. ' She laughed. 'Howdo you say it in French? _Eliza?_'

I told her, and she repeated the name with great contempt--_Élise_. 

'Go on, ' she said. 'You're not reading. '

So I began--'I have been thinking of you sometimes--have you beenthinking 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 herea week ago. Ah, can I tell you my feelings when I take my darling littlebrother 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 ownright enough--and his. '

'No, ' I said, 'it's her mother's. ' 'He has sweet smiling eyes, but notlike your beautiful English eyes--'

She suddenly struck her hand on her skirt with a wild motion, and bentdown, doubled with laughter. Then she rose and covered her face with herhand. 

'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 thepeacock. 

--'Er--We miss you very much. We all miss you. We wish you were here tosee the darling baby. Ah, Alfred, how happy we were when you stayed withus. We all loved you so much. My mother will call the baby Alfred so thatwe 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 fathercame home yesterday--on leave. He is delighted with his son, my littlebrother, and wishes to have him named after you, because you were so goodto us all in that terrible time, which I shall never forget. I must weepnow when I think of it. Well, you are far away in England, and perhaps Ishall 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 herhe 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 youwill 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 torejoice in this life, that is so hard for us. But we have recovered someof our losses, and no longer feel the burden of poverty. The littleAlfred is a great comfort to me. I hold him to my breast and think of thebig, good Alfred, and I weep to think that those times of suffering wereperhaps 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 callit beastly, I do. '

'You don't know, ' I said. 'You know how anxious women are to fall inlove, wife or no wife. How could he help it, if she was determined tofall 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 suchtommy-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 sendmany kind regards to your good parents. I wish you all happiness for yourfuture days. Your very affectionate and ever-grateful Élise. '

There was silence for a moment, during which Mrs. Goyte remained with herhead dropped, sinister and abstracted. Suddenly she lifted her face, andher 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 thinkthose French girls are such poor innocent things? I guess she's a greatdeal 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 theirletters 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. Butit's the nasty meanness of it--me writing him such loving letters'--sheput her hand before her face and laughed malevolently--'and sending himparcels all the time. You bet he fed that gurrl on my parcels--I know hedid. 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 heardcalling. 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 darkenedwith deep, soft snow, which had blown against the large west windows, covering them with a screen. I went outside, and saw the valley all whiteand ghastly below me, the trees beneath black and thin looking like wire, the rock-faces dark between the glistening shroud, and the sky abovesombre, heavy, yellowish-dark, much too heavy for this world below ofhollow bluey whiteness figured with black. I felt I was in a valley ofthe dead. And I sensed I was a prisoner, for the snow was everywheredeep, and drifted in places. So all the morning I remained indoors, looking up the drive at the shrubs so heavily plumed with snow, at thegateposts raised high with a foot or more of extra whiteness. Or I lookeddown into the white-and-black valley that was utterly motionless andbeyond life, a hollow sarcophagus. 

Nothing stirred the whole day--no plume fell off the shrubs, the valleywas 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, andI 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 toescape. 

In the faint glow of the half-clear light that came about four o'clock inthe afternoon, I was roused to see a motion in the snow away below, nearwhere the thorn trees stood very black and dwarfed, like a little savagegroup, in the dismal white. I watched closely. Yes, there was a flappingand a struggle--a big bird, it must be, labouring in the snow. Iwondered. Our biggest birds, in the valley, were the large hawks thatoften hung flickering opposite my windows, level with me, but high abovesome prey on the steep valleyside. This was much too big for a hawk--toobig for any known bird. I searched in my mind for the largest Englishwild birds, geese, buzzards. 

Still it laboured and strove, then was still, a dark spot, then struggledagain. I went out of the house and down the steep slope, at risk ofbreaking my leg between the rocks. I knew the ground so well--and yet Igot well shaken before I drew near the thorn-trees. 

Yes, it was a bird. It was Joey. It was the grey-brown peacock with ablue neck. He was snow-wet and spent. 

'Joey--Joey, de-urr!' I said, staggering unevenly towards him. He lookedso pathetic, rowing and struggling in the snow, too spent to rise, hisblue neck stretching out and lying sometimes on the snow, his eye closingand opening quickly, his crest all battered. 

'Joey dee-uur! Dee-urr!' I said caressingly to him. And at last he laystill, blinking, in the surged and furrowed snow, whilst I came near andtouched him, stroked him, gathered him under my arm. He stretched hislong, wetted neck away from me as I held him, none the less he was quietin 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 ifhe might suddenly die. 

He was not so heavy as I expected, yet it was a struggle to get up to thehouse with him again. We set him down, not too near the fire, and gentlywiped him with cloths. He submitted, only now and then stretched his softneck 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. Heseemed to be ignorant of what we were doing, recoiled inside himselfinexplicably. So we put him in a basket with cloths, and left himcrouching oblivious. His food we put near him. The blinds were drawn, thehouse was warm, it was night. Sometimes he stirred, but mostly he huddledstill, leaning his queer crested head on one side. He touched no food, and took no heed of sounds or movements. We talked of brandy orstimulants. But I realized we had best leave him alone. 

In the night, however, we heard him thumping about. I got up anxiouslywith 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 hewas recovered, or recovering. 

The next day was clear, and the snow had frozen, so I decided to carryhim back to Tible. He consented, after various flappings, to sit in a bigfish-bag with his battered head peeping out with wild uneasiness. And soI set off with him, slithering down into the valley, making good progressdown in the pale shadow beside the rushing waters, then climbingpainfully up the arrested white valleyside, plumed with clusters of youngpine trees, into the paler white radiance of the snowy, upper regions, where the wind cut fine. Joey seemed to watch all the time with wideanxious, unseeing eye, brilliant and inscrutable. As I drew near to Tibletownship he stirred violently in the bag, though I do not know if he hadrecognized the place. Then, as I came to the sheds, he looked sharplyfrom side to side, and stretched his neck out long. I was a little afraidof him. He gave a loud, vehement yell, opening his sinister beak, and Istood still, looking at him as he struggled in the bag, shaken myself byhis struggles, yet not thinking to release him. 

Mrs. Goyte came darting past the end of the house, her head stickingforward 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 touchof the snow now. She gathered him up, and put her lips to his beak. Shewas flushed and handsome, her eyes bright, her hair slack, thick, butmore witch-like than ever. She did not speak. 

She had been followed by a grey-haired woman with a round, rather sallowface and a slightly hostile bearing. 

'Did you bring him with you, then?' she asked sharply. I answered that Ihad rescued him the previous evening. 

From the background slowly approached a slender man with a grey moustacheand large patches on his trousers. 

'You've got'im back 'gain, ah see, ' he said to his daughter-in-law. Hiswife explained how I had found Joey. 

'Ah, ' went on the grey man. 'It wor our Alfred scared him off, back yourlife. He must'a flyed ower t'valley. Tha ma' thank thy stars as 'e worfun, Maggie. 'E'd a bin froze. They a bit nesh, you know, ' he concludedto 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 athis daughter-in-law as she crouched, flushed and dark, before thepeacock, 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 aface young and almost delicate, like a young man's. His blue eyestwinkled with some inscrutable source of pleasure, his skin was fine andtender, 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 wasDanish looking, broad at the loins. 

'I's come back then, ' said the father to the son; 'leastwise, he's binbrowt back, flyed ower the Griff Low. '

The son looked at me. He had a devil-may-care bearing, his cap on oneside, his hands stuck in the front pockets of his breeches. But he saidnothing. 

'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, thatwas too cosy, and too warm. The son followed last, standing in thedoorway. 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-lawsaid--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. Butay, you knowed, didna yer. Ay, 'e comed 'a Wednesday--an' I reckon therewor 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 tohim, as if crossly. But she could never be cross with him. 

''Ers got 'er colour back this mornin', ' continued the father-in-lawslowly. 'It's bin heavy weather wi' 'er this last two days. Ay--'er's binnortheast sin 'er seed you a Wednesday. '

'Father, do stop talking. You'd wear the leg off an iron pot. I can'tthink where you've found your tongue, all of a sudden, ' said Maggie, withcaressive sharpness. 

'Ah've found it wheer I lost it. Aren't goin' ter come in an' sit theedown, Alfred?'

But Alfred turned and disappeared. 

''E's got th' monkey on 'is back ower this letter job, ' said the fathersecretly 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 farenough off, an' ned niver come no nigher. No--not a smite o' use. That'swhat 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 hereyes at me from time to time, complacent and satisfied, moving among themen. I paid her little compliments, which she did not seem to hear. Sheattended to me with a kind of sinister, witch-like graciousness, her darkhead ducked between her shoulders, at once humble and powerful. She washappy as a child attending to her father-in-law and to me. But there wassomething ominous between her eyebrows, as if a dark moth were settledthere--and something ominous in her bent, hulking bearing. 

She sat on a low stool by the fire, near her father-in-law. Her head wasdropped, she seemed in a state of abstraction. From time to time shewould suddenly recover, and look up at us, laughing and chatting. Thenshe would forget again. Yet in her hulked black forgetting she seemedvery 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 glancedat 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, seeminglyoblivious. Then once more there was a heavy step, and Alfred entered. Helooked at his wife, and he looked at the peacock crouching by her. Hestood large in the doorway, his hands stuck in front of him, in hisbreeches 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 frontof me, twisting her head sideways and looking up at me. 'Can't you stop abit 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 blueneck, 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 forher--as utterly as I ceased to exist for Joey. With her curiousabstractedness 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 nosun; the snow was blue and cold. I hurried away down the hill, musing onMaggie. The road made a loop down the sharp face of the slope. As I wentcrunching over the laborious snow I became aware of a figure stridingdown the steep scarp to intercept me. It was a man with his hands infront of him, half stuck in his breeches pockets, and his shoulderssquare--a real farmer of the hills; Alfred, of course. He waited for meby 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. Hehad a certain odd haughtiness on his brows. But his blue eyes staredinsolently at me. 

'Do you know anything about a letter--in French--that my wife opened--aletter 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 actionhe should take. He wanted to know the contents of the letter: he mustknow: and therefore he must ask me, for evidently his wife had tauntedhim. At the same time, no doubt, he would like to wreak untold vengeanceon my unfortunate person. So he eyed me, and I eyed him, and neither ofus spoke. He did not want to repeat his request to me. And yet I onlylooked at him, and considered. 

Suddenly he threw back his head and glanced down the valley. Then hechanged his position--he was a horse-soldier. Then he looked at meconfidentially. 

'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 hestirred again uncomfortably. 

'The Belgian girl said her baby had been born a week ago, and that theywere 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 yourgirl, 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 bigmove in his contest with his wife. 

'What about the other woman?' I asked. 

'Who?'

'Élise. '

'Oh'--he shifted uneasily--'she was all right--'

'You'll be getting back to her, ' I said. 

He looked at me. Then he made a grimace with his mouth. 

'Not me, ' he said. 'Back your life it's a plant. '

'You don't think the _cher petit bébé_ is a little Alfred?'

'It might be, ' he said. 

'Only might?'

'Yes--an' there's lots of mites in a pound of cheese. ' He laughedboisterously but uneasily. 

'What did she say, exactly?' he asked. 

I began to repeat, as well as I could, the phrases of the letter:

'_Mon cher Alfred--Figure-toi comme je suis desolée_--'

He listened with some confusion. When I had finished all I couldremember, 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 mynose and prepared to depart. 

'And _she_ doesn't know anything?' he continued, jerking his head up thehill in the direction of Tible. 

'She knows nothing but what I've said--that is, if she really burnt theletter. '

'I believe she burnt it, ' he said, 'for spite. She's a little devil, sheis. 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-thatb---- 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 loudburst of laughter that made the still, snow-deserted valley clap again. 

'God, it's a knockout!' he said, thoroughly amused. Then he stood atease, 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 wallthat enclosed the whole grounds of the pottery itself. To be sure, aprivet hedge partly masked the house and its ground from the pottery-yardand works: but only partly. Through the hedge could be seen the desolateyard, and the many-windowed, factory-like pottery, over the hedge couldbe seen the chimneys and the outhouses. But inside the hedge, a pleasantgarden and lawn sloped down to a willow pool, which had once supplied theworks. 

The Pottery itself was now closed, the great doors of the yardpermanently shut. No more the great crates with yellow straw showingthrough, stood in stacks by the packing shed. No more the drays drawn bygreat horses rolled down the hill with a high load. No more thepottery-lasses in their clay-coloured overalls, their faces and hairsplashed with grey fine mud, shrieked and larked with the men. All thatwas 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 theyonly imagined they did, is a question. Certainly their lives were muchmore grey and dreary now that the grey clay had ceased to spatter its mudand silt its dust over the premises. They did not quite realize how theymissed the shrieking, shouting lasses, whom they had known all theirlives and disliked so much. 

Matilda and Emmie were already old maids. In a thorough industrialdistrict, it is not easy for the girls who have expectations above thecommon to find husbands. The ugly industrial town was full of men, youngmen who were ready to marry. But they were all colliers or pottery-hands, mere workmen. The Rockley girls would have about ten thousand pounds eachwhen their father died: ten thousand pounds' worth of profitablehouse-property. It was not to be sneezed at: they felt so themselves, andrefrained from sneezing away such a fortune on any mere member of theproletariat. Consequently, bank-clerks or nonconformist clergymen or evenschool-teachers having failed to come forward, Matilda had begun to giveup 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 andmusic, and read a good many novels, whilst Emmie looked after thehouse-keeping. Emmie was shorter, plumper than her sister, and she had noaccomplishments. She looked up to Matilda, whose mind was naturallyrefined and sensible. 

In their quiet, melancholy way, the two girls were happy. Their motherwas dead. Their father was ill also. He was an intelligent man who hadhad some education, but preferred to remain as if he were one with therest of the working people. He had a passion for music and played theviolin pretty well. But now he was getting old, he was very ill, dying ofa kidney disease. He had been rather a heavy whisky-drinker. 

This quiet household, with one servant-maid, lived on year after year inthe Pottery House. Friends came in, the girls went out, the father drankhimself more and more ill. Outside in the street there was a continualracket of the colliers and their dogs and children. But inside thepottery wall was a deserted quiet. 

In all this ointment there was one little fly. Ted Rockley, the father ofthe girls, had had four daughters, and no son. As his girls grew, he feltangry at finding himself always in a house-hold of women. He went off toLondon and adopted a boy out of a Charity Institution. Emmie was fourteenyears old, and Matilda sixteen, when their father arrived home with hisprodigy, the boy of six, Hadrian. 

Hadrian was just an ordinary boy from a Charity Home, with ordinarybrownish hair and ordinary bluish eyes and of ordinary rather cockneyspeech. The Rockley girls--there were three at home at the time of hisarrival--had resented his being sprung on them. He, with his watchful, charity-institution instinct, knew this at once. Though he was only sixyears old, Hadrian had a subtle, jeering look on his face when heregarded the three young women. They insisted he should address them asCousin: Cousin Flora, Cousin Matilda, Cousin Emmie. He complied, butthere seemed a mockery in his tone. 

The girls, however, were kind-hearted by nature. Flora married and lefthome. Hadrian did very much as he pleased with Matilda and Emmie, thoughthey had certain strictnesses. He grew up in the Pottery House and aboutthe Pottery premises, went to an elementary school, and was invariablycalled Hadrian Rockley. He regarded Cousin Matilda and Cousin Emmie witha certain laconic indifference, was quiet and reticent in his ways. Thegirls called him sly, but that was unjust. He was merely cautious, andwithout frankness. His Uncle, Ted Rockley, understood him tacitly, theirnatures were somewhat akin. Hadrian and the elderly man had a real butunemotional regard for one another. 

When he was thirteen years old the boy was sent to a High School in theCounty town. He did not like it. His Cousin Matilda had longed to make alittle gentleman of him, but he refused to be made. He would give alittle contemptuous curve to his lip, and take on a shy, charity-boygrin, when refinement was thrust upon him. He played truant from the HighSchool, sold his books, his cap with its badge, even his very scarf andpocket-handkerchief, to his school-fellows, and went raking off heavenknows where with the money. So he spent two very unsatisfactory years. 

When he was fifteen he announced that he wanted to leave England and goto the Colonies. He had kept touch with the Home. The Rockleys knew that, when Hadrian made a declaration, in his quiet, half-jeering manner, itwas worse than useless to oppose him. So at last the boy departed, goingto Canada under the protection of the Institution to which he hadbelonged. He said good-bye to the Rockleys without a word of thanks, andparted, it seemed, without a pang. Matilda and Emmie wept often to thinkof how he left them: even on their father's face a queer look came. ButHadrian wrote fairly regularly from Canada. He had entered someelectricity works near Montreal, and was doing well. 

At last, however, the war came. In his turn, Hadrian joined up and cameto 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 inhis 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 thePottery House. 

The girls were terribly fluttered. To tell the truth, they were a littleafraid of Hadrian. Matilda, tall and thin, was frail in her health, bothgirls were worn with nursing their father. To have Hadrian, a young manof twenty-one, in the house with them, after he had left them so coldlyfive years before, was a trying circumstance. 

They were in a flutter. Emmie persuaded her father to have his bed madefinally in the morning-room downstairs, whilst his room upstairs wasprepared for Hadrian. This was done, and preparations were going on forthe arrival, when, at ten o'clock in the morning the young man suddenlyturned up, quite unexpectedly. Cousin Emmie, with her hair bobbed up inabsurd little bobs round her forehead, was busily polishing thestair-rods, while Cousin Matilda was in the kitchen washing thedrawing-room ornaments in a lather, her sleeves rolled back on her thinarms, and her head tied up oddly and coquettishly in a duster. 

Cousin Matilda blushed deep with mortification when the self-possessedyoung man walked in with his kit-bag, and put his cap on the sewingmachine. He was little and self-confident, with a curious neatness abouthim that still suggested the Charity Institution. His face was brown, hehad a small moustache, he was vigorous enough in his smallness. 

'_Well_, is it Hadrian!' exclaimed Cousin Matilda, wringing the latheroff 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 wentforward, 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, solarge-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 andsorrow, 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 wason the stairs pushing the bright stair-rods into place. Instinctively herhand 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 andunexpected 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--buthe was resting on the bed, propped up just under the window, from whencehe could see his beloved and resplendent garden, where tulips andapple-trees were ablaze. He did not look as ill as he was, for the waterpuffed him up, and his face kept its colour. His stomach was muchswollen. He glanced round swiftly, turning his eyes without turning hishead. He was the wreck of a handsome, well-built man. 

Seeing Hadrian, a queer, unwilling smile went over his face. The youngman greeted him sheepishly. 

'You wouldn't make a life-guardsman, ' he said. 'Do you want something toeat?'

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 thestairs. 

'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 shakingher head knowingly, as she handed the frying-pan. 

'Mannie!' said Emmie sarcastically. Hadrian's new-fledged, cock-suremanliness evidently found no favour in her eyes. 

'Oh, he's not bad, ' said Matilda. 'You don't want to be prejudicedagainst him. '

I'm not prejudiced against him, I think he's all right for looks, ' saidEmmie, '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 upand get dressed, our Matilda. I don't care about him. I can see tothings, 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 oftheir father--hoping for a legacy. And they were not at all sure he wouldnot get it. 

Matilda went upstairs to change. She had thought it all out how she wouldreceive Hadrian, and impress him. And he had caught her with her headtied up in a duster, and her thin arms in a basin of lather. But she didnot care. She now dressed herself most scrupulously, carefully folded herlong, beautiful, blonde hair, touched her pallor with a little rouge, andput her long string of exquisite crystal beads over her soft green dress. Now she looked elegant, like a heroine in a magazine illustration, andalmost as unreal. 

She found Hadrian and her father talking away. The young man was short ofspeech as a rule, but he could find his tongue with his 'uncle'. Theywere both sipping a glass of brandy, and smoking, and chatting like apair of old cronies. Hadrian was telling about Canada. He was going backthere 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 employersover 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 littleman, ' she said to herself. She had always said of Hadrian that he had noproper _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, overhere, ' said Matilda. 

'Is it any different in Canada?' asked Emmie. 

'Oh, yes--democratic, ' replied Matilda, 'He thinks they're all on a levelover there. '

'Ay, well he's over here now, ' said Emmie dryly, 'so he can keep hisplace. '

As they talked they saw the young man sauntering down the garden, lookingcasually at the flowers. He had his hands in his pockets, and hissoldier's cap neatly on his head. He looked quite at his ease, as if inpossession. The two women, fluttered, watched him through the window. 

'We know what he's come for, ' said Emmie, churlishly. Matilda looked along time at the neat khaki figure. It had something of the charity-boyabout it still; but now it was a man's figure, laconic, charged withplebeian energy. She thought of the derisive passion in his voice as hehad declaimed against the propertied classes, to her father. 

'You don't know, Emmie. Perhaps he's not come for that, ' she rebuked hersister. They were both thinking of the money. 

They were still watching the young soldier. He stood away at the bottomof the garden, with his back to them, his hands in his pockets, lookinginto the water of the willow pond. Matilda's dark-blue eyes had astrange, 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 alook of pain. The young man at the bottom of the garden turned and lookedup the path. Perhaps he saw them through the window. Matilda moved intoshadow. 

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 atany moment--but then he might not. They must be prepared. 

So the day passed, and the next. Hadrian made himself at home. He wentabout in the morning in his brownish jersey and his khaki trousers, collarless, his bare neck showing. He explored the pottery premises, asif 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 thetwo men sat talking together like cronies. Yet it was chiefly a kind ofpolitics they talked. 

On the second day after Hadrian's arrival, Matilda sat with her father inthe evening. She was drawing a picture which she wanted to copy. It wasvery still, Hadrian was gone out somewhere, no one knew where, and Emmiewas busy. Mr. Rockley reclined on his bed, looking out in silence overhis evening-sunny garden. 

'If anything happens to me, Matilda, ' he said, 'you won't sell thishouse--you'll stop here--'

Matilda's eyes took their slightly haggard look as she stared at herfather. 

'Well, we couldn't do anything else, ' she said. 

'You don't know what you might do, ' he said. 'Everything is left to youand Emmie, equally. You'do as you like with it--only don't sell thishouse, don't part with it. '

'No, ' she said. 

'And give Hadrian my watch and chain, and a hundred pounds out of what'sin the bank--and help him if he ever wants helping. I haven't put hisname in the will. '

'Your watch and chain, and a hundred pounds--yes. But you'll be here whenhe 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 longtime, as if tranced. She saw that he knew he must go soon--she saw like aclairvoyant. 

Later on she told Emmie what her father had said about the watch andchain and the money. 

'What right has _he'--he_--meaning Hadrian--'to my father's watch andchain--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 andbreaking, her mind seemed entranced. She was too much entranced even toweep, and all the time she thought of her father, only her father. Atlast she felt she must go to him. 

It was near midnight. She went along the passage and to his room. Therewas a faint light from the moon outside. She listened at his door. Thenshe softly opened and entered. The room was faintly dark. She heard amovement 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 thebed. 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 andsmooth. A sort of surprise stirred her, in her entranced state. But itcould not waken her. Gently, she leaned over the bed and stirred herfingers 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. Itwas Hadrian's voice. She started away. Instantly, she was wakened fromher 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 sostartled, so shocked, that she could not move. The young man gave anuncomfortable laugh, and turned in his bed. 

At last she got out of the room. When she was back in her own room, inthe light, and her door was closed, she stood holding up her hand thathad touched him, as if it were hurt. She was almost too shocked, shecould not endure. 

'Well, ' said her calm and weary mind, 'it was only a mistake, why takeany notice of it. '

But she could not reason her feelings so easily. She suffered, feelingherself in a false position. Her right hand, which she had laid so gentlyon 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 himdeeply. 

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, strayingtenderness of her hand on his face startled something out of his soul. Hewas a charity boy, aloof and more or less at bay. The fragileexquisiteness of her caress startled him most, revealed unknown things tohim. 

In the morning she could feel the consciousness in his eyes, whenshe came downstairs. She tried to bear herself as if nothing at allhad happened, and she succeeded. She had the calm self-control, self-indifference, of one who has suffered and borne her suffering. Shelooked at him from her darkish, almost drugged blue eyes, she met thespark 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 keenmemory stinging his mind, a new set of sensations working in hisconsciousness. Something new was alert in him. At the back of hisreticent, guarded mind he kept his secret alive and vivid. She was at hismercy, for he was unscrupulous, his standard was not her standard. 

He looked at her curiously. She was not beautiful, her nose was toolarge, her chin was too small, her neck was too thin. But her skin wasclear and fine, she had a high-bred sensitiveness. This queer, brave, high-bred quality she shared with her father. The charity boy could seeit in her tapering fingers, which were white and ringed. The same glamourthat he knew in the elderly man he now saw in the woman. And he wanted topossess himself of it, he wanted to make himself master of it. As he wentabout through the old pottery-yard, his secretive mind schemed andworked. To be master of that strange soft delicacy such as he had felt inher hand upon his face, --this was what he set himself towards. He wassecretly plotting. 

He watched Matilda as she went about, and she became aware of hisattention, as of some shadow following her. But her pride made her ignoreit. When he sauntered near her, his hands in his pockets, she receivedhim with that same commonplace kindliness which mastered him more thanany contempt. Her superior breeding seemed to control him. She madeherself feel towards him exactly as she had always felt: he was a youngboy who lived in the house with them, but was a stranger. Only, she darednot remember his face under her hand. When she remembered that, she wasbewildered. Her hand had offended her, she wanted to cut it off. And shewanted, fiercely, to cut off the memory in him. She assumed she had doneso. 

One day, when he sat talking with his 'uncle', he looked straight intothe 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 shethan 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 longtime. The youth looked inscrutably out of the window. 

'_You!_' said the sick man, mocking, with some contempt. Hadrian turnedand 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 theboy. 

'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 aboutquietly, secretly, unquestioning. At last the father and daughter werealone together. It was very early morning, the father had been in muchpain. 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 along 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 yourfoolishness, do you see?'

Suddenly a cold fear gripped her. She could not believe her senses. Shewas terrified and bewildered. She stared at her father, believing him tobe delirious, or mad, or drunk. What could she do?

'I tell you, ' he said. 'I'll send for Whittle tomorrow if you don't. Youshall neither of you have anything of mine. '

Whittle was the solicitor. She understood her father well enough: hewould send for his solicitor, and make a will leaving all his property toHadrian: neither she nor Emmie should have anything. It was too much. Sherose and went out of the room, up to her own room, where she lockedherself in. 

She did not come out for some hours. At last, late at night, she confidedin Emmie. 

'The sliving demon, he wants the money, ' said Emmie. 'My father's out ofhis mind. '

The thought that Hadrian merely wanted the money was another blow toMatilda. She did not love the impossible youth--but she had not yetlearned to think of him as a thing of evil. He now became hideous to hermind. 

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 fromthe kitchen. 

'Put your things on, and go down to Whittle's office, and say I want tosee 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 satas 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 thingsand 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 hismoney!--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 allyou'll get--guttersnipe!'

He turned his back on her, to think. It had not occurred to him that theywould think he was after the money. He _did_ want the money--badly. Hebadly wanted to be an employer himself, not one of the employed. But heknew, in his subtle, calculating way, that it was not for money he wantedMatilda. He wanted both the money and Matilda. But he told himself thetwo 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 tellit her, lurking and watching. But she avoided him. In the evening thelawyer came. Mr. Rockley seemed to have a new access of strength--a willwas drawn up, making the previous arrangements wholly conditional. Theold will held good, if Matilda would consent to marry Hadrian. If sherefused then at the end of six months the whole property passed toHadrian. 

Mr. Rockley told this to the young man, with malevolent satisfaction. Heseemed to have a strange desire, quite unreasonable, for revenge upon thewomen 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 retiredfar off, Emmie seemed like a fighter ready to fight to the death. Thesick man reclined on the bed, his eyes bright, his puffed hand trembling. But his face had again some of its old, bright handsomeness. Hadrian satquiet, 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 withsatisfaction. 

'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 seemeda 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 youngman. 

'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 ofthe rat. But he had perhaps the ultimate courage, the most unquenchablecourage of all. 

Emmie looked at her sister. 

'Oh, well, ' she said. 'Matilda--don't bother. Let him have everything, wecan 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 hewould 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 daycame. Hadrian was there as ever, in his woollen jersey and coarse khakitrousers and bare neck. Matilda went about, frail and distant, Emmieblack-browed in spite of her blondness. They were all quiet, for they didnot intend the mystified servant to learn anything. 

Mr. Rockley had very bad attacks of pain, he could not breathe. The endseemed near. They all went about quiet and stoical, all unyielding. Hadrian pondered within himself. If he did not marry Matilda he would goto Canada with twenty thousand pounds. This was itself a verysatisfactory prospect. If Matilda consented he would have nothing--shewould have her own money. 

Emmie was the one to act. She went off in search of the solicitor andbrought him with her. There was an interview, and Whittle tried tofrighten the youth into withdrawal--but without avail. The clergyman andrelatives 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 notsuccessful: she avoided him. At last, lurking, he surprised her one dayas she came to pick gooseberries, and he cut off her retreat. He came tothe 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 donethat, and then I should never have thought of it. You shouldn't havetouched me. '

'If you were anything decent, you'd know that was a mistake, and forgetit, ' 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, ' shereplied. 

'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 enoughto 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 andgo 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 wasangry 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 andwent coldly out of the room. 

The solicitor was sent for, preparations were hastily made. In all theinterval Matilda did not speak to Hadrian, never answered him if headdressed her. He approached her in the morning. 

'You've come round to it, then?' he said, giving her a pleasant look fromhis twinkling, almost kindly eyes. She looked down at him and turnedaside. She looked down on him both literally and figuratively. Still hepersisted, and triumphed. 

Emmie raved and wept, the secret flew abroad. But Matilda was silent andunmoved, Hadrian was quiet and satisfied, and nipped with fear also. Buthe held out against his fear. Mr. Rockley was very ill, but unchanged. 

On the third day the marriage took place. Matilda and Hadrian drovestraight home from the registrar, and went straight into the room of thedying 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 turnedhis eyes closely on Matilda. 

'Let's look at you, Matilda, ' he said. Then his voice went strange andunrecognizable. 'Kiss me, ' he said. 

She stooped and kissed him. She had never kissed him before, not sinceshe 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 toSt Just-in-Penwith, and turned northwards, uphill towards the Polestar. It was only half past six, but already the stars were out, a cold littlewind was blowing from the sea, and the crystalline, three-pulse flash ofthe lighthouse below the cliffs beat rhythmically in the first darkness. 

The man was alone. He went his way unhesitating, but looked from side toside with cautious curiosity. Tall, ruined power-houses of tin-minesloomed in the darkness from time to time, like remnants of some by-gonecivilization. The lights of many miners' cottages scattered on the hillydarkness twinkled desolate in their disorder, yet twinkled with thelonely 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 weresquare and rather stiff, he leaned forwards a little as he went, from thehips, like a man who must stoop to lower his height. But he did not stoophis shoulders: he bent his straight back from the hips. 

Now and again short, stump, thick-legged figures of Cornish miners passedhim, and he invariably gave them goodnight, as if to insist that he wason his own ground. He spoke with the west-Cornish intonation. And as hewent along the dreary road, looking now at the lights of the dwellings onland, now at the lights away to sea, vessels veering round in sight ofthe Longships Lighthouse, the whole of the Atlantic Ocean in darkness andspace between him and America, he seemed a little excited and pleasedwith himself, watchful, thrilled, veering along in a sense of masteryand 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 alittle space set back from the road, and cosy lights of an inn. There itwas. He peered up at the sign: 'The Tinners' Rest'. But he could not makeout the name of the proprietor. He listened. There was excited talkingand laughing, a woman's voice laughing shrilly among the men's. 

Stooping a little, he entered the warmly-lit bar. The lamp was burning, abuxom woman rose from the white-scrubbed deal table where the black andwhite and red cards were scattered, and several men, miners, lifted theirfaces from the game. 

The stranger went to the counter, averting his face. His cap was pulleddown 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--butbright. '

'Yes, ' the man assented, laconically. Then he added, when nobody expectedhim 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 itdown 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 thesecond table, near the fire. The woman, after a moment's hesitation, tookher seat again at the table with the card-players. She had noticed theman: a big fine fellow, well dressed, a stranger. 

But he spoke with that Cornish-Yankee accent she accepted as the naturaltwang among the miners. 

The stranger put his foot on the fender and looked into the fire. He washandsome, well coloured, with well-drawn Cornish eyebrows, and the usualdark, 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 browneyes. She was bursting with life and vigour, the energy she threw intothe game of cards excited all the men, they shouted, and laughed, and thewoman 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 youmean 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 Iknow 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 yourmissus must be easy took in, by the looks of things. '

And off she went into peals of laughter. She was interrupted by theentrance of four men in khaki, a short, stumpy sergeant of middle age, ayoung corporal, and two young privates. The woman leaned back in herchair. 

'Oh, my!' she cried. 'If there isn't the boys back: looking perished, Ibelieve--'

'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 bebound. '

'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 thefire, 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'tmind. '

'You shall have it where you like, boys, where you like. '

She disappeared. In a minute a girl of about sixteen came in. She wastall and fresh, with dark, young, expressionless eyes, and well-drawnbrows, and the immature softness and mindlessness of the sensuous Celtictype. 

'Ho, Maryann! Evenin', Maryann! How's Maryann, now?' came the multiplegreeting. 

She replied to everybody in a soft voice, a strange, soft _aplomb_ thatwas very attractive. And she moved round with rather mechanical, attractive movements, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. But she hadalways this dim far-awayness in her bearing: a sort of modesty. Thestrange 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 eyesof some non-human creature. 

'I'll ask mother, ' she said. Her voice was soft-breathing, gentlysingsong. 

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, quietsoldiers. Now, the landlady was interested in him. Her brow was knitrather tense, there was a look of panic in her large, healthy face, buther 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 arather loud-patterned flannelette blouse, and a dark skirt. 

'What will you have to drink with your supper?' she asked, and there wasa 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 tablewith 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, andanswered 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 verybright agate. Her anger began to rise. It was seen on her brow. Yet hervoice 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 ifsomething 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 onher 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. Twoof 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 inits first year, about the new army, a fragment of which was quartered inthis district, about America. 

The landlady darted looks at him from her small eyes, minute by minutethe electric storm welled in her bosom, as still he did not go. She wasquivering with suppressed, violent passion, something frightening andabnormal. She could not sit still for a moment. Her heavy form seemed toflash with sudden, involuntary movements as the minutes passed by, andstill he sat there, and the tension on her heart grew unbearable. Shewatched the hands of the dock move on. Three of the soldiers had gone tobed, only the crop-headed, terrier-like old sergeant remained. 

The landlady sat behind the bar fidgeting spasmodically with thenewspaper. She looked again at the clock. At last it was five minutes toten. 

'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 toten. The landlady rose. 

'Come, ' she said. 'I'm shutting the door. '

The last of the miners passed out. She stood, stout and menacing, holdingthe door. Still the stranger sat on by the fire, his black overcoatopened, smoking. 

'We're closed now, sir, ' came the perilous, narrowed voice of thelandlady. 

The little, dog-like, hard-headed sergeant touched the arm of thestranger. 

'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-Yankeeaccent. 

The landlady seemed to tower. Her eyes lifted strangely, frightening. 

'Oh! indeed!' she cried. ' Oh, indeed! And whose orders are those, may Iask?'

He looked at her again. 

'My orders, ' he said. 

Involuntarily she shut the door, and advanced like a great, dangerousbird. 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 totell 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 nosuch thing! Do you think a man's going to walk into this bar, and tell meoff-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 ofyours, and I'll thank you to go out of this house, this minute, before Iget those that will put you out. '

The man rose to his feet, stretching his head towards her a little. Hewas 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 thegirl's. 'I should know you anywhere, you see. I should! I shouldn't haveto 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 easyenough. My name's known, and respected, by most people for ten milesround. 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 beforetonight. '

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 astrange, watchful alertness and a fundamental fixity of intention thatmaddened her. 

'You villain!' she cried. 'You villain, to come to this house and dare tospeak 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 wasnot afraid of her. There was something impenetrable about him, like hiseyes, 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 insudden 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 stoppinghere. '

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, sightlessfury, like a tiger's. The man was wincing, but he stood his ground. Thenshe bethought herself. She would gather her forces. 

'We'll see whether you're stopping here, ' she said. And she turned, witha curious, frightening lifting of her eyes, and surged out of the room. The man, listening, heard her go upstairs, heard her tapping at a bedroomdoor, heard her saying: 'Do you mind coming down a minute, boys? I wantyou. I'm in trouble. '

The man in the bar took off his cap and his black overcoat, and threwthem on the seat behind him. His black hair was short and touched withgrey 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 fromhis having had his collar-bone twice broken in the mines. 

The little terrier of a sergeant, in dirty khaki, looked at himfurtively. 

'She's your Missis?' he asked, jerking his head in the direction of thedeparted 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, whoentered rather sheepishly, in trousers and shirt and stocking-feet. Thewoman stood histrionically at the end of the bar, and exclaimed:

'That man refuses to leave the house, claims he's stopping the nighthere. You know very well I have no bed, don't you? And this house doesn'taccommodate travellers. Yet he's going to stop in spite of all! But notwhile I've a drop of blood in my body, that I declare with my dyingbreath. And not if you men are worth the name of men, and will help awoman as has no one to help her. '

Her eyes sparkled, her face was flushed pink. She was drawn up like anAmazon. 

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 hisbraces on the second button. 

'What say, sergeant?' asked one whose face twinkled for a littledevilment. 

'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 thisnight. 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 theman near the hearth. 'You're married to me, and that girl Maryann you hadby 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, 'itsounds very pretty, doesn't it? But you see we don't believe a word ofit, 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 ofproving!' sang the lady's sarcasm. 'We're not such gulls as all that, toswallow your words whole. '

But he stood unmoved near the fire. She stood with one hand resting onthe zinc-covered bar, the sergeant sat with legs crossed, smoking, on theseat halfway between them, the three young soldiers in their shirts andbraces 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 theyoung 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 afterabout six months never wrote a line nor sent me a penny bit. I can't saywhether he's alive or dead, the villain. All I've heard of him's to thebad--and I've heard nothing for years an' all, now. ' She sobbedviolently. 

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 hisemotions 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 tothe man, with sweet reasonableness. 'You'd better leave it a bit, andarrange something between you. You can't have much claim on a woman, Ishould imagine, if it's how she says. And you've come down on her a bittoo sudden-like. '

The landlady sobbed heart-brokenly. The man watched her large breastsshaken. 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 gotit. '

'A dirty action, ' said the sergeant, his face flushing dark. 'A dirtyaction, to come, after deserting a woman for that number of years, andwant to force yourself on her! A dirty action--as isn't allowed by thelaw. '

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 backand make havoc of a poor woman's life and savings, after having left herwith a baby in arms to struggle as best she might? It's a crying shame ifnobody will stand up for me--a crying shame--!'

The soldiers and the little sergeant were bristling. The woman stoopedand rummaged under the counter for a minute. Then, unseen to the man awaynear the fire, she threw out a plaited grass rope, such as is used forbinding bales, and left it lying near the feet of the young soldiers, inthe 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 abrute of a German. You can get a bed easy enough in St Just, and ifyou've nothing to pay for it sergeant would lend you a couple ofshillings, I'm sure he would. '

All eyes were fixed on the man. He was looking down at the woman like acreature 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 yourmoney, I've plenty of that, for the time. '

'Well, then, ' she coaxed, in a cold, almost sneering propitiation, 'putyour coat on and go where you're wanted--be a _man_, not a brute of aGerman. '

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 upfor tonight. '

'Shall I!' she cried. And suddenly she flung her arms round him, hung onto him with all her powerful weight, calling to the soldiers: 'Get therope, boys, and fasten him up. Alfred--John, quick now--'

The man reared, looked round with maddened eyes, and heaved his powerfulbody. But the woman was powerful also, and very heavy, and was clenchedwith the determination of death. Her face, with its exulting, horriblyvindictive look, was turned up to him from his own breast; he reachedback his head frantically, to get away from it. Meanwhile the youngsoldiers, after having watched this frightful Laocoon swaying for amoment, stirred, and the malicious one darted swiftly with the rope. Itwas tangled a little. 

'Give me the end here, ' cried the sergeant. 

Meanwhile the big man heaved and struggled, swung the woman round againstthe seat and the table, in his convulsive effort to get free. But shepinned down his arms like a cuttlefish wreathed heavily upon him. And heheaved 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 helpinghim. The woman sank heavily lower, they got the rope round several times. In the struggle the victim fell over against the table. The ropestightened till they cut his arms. The woman clung to his knees. Anothersoldier ran in a flash of genius, and fastened the strange man's feetwith the pair of braces. Seats had crashed over, the table was thrownagainst the wall, but the man was bound, his arms pinned against hissides, his feet tied. He lay half fallen, sunk against the table, stillfor a moment. 

The woman rose, and sank, faint, on to the seat against the wall. Herbreast heaved, she could not speak, she thought she was going to die. Thebound man lay against the overturned table, his coat all twisted andpulled up beneath the ropes, leaving the loins exposed. The soldiersstood 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 darkand 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 hisfeet. 

'Another pair of braces, William, ' cried the excited soldier. He threwhimself 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, thestrong back bound in subjection, the wide-eyed face that reminded her ofa calf tied in a sack in a cart, only its head stretched dumblybackwards. And she triumphed. 

The bound-up body began to struggle again. She watched fascinated themuscles working, the shoulders, the hips, the large, clean thighs. Evennow he might break the ropes. She was afraid. But the lively youngsoldier sat on the shoulders of the bound man, and after a few perilousmoments, 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 asfar as I could blow him. '

There was silence. 

'We might carry him outside, and undo him there, ' said the soldier. 'Thenwe 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 youtake 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 outamongst you, and let us shut up the house. '

They did so. Picking up the bound man, the four soldiers staggeredclumsily into the silent square in front of the inn, the woman followingwith the cap and the overcoat. The young soldiers quickly unfastened thebraces from the prisoner's legs, and they hopped indoors. They were intheir stocking-feet, and outside the stars flashed cold. They stood inthe doorway watching. The man lay quite still on the cold ground. 

'Now, ' said the sergeant, in a subdued voice, 'I'll loosen the knot, andhe can work himself free, if you go in, Missis. '

She gave a last look at the dishevelled, bound man, as he sat on theground. Then she went indoors, followed quickly by the sergeant. Thenthey were heard locking and barring the door. 

The man seated on the ground outside worked and strained at the rope. Butit was not so easy to undo himself even now. So, with hands bound, makingan effort, he got on his feet, and went and worked the cord against therough 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, struggledinto his overcoat, and walked away. 

The stars were very brilliant. Clear as crystal, the beam from thelighthouse under the cliffs struck rhythmically on the night. Dazed, theman walked along the road past the churchyard. Then he stood leaning upagainst a wall, for a long time. 

He was roused because his feet were so cold. So he pulled himselftogether, and turned again in the silent night, back towards the inn. 

The bar was in darkness. But there was a light in the kitchen. Hehesitated. Then very quietly he tried the door. 

He was surprised to find it open. He entered, and quietly closed itbehind him. Then he went down the step past the bar-counter, and throughto the lighted doorway of the kitchen. There sat his wife, planted infront of the range, where a furze fire was burning. She sat in a chairfull in front of the range, her knees wide apart on the fender. Shelooked 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 wascovered with yellowish American cloth, and took a seat with his back tothe wall, near the oven. His wife still sat with her knees apart, herfeet on the steel fender and stared into the fire, motionless. Her skinwas smooth and rosy in the firelight. Everything in the house was veryclean and bright. The man sat silent, too, his head dropped. And thusthey remained. 

It was a question who would speak first. The woman leaned forward andpoked the ends of the sticks in between the bars of the range. He liftedhis 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 thestove, that was polished black and smooth as velvet. She would not lookat him, yet she glanced out of the corners of her eyes. 

His eyes were fixed brightly on her, the pupils large and electric likethose of a cat. 

'I should have picked you out among thousands, ' he said. 'Though you'rebigger 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 thisafter 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 timeto 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 verywell, like. '

His voice ran warily and detached. Her anger stirred again in herviolently. 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 drawnbrows, which she could not bear to forfeit. 

'That's more than I can say of _you_, ' she said. 'I've heard more harmthan good about _you_. '

'Ay, I dessay, ' he said, looking in the fire. It was a long time since hehad 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 reproachthan in anger. 'Leave a woman as you've left me, you don't care towhat!--and then to turn up in _this_ fashion, without a word to say foryourself. '

He stirred in his chair, planted his feet apart, and resting his arms onhis knees, looked steadily into the fire, without answering. So near toher was his head, and the close black hair, she could scarcely refrainfrom 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 withhis fingers. 'I didn't call it anything, as I know of. It's no goodcalling things by any names whatsoever, as I know of. '

She watched him in his actions. There was a longer and longer pausebetween each speech, though neither knew it. 

'I _wonder_ what you think of yourself!' she exclaimed, with vexedemphasis. 'I _wonder_ what sort of a fellow you take yourself to be!' Shewas really perplexed as well as angry. 

'Well, ' he said, lifting his head to look at her, 'I guess I'll answerfor my own faults, if everybody else'll answer for theirs. '

Her heart beat fiery hot as he lifted his face to her. She breathedheavily, 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, andthe softly heaving mass of her breasts. 

'I take you, ' he said, with that laconic truthfulness which exercisedsuch power over her, 'to be the deuce of a fine woman--darn me if you'renot as fine a built woman as I've seen, handsome with it as well. Ishouldn't have expected you to put on such handsome flesh: 'struth Ishouldn'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 hislaconic, measured way:

'It's warm in here now. '

And he pulled off his overcoat, throwing it on the table. She sat as ifslightly cowed, whilst he did so. 

'Them ropes has given my arms something, by Ga-ard, ' he drawled, feelinghis 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 fixedme 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 ina 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 theminute you see me, you did. Darn me, you was too sharp for me. A darnfine woman, puts up a darn good fight. Darn me if I could find a woman inall the darn States as could get me down like that. Wonderful fine womanyou 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'mhere, ' he said, reaching forward his hand and tentatively touching herbetween her full, warm breasts, quietly. 

She started, and seemed to shudder. But his hand insinuated itselfbetween 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 morethan _one_ thousand pounds to my name, I have. And a bit of a fight for ahow-de-do pleases me, that it do. But that doesn't mean as you're goingto deny as you're my Missis. .. . '

_The Primrose Path_

A young man came out of the Victoria station, looking undecidedly atthe taxi-cabs, dark-red and black, pressing against the kerb under theglass-roof. Several men in greatcoats and brass buttons jerked themselveserect to catch his attention, at the same time keeping an eye on theother people as they filtered through the open doorways of the station. Berry, however, was occupied by one of the men, a big, burly fellow whoseblue eyes glared back and whose red-brown moustache bristled in defiance. 

'Do you _want_ a cab, sir?' the man asked, in a half-mocking, challengingvoice. 

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 taxidriver was a powerful, well-fleshed man who glared at the worldaggressively, being really on the defensive against his own heart. Hisnephew, of the same height, was thin, well-dressed, quiet and indifferentin 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'--hekicked the tyre of his taxi-cab in affectionate disgust. There was amoment'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 Sydneywith me, lad. That's the place for you--beautiful place, oh, you couldwish 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 infear. 'God, lad, ' he said, 'that's three of 'em gone!'

The two men looked away at the people passing along the pale greypavements, 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 fromany of 'em--they're not worth it, I'll be damned if they are--oursermon-lapping Adela and Maud, ' he looked scornfully at his nephew. 'Butshe 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 askedthe 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, doyou 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 liftedhis shoulders slightly. 

'God?' went on the taxi driver, in a curious intense tone, 'You've onlyto look at the folk in the street to know there's nothing keeps it goingbut gravitation. Look at 'em. Look at him!'--A mongrel-looking man wasnosing past. 'Wouldn't _he_ murder you for your watch-chain, but thathe's afraid of society. He's got it _in_ him. .. . Look at 'em. '

Berry watched the towns-people go by, and, sensitively feeling hisuncle's antipathy, it seemed he was watching a sort of _danse macabre_ ofugly criminals. 

'Did you ever see such a God-forsaken crew creeping about! It gives youthe very horrors to look at 'em. I sit in this damned car and watch 'emtill, I can tell you, I feel like running the cab amuck among 'em, andrunning 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 atouts with respectability, mixing with the looser, sporting type, allbetting and drinking and showing dogs and birds, and racing. As a criticof life, however, he did not know him. But the young man felt curiouslyunderstanding. '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, inmyself, 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, thenit started forward with a whirr. The uncle, his hands and feet actingmechanically, kept his blue eyes fixed on the highroad into whose trafficthe car was insinuating its way. Berry felt curiously as if he weresitting beside an older development of himself. His mind went back to hismother. She had been twenty years older than this brother of hers whomshe had loved so dearly. 'He was one of the most affectionate littlelads, and such a curly head! I could never have believed he would growinto the great, coarse bully he is--for he's nothing else. My father madea god of him--well, it's a good thing his father is dead. He got in withthat sporting gang, that's what did it. Things were made too easy forhim, 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 tillhe was eighteen, then had suddenly married a young, beautiful girl withclear brows and dark grey eyes, a factory girl. Having taken her to livewith his parents he, lover of dogs and pigeons, went on to the staffof a sporting paper. But his wife was without uplift or warmth. Thoughthey 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 greatpigeon-house. He and his wife lived together roughly, with no warmth, norefinement, no touch of beauty anywhere, except that she was beautiful. He was a blustering, impetuous man, she was rather cold in her soul, didnot care about anything very much, was rather capable and close withmoney. And she had a common accent in her speech. He outdid her athousand times in coarse language, and yet that cold twang in her voicetortured him with shame that he stamped down in bullying and in becomingmore violent in his own speech. 

Only his dogs adored him, and to them, and to his pigeons, he talked withrough, yet curiously tender caresses while they leaped and fluttered forjoy. 

After he and his wife had been married for seven years a little girl wasborn to them, then later, another. But the husband and wife drew nonearer together. She had an affection for her children almost like a coolgoverness. He had an emotional man's fear of sentiment, which helped tonip his wife from putting out any shoots. He treated his childrenroughly, and pretended to think it a good job when one was adopted by awell-to-do maternal aunt. But in his soul he hated his wife that shecould give away one of his children. For after her cool fashion, sheloved him. With a chaos of a man such as he, she had no chance of beinganything but cold and hard, poor thing. For she did love him. 

In the end he fell absurdly and violently in love with a rathersentimental young woman who read Browning. He made his wife an allowanceand established a new ménage with the young lady, shortly afteremigrating with her to Australia. Meanwhile his wife had gone to livewith a publican, a widower, with whom she had had one of those curious, tacit understandings of which quiet women are capable, something like anarrangement for provision in the future. 

This was as much as the nephew knew. He sat beside his uncle, wonderinghow things stood at the present. They raced lightly out past the cemeteryand along the boulevard, then turned into the rather grimy country. Themud flew out on either side, there was a fine mist of rain which blew intheir 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 manglanced 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 hisuncle was slightly uneasy of him. It made him also uncomfortable. Theelder man had evidently something pressing on his soul. 

'Who are you living with in town?' asked the nephew. 'Have you gone backto Aunt Maud?'

'No, ' barked the uncle. 'She wouldn't have me. I offered to--I wantto--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 nomore for some time. The car ran on through the mud, under the wet wall ofthe 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, theyounger smiled in secret. 

'How was that?' he asked. 

'Wanted to get rid of me. She got in with another fellow on theship. .. . By Jove, I was bad. '

'Where?--on the ship?'

'No, ' bellowed the other. 'No. That was in Wellington, New Zealand. I wasbad, and got lower an' lower--couldn't think what was up. I could hardlycrawl 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 hisuncle was afraid, quite stupefied with fear, fear of life, of death, ofhimself. 

'You're in rooms, then?' asked the nephew. 

'No, I'm in a house of my own, ' said the uncle defiantly, 'wi' th' bestlittle woman in th' Midlands. She's a marvel. --Why don't you come an' seeus?'

'I will. Who is she?'

'Oh, she's a good girl--a beautiful little thing. I was clean goneon her first time I saw her. An' she was on me. Her mother lives withus--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 MillCrossing. .. . They sent me a note this morning to go an' see her when Ican 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 withhis uncle at the inn, and the two were returning home. The elder man'ssubject of conversation was Australia. As they drew near the town theygrew silent, thinking both of the public-house. At last they saw thegates of the railway crossing were closed before them. 

'Shan't you call?' asked Berry, jerking his head in the direction of theinn, which stood at the corner between two roads, its sign hanging undera 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 nearthe door of the inn. Everywhere seemed silent, but for the rattle oftrains at the crossing. The two men went uneasily up the steps and intothe bar. The place was paddled with wet feet, empty. As the bar-man washeard approaching, the uncle asked, his usual bluster slightly hushed byfear:

'What yer goin' ta have, lad? Same as last time?'

A man entered, evidently the proprietor. He was good-looking, with along, heavy face and quick, dark eyes. His glance at Sutton was swift, astart, 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 cornerbehind the door, his arms folded, evidently preferring to get back fromthe 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--, ' saidSutton 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, atease in whatsoever he did. Then he leaned back against the bar. He woreno coat. He stood with arms folded, his chin on his chest, his longmoustache hanging. His back was round and slack, so that the lower partof his abdomen stuck forward, though he was not stout. His cheek washealthy, brown-red, and he was muscular. Yet there was about him thisphysical slackness, a reluctance in his slow, sure movements. His eyeswere keen under his dark brows, but reluctant also, as if he weregloomily apathetic. 

There was a halt. The publican evidently would say nothing. Berry lookedat the mahogany bar-counter, slopped with beer, at the whisky-bottles onthe shelves. Sutton, his cap pushed back, showing a white brow above aweather-reddened face, rubbed his cropped hair uneasily. 

The publican glanced round suddenly. It seemed that only his dark eyesmoved. 

'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 onefoot 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 darkdoorway behind. Sutton, pulling off his cap, showing a round, short-cropped head which now was ducked forward, followed after him, thebuttons holding the strap of his great-coat behind glittering for amoment. 

They climbed the dark stairs, the husband placing his feet carefully, because of his big boots. Then he followed down the passage, tryingvaguely 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 redeider-down on the bed. Then, making an effort, Sutton turned his eyes tosee the sick woman. He met her eyes direct, dark, dilated. It was such ashock he almost started away. For a second he remained in torture, as ifsome invisible flame were playing on him to reduce his bones and fuse himdown. Then he saw the sharp white edge of her jaw, and the black hairbeside 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 thebedside staring in horror at his wife, whose dilated grey eyes, nearlyall black now, watched him wearily, as if she were looking at something along way off. 

Going exceedingly pale, he jerked up his head and stared at the wall overthe pillows. There was a little coloured picture of a bird perched on abell, and a nest among ivy leaves beneath. It appealed to him, made himwonder, roused a feeling of childish magic in him. They were wonderfullyfresh, green ivy leaves, and nobody had seen the nest among them savehim. 

Then suddenly he looked down again at the face on the bed, to try andrecognize 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 wayoff, disturbed him until he did not know where he was. Only the sunkencheeks, 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 theyoung husband of the woman with the clear brows; he was the married manfighting with her whose eyes watched him, a little indifferently, from along 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 ofthe 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 thesound 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 soas not to understand. 

He looked curiously round the room. It was not a bad bedroom, light andwarm. There were many medicine bottles aggregated in a corner of thewashstand--and a bottle of Three Star brandy, half full. And there werealso photographs of strange people on the chest of drawers. It was not abad room. 

Again he started as if he were shot. She was speaking. He bent down, butdid not look at her. 

'Be good to her, ' she whispered. 

When he realized her meaning, that he should be good to their child whenthe mother was gone, a blade went through his flesh. 

'I'll be good to her, Maud, don't you bother, ' he said, beginning to feelshaky. 

He looked again at the picture of the bird. It perched cheerfully under ablue sky, with robust, jolly ivy leaves near. He was gathering hiscourage to depart. He looked down, but struggled hard not to take in thesight of his wife's face. 

'I s'll come again, Maud, ' he said. 'I hope you'll go on all right. Isthere 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 outof the room and down the stairs. 

The landlord came after him. 

'I'll let you know if anything happens, ' the publican said, stilllaconic, but with his eyes dark and swift. 

'Ay, a' right, ' said Button blindly. He looked round for his cap, whichhe 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 levelcrossing. The elder man seemed as if something tight in his brain madehim open his eyes wide, and stare. He held the steering wheel firmly. Heknew he could steer accurately, to a hair's breadth. Glaring fixedlyahead, he let the car go, till it bounded over the uneven road. Therewere three coal-carts in a string. In an instant the car grazed pastthem, almost biting the kerb on the other side. Sutton aimed his car likea projectile, staring ahead. He did not want to know, to think, torealize, he wanted to be only the driver of that quick taxi. 

The town drew near, suddenly. There were allotment-gardens withdark-purple twiggy fruit-trees and wet alleys between the hedges. Thensuddenly the streets of dwelling-houses whirled close, and the car wasclimbing the hill, with an angry whirr, --up--up--till they rode out on tothe crest and could see the tram-cars, dark-red and yellow, threadingtheir way round the corner below, and all the traffic roaring between theshops. 

'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 notthink nor realize. The big man was running hard away from the horror ofrealization. 

'All right, ' Berry agreed. 

The car went quickly through the town. It ran up a long street nearlyinto 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 thestone stairs that led from the highroad down to the level of the house, an old stone place. The garden was dilapidated. Broken fruit-treesleaned at a sharp angle down the steep bank. Right across the dimgrey atmosphere, in a kind of valley on the edge of the town, newsuburb-patches showed pinkish on the dark earth. It was a kind ofunresolved borderland. 

Berry went down the steps. Through the broken black fence of the orchard, long grass showed yellow. The place seemed deserted. He knocked, thenknocked 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 thevisitor. 

'Oh, are you the Mr. Berry who is related to him?' exclaimed the elderlywoman. '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 elderlywoman sat nervously on the edge of one of the chairs in a drawing-roomthat looked as if it were furnished from dismal relics of dismal homes, and there was a little straggling attempt at conversation. Mrs. Greenwellwas evidently a working class woman unused to service or to anyformality. 

Presently she gathered up courage to invite her visitor into thedining-room. There from the table under the window rose a tall, slim girlwith a cat in her arms. She was evidently a little more lady-like thanwas habitual to her, but she had a gentle, delicate, small nature. Herbrown hair almost covered her ears, her dark lashes came down in shyawkwardness over her beautiful blue eyes. She shook hands in a frank way, yet she was shrinking. Evidently she was not sure how her position wouldaffect her visitor. And yet she was assured in herself, shrinking andtimid 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 theyate in a rather rough and ready fashion. 

Elaine--she had this poetic name--fingered her cat timidly, not knowingwhat to say or to do, unable even to ask her visitor to sit down. Henoticed how her skirt hung almost flat on her hips. She was young, scarcedeveloped, a long, slender thing. Her colouring was warm and exquisite. 

The elder woman bustled out to the kitchen. Berry fondled the terrierdogs that had come curiously to his heels, and glanced out of the windowat the wet, deserted orchard. 

This room, too, was not well furnished, and rather dark. But there was abig 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 herdaughter was progressing with the visitor. 

'Mother, Dan's been to see Maud, ' said Elaine, in a quiet voice full offear 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 seemeduncertain, wavering in their position. Already Berry could see that hisuncle had bullied them, as he bullied everybody. But they were used tounpleasant 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. Yetshe was nervous and afraid. The mother stood as if ready to exculpateherself. 

Sutton burst open the door. Big, blustering, wet in his immense greycoat, 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 thatpeculiar twang, almost petulant, so female and so attractive. Yet she wasdefiant like a boy. 

'It's a wonder if you haven't, ' growled Sutton. And, with a reallyintimate movement, he stooped down and fondled his dogs, though paying noattention to them. Then he stood up, and remained with feet apart on thehearthrug, his head ducked forward, watching the girl. He seemedabstracted, as if he could only watch her. His great-coat hung open, sothat she could see his figure, simple and human in the great husk ofcloth. 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 hersomething impersonal, the female, not the woman. 

'Had your dinner?' he asked. 

'We were just going to have it, ' she replied, with the same curiouslittle vibration in her voice, like the twang of a string. 

The mother entered, bringing a saucepan from which she ladled soup intothree plates. 

'Sit down, lad, ' said Sutton. 'You sit down, Jack, an' give me minehere. '

'Oh, aren't you coming to table?' she complained. 

'No, I tell you, ' he snarled, almost pretending to be disagreeable. Butshe was slightly afraid even of the pretence, which pleased and relievedhim. He stood on the hearthrug eating his soup noisily. 

'Aren't you going to take your coat off?' she said. 'It's filling theplace full of steam. '

He did not answer, but, with his head bent forward over the plate, he atehis 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 breastof 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 hisshoulder. He looked down into her eyes. She became pale, ratherfrightened-looking, and she turned her face away, and it was drawnslightly with love and fear and misery. She tried again to put off hiscoat, her thin wrists pulling at it. He stood solidly planted, and didnot look at her, but stared straight in front. She was playing withpassion, afraid of it, and really wretched because it left her, theperson, out of count. Yet she continued. And there came into his bearing, into his eyes, the curious smile of passion, pushing away even thedeath-horror. It was life stronger than death in him. She stood close tohis breast. Their eyes met, and she was carried away. 

'Take your coat off, Dan, ' she said coaxingly, in a low tone meant for noone but him. And she slid her hands on his shoulder, and he yielded, sothat the coat was pushed back. She had flushed, and her eyes had grownvery bright. She got hold of the cuff of his coat. Gently, he easedhimself, so that she drew it off. Then he stood in a thin suit, whichrevealed his vigorous, almost mature form. 

'What a weight!' she exclaimed, in a peculiar penetrating voice, as shewent out hugging the overcoat. In a moment she came back. 

He stood still in the same position, a frown over his fiercely staringeyes. The pain, the fear, the horror in his breast were all burning awayin 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 feltslightly ashamed that she seemed to ignore the presence of others in theroom. 

The mother came in. She glanced at Sutton, standing planted on thehearthrug, his head ducked, the heavy frown hiding his eyes. There was apeculiar 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. Thedogs, which had continually lain down and got up again, uneasy, now roseand 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, satdown in a low chair. Berry drank some beer. 

'That girl will leave him, ' he said to himself. 'She'll hate him likepoison. 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 foran answer, he turned aside, worked a grain of tobacco to the tip of histongue, and spat it out. He did not care about anything, since he feltsafe himself. 

The three brothers and the sister sat round the desolate breakfast table, attempting some sort of desultory consultation. The morning's post hadgiven the final tap to the family fortunes, and all was over. The drearydining-room itself, with its heavy mahogany furniture, looked as if itwere waiting to be done away with. 

But the consultation amounted to nothing. There was a strange air ofineffectuality about the three men, as they sprawled at table, smokingand reflecting vaguely on their own condition. The girl was alone, arather short, sullen-looking young woman of twenty-seven. She did notshare the same life as her brothers. She would have been good-looking, save for the impassive fixity of her face, 'bull-dog', as her brotherscalled it. 

There was a confused tramping of horses' feet outside. The three men allsprawled round in their chairs to watch. Beyond the dark holly-bushesthat separated the strip of lawn from the highroad, they could see acavalcade of shire horses swinging out of their own yard, being taken forexercise. This was the last time. These were the last horses that wouldgo through their hands. The young men watched with critical, callouslook. They were all frightened at the collapse of their lives, and thesense 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 aman of thirty-three, broad and handsome in a hot, flushed way. His facewas red, he twisted his black moustache over a thick finger, his eyeswere shallow and restless. He had a sensual way of uncovering his teethwhen he laughed, and his bearing was stupid. Now he watched the horseswith a glazed look of helplessness in his eyes, a certain stupor ofdownfall. 

The great draught-horses swung past. They were tied head to tail, four ofthem, and they heaved along to where a lane branched off from thehighroad, planting their great hoofs floutingly in the fine black mud, swinging their great rounded haunches sumptuously, and trotting a fewsudden steps as they were led into the lane, round the corner. Everymovement showed a massive, slumbrous strength, and a stupidity which heldthem in subjection. The groom at the head looked back, jerking theleading rope. And the calvalcade moved out of sight up the lane, the tailof the last horse, bobbed up tight and stiff, held out taut from theswinging great haunches as they rocked behind the hedges in a motionlikesleep. 

Joe watched with glazed hopeless eyes. The horses were almost like hisown body to him. He felt he was done for now. Luckily he was engaged to awoman as old as himself, and therefore her father, who was steward of aneighbouring estate, would provide him with a job. He would marry and gointo harness. His life was over, he would be a subject animal now. 

He turned uneasily aside, the retreating steps of the horses echoing inhis ears. Then, with foolish restlessness, he reached for the scraps ofbacon-rind from the plates, and making a faint whistling sound, flungthem to the terrier that lay against the fender. He watched the dogswallow them, and waited till the creature looked into his eyes. Then afaint 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 inhis seat, not willing to go till the family conclave was dissolved. FredHenry, the second brother, was erect, clean-limbed, alert. He had watchedthe 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-temperedair of mastery. But he was not master of the situations of life. Hepushed his coarse brown moustache upwards, off his lip, and glancedirritably at his sister, who sat impassive and inscrutable. 

'You'll go and stop with Lucy for a bit, shan't you?' he asked. The girldid 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 oftwenty-two, with a fresh, jaunty _museau_. 

But Mabel did not take any notice of him. They had talked at her andround 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 dogrose uneasily from the hearthrug and looked at the party at the breakfasttable. But still they sat on in ineffectual conclave. 

'Oh, all right, ' said Joe suddenly, _à propos_ of nothing. 'I'll get amove on. '

He pushed back his chair, straddled his knees with a downward jerk, toget them free, in horsy fashion, and went to the fire. Still he did notgo out of the room; he was curious to know what the others would do orsay. He began to charge his pipe, looking down at the dog and saying, ina high, affected voice:

'Going wi' me? Going wi' me are ter? Tha'rt goin' further than tha countson just now, dost hear?'

The dog faintly wagged its tail, the man stuck out his jaw and coveredhis pipe with his hands, and puffed intently, losing himself in thetobacco, 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 kneesstuck 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 someexasperation. 

But she made no answer. There was a silence of futility and irritation inthe room. Malcolm grinned fatuously. 

'You'll have to make up your mind between now and next Wednesday, ' saidJoe 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 outof 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 thetable. Then a whistle was heard from the kitchen. The dog got up andbarked sharply. Joe opened the door and shouted:

'Come on. '

After a moment a young man entered. He was muffled up in overcoat and apurple woollen scarf, and his tweed cap, which he did not remove, waspulled down on his head. He was of medium height, his face was ratherlong and pale, his eyes looked tired. 

'Hello, Jack! Well, Jack!' exclaimed Malcolm and Joe. Fred Henry merelysaid, '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 achance. ' 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 goesround 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 youmight be one yourself. '

'Damn it, no, I've never been patient to no flaming doctor, and hope Inever shall be, ' returned Joe. 

At this point Mabel rose from the table, and they all seemed to becomeaware of her existence. She began putting the dishes together. The youngdoctor 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 youbefore I go, ' said Malcolm, shaking hands. 

He went out, followed by Joe, who seemed to have his tail between hislegs. 

'Well, this is the devil's own, ' exclaimed the doctor, when he was leftalone 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. 'Goingto your sister's, are you?'

Mabel looked at him with her steady, dangerous eyes, that always made himuncomfortable, unsettling his superficial ease. 

'No, ' she said. 

'Well, what in the name of fortune _are_ you going to do? Say what youmean to do, ' cried Fred Henry, with futile intensity. 

But she only averted her head, and continued her work. She folded thewhite 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 doctorwatching her interestedly all the while. Then she went out. 

Fred Henry stared after her, clenching his lips, his blue eyes fixing insharp 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, ' hesaid, 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 Moonand 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 doortogether. 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, hadbeen 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 andcome-and-go of horses and of dealers and grooms. Then the kitchen wasfull of servants. But of late things had declined. The old man hadmarried a second time, to retrieve his fortunes. Now he was dead andeverything was gone to the dogs, there was nothing but debt andthreatening. 

For months, Mabel had been servantless in the big house, keeping the hometogether in penury for her ineffectual brothers. She had kept house forten years. But previously, it was with unstinted means. Then, howeverbrutal and coarse everything was, the sense of money had kept her proud, confident. The men might be foul-mouthed, the women in the kitchen mighthave bad reputations, her brothers might have illegitimate children. Butso long as there was money, the girl felt herself established, andbrutally proud, reserved. 

No company came to the house, save dealers and coarse men. Mabel had noassociates of her own sex, after her sister went away. But she did notmind. She went regularly to church, she attended to her father. And shelived 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 differentway, depending upon him, and feeling secure in him, until at the age offifty-four he married again. And then she had set hard against him. Nowhe 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 memberof the family. Now, for Mabel, the end had come. Still she would not castabout her. She would follow her own way just the same. She would alwayshold the keys of her own situation. Mindless and persistent, she enduredfrom day to day. Why should she think? Why should she answer anybody? Itwas enough that this was the end, and there was no way out. She need notpass any more darkly along the main street of the small town, avoidingevery eye. She need not demean herself any more, going into the shops andbuying the cheapest food. This was at an end. She thought of nobody, noteven of herself. Mindless and persistent, she seemed in a sort of ecstasyto be coming nearer to her fulfilment, her own glorification, approachingher dead mother, who was glorified. 

In the afternoon she took a little bag, with shears and sponge and asmall scrubbing brush, and went out. It was a grey, wintry day, withsaddened, dark-green fields and an atmosphere blackened by the smoke offoundries 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 amatter of fact she was exposed to the stare of everyone who passed alongunder the churchyard wall. Nevertheless, once under the shadow of thegreat 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 thepinky-white, small chrysanthemums in the tin cross. When this was done, she took an empty jar from a neighbouring grave, brought water, andcarefully, most scrupulously sponged the marble headstone and thecoping-stone. 

It gave her sincere satisfaction to do this. She felt in immediatecontact with the world of her mother. She took minute pains, went throughthe park in a state bordering on pure happiness, as if in performing thistask she came into a subtle, intimate connexion with her mother. For thelife she followed here in the world was far less real than the world ofdeath she inherited from her mother. 

The doctor's house was just by the church. Fergusson, being a mere hiredassistant, was slave to the countryside. As he hurried now to attend tothe outpatients in the surgery, glancing across the graveyard with hisquick eye, he saw the girl at her task at the grave. She seemed so intentand remote, it was like looking into another world. Some mystical elementwas touched in him. He slowed down as he walked, watching her as ifspell-bound. 

She lifted her eyes, feeling him looking. Their eyes met. And each lookedagain at once, each feeling, in some way, found out by the other. Helifted his cap and passed on down the road. There remained distinct inhis consciousness, like a vision, the memory of her face, lifted from thetombstone in the churchyard, and looking at him with slow, large, portentous eyes. It _was_ portentous, her face. It seemed to mesmerizehim. There was a heavy power in her eyes which laid hold of his wholebeing, as if he had drunk some powerful drug. He had been feeling weakand done before. Now the life came back into him, he felt delivered fromhis own fretted, daily self. 

He finished his duties at the surgery as quickly as might be, hastilyfilling up the bottles of the waiting people with cheap drugs. Then, inperpetual haste, he set off again to visit several cases in another partof his round, before teatime. At all times he preferred to walk, if hecould, but particularly when he was not well. He fancied the motionrestored him. 

The afternoon was falling. It was grey, deadened, and wintry, with aslow, moist, heavy coldness sinking in and deadening all the faculties. But why should he think or notice? He hastily climbed the hill and turnedacross the dark-green fields, following the black cinder-track. In thedistance, across a shallow dip in the country, the small town wasclustered like smouldering ash, a tower, a spire, a heap of low, raw, extinct houses. And on the nearest fringe of the town, sloping into thedip, was Oldmeadow, the Pervins' house. He could see the stables and theoutbuildings distinctly, as they lay towards him on the slope. Well, hewould not go there many more times! Another resource would be lost tohim, another place gone: the only company he cared for in the alien, uglylittle town he was losing. Nothing but work, drudgery, constant hasteningfrom dwelling to dwelling among the colliers and the iron-workers. Itwore him out, but at the same time he had a craving for it. It was astimulant to him to be in the homes of the working people, moving as itwere through the innermost body of their life. His nerves were excitedand gratified. He could come so near, into the very lives of the rough, inarticulate, powerfully emotional men and women. He grumbled, he said hehated the hellish hole. But as a matter of fact it excited him, thecontact with the rough, strongly-feeling people was a stimulant applieddirect to his nerves. 

Below Oldmeadow, in the green, shallow, soddened hollow of fields, lay asquare, deep pond. Roving across the landscape, the doctor's quick eyedetected a figure in black passing through the gate of the field, downtowards the pond. He looked again. It would be Mabel Pervin. His mindsuddenly became alive and attentive. 

Why was she going down there? He pulled up on the path on the slopeabove, and stood staring. He could just make sure of the small blackfigure moving in the hollow of the failing day. He seemed to see her inthe midst of such obscurity, that he was like a clairvoyant, seeingrather with the mind's eye than with ordinary sight. Yet he could see herpositively enough, whilst he kept his eye attentive. He felt, if helooked away from her, in the thick, ugly falling dusk, he would lose heraltogether. 

He followed her minutely as she moved, direct and intent, like somethingtransmitted rather than stirring in voluntary activity, straight down thefield towards the pond. There she stood on the bank for a moment. Shenever raised her head. Then she waded slowly into the water. 

He stood motionless as the small black figure walked slowly anddeliberately towards the centre of the pond, very slowly, graduallymoving deeper into the motionless water, and still moving forward as thewater got up to her breast. Then he could see her no more in the dusk ofthe 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 wintryobscurity. It took him several minutes to come to the pond. He stood onthe bank, breathing heavily. He could see nothing. His eyes seemed topenetrate the dead water. Yes, perhaps that was the dark shadow of herblack clothing beneath the surface of the water. 

He slowly ventured into the pond. The bottom was deep, soft clay, he sankin, and the water clasped dead cold round his legs. As he stirred hecould smell the cold, rotten clay that fouled up into the water. It wasobjectionable in his lungs. Still, repelled and yet not heeding, he moveddeeper into the pond. The cold water rose over his thighs, over hisloins, upon his abdomen. The lower part of his body was all sunk in thehideous cold element. And the bottom was so deeply soft and uncertain, hewas afraid of pitching with his mouth underneath. He could not swim, andwas afraid. 

He crouched a little, spreading his hands under the water and moving themround, 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, hefelt all around under the water. And he touched her clothing. But itevaded his fingers. He made a desperate effort to grasp it. 

And so doing he lost his balance and went under, horribly, suffocating inthe foul earthy water, struggling madly for a few moments. At last, afterwhat seemed an eternity, he got his footing, rose again into the air andlooked around. He gasped, and knew he was in the world. Then he looked atthe water. She had risen near him. He grasped her clothing, and drawingher nearer, turned to take his way to land again. 

He went very slowly, carefully, absorbed in the slow progress. He rosehigher, 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. Helifted her and staggered on to the bank, out of the horror of wet, greyclay. 

He laid her down on the bank. She was quite unconscious and running withwater. 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 breathingbegin again in her; she was breathing naturally. He worked a littlelonger. He could feel her live beneath his hands; she was coming back. Hewiped her face, wrapped her in his overcoat, looked round into the dim, dark-grey world, then lifted her and staggered down the bank and acrossthe fields. 

It seemed an unthinkably long way, and his burden so heavy he felt hewould never get to the house. But at last he was in the stable-yard, andthen in the house-yard. He opened the door and went into the house. Inthe kitchen he laid her down on the hearthrug, and called. The house wasempty. But the fire was burning in the grate. 

Then again he kneeled to attend to her. She was breathing regularly, hereyes were wide open and as if conscious, but there seemed somethingmissing in her look. She was conscious in herself, but unconscious of hersurroundings. 

He ran upstairs, took blankets from a bed, and put them before the fireto warm. Then he removed her saturated, earthy-smelling clothing, rubbedher dry with a towel, and wrapped her naked in the blankets. Then he wentinto the dining-room, to look for spirits. There was a little whisky. Hedrank a gulp himself, and put some into her mouth. 

The effect was instantaneous. She looked full into his face, as if shehad been seeing him for some time, and yet had only just become consciousof him. 

'Dr. Fergusson?' she said. 

'What?' he answered. 

He was divesting himself of his coat, intending to find some dry clothingupstairs. He could not bear the smell of the dead, clayey water, and hewas mortally afraid for his own health. 

'What did I do?' she asked. 

'Walked into the pond, ' he replied. He had begun to shudder like onesick, and could hardly attend to her. Her eyes remained full on him, heseemed to be going dark in his mind, looking back at her helplessly. Theshuddering became quieter in him, his life came back in him, dark andunknowing, but strong again. 

'Was I out of my mind?' she asked, while her eyes were fixed on him allthe time. 

'Maybe, for the moment, ' he replied. He felt quiet, because his strengthhad 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'tsee that you are. ' He turned his face aside. He was afraid now, becausehe felt dazed, and felt dimly that her power was stronger than his, inthis issue. And she continued to look at him fixedly all the time. 'Canyou 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 goupstairs 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, andleft him, standing there slack before her. But he felt warm insidehimself. He did not shudder at all, though his clothes were sodden onhim. 

'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 thefloor, 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 thepower to move out of her presence, until she sent him. It was as if shehad the life of his body in her hands, and he could not extricatehimself. Or perhaps he did not want to. 

Suddenly she sat up. Then she became aware of her own immediatecondition. She felt the blankets about her, she knew her own limbs. For amoment it seemed as if her reason were going. She looked round, with wildeye, as if seeking something. He stood still with fear. She saw herclothing lying scattered. 

'Who undressed me?' she asked, her eyes resting full and inevitable onhis 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 hislegs, as he stood there, pressing her breasts against his knees andthighs, clutching him with strange, convulsive certainty, pressing histhighs against her, drawing him to her face, her throat, as she looked upat him with flaring, humble eyes, of transfiguration, triumphant in firstpossession. 

'You love me, ' she murmured, in strange transport, yearning andtriumphant 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 ifunaware 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 lovingher. He had never wanted to love her. When he rescued her and restoredher, he was a doctor, and she was a patient. He had had no singlepersonal thought of her. Nay, this introduction of the personal elementwas very distasteful to him, a violation of his professional honour. Itwas horrible to have her there embracing his knees. It was horrible. Herevolted from it, violently. And yet--and yet--he had not the power tobreak away. 

She looked at him again, with the same supplication of powerful love, andthat same transcendent, frightening light of triumph. In view of thedelicate flame which seemed to come from her face like a light, he waspowerless. And yet he had never intended to love her. He had neverintended. 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, evena little horrified. For he had, really, no intention of loving her. Yether hands were drawing him towards her. He put out his hand quickly tosteady himself, and grasped her bare shoulder. A flame seemed to burn thehand that grasped her soft shoulder. He had no intention of loving her:his whole will was against his yielding. It was horrible. And yetwonderful was the touch of her shoulders, beautiful the shining of herface. Was she perhaps mad? He had a horror of yielding to her. Yetsomething in him ached also. 

He had been staring away at the door, away from her. But his handremained on her shoulder. She had gone suddenly very still. He lookeddown at her. Her eyes were now wide with fear, with doubt, the light wasdying from her face, a shadow of terrible greyness was returning. Hecould not bear the touch of her eyes' question upon him, and the look ofdeath behind the question. 

With an inward groan he gave way, and let his heart yield towards her. Asudden gentle smile came on his face. And her eyes, which never left hisface, slowly, slowly filled with tears. He watched the strange water risein her eyes, like some slow fountain coming up. And his heart seemed toburn and melt away in his breast. 

He could not bear to look at her any more. He dropped on his knees andcaught her head with his arms and pressed her face against his throat. She was very still. His heart, which seemed to have broken, was burningwith a kind of agony in his breast. And he felt her slow, hot tearswetting his throat. But he could not move. 

He felt the hot tears wet his neck and the hollows of his neck, and heremained motionless, suspended through one of man's eternities. Only nowit 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 fromthe close clutch of his arm. He wanted to remain like that for ever, withhis heart hurting him in a pain that was also life to him. Withoutknowing, he was looking down on her damp, soft brown hair. 

Then, as it were suddenly, he smelt the horrid stagnant smell of thatwater. 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 hefell to kissing her, not knowing what he was doing. He wanted her eyesnot to have that terrible, wistful, unfathomable look. 

When she turned her face to him again, a faint delicate flush wasglowing, and there was again dawning that terrible shining of joy in hereyes, 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 againhis 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 themouth, gently, with the one kiss that is an eternal pledge. And as hekissed her his heart strained again in his breast. He never intended tolove her. But now it was over. He had crossed over the gulf to her, andall 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 herlap. The tears fell very slowly. There was complete silence. He too satthere motionless and silent on the hearthrug. The strange pain of hisheart 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, adoctor!--How they would all jeer if they knew!--It was agony to him tothink they might know. 

In the curious naked pain of the thought he looked again to her. She wassitting there drooped into a muse. He saw a tear fall, and his heartflared hot. He saw for the first time that one of her shoulders was quiteuncovered, 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 hersituation 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, unlikehimself. 

She shrank, and dropped her head. The soft, penetrating grip of his handon 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 athim 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. Hewatched her in her confusion, as she tried to extricate herself and wrapherself up so that she could walk. He watched her relentlessly, as sheknew. And as she went, the blanket trailing, and as he saw a glimpse ofher feet and her white leg, he tried to remember her as she was when hehad 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 fromremembering her as she was when she was nothing to him. 

A tumbling, muffled noise from within the dark house startled him. Thenhe heard her voice:--'There are clothes. ' He rose and went to the foot ofthe stairs, and gathered up the garments she had thrown down. Then hecame back to the fire, to rub himself down and dress. He grinned at hisown 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 theholly 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 wetthings in a heap into the scullery. After which he gathered up her soddenclothes, gently, and put them in a separate heap on the copper-top in thescullery. 

It was six o'clock on the clock. His own watch had stopped. He ought togo back to the surgery. He waited, and still she did not come down. So hewent 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 dressof black voile, and her hair was tidy, but still damp. She looked athim--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, doubtfuleyes. 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'spainful kiss. 

'And my hair smells so horrible, ' she murmured in distraction. 'And I'mso awful, I'm so awful! Oh, no, I'm too awful. ' And she broke intobitter, 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, kissingher, holding her in his arms. 'I want you, I want to marry you, we'regoing 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 thatterrible intonation which frightened her almost more than her horror lesthe should _not_ want her. 

_Fanny And Annie_

Flame-lurid his face as he turned among the throng of flame-lit and darkfaces upon the platform. In the light of the furnace she caught sight ofhis drifting countenance, like a piece of floating fire. And thenostalgia, the doom of homecoming went through her veins like a drug. Hiseternal face, flame-lit now! The pulse and darkness of red fire from thefurnace towers in the sky, lighting the desultory, industrial crowd onthe 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 scarfknotted round his throat. Not even a collar to meet her! The flames hadsunk, there was shadow. 

She opened the door of her grimy, branch-line carriage, and began to getdown 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. Hehurried forward. 

'Tha's come, has ter?' he said, in a sort of cheerful welcome. She gotdown, 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 herbags. Up shot the fire in the twilight sky, from the great furnace behindthe station. She felt the red flame go across her face. She had comeback, she had come back for good. And her spirit groaned dismally. Shedoubted if she could bear it. 

There, on the sordid little station under the furnaces, she stood, talland distinguished, in her well-made coat and skirt and her broad greyvelour hat. She held her umbrella, her bead chatelaine, and a littleleather case in her grey-gloved hands, while Harry staggered out of theugly little train with her bags. 

'There's a trunk at the back, ' she said in her bright voice. But she wasnot feeling bright. The twin black cones of the iron foundry blastedtheir sky-high fires into the night. The whole scene was lurid. The trainwaited cheerfully. It would wait another ten minutes. She knew it. It wasall so deadly familiar. 

Let us confess it at once. She was a lady's maid, thirty years old, comeback to marry her first-love, a foundry worker: after having kept himdangling, off and on, for a dozen years. Why had she come back? Did shelove him? No. She didn't pretend to. She had loved her brilliant andambitious cousin, who had jilted her, and who had died. She had had otheraffairs which had come to nothing. So here she was, come back suddenly tomarry her first-love, who had waited--or remained single--all theseyears. 

'Won't a porter carry those?' she said, as Harry strode with hisworkman'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, shefollowed 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 therewasn't. 

'I'll just put it aside o' the penny-in-the-slot, and Heather'sgreengrocers'll fetch it about half past eight, ' he said. 

He seized the box by its two handles and staggered with it across thelevel-crossing, bumping his legs against it as he waddled. Then hedropped 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. Thusladen, they started to plod up the hill, under the great long blackbuilding of the foundry. She walked beside him--workman of workmen hewas, trudging with that luggage. The red lights flared over the deepeningdarkness. From the foundry came the horrible, slow clang, clang, clang ofiron, a great noise, with an interval just long enough to make itunendurable. 

Compare this with the arrival at Gloucester: the carriage for hermistress, the dog-cart for herself with the luggage; the drive out pastthe river, the pleasant trees of the carriage-approach; and herselfsitting beside Arthur, everybody so polite to her. 

She had come home--for good! Her heart nearly stopped beating as shetrudged 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 usualbright cheerfulness. She knew it all too well. It is easy to bear upagainst 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 gavegood-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 overthe valise. 

And thus they arrived in the streets of shops of the little ugly town ontop 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 theroad 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 sidestreet. They 'pinged' the door-bell, and her aunt came running forwardout 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 frombursting 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 whichwas 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. ForFanny was beautiful: tall, erect, finely coloured, with her delicatelyarched nose, her rich brown hair, her large lustrous grey eyes. Apassionate 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. PoorFanny! She was such a lady, and so straight and magnificent. And yeteverything seemed to do her down. Every time she seemed to be doomed tohumiliation and disappointment, this handsome, brilliantly sensitivewoman, 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 bitof an advantage of him. '

'Oh, Aunt, he's waited so long, he may as well have what he's waitedfor. ' Fanny laughed grimly. 

'Yes, child, he's waited so long, that I'm not sure it isn't a bit hardon him. You know, I _like_ him, Fanny--though as you know quite well, Idon'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 nothumble. He wouldn't think the Queen was any too good for him, if he'd amind 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 goodpoints--'

'Oh, he's a nice fellow, and I like him, I do like him. Only, as I tellyou, 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 forhim presumably at the moment, rose and went into the shop. She saw a cartoutside, and went to the door. 

And the moment she stood in the doorway, she heard a woman's commonvituperative voice crying from the darkness of the opposite side of theroad:

'Tha'rt theer, ar ter? I'll shame thee, Mester. I'll shame thee, see if Idunna. '

Startled, Fanny stared across the darkness, and saw a woman in a blackbonnet go under one of the lamps up the side street. 

Harry and Bill Heather had dragged the trunk off the little dray, and sheretreated 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 porkpie, Fanny asked:

'Who was that woman shouting?'

'Nay, I canna tell thee. To somebody, Is'd think, ' replied Harry. Fannylooked at him, but asked no more. 

He was a fair-haired fellow of thirty-two, with a fair moustache. He wasbroad in his speech, and looked like a foundry-hand, which he was. Butwomen always liked him. There was something of a mother's lad abouthim--something warm and playful and really sensitive. 

He had his attractions even for Fanny. What she rebelled against sobitterly was that he had no sort of ambition. He was a moulder, but ofvery commonplace skill. He was thirty-two years old, and hadn't savedtwenty pounds. She would have to provide the money for the home. Hedidn't care. He just didn't care. He had no initiative at all. He had novices--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 thefire-glow: something haunted, abstracted about it. As he sat there eatinghis 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. Hisway was common, almost on purpose. But he himself wasn't really common. For instance, his food was not particularly important to him, he was notgreedy. He had a charm, too, particularly for women, with his blondnessand his sensitiveness and his way of making a woman feel that she was ahigher being. But Fanny knew him, knew the peculiar obstinate limitednessof 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 lotbetter as he is. '

The two women sat and talked far into the night. They understood eachother. The aunt, too, had married as Fanny was marrying: a man who was nocompanion 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 hadgone 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, obstinatewoman, who had spoiled her four lads and her one vixen of a marrieddaughter. She was one of those old-fashioned powerful natures thatcouldn't do with looks or education or any form of showing off. Shefairly hated the sound of correct English. She _thee'd_ and _tha'd_ herprospective 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'--thahears. 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 herscrat' at th' gate, after she's done gallivantin' round wherever she'd amind. That looks rare an' soft. ' But it's no use o' any talking: heanswered 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'scoming back to Harry. For Mrs. Goodall was impressed by Fanny--a woman ofher own match. And more than this, everybody knew that Fanny's Aunt Katehad 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 fromwork, and a rather acrid odour of cordiality, the vixen Jinny darting into say vulgar things. Of course Jinny lived in a house whose garden endjoined the paternal garden. They were a clan who stuck together, theseGoodalls. 

It was arranged that Fanny should come to tea again on the Sunday, andthe wedding was discussed. It should take place in a fortnight's time atMorley Chapel. Morley was a hamlet on the edge of the real country, andin its little Congregational Chapel Fanny and Harry had first met. 

What a creature of habit he was! He was still in the choir of MorleyChapel--not very regular. He belonged just because he had a tenor voice, and enjoyed singing. Indeed his solos were only spoilt to local famebecause when he sang he handled his aitches so hopelessly. 

'And I saw 'eaven hopenedAnd be'old, a wite 'orse-'

This was one of Harry's classics, only surpassed by the fine outburst ofhis heaving:

'Hangels--hever bright an' fair-'

It was a pity, but it was inalterable. He had a good voice, and he sangwith 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, poorerchapels. The others scoffed. 

Now the month was September, and Sunday was Harvest Festival at MorleyChapel, and Harry was singing solos. So that Fanny was to go to afternoonservice, and come home to a grand spread of Sunday tea with him. PoorFanny! One of the most wonderful afternoons had been a Sunday afternoonservice, with her cousin Luther at her side, Harvest Festival in MorleyChapel. Harry had sung solos then--ten years ago. She remembered his paleblue tie, and the purple asters and the great vegetable marrows in whichhe was framed, and her cousin Luther at her side, young, clever, comedown from London, where he was getting on well, learning his Latin andhis French and German so brilliantly. 

However, once again it was Harvest Festival at Morley Chapel, and onceagain, as ten years before, a soft, exquisite September day, with thelast roses pink in the cottage gardens, the last dahlias crimson, thelast sunflowers yellow. And again the little old chapel was a bower, withits famous sheaves of corn and corn-plaited pillars, its great bunches ofgrapes, dangling like tassels from the pulpit corners, its marrows andpotatoes and pears and apples and damsons, its purple asters and yellowJapanese sunflowers. Just as before, the red dahlias round the pillarswere 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 emaciatedand hairless. 

The Rev. Enderby, probably forewarned, came and shook hands with her andwelcomed her, in his broad northern, melancholy singsong before hemounted the pulpit. Fanny was handsome in a gauzy dress and a beautifullace hat. Being a little late, she sat in a chair in the side-aislewedged 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 howhis eyebrows met, blond and not very marked, over his nose. He wasattractive 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 inEre the winter storms begin--'

Even the hymn was a falsehood, as the season had been wet, and half thecrops were still out, and in a poor way. 

Poor Fanny! She sang little, and looked beautiful through thatinappropriate hymn. Above her stood Harry--mercifully in a dark suit anddark tie, looking almost handsome. And his lacerating, pure tenor soundedwell, when the words were drowned in the general commotion. Brilliant shelooked, and brilliant she felt, for she was hot and angrily miserable andinflamed with a sort of fatal despair. Because there was about him aphysical attraction which she really hated, but which she could notescape from. He was the first man who had ever kissed her. And hiskisses, even while she rebelled from them, had lived in her blood andsent roots down into her soul. After all this time she had come back tothem. And her soul groaned, for she felt dragged down, dragged down toearth, as a bird which some dog has got down in the dust. She knew herlife would be unhappy. She knew that what she was doing was fatal. Yet itwas her doom. She had to come back to him. 

He had to sing two solos this afternoon: one before the 'address' fromthe pulpit and one after. Fanny looked at him, and wondered he was nottoo shy to stand up there in front of all the people. But no, he was notshy. He had even a kind of assurance on his face as he looked down fromthe choir gallery at her: the assurance of a common man deliberatelyentrenched in his commonness. Oh, such a rage went through her veins asshe saw the air of triumph, laconic, indifferent triumph which sat soobstinately and recklessly on his eyelids as he looked down at her. Ah, she despised him! But there he stood up in that choir gallery likeBalaam's ass in front of her, and she could not get beyond him. A certainwinsomeness also about him. A certain physical winsomeness, and as if hisflesh were new and lovely to touch. The thorn of desire rankled bitterlyin 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 thecongregation. Fanny felt the crisp flames go through her veins as shelistened. Even the curious loud-mouthed vernacular had a certainfascination. But, oh, also, it was so repugnant. He would triumph overher, obstinately he would drag her right back into the common people: adoom, 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 seedShall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves withhim--'

'Shall doubtless come, Shall doubtless come--' softly intoned thealtos--'Bringing his she-e-eaves with him, ' the trebles flourishedbrightly, 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 thefinal triumphant outburst, a shouting female voice rose up from the bodyof 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 theloud, 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 youngwoman here with you, don't you? I'll let her know who she's dealingwith. A scamp as won't take the consequences of what he's done. ' Thehard-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 theattack. She knew the woman: a Mrs. Nixon, a devil of a woman, who beather pathetic, drunken, red-nosed second husband, Bob, and her two lankydaughters, grown-up as they were. A notorious character. Fanny turnedround again, and sat motionless as eternity in her seat. 

There was a minute of perfect silence and suspense. The audience wasopen-mouthed and dumb; the choir stood like Lot's wife; and Harry, withhis music-sheet, stood there uplifted, looking down with a dumb sort ofindifference on Mrs. Nixon, his face naïve and faintly mocking. Mrs. Nixon sat defiant in her seat, braving them all. 

Then a rustle, like a wood when the wind suddenly catches the leaves. And then the tall, weird minister got to his feet, and in his strong, bell-like, beautiful voice--the only beautiful thing about him--he saidwith infinite mournful pathos:

'Let us unite in singing the last hymn on the hymn-sheet; the last hymnon 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. Andafter the hymn, the prayer. 

Mr. Enderby came from Northumberland. Like Harry, he had never been ableto conquer his accent, which was very broad. He was a little simple, oneof God's fools, perhaps, an odd bachelor soul, emotional, ugly, but verygentle. 

'And if, O our dear Lord, beloved Jesus, there should fall a shadow ofsin 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 aredumb. O, Lord, keep us from forward speech, restrain us from foolishwords and thoughts, we pray Thee, Lord Jesus, who knowest all and judgestall. '

Thus the minister said in his sad, resonant voice, washed his handsbefore the Lord. Fanny bent forward open-eyed during the prayer. Shecould see the roundish head of Harry, also bent forward. His face wasinscrutable and expressionless. The shock left her bewildered. Angerperhaps was her dominating emotion. 

The audience began to rustle to its feet, to ooze slowly and excitedlyout 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 didnot have to pass her. And Harry, with red ears, was making his waysheepishly out of the gallery. The loud noise of the organ covered allthe downstairs commotion of exit. 

The minister sat silent and inscrutable in his pulpit, rather like adeath's-head, while the congregation filed out. When the last lingerershad unwillingly departed, craning their necks to stare at the stillseated Fanny, he rose, stalked in his hooked fashion down the littlecountry chapel and fastened the door. Then he returned and sat down bythe 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'tknow 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. Idon't understand at all. But it is to be regretted, it is very much to beregretted. I am very sorry. '

Fanny was watching the vestry door. The gallery stairs communicated withthe vestry, not with the body of the chapel. She knew the choir membershad 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. Doyou understand it, Harry? I don't understand it at all. '

'Ah, I understand it. The daughter's goin' to have a childt, an' 'er laysit 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, lookingaside. 

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 hersecond husband. She's a tanger--'s driven the gel to what she is. Theylive in Manners Road. '

'Why, what's amiss with the girl?' asked Fanny sharply. 'She was allright 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 studiedHarry for some time, vacantly. There was the faintest sort of aresemblance between the two men. 

'Yes, ' he said. 'Yes, I think. I think we must take no notice, and causeas 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 insilence 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 theycame 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 allthis, 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 andfather and Jinny, with Jinny's husband and children and Harry's twobrothers. 

'You've been having yours ears warmed, they tell me, ' said Mrs. Goodallgrimly. 

'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, almostkindly. It would have annoyed her very much if Fanny had dropped her sonat this moment. 

'What's 'er say, then?' asked the father secretly of Harry, jerking hishead 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 rightabout 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 orseven 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 notdeclare her hand. She tidied her hair, washed her hands, and put thetiniest bit of powder on her face, for coolness, there in front of Mrs. Goodall's indignant gaze. It was like a declaration of independence. Butthe old woman said nothing. 

They came down to Sunday tea, with sardines and tinned salmon and tinnedpeaches, besides tarts and cakes. The chatter was general. It concernedthe Nixon family and the scandal. 

'Oh, she's a foul-mouthed woman, ' said Jinny of Mrs. Nixon. 'She may welltalk about God's holy house, _she_ had. It's first time she's set foot init, ever since she dropped off from being converted. She's a devil andshe 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 alittle girl she used to bathe them in the yard, in the cold, so thatthey shouldn't splash the house. She'd half kill them if they made amark on the floor, and the language she'd use! And one Saturday I canremember Garry, that was Bob's own girl, she ran off when her stepmotherwas going to bathe her--ran off without a rag of clothes on--can youremember, mother? And she hid in Smedley's closes--it was the time ofmowing-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 shetouched the children again, ' put in the father. 

'Anyhow, they frightened her, ' said Jinny. 'But she was nearly as badwith her own two. And anybody can see that she's driven old Bob till he'sgone 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, ' saidMrs. Goodall. 'Keeps to herself like a bull-dog. Never lets anybody comenear the house, and neighbours with nobody. '

'Wanted it thrashed out of her, ' said Mr. Goodall, a silent, evasive sortof 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 offto 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 haltin the family. 'I'll stop with _you_ tonight, Mother, ' she added. 

'Best you had, my gel, ' said Mrs. Goodall, flattered and assured.