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Title: The Freelands
Author: John Galsworthy
Release Date: September, 2000 [Etext #2309]
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[Most recently updated: January 5, 2002]
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THE FREELANDS
By John Galsworthy
"Liberty's a glorious feast."--Burns.
PROLOGUE
One early April afternoon, in a Worcestershire field, the only
field in that immediate landscape which was not down in grass, a
man moved slowly athwart the furrows, sowing--a big man of heavy
build, swinging his hairy brown arm with the grace of strength. He
wore no coat or hat; a waistcoat, open over a blue-checked cotton
shirt, flapped against belted corduroys that were somewhat the
color of his square, pale-brown face and dusty hair. His eyes were
sad, with the swimming yet fixed stare of epileptics; his mouth
heavy-lipped, so that, but for the yearning eyes, the face would
have been almost brutal. He looked as if he suffered from silence.
The elm-trees bordering the field, though only just in leaf, showed
dark against a white sky. A light wind blew, carrying already a
scent from the earth and growth pushing up, for the year was early.
The green Malvern hills rose in the west; and not far away,
shrouded by trees, a long country house of weathered brick faced to
the south. Save for the man sowing, and some rooks crossing from
elm to elm, no life was visible in all the green land. And it was
quiet--with a strange, a brooding tranquillity. The fields and
hills seemed to mock the scars of road and ditch and furrow scraped
on them, to mock at barriers of hedge and wall--between the green
land and white sky was a conspiracy to disregard those small
activities. So lonely was it, so plunged in a ground-bass of
silence; so much too big and permanent for any figure of man.
Across and across the brown loam the laborer doggedly finished out
his task; scattered the few last seeds into a corner, and stood
still. Thrushes and blackbirds were just beginning that even-song
whose blitheness, as nothing else on earth, seems to promise youth
forever to the land. He picked up his coat, slung it on, and,
heaving a straw bag over his shoulder, walked out on to the grass-
bordered road between the elms.
"Tryst! Bob Tryst!"
At the gate of a creepered cottage amongst fruit-trees, high above
the road, a youth with black hair and pale-brown face stood beside
a girl with frizzy brown hair and cheeks like poppies.
"Have you had that notice?"
The laborer answered slowly:
"Yes, Mr. Derek. If she don't go, I've got to."
"What a d--d shame!"
The laborer moved his head, as though he would have spoken, but no
words came.
"Don't do anything, Bob. We'll see about that."
"Evenin', Mr. Derek. Evenin', Miss Sheila," and the laborer moved
on.
The two at the wicket gate also turned away. A black-haired woman
dressed in blue came to the wicket gate in their place. There
seemed no purpose in her standing there; it was perhaps an evening
custom, some ceremony such as Moslems observe at the muezzin-call.
And any one who saw her would have wondered what on earth she might
be seeing, gazing out with her dark glowing eyes above the white,
grass-bordered roads stretching empty this way and that between the
elm-trees and green fields; while the blackbirds and thrushes
shouted out their hearts, calling all to witness how hopeful and
young was life in this English countryside. . . .
CHAPTER I
Mayday afternoon in Oxford Street, and Felix Freeland, a little
late, on his way from Hampstead to his brother John's house in
Porchester Gardens. Felix Freeland, author, wearing the very first
gray top hat of the season. A compromise, that--like many other
things in his life and works--between individuality and the
accepted view of things, aestheticism and fashion, the critical
sense and authority. After the meeting at John's, to discuss the
doings of the family of his brother Morton Freeland--better known
as Tod--he would perhaps look in on the caricatures at the English
Gallery, and visit one duchess in Mayfair, concerning the George
Richard Memorial. And so, not the soft felt hat which really
suited authorship, nor the black top hat which obliterated
personality to the point of pain, but this gray thing with
narrowish black band, very suitable, in truth, to a face of a pale
buff color, to a moustache of a deep buff color streaked with a few
gray hairs, to a black braided coat cut away from a buff-colored
waistcoat, to his neat boots--not patent leather--faintly buffed
with May-day dust. Even his eyes, Freeland gray, were a little
buffed over by sedentary habit, and the number of things that he
was conscious of. For instance, that the people passing him were
distressingly plain, both men and women; plain with the particular
plainness of those quite unaware of it. It struck him forcibly,
while he went along, how very queer it was that with so many plain
people in the country, the population managed to keep up even as
well as it did. To his wonderfully keen sense of defect, it seemed
little short of marvellous. A shambling, shoddy crew, this crowd
of shoppers and labor demonstrators! A conglomeration of
hopelessly mediocre visages! What was to be done about it? Ah!
what indeed!--since they were evidently not aware of their own
dismal mediocrity. Hardly a beautiful or a vivid face, hardly a
wicked one, never anything transfigured, passionate, terrible, or
grand. Nothing Greek, early Italian, Elizabethan, not even beefy,
beery, broad old Georgian. Something clutched-in, and squashed-out
about it all--on that collective face something of the look of a
man almost comfortably and warmly wrapped round by a snake at the
very beginning of its squeeze. It gave Felix Freeland a sort of
faint excitement and pleasure to notice this. For it was his
business to notice things, and embalm them afterward in ink. And
he believed that not many people noticed it, so that it contributed
in his mind to his own distinction, which was precious to him.
Precious, and encouraged to be so by the press, which--as he well
knew--must print his name several thousand times a year. And yet,
as a man of culture and of principle, how he despised that kind of
fame, and theoretically believed that a man's real distinction lay
in his oblivion of the world's opinion, particularly as expressed
by that flighty creature, the Fourth Estate. But here again, as in
the matter of the gray top hat, he had instinctively compromised,
taking in press cuttings which described himself and his works,
while he never failed to describe those descriptions--good, bad,
and indifferent--as 'that stuff,' and their writers as 'those
fellows.'
Not that it was new to him to feel that the country was in a bad
way. On the contrary, it was his established belief, and one for
which he was prepared to furnish due and proper reasons. In the
first place he traced it to the horrible hold Industrialism had in
the last hundred years laid on the nation, draining the peasantry
from 'the Land'; and in the second place to the influence of a
narrow and insidious Officialism, sapping the independence of the
People.
This was why, in going to a conclave with his brother John, high in
Government employ, and his brother Stanley, a captain of industry,
possessor of the Morton Plough Works, he was conscious of a certain
superiority in that he, at all events, had no hand in this
paralysis which was creeping on the country.
And getting more buff-colored every minute, he threaded his way on,
till, past the Marble Arch, he secured the elbow-room of Hyde Park.
Here groups of young men, with chivalrous idealism, were jeering at
and chivying the broken remnants of a suffrage meeting. Felix
debated whether he should oppose his body to their bodies, his
tongue to theirs, or whether he should avert his consciousness and
hurry on; but, that instinct which moved him to wear the gray top
hat prevailing, he did neither, and stood instead, looking at them
in silent anger, which quickly provoked endearments--such as: "Take
it off," or "Keep it on," or "What cheer, Toppy!" but nothing more
acute. And he meditated: Culture! Could culture ever make
headway among the blind partisanships, the hand-to-mouth mentality,
the cheap excitements of this town life? The faces of these
youths, the tone of their voices, the very look of their bowler
hats, said: No! You could not culturalize the impermeable texture
of their vulgarity. And they were the coming manhood of the
nation--this inexpressibly distasteful lot of youths! The country
had indeed got too far away from 'the Land.' And this essential
towny commonness was not confined to the classes from which these
youths were drawn. He had even remarked it among his own son's
school and college friends--an impatience of discipline, an
insensibility to everything but excitement and having a good time,
a permanent mental indigestion due to a permanent diet of tit-bits.
What aspiration they possessed seemed devoted to securing for
themselves the plums of official or industrial life. His boy Alan,
even, was infected, in spite of home influences and the atmosphere
of art in which he had been so sedulously soaked. He wished to
enter his Uncle Stanley's plough works, seeing in it a 'soft
thing.'
But the last of the woman-baiters had passed by now, and, conscious
that he was really behind time, Felix hurried on. . . .
In his study--a pleasant room, if rather tidy--John Freeland was
standing before the fire smoking a pipe and looking thoughtfully at
nothing. He was, in fact, thinking, with that continuity
characteristic of a man who at fifty has won for himself a place of
permanent importance in the Home Office. Starting life in the
Royal Engineers, he still preserved something of a military look
about his figure, and grave visage with steady eyes and drooping
moustache (both a shade grayer than those of Felix), and a forehead
bald from justness and knowing where to lay his hand on papers.
His face was thinner, his head narrower, than his brother's, and he
had acquired a way of making those he looked at doubt themselves
and feel the sudden instability of all their facts. He was--as has
been said--thinking. His brother Stanley had wired to him that
morning: "Am motoring up to-day on business; can you get Felix to
come at six o'clock and talk over the position at Tod's?" What
position at Tod's? He had indeed heard something vague--of those
youngsters of Tod's, and some fuss they were making about the
laborers down there. He had not liked it. Too much of a piece
with the general unrest, and these new democratic ideas that were
playing old Harry with the country! For in his opinion the country
was in a bad way, partly owing to Industrialism, with its rotting
effect upon physique; partly to this modern analytic
Intellectualism, with its destructive and anarchic influence on
morals. It was difficult to overestimate the mischief of those two
factors; and in the approaching conference with his brothers, one
of whom was the head of an industrial undertaking, and the other a
writer, whose books, extremely modern, he never read, he was
perhaps vaguely conscious of his own cleaner hands. Hearing a car
come to a halt outside, he went to the window and looked out. Yes,
it was Stanley! . . .
Stanley Freeland, who had motored up from Becket--his country
place, close to his plough works in Worcestershire--stood a moment
on the pavement, stretching his long legs and giving directions to
his chauffeur. He had been stopped twice on the road for not-
exceeding the limit as he believed, and was still a little ruffled.
Was it not his invariable principle to be moderate in speed as in
all other things? And his feeling at the moment was stronger even
than usual, that the country was in a bad way, eaten up by
officialism, with its absurd limitations of speed and the liberty
of the subject, and the advanced ideas of these new writers and
intellectuals, always talking about the rights and sufferings of
the poor. There was no progress along either of those roads. He
had it in his heart, as he stood there on the pavement, to say
something pretty definite to John about interference with the
liberty of the subject, and he wouldn't mind giving old Felix a rap
about his precious destructive doctrines, and continual girding at
the upper classes, vested interests, and all the rest of it. If he
had something to put in their place that would be another matter.
Capital and those who controlled it were the backbone of the
country--what there was left of the country, apart from these d--d
officials and aesthetic fellows! And with a contraction of his
straight eyebrows above his straight gray eyes, straight blunt
nose, blunter moustaches, and blunt chin, he kept a tight rein on
his blunt tongue, not choosing to give way even to his own anger.
Then, perceiving Felix coming--'in a white topper, by Jove!'--he
crossed the pavement to the door; and, tall, square, personable,
rang the bell.
CHAPTER II
"Well, what's the matter at Tod's?"
And Felix moved a little forward in his chair, his eyes fixed with
interest on Stanley, who was about to speak.
"It's that wife of his, of course. It was all very well so long as
she confined herself to writing, and talk, and that Land Society,
or whatever it was she founded, the one that snuffed out the other
day; but now she's getting herself and those two youngsters mixed up
in our local broils, and really I think Tod's got to be spoken to."
"It's impossible for a husband to interfere with his wife's
principles." So Felix.
"Principles!" The word came from John.
"Certainly! Kirsteen's a woman of great character; revolutionary
by temperament. Why should you expect her to act as you would act
yourselves?"
When Felix had said that, there was a silence.
Then Stanley muttered: "Poor old Tod!"
Felix sighed, lost for a moment in his last vision of his youngest
brother. It was four years ago now, a summer evening--Tod standing
between his youngsters Derek and Sheila, in a doorway of his white,
black-timbered, creepered cottage, his sunburnt face and blue eyes
the serenest things one could see in a day's march!
"Why 'poor'?" he said. "Tod's much happier than we are. You've
only to look at him."
"Ah!" said Stanley suddenly. "D'you remember him at Father's
funeral?--without his hat, and his head in the clouds. Fine-
lookin' chap, old Tod--pity he's such a child of Nature."
Felix said quietly:
"If you'd offered him a partnership, Stanley--it would have been
the making of him."
"Tod in the plough works? My hat!"
Felix smiled. At sight of that smile, Stanley grew red, and John
refilled his pipe. It is always the devil to have a brother more
sarcastic than oneself!
"How old are those two?" John said abruptly.
"Sheila's twenty, Derek nineteen."
"I thought the boy was at an agricultural college?"
"Finished."
"What's he like?"
"A black-haired, fiery fellow, not a bit like Tod."
John muttered: "That's her Celtic blood. Her father, old Colonel
Moray, was just that sort; by George, he was a regular black
Highlander. What's the trouble exactly?"
It was Stanley who answered: "That sort of agitation business is
all very well until it begins to affect your neighbors; then it's
time it stopped. You know the Mallorings who own all the land
round Tod's. Well, they've fallen foul of the Mallorings over what
they call injustice to some laborers. Questions of morality
involved. I don't know all the details. A man's got notice to
quit over his deceased wife's sister; and some girl or other in
another cottage has kicked over--just ordinary country incidents.
What I want is that Tod should be made to see that his family
mustn't quarrel with his nearest neighbors in this way. We know
the Mallorings well, they're only seven miles from us at Becket.
It doesn't do; sooner or later it plays the devil all round. And
the air's full of agitation about the laborers and 'the Land,' and
all the rest of it--only wants a spark to make real trouble."
And having finished this oration, Stanley thrust his hands deep
into his pockets, and jingled the money that was there.
John said abruptly:
"Felix, you'd better go down."
Felix was sitting back, his eyes for once withdrawn from his
brothers' faces.
"Odd," he said, "really odd, that with a perfectly unique person
like Tod for a brother, we only see him once in a blue moon."
"It's because he IS so d--d unique."
Felix got up and gravely extended his hand to Stanley.
"By Jove," he said, "you've spoken truth." And to John he added:
"Well, I WILL go, and let you know the upshot."
When he had departed, the two elder brothers remained for some
moments silent, then Stanley said:
"Old Felix is a bit tryin'! With the fuss they make of him in the
papers, his head's swelled!"
John did not answer. One could not in so many words resent one's
own brother being made a fuss of, and if it had been for something
real, such as discovering the source of the Black River, conquering
Bechuanaland, curing Blue-mange, or being made a Bishop, he would
have been the first and most loyal in his appreciation; but for the
sort of thing Felix made up--Fiction, and critical, acid,
destructive sort of stuff, pretending to show John Freeland things
that he hadn't seen before--as if Felix could!--not at all the
jolly old romance which one could read well enough and enjoy till
it sent you to sleep after a good day's work. No! that Felix
should be made a fuss of for such work as that really almost hurt
him. It was not quite decent, violating deep down one's sense of
form, one's sense of health, one's traditions. Though he would not
have admitted it, he secretly felt, too, that this fuss was
dangerous to his own point of view, which was, of course, to him
the only real one. And he merely said:
"Will you stay to dinner, Stan?"
CHAPTER III
If John had those sensations about Felix, so--when he was away from
John--had Felix about himself. He had never quite grown out of the
feeling that to make himself conspicuous in any way was bad form.
In common with his three brothers he had been through the mills of
gentility--those unique grinding machines of education only found
in his native land. Tod, to be sure, had been publicly sacked at
the end of his third term, for climbing on to the headmaster's roof
and filling up two of his chimneys with football pants, from which
he had omitted to remove his name. Felix still remembered the
august scene--the horrid thrill of it, the ominous sound of that:
"Freeland minimus!" the ominous sight of poor little Tod emerging
from his obscurity near the roof of the Speech Room, and descending
all those steps. How very small and rosy he had looked, his bright
hair standing on end, and his little blue eyes staring up very hard
from under a troubled frown. And the august hand holding up those
sooty pants, and the august voice: "These appear to be yours,
Freeland minimus. Were you so good as to put them down my
chinmeys?" And the little piping, "Yes, sir."
"May I ask why, Freeland minimus?"
"I don't know, sir."
"You must have had some reason, Freeland minimus?"
"It was the end of term, sir."
"Ah! You must not come back here, Freeland minimus. You are too
dangerous, to yourself, and others. Go to your place."
And poor little Tod ascending again all those steps, cheeks more
terribly rosy than ever, eyes bluer, from under a still more
troubled frown; little mouth hard set; and breathing so that you
could hear him six forms off. True, the new Head had been goaded
by other outrages, the authors of which had not omitted to remove
their names; but the want of humor, the amazing want of humor! As
if it had not been a sign of first-rate stuff in Tod! And to this
day Felix remembered with delight the little bubbling hiss that he
himself had started, squelched at once, but rippling out again
along the rows like tiny scattered lines of fire when a
conflagration is suppressed. Expulsion had been the salvation of
Tod! Or--his damnation? Which? God would know, but Felix was not
certain. Having himself been fifteen years acquiring 'Mill'
philosophy, and another fifteen years getting rid of it, he had now
begun to think that after all there might be something in it. A
philosophy that took everything, including itself, at face value,
and questioned nothing, was sedative to nerves too highly strung by
the continual examination of the insides of oneself and others,
with a view to their alteration. Tod, of course, having been sent
to Germany after his expulsion, as one naturally would be, and then
put to farming, had never properly acquired 'Mill' manner, and
never sloughed it off; and yet he was as sedative a man as you
could meet.
Emerging from the Tube station at Hampstead, he moved toward home
under a sky stranger than one might see in a whole year of
evenings. Between the pine-trees on the ridge it was opaque and
colored like pinkish stone, and all around violent purple with
flames of the young green, and white spring blossom lit against it.
Spring had been dull and unimaginative so far, but this evening it
was all fire and gathered torrents; Felix wondered at the waiting
passion of that sky.
He reached home just as those torrents began to fall.
The old house, beyond the Spaniard's Road, save for mice and a
faint underlying savor of wood-rot in two rooms, well satisfied the
aesthetic sense. Felix often stood in his hall, study, bedroom,
and other apartments, admiring the rich and simple glow of them--
admiring the rarity and look of studied negligence about the
stuffs, the flowers, the books, the furniture, the china; and then
quite suddenly the feeling would sweep over him: "By George, do I
really own all this, when my ideal is 'bread and water, and on
feast days a little bit of cheese'?" True, he was not to blame for
the niceness of his things--Flora did it; but still--there they
were, a little hard to swallow for an epicurean. It might, of
course, have been worse, for if Flora had a passion for collecting,
it was a very chaste one, and though what she collected cost no
little money, it always looked as if it had been inherited, and--as
everybody knows--what has been inherited must be put up with,
whether it be a coronet or a cruet-stand.
To collect old things, and write poetry! It was a career; one
would not have one's wife otherwise. She might, for instance, have
been like Stanley's wife, Clara, whose career was wealth and
station; or John's wife, Anne, whose career had been cut short; or
even Tod's wife, Kirsteen, whose career was revolution. No--a wife
who had two, and only two children, and treated them with
affectionate surprise, who was never out of temper, never in a
hurry, knew the points of a book or play, could cut your hair at a
pinch; whose hand was dry, figure still good, verse tolerable, and--
above all--who wished for no better fate than Fate had given her--
was a wife not to be sneezed at. And Felix never had. He had
depicted so many sneezing wives and husbands in his books, and knew
the value of a happy marriage better perhaps than any one in
England. He had laid marriage low a dozen times, wrecked it on all
sorts of rocks, and had the greater veneration for his own, which
had begun early, manifested every symptom of ending late, and in
the meantime walked down the years holding hands fast, and by no
means forgetting to touch lips.
Hanging up the gray top hat, he went in search of her. He found
her in his dressing-room, surrounded by a number of little bottles,
which she was examining vaguely, and putting one by one into an
'inherited' waste-paper basket. Having watched her for a little
while with a certain pleasure, he said:
"Yes, my dear?"
Noticing his presence, and continuing to put bottles into the
basket, she answered:
"I thought I must--they're what dear Mother's given us."
There they lay--little bottles filled with white and brown fluids,
white and blue and brown powders; green and brown and yellow
ointments; black lozenges; buff plasters; blue and pink and purple
pills. All beautifully labelled and corked.
And he said in a rather faltering voice:
"Bless her! How she does give her things away! Haven't we used
ANY?"
"Not one. And they have to be cleared away before they're stale,
for fear we might take one by mistake."
"Poor Mother!"
"My dear, she's found something newer than them all by now."
Felix sighed.
"The nomadic spirit. I have it, too!"
And a sudden vision came to him of his mother's carved ivory face,
kept free of wrinkles by sheer will-power, its firm chin, slightly
aquiline nose, and measured brows; its eyes that saw everything so
quickly, so fastidiously, its compressed mouth that smiled sweetly,
with a resolute but pathetic acceptation. Of the piece of fine
lace, sometimes black, sometimes white, over her gray hair. Of her
hands, so thin now, always moving a little, as if all the composure
and care not to offend any eye by allowing Time to ravage her face,
were avenging themselves in that constant movement. Of her figure,
that was short but did not seem so, still quick-moving, still
alert, and always dressed in black or gray. A vision of that
exact, fastidious, wandering spirit called Frances Fleeming
Freeland--that spirit strangely compounded of domination and
humility, of acceptation and cynicism; precise and actual to the
point of desert dryness; generous to a point that caused her family
to despair; and always, beyond all things, brave.
Flora dropped the last little bottle, and sitting on the edge of
the bath let her eyebrows rise. How pleasant was that impersonal
humor which made her superior to other wives!
"You--nomadic? How?"
"Mother travels unceasingly from place to place, person to person,
thing to thing. I travel unceasingly from motive to motive, mind
to mind; my native air is also desert air--hence the sterility of
my work."
Flora rose, but her eyebrows descended.
"Your work," she said, "is not sterile."
"That, my dear," said Felix, "is prejudice." And perceiving that
she was going to kiss him, he waited without annoyance. For a
woman of forty-two, with two children and three books of poems--and
not knowing which had taken least out of her--with hazel-gray eyes,
wavy eyebrows darker than they should have been, a glint of red in
her hair; wavy figure and lips; quaint, half-humorous indolence,
quaint, half-humorous warmth--was she not as satisfactory a woman
as a man could possibly have married!
"I have got to go down and see Tod," he said. "I like that wife of
his; but she has no sense of humor. How much better principles are
in theory than in practice!"
Flora repeated softly, as if to herself:
"I'm glad I have none." She was at the window leaning out, and
Felix took his place beside her. The air was full of scent from
wet leaves, alive with the song of birds thanking the sky.
Suddenly he felt her arm round his ribs; either it or they--which,
he could not at the moment tell--seemed extraordinarily soft. . . .
Between Felix and his young daughter, Nedda, there existed the only
kind of love, except a mother's, which has much permanence--love
based on mutual admiration. Though why Nedda, with her starry
innocence, should admire him, Felix could never understand, not
realizing that she read his books, and even analyzed them for
herself in the diary which she kept religiously, writing it when
she ought to have been asleep. He had therefore no knowledge of
the way his written thoughts stimulated the ceaseless questioning
that was always going on within her; the thirst to know why this
was and that was not. Why, for instance, her heart ached so some
days and felt light and eager other days? Why, when people wrote
and talked of God, they seemed to know what He was, and she never
did? Why people had to suffer; and the world be black to so many
millions? Why one could not love more than one man at a time?
Why--a thousand things? Felix's books supplied no answers to these
questions, but they were comforting; for her real need as yet was
not for answers, but ever for more questions, as a young bird's
need is for opening its beak without quite knowing what is coming
out or going in. When she and her father walked, or sat, or went
to concerts together, their talk was neither particularly intimate
nor particularly voluble; they made to each other no great
confidences. Yet each was certain that the other was not bored--a
great thing; and they squeezed each other's little fingers a good
deal--very warming. Now with his son Alan, Felix had a continual
sensation of having to keep up to a mark and never succeeding--a
feeling, as in his favorite nightmare, of trying to pass an
examination for which he had neglected to prepare; of having to
preserve, in fact, form proper to the father of Alan Freeland.
With Nedda he had a sense of refreshment; the delight one has on a
spring day, watching a clear stream, a bank of flowers, birds
flying. And Nedda with her father--what feeling had she? To be
with him was like a long stroking with a touch of tickle in it; to
read his books, a long tickle with a nice touch of stroking now and
then when one was not expecting it.
That night after dinner, when Alan had gone out and Flora into a
dream, she snuggled up alongside her father, got hold of his little
finger, and whispered:
"Come into the garden, Dad; I'll put on goloshes. It's an awfully
nice moon."
The moon indeed was palest gold behind the pines, so that its
radiance was a mere shower of pollen, just a brushing of white
moth-down over the reeds of their little dark pond, and the black
blur of the flowering currant bushes. And the young lime-trees,
not yet in full leaf, quivered ecstatically in that moon-witchery,
still letting fall raindrops of the past spring torrent, with soft
hissing sounds. A real sense in the garden, of God holding his
breath in the presence of his own youth swelling, growing,
trembling toward perfection! Somewhere a bird--a thrush, they
thought--mixed in its little mind as to night and day, was queerly
chirruping. And Felix and his daughter went along the dark wet
paths, holding each other's arms, not talking much. For, in him,
very responsive to the moods of Nature, there was a flattered
feeling, with that young arm in his, of Spring having chosen to
confide in him this whispering, rustling hour. And in Nedda was so
much of that night's unutterable youth--no wonder she was silent!
Then, somehow--neither responsible--they stood motionless. How
quiet it was, but for a distant dog or two, and the stilly
shivering-down of the water drops, and the far vibration of the
million-voiced city! How quiet and soft and fresh! Then Nedda
spoke:
"Dad, I do so want to know everything."
Not rousing even a smile, with its sublime immodesty, that
aspiration seemed to Felix infinitely touching. What less could
youth want in the very heart of Spring? And, watching her face put
up to the night, her parted lips, and the moon-gleam fingering her
white throat, he answered:
"It'll all come soon enough, my pretty!"
To think that she must come to an end like the rest, having found
out almost nothing, having discovered just herself, and the
particle of God that was within her! But he could not, of course,
say this.
"I want to FEEL. Can't I begin?"
How many millions of young creatures all the world over were
sending up that white prayer to climb and twine toward the stars,
and--fall to earth again! And nothing to be answered, but:
"Time enough, Nedda!"
"But, Dad, there are such heaps of things, such heaps of people,
and reasons, and--and life; and I know nothing. Dreams are the
only times, it seems to me, that one finds out anything."
"As for that, my child, I am exactly in your case. What's to be
done for us?"
She slid her hand through his arm again.
"Don't laugh at me!"
"Heaven forbid! I meant it. You're finding out much quicker than
I. It's all folk-music to you still; to me Strauss and the rest of
the tired stuff. The variations my mind spins--wouldn't I just
swap them for the tunes your mind is making?"
"I don't seem making tunes at all. I don't seem to have anything
to make them of. Take me down to see 'the Tods,' Dad!"
Why not? And yet--! Just as in this spring night Felix felt so
much, so very much, lying out there behind the still and moony
dark, such marvellous holding of breath and waiting sentiency, so
behind this innocent petition, he could not help the feeling of a
lurking fatefulness. That was absurd. And he said: "If you wish
it, by all means. You'll like your Uncle Tod; as to the others, I
can't say, but your aunt is an experience, and experiences are what
you want, it seems."
Fervently, without speech, Nedda squeezed his arm.
CHAPTER IV
Stanley Freeland's country house, Becket, was almost a show place.
It stood in its park and pastures two miles from the little town of
Transham and the Morton Plough Works; close to the ancestral home
of the Moretons, his mother's family--that home burned down by
Roundheads in the Civil War. The site--certain vagaries in the
ground--Mrs. Stanley had caused to be walled round, and consecrated
so to speak with a stone medallion on which were engraved the aged
Moreton arms--arrows and crescent moons in proper juxtaposition.
Peacocks, too--that bird 'parlant,' from the old Moreton crest--
were encouraged to dwell there and utter their cries, as of
passionate souls lost in too comfortable surroundings.
By one of those freaks of which Nature is so prodigal, Stanley--
owner of this native Moreton soil--least of all four Freeland
brothers, had the Moreton cast of mind and body. That was why he
made so much more money than the other three put together, and had
been able, with the aid of Clara's undoubted genius for rank and
station, to restore a strain of Moreton blood to its rightful
position among the county families of Worcestershire. Bluff and
without sentiment, he himself set little store by that, smiling up
his sleeve--for he was both kindly and prudent--at his wife who had
been a Tomson. It was not in Stanley to appreciate the peculiar
flavor of the Moretons, that something which in spite of their
naivete and narrowness, had really been rather fine. To him, such
Moretons as were left were 'dry enough sticks, clean out of it.'
They were of a breed that was already gone, the simplest of all
country gentlemen, dating back to the Conquest, without one
solitary conspicuous ancestor, save the one who had been physician
to a king and perished without issue--marrying from generation to
generation exactly their own equals; living simple, pious,
parochial lives; never in trade, never making money, having a
tradition and a practice of gentility more punctilious than the so-
called aristocracy; constitutionally paternal and maternal to their
dependents, constitutionally so convinced that those dependents and
all indeed who were not 'gentry,' were of different clay, that they
were entirely simple and entirely without arrogance, carrying with
them even now a sort of Early atmosphere of archery and home-made
cordials, lavender and love of clergy, together with frequent use
of the word 'nice,' a peculiar regularity of feature, and a
complexion that was rather parchmenty. High Church people and
Tories, naturally, to a man and woman, by sheer inbred absence of
ideas, and sheer inbred conviction that nothing else was nice; but
withal very considerate of others, really plucky in bearing their
own ills; not greedy, and not wasteful.
Of Becket, as it now was, they would not have approved at all. By
what chance Edmund Moreton (Stanley's mother's grandfather), in the
middle of the eighteenth century, had suddenly diverged from family
feeling and ideals, and taken that 'not quite nice' resolution to
make ploughs and money, would never now be known. The fact
remained, together with the plough works. A man apparently of
curious energy and character, considering his origin, he had
dropped the E from his name, and--though he continued the family
tradition so far as to marry a Fleeming of Worcestershire, to be
paternal to his workmen, to be known as Squire, and to bring his
children up in the older Moreton 'niceness'--he had yet managed to
make his ploughs quite celebrated, to found a little town, and die
still handsome and clean-shaved at the age of sixty-six. Of his
four sons, only two could be found sufficiently without the E to go
on making ploughs. Stanley's grandfather, Stuart Morton, indeed,
had tried hard, but in the end had reverted to the congenital
instinct for being just a Moreton. An extremely amiable man, he
took to wandering with his family, and died in France, leaving one
daughter--Frances, Stanley's mother--and three sons, one of whom,
absorbed in horses, wandered to Australia and was killed by falling
from them; one of whom, a soldier, wandered to India, and the
embraces of a snake; and one of whom wandered into the embraces of
the Holy Roman Church.
The Morton Plough Works were dry and dwindling when Stanley's
father, seeking an opening for his son, put him and money into
them. From that moment they had never looked back, and now brought
Stanley, the sole proprietor, an income of full fifteen thousand
pounds a year. He wanted it. For Clara, his wife, had that energy
of aspiration which before now has raised women to positions of
importance in the counties which are not their own, and caused,
incidentally, many acres to go out of cultivation. Not one plough
was used on the whole of Becket, not even a Morton plough--these
indeed were unsuitable to English soil and were all sent abroad.
It was the corner-stone of his success that Stanley had completely
seen through the talked-of revival of English agriculture, and
sedulously cultivated the foreign market. This was why the Becket
dining-room could contain without straining itself large quantities
of local magnates and celebrities from London, all deploring the
condition of 'the Land,' and discussing without end the regrettable
position of the agricultural laborer. Except for literary men and
painters, present in small quantities to leaven the lump, Becket
was, in fact, a rallying point for the advanced spirits of Land
Reform--one of those places where they were sure of being well done
at week-ends, and of congenial and even stimulating talk about the
undoubted need for doing something, and the designs which were
being entertained upon 'the Land' by either party. This very heart
of English country that the old Moretons in their paternal way had
so religiously farmed, making out of its lush grass and waving corn
a simple and by no means selfish or ungenerous subsistence, was now
entirely lawns, park, coverts, and private golf course, together
with enough grass to support the kine which yielded that continual
stream of milk necessary to Clara's entertainments and children,
all female, save little Francis, and still of tender years. Of
gardeners, keepers, cow-men, chauffeurs, footmen, stablemen--full
twenty were supported on those fifteen hundred acres that formed
the little Becket demesne. Of agricultural laborers proper--that
vexed individual so much in the air, so reluctant to stay on 'the
Land,' and so difficult to house when he was there, there were
fortunately none, so that it was possible for Stanley, whose wife
meant him to 'put up' for the Division, and his guests, who were
frequently in Parliament, to hold entirely unbiassed and impersonal
views upon the whole question so long as they were at Becket.
It was beautiful there, too, with the bright open fields hedged
with great elms, and that ever-rich serenity of its grass and
trees. The white house, timbered with dark beams in true
Worcestershire fashion, and added-to from time to time, had
preserved, thanks to a fine architect, an old-fashioned air of
spacious presidency above its gardens and lawns. On the long
artificial lake, with innumerable rushy nooks and water-lilies and
coverture of leaves floating flat and bright in the sun, the half-
tame wild duck and shy water-hens had remote little worlds, and
flew and splashed when all Becket was abed, quite as if the human
spirit, with its monkey-tricks and its little divine flame, had not
yet been born.
Under the shade of a copper-beech, just where the drive cut through
into its circle before the house, an old lady was sitting that
afternoon on a campstool. She was dressed in gray alpaca, light
and cool, and had on her iron-gray hair a piece of black lace. A
number of Hearth and Home and a little pair of scissors, suspended
by an inexpensive chain from her waist, rested on her knee, for she
had been meaning to cut out for dear Felix a certain recipe for
keeping the head cool; but, as a fact, she sat without doing so,
very still, save that, now and then, she compressed her pale fine
lips, and continually moved her pale fine hands. She was evidently
waiting for something that promised excitement, even pleasure, for
a little rose-leaf flush had quavered up into a face that was
colored like parchment; and her gray eyes under regular and still-
dark brows, very far apart, between which there was no semblance of
a wrinkle, seemed noting little definite things about her, almost
unwillingly, as an Arab's or a Red Indian's eyes will continue to
note things in the present, however their minds may be set on the
future. So sat Frances Fleeming Freeland (nee Morton) waiting for
the arrival of her son Felix and her grandchildren Alan and Nedda.
She marked presently an old man limping slowly on a stick toward
where the drive debouched, and thought at once: "He oughtn't to be
coming this way. I expect he doesn't know the way round to the
back. Poor man, he's very lame. He looks respectable, too." She
got up and went toward him, remarking that his face with nice gray
moustaches was wonderfully regular, almost like a gentleman's, and
that he touched his dusty hat with quite old-fashioned courtesy.
And smiling--her smile was sweet but critical--she said: "You'll
find the best way is to go back to that little path, and past the
greenhouses. Have you hurt your leg?"
"My leg's been like that, m'm, fifteen year come Michaelmas."
"How did it happen?"
"Ploughin'. The bone was injured; an' now they say the muscle's
dried up in a manner of speakin'."
"What do you do for it? The very best thing is this."
From the recesses of a deep pocket, placed where no one else wore
such a thing, she brought out a little pot.
"You must let me give it you. Put it on when you go to bed, and
rub it well in; you'll find it act splendidly."
The old man took the little pot with dubious reverence.
"Yes, m'm," he said; "thank you, m'm."
"What is your name?"
"Gaunt."
"And where do you live?"
"Over to Joyfields, m'm."
"Joyfields--another of my sons lives there--Mr. Morton Freeland.
But it's seven miles."
"I got a lift half-way."
"And have you business at the house?" The old man was silent; the
downcast, rather cynical look of his lined face deepened. And
Frances Freeland thought: 'He's overtired. They must give him some
tea and an egg. What can he want, coming all this way? He's
evidently not a beggar.'
The old man who was not a beggar spoke suddenly:
"I know the Mr. Freeland at Joyfields. He's a good gentleman,
too."
"Yes, he is. I wonder I don't know you."
"I'm not much about, owin' to my leg. It's my grand-daughter in
service here, I come to see."
"Oh, yes! What is her name?"
"Gaunt her name is."
"I shouldn't know her by her surname."
"Alice."
"Ah! in the kitchen; a nice, pretty girl. I hope you're not in
trouble."
Again the old man was silent, and again spoke suddenly:
"That's as you look at it, m'm," he said. "I've got a matter of a
few words to have with her about the family. Her father he
couldn't come, so I come instead."
"And how are you going to get back?"
"I'll have to walk, I expect, without I can pick up with a cart."
Frances Freeland compressed her lips. "With that leg you should
have come by train."
The old man smiled.
"I hadn't the fare like," he said. "I only gets five shillin's a
week, from the council, and two o' that I pays over to my son."
Frances Freeland thrust her hand once more into that deep pocket,
and as she did so she noticed that the old man's left boot was
flapping open, and that there were two buttons off his coat. Her
mind was swiftly calculating: "It is more than seven weeks to
quarter day. Of course I can't afford it, but I must just give him
a sovereign."
She withdrew her hand from the recesses of her pocket and looked at
the old man's nose. It was finely chiselled, and the same yellow
as his face. "It looks nice, and quite sober," she thought. In
her hand was her purse and a boot-lace. She took out a sovereign.
"Now, if I give you this," she said, "you must promise me not to
spend any of it in the public-house. And this is for your boot.
And you must go back by train. And get those buttons sewn on your
coat. And tell cook, from me, please, to give you some tea and an
egg." And noticing that he took the sovereign and the boot-lace
very respectfully, and seemed altogether very respectable, and not
at all coarse or beery-looking, she said:
"Good-by; don't forget to rub what I gave you into your leg every
night and every morning," and went back to her camp-stool. Sitting
down on it with the scissors in her hand, she still did not cut out
that recipe, but remained as before, taking in small, definite
things, and feeling with an inner trembling that dear Felix and
Alan and Nedda would soon be here; and the little flush rose again
in her cheeks, and again her lips and hands moved, expressing and
compressing what was in her heart. And close behind her, a
peacock, straying from the foundations of the old Moreton house,
uttered a cry, and moved slowly, spreading its tail under the low-
hanging boughs of the copper-beeches, as though it knew those dark
burnished leaves were the proper setting for its 'parlant'
magnificence.
CHAPTER V
The day after the little conference at John's, Felix had indeed
received the following note:
"DEAR FELIX:
"When you go down to see old Tod, why not put up with us at Becket?
Any time will suit, and the car can take you over to Joyfields when
you like. Give the pen a rest. Clara joins in hoping you'll come,
and Mother is still here. No use, I suppose, to ask Flora.
"Yours ever,
"STANLEY."
During the twenty years of his brother's sojourn there Felix had
been down to Becket perhaps once a year, and latterly alone; for
Flora, having accompanied him the first few times, had taken a firm
stand.
"My dear," she said, "I feel all body there."
Felix had rejoined:
"No bad thing, once in a way."
But Flora had remained firm. Life was too short! She did not get
on well with Clara. Neither did Felix feel too happy in his
sister-in-law's presence; but the gray top-hat instinct had kept
him going there, for one ought to keep in touch with one's
brothers.
He replied to Stanley:
"DEAR STANLEY:
"Delighted; if I may bring my two youngsters. We'll arrive to-
morrow at four-fifty.
"Yours affectionately,
"FELIX."
Travelling with Nedda was always jolly; one could watch her eyes
noting, inquiring, and when occasion served, have one's little
finger hooked in and squeezed. Travelling with Alan was
convenient, the young man having a way with railways which Felix
himself had long despaired of acquiring. Neither of the children
had ever been at Becket, and though Alan was seldom curious, and
Nedda too curious about everything to be specially so about this,
yet Felix experienced in their company the sensations of a new
adventure.
Arrived at Transham, that little town upon a hill which the Morton
Plough Works had created, they were soon in Stanley's car, whirling
into the sleepy peace of a Worcestershire afternoon. Would this
young bird nestling up against him echo Flora's verdict: 'I feel
all body there!' or would she take to its fatted luxury as a duck
to water? And he said: "By the way, your aunt's 'Bigwigs' set in
on a Saturday. Are you for staying and seeing the lions feed, or
do we cut back?"
From Alan he got the answer he expected:
"If there's golf or something, I suppose we can make out all
right." From Nedda: "What sort of Bigwigs are they, Dad?"
"A sort you've never seen, my dear."
"Then I should like to stay. Only, about dresses?"
"What war paint have you?"
"Only two white evenings. And Mums gave me her Mechlin."
"'Twill serve."
To Felix, Nedda in white 'evenings' was starry and all that man
could desire.
"Only, Dad, do tell me about them, beforehand."
"My dear, I will. And God be with you. This is where Becket
begins."
The car had swerved into a long drive between trees not yet full-
grown, but decorously trying to look more than their twenty years.
To the right, about a group of older elms, rooks were in commotion,
for Stanley's three keepers' wives had just baked their annual rook
pies, and the birds were not yet happy again. Those elms had stood
there when the old Moretons walked past them through corn-fields to
church of a Sunday. Away on the left above the lake, the little
walled mound had come in view. Something in Felix always stirred
at sight of it, and, squeezing Nedda's arm, he said:
"See that silly wall? Behind there Granny's ancients lived. Gone
now--new house--new lake--new trees--new everything."
But he saw from his little daughter's calm eyes that the sentiment
in him was not in her.
"I like the lake," she said. "There's Granny--oh, and a peacock!"
His mother's embrace, with its frail energy, and the pressure of
her soft, dry lips, filled Felix always with remorse. Why could he
not give the simple and direct expression to his feeling that she
gave to hers? He watched those lips transferred to Nedda, heard
her say: "Oh, my darling, how lovely to see you! Do you know this
for midge-bites?" A hand, diving deep into a pocket, returned with
a little silver-coated stick having a bluish end. Felix saw it
rise and hover about Nedda's forehead, and descend with two little
swift dabs. "It takes them away at once."
"Oh, but Granny, they're not midge-bites; they're only from my
hat!"
"It doesn't matter, darling; it takes away anything like that."
And he thought: 'Mother is really wonderful!'
At the house the car had already disgorged their luggage. Only one
man, but he absolutely the butler, awaited them, and they entered,
at once conscious of Clara's special pot-pourri. Its fragrance
steamed from blue china, in every nook and crevice, a sort of
baptism into luxury. Clara herself, in the outer morning-room,
smelled a little of it. Quick and dark of eye, capable, comely,
perfectly buttoned, one of those women who know exactly how not to
be superior to the general taste of the period. In addition to
that great quality she was endowed with a fine nose, an instinct
for co-ordination not to be excelled, and a genuine love of making
people comfortable; so that it was no wonder that she had risen in
the ranks of hostesses, till her house was celebrated for its ease,
even among those who at their week-ends liked to feel 'all body.'
In regard to that characteristic of Becket, not even Felix in his
ironies had ever stood up to Clara; the matter was too delicate.
Frances Freeland, indeed--not because she had any philosophic
preconceptions on the matter, but because it was 'not nice, dear,
to be wasteful' even if it were only of rose-leaves, or to 'have
too much decoration,' such as Japanese prints in places where they
hum--sometimes told her daughter-in-law frankly what was wrong,
without, however, making the faintest impression upon Clara, for
she was not sensitive, and, as she said to Stanley, it was 'only
Mother.'
When they had drunk that special Chinese tea, all the rage, but
which no one really liked, in the inner morning, or afternoon room--
for the drawing-rooms were too large to be comfortable except at
week-ends--they went to see the children, a special blend of
Stanley and Clara, save the little Francis, who did not seem to be
entirely body. Then Clara took them to their rooms. She lingered
kindly in Nedda's, feeling that the girl could not yet feel quite
at home, and looking in the soap-dish lest she might not have the
right verbena, and about the dressing-table to see that she had
pins and scent, and plenty of 'pot-pourri,' and thinking: 'The
child is pretty--a nice girl, not like her mother.' Explaining
carefully how, because of the approaching week-end, she had been
obliged to put her in 'a very simple room' where she would be
compelled to cross the corridor to her bath, she asked her if she
had a quilted dressing-gown, and finding that she had not, left her
saying she would send one--and could she do her frocks up, or
should Sirrett come?
Abandoned, the girl stood in the middle of the room, so far more
'simple' than she had ever slept in, with its warm fragrance of
rose-leaves and verbena, its Aubusson carpet, white silk-quilted
bed, sofa, cushioned window-seat, dainty curtains, and little
nickel box of biscuits on little spindly table. There she stood
and sniffed, stretched herself, and thought: 'It's jolly--only, it
smells too much!' and she went up to the pictures, one by one.
They seemed to go splendidly with the room, and suddenly she felt
homesick. Ridiculous, of course! Yet, if she had known where her
father's room was, she would have run out to it; but her memory was
too tangled up with stairs and corridors--to find her way down to
the hall again was all she could have done.
A maid came in now with a blue silk gown very thick and soft.
Could she do anything for Miss Freeland? No, thanks, she could
not; only, did she know where Mr. Freeland's room was?
"Which Mr. Freeland, miss, the young or the old?"
"Oh, the old!" Having said which, Nedda felt unhappy; her Dad was
not old! "No, miss; but I'll find out. It'll be in the walnut
wing!" But with a little flutter at the thought of thus setting
people to run about wings, Nedda murmured: "Oh! thanks, no; it
doesn't matter."
She settled down now on the cushion of the window-seat, to look out
and take it all in, right away to that line of hills gone blue in
the haze of the warm evening. That would be Malvern; and there,
farther to the south, the 'Tods' lived. 'Joyfields!' A pretty
name! And it was lovely country all round; green and peaceful,
with its white, timbered houses and cottages. People must be very
happy, living here--happy and quiet like the stars and the birds;
not like the crowds in London thronging streets and shops and
Hampstead Heath; not like the people in all those disgruntled
suburbs that led out for miles where London ought to have stopped
but had not; not like the thousands and thousands of those poor
creatures in Bethnal Green, where her slum work lay. The natives
here must surely be happy. Only, were there any natives? She had
not seen any. Away to the right below her window were the first
trees of the fruit garden; for many of them Spring was over, but
the apple-trees had just come into blossom, and the low sun shining
through a gap in some far elms was slanting on their creamy pink,
christening them--Nedda thought--with drops of light; and lovely
the blackbirds' singing sounded in the perfect hush! How wonderful
to be a bird, going where you would, and from high up in the air
seeing everything; flying down a sunbeam, drinking a raindrop,
sitting on the very top of a tall tree, running in grass so high
that you were hidden, laying little perfect blue-green eggs, or
pure-gray speckly ones; never changing your dress, yet always
beautiful. Surely the spirit of the world was in the birds and the
clouds, roaming, floating, and in the flowers and trees that never
smelled anything but sweet, never looked anything but lovely, and
were never restless. Why was one restless, wanting things that did
not come--wanting to feel and know, wanting to love, and be loved?
And at that thought which had come to her so unexpectedly--a
thought never before shaped so definitely--Nedda planted her arms
on the window-sill, with sleeves fallen down, and let her hands
meet cup-shaped beneath her chin. Love! To have somebody with
whom she could share everything--some one to whom and for whom she
could give up--some one she could protect and comfort--some one who
would bring her peace. Peace, rest--from what? Ah! that she could
not make clear, even to herself. Love! What would love be like?
Her father loved her, and she loved him. She loved her mother; and
Alan on the whole was jolly to her--it was not that. What was it--
where was it--when would it come and wake her, and kiss her to
sleep, all in one? Come and fill her as with the warmth and color,
the freshness, light, and shadow of this beautiful May evening,
flood her as with the singing of those birds, and the warm light
sunning the apple blossoms. And she sighed. Then--as with all
young things whose attention after all is but as the hovering of a
butterfly--her speculation was attracted to a thin, high-shouldered
figure limping on a stick, away from the house, down one of the
paths among the apple-trees. He wavered, not knowing, it seemed,
his way. And Nedda thought: 'Poor old man, how lame he is!' She
saw him stoop, screened, as he evidently thought, from sight, and
take something very small from his pocket. He gazed, rubbed it,
put it back; what it was she could not see. Then pressing his hand
down, he smoothed and stretched his leg. His eyes seemed closed.
So a stone man might have stood! Till very slowly he limped on,
passing out of sight. And turning from the window, Nedda began
hurrying into her evening things.
When she was ready she took a long time to decide whether to wear
her mother's lace or keep it for the Bigwigs. But it was so nice
and creamy that she simply could not take it off, and stood turning
and turning before the glass. To stand before a glass was silly
and old-fashioned; but Nedda could never help it, wanting so badly
to be nicer to look at than she was, because of that something that
some day was coming!
She was, in fact, pretty, but not merely pretty--there was in her
face something alive and sweet, something clear and swift. She had
still that way of a child raising its eyes very quickly and looking
straight at you with an eager innocence that hides everything by
its very wonder; and when those eyes looked down they seemed
closed--their dark lashes were so long. Her eyebrows were wide
apart, arching with a slight angle, and slanting a little down
toward her nose. Her forehead under its burnt-brown hair was
candid; her firm little chin just dimpled. Altogether, a face
difficult to take one's eyes off. But Nedda was far from vain, and
her face seemed to her too short and broad, her eyes too dark and
indeterminate, neither gray nor brown. The straightness of her
nose was certainly comforting, but it, too, was short. Being
creamy in the throat and browning easily, she would have liked to
be marble-white, with blue dreamy eyes and fair hair, or else like
a Madonna. And was she tall enough? Only five foot five. And her
arms were too thin. The only things that gave her perfect
satisfaction were her legs, which, of course, she could not at the
moment see; they really WERE rather jolly! Then, in a panic,
fearing to be late, she turned and ran out, fluttering into the
maze of stairs and corridors.
CHAPTER VI
Clara, Mrs. Stanley Freeland, was not a narrow woman either in mind
or body; and years ago, soon indeed after she married Stanley, she
had declared her intention of taking up her sister-in-law,
Kirsteen, in spite of what she had heard were the woman's
extraordinary notions. Those were the days of carriages, pairs,
coachmen, grooms, and, with her usual promptitude, ordering out the
lot, she had set forth. It is safe to say she had never forgotten
that experience.
Imagine an old, white, timbered cottage with a thatched roof, and
no single line about it quite straight. A cottage crazy with age,
buried up to the thatch in sweetbrier, creepers, honeysuckle, and
perched high above crossroads. A cottage almost unapproachable for
beehives and their bees--an insect for which Clara had an aversion.
Imagine on the rough, pebbled approach to the door of this cottage
(and Clara had on thin shoes) a peculiar cradle with a dark-eyed
baby that was staring placidly at two bees sleeping on a coverlet
made of a rough linen such as Clara had never before seen. Imagine
an absolutely naked little girl of three, sitting in a tub of
sunlight in the very doorway. Clara had turned swiftly and closed
the wicket gate between the pebbled pathway and the mossed steps
that led down to where her coachman and her footman were sitting
very still, as was the habit of those people. She had perceived at
once that she was making no common call. Then, with real courage
she had advanced, and, looking down at the little girl with a
fearful smile, had tickled the door with the handle of her green
parasol. A woman younger than herself, a girl, indeed, appeared in
a low doorway. She had often told Stanley since that she would
never forget her first sight (she had not yet had another) of Tod's
wife. A brown face and black hair, fiery gray eyes, eyes all
light, under black lashes, and "such a strange smile"; bare, brown,
shapely arms and neck in a shirt of the same rough, creamy linen,
and, from under a bright blue skirt, bare, brown, shapely ankles
and feet! A voice so soft and deadly that, as Clara said: "What
with her eyes, it really gave me the shivers. And, my dear," she
had pursued, "white-washed walls, bare brick floors, not a picture,
not a curtain, not even a fire-iron. Clean--oh, horribly! They
must be the most awful cranks. The only thing I must say that was
nice was the smell. Sweetbrier, and honey, coffee, and baked
apples--really delicious. I must try what I can do with it. But
that woman--girl, I suppose she is--stumped me. I'm sure she'd
have cut my head off if I'd attempted to open my mouth on ordinary
topics. The children were rather ducks; but imagine leaving them
about like that amongst the bees. 'Kirsteen!' She looked it.
Never again! And Tod I didn't see at all; I suppose he was mooning
about amongst his creatures."
It was the memory of this visit, now seventeen years ago, that had
made her smile so indulgently when Stanley came back from the
conference. She had said at once that they must have Felix to
stay, and for her part she would be only too glad to do anything
she could for those poor children of Tod's, even to asking them to
Becket, and trying to civilize them a little. . . . "But as for
that woman, there'll be nothing to be done with her, I can assure
you. And I expect Tod is completely under her thumb."
To Felix, who took her in to dinner, she spoke feelingly and in a
low voice. She liked Felix, in spite of his wife, and respected
him--he had a name. Lady Malloring--she told him--the Mallorings
owned, of course, everything round Joyfields--had been telling her
that of late Tod's wife had really become quite rabid over the land
question. 'The Tods' were hand in glove with all the cottagers.
She, Clara, had nothing to say against any one who sympathized with
the condition of the agricultural laborer; quite the contrary.
Becket was almost, as Felix knew--though perhaps it wasn't for her
to say so--the centre of that movement; but there were ways of
doing things, and one did so deprecate women like this Kirsteen--
what an impossibly Celtic name!--putting her finger into any pie
that really was of national importance. Nothing could come of
anything done that sort of way. If Felix had any influence with
Tod it would be a mercy to use it in getting those poor young
creatures away from home, to mix a little with people who took a
sane view of things. She would like very much to get them over to
Becket, but with their notions it was doubtful whether they had
evening clothes! She had, of course, never forgotten that naked
mite in the tub of sunlight, nor the poor baby with its bees and
its rough linen. Felix replied deferentially--he was invariably
polite, and only just ironic enough, in the houses of others--that
he had the very greatest respect for Tod, and that there could be
nothing very wrong with the woman to whom Tod was so devoted. As
for the children, his own young people would get at them and learn
all about what was going on in a way that no fogey like himself
could. In regard to the land question, there were, of course, many
sides to that, and he, for one, would not be at all sorry to
observe yet another. After all, the Tods were in real contact with
the laborers, and that was the great thing. It would be very
interesting.
Yes, Clara quite saw all that, but--and here she sank her voice so
that there was hardly any left--as Felix was going over there, she
really must put him au courant with the heart of this matter. Lady
Malloring had told her the whole story. It appeared there were two
cases: A family called Gaunt, an old man, and his son, who had two
daughters--one of them, Alice, quite a nice girl, was kitchen-maid
here at Becket, but the other sister--Wilmet--well! she was one of
those girls that, as Felix must know, were always to be found in
every village. She was leading the young men astray, and Lady
Malloring had put her foot down, telling her bailiff to tell the
farmer for whom Gaunt worked that he and his family must go, unless
they sent the girl away somewhere. That was one case. And the
other was of a laborer called Tryst, who wanted to marry his
deceased wife's sister. Of course, whether Mildred Malloring was
not rather too churchy and puritanical--now that a deceased wife's
sister was legal--Clara did not want to say; but she was
undoubtedly within her rights if she thought it for the good of the
village. This man, Tryst, was a good workman, and his farmer had
objected to losing him, but Lady Malloring had, of course, not
given way, and if he persisted he would get put out. All the
cottages about there were Sir Gerald Malloring's, so that in both
cases it would mean leaving the neighborhood. In regard to village
morality, as Felix knew, the line must be drawn somewhere.
Felix interrupted quietly:
"I draw it at Lady Malloring."
"Well, I won't argue that with you. But it really is a scandal
that Tod's wife should incite her young people to stir up the
villagers. Goodness knows where that mayn't lead! Tod's cottage
and land, you see, are freehold, the only freehold thereabouts; and
his being a brother of Stanley's makes it particularly awkward for
the Mallorings."
"Quite so!" murmured Felix.
"Yes, but my dear Felix, when it comes to infecting those simple
people with inflated ideas of their rights, it's serious,
especially in the country. I'm told there's really quite a violent
feeling. I hear from Alice Gaunt that the young Tods have been
going about saying that dogs are better off than people treated in
this fashion, which, of course, is all nonsense, and making far too
much of a small matter. Don't you think so?"
But Felix only smiled his peculiar, sweetish smile, and answered:
"I'm glad to have come down just now."
Clara, who did not know that when Felix smiled like that he was
angry, agreed.
"Yes," she said; "you're an observer. You will see the thing in
right perspective."
"I shall endeavor to. What does Tod say?"
"Oh! Tod never seems to say anything. At least, I never hear of
it."
Felix murmured:
"Tod is a well in the desert."
To which deep saying Clara made no reply, not indeed understanding
in the least what it might signify.
That evening, when Alan, having had his fill of billiards, had left
the smoking-room and gone to bed, Felix remarked to Stanley:
"I say, what sort of people are these Mallorings?"
Stanley, who was settling himself for the twenty minutes of
whiskey, potash, and a Review, with which he commonly composed his
mind before retiring, answered negligently:
"The Mallorings? Oh! about the best type of landowner we've got."
"What exactly do you mean by that?"
Stanley took his time to answer, for below his bluff good-nature he
had the tenacious, if somewhat slow, precision of an English man of
business, mingled with a certain mistrust of 'old Felix.'
"Well," he said at last, "they build good cottages, yellow brick,
d--d ugly, I must say; look after the character of their tenants;
give 'em rebate of rent if there's a bad harvest; encourage stock-
breedin', and machinery--they've got some of my ploughs, but the
people don't like 'em, and, as a matter of fact, they're right--
they're not made for these small fields; set an example goin' to
church; patronize the Rifle Range; buy up the pubs when they can,
and run 'em themselves; send out jelly, and let people over their
place on bank holidays. Dash it all, I don't know what they don't
do. Why?"
"Are they liked?"
"Liked? No, I should hardly think they were liked; respected, and
all that. Malloring's a steady fellow, keen man on housing, and a
gentleman; she's a bit too much perhaps on the pious side. They've
got one of the finest Georgian houses in the country. Altogether
they're what you call 'model.'"
"But not human."
Stanley slightly lowered the Review and looked across it at his
brother. It was evident to him that 'old Felix' was in one of his
free-thinking moods.
"They're domestic," he said, "and fond of their children, and
pleasant neighbors. I don't deny that they've got a tremendous
sense of duty, but we want that in these days."
"Duty to what?"
Stanley raised his level eyebrows. It was a stumper. Without
great care he felt that he would be getting over the border into
the uncharted land of speculation and philosophy, wandering on
paths that led him nowhere.
"If you lived in the country, old man," he said, "you wouldn't ask
that sort of question."
"You don't imagine," said Felix, "that you or the Mallorings live
in the country? Why, you landlords are every bit as much town
dwellers as I am--thought, habit, dress, faith, souls, all town
stuff. There IS no 'country' in England now for us of the 'upper
classes.' It's gone. I repeat: Duty to what?"
And, rising, he went over to the window, looking out at the moonlit
lawn, overcome by a sudden aversion from more talk. Of what use
were words from a mind tuned in one key to a mind tuned in another?
And yet, so ingrained was his habit of discussion, that he promptly
went on:
"The Mallorings, I've not the slightest doubt, believe it their
duty to look after the morals of those who live on their property.
There are three things to be said about that: One--you can't make
people moral by adopting the attitude of the schoolmaster. Two--it
implies that they consider themselves more moral than their
neighbors. Three--it's a theory so convenient to their security
that they would be exceptionally good people if they did not adopt
it; but, from your account, they are not so much exceptionally as
just typically good people. What you call their sense of duty,
Stanley, is really their sense of self-preservation coupled with
their sense of superiority."
"H'm!" said Stanley; "I don't know that I quite follow you."
"I always hate an odor of sanctity. I'd prefer them to say
frankly: 'This is my property, and you'll jolly well do what I tell
you, on it.'"
"But, my dear chap, after all, they really ARE superior."
"That," said Felix, "I emphatically question. Put your Mallorings
to earn their living on fifteen to eighteen shillings a week, and
where would they be? The Mallorings have certain virtues, no
doubt, natural to their fortunate environment, but of the primitive
virtues of patience, hardihood, perpetual, almost unconscious self-
sacrifice, and cheerfulness in the face of a hard fate, they are no
more the equals of the people they pretend to be superior to than I
am your equal as a man of business."
"Hang it!" was Stanley's answer, "what a d--d old heretic you are!"
Felix frowned. "Am I? Be honest! Take the life of a Malloring
and take it at its best; see how it stands comparison in the
ordinary virtues with those of an averagely good specimen of a
farm-laborer. Your Malloring is called with a cup of tea, at, say,
seven o'clock, out of a nice, clean, warm bed; he gets into a bath
that has been got ready for him; into clothes and boots that have
been brushed for him; and goes down to a room where there's a fire
burning already if it's a cold day, writes a few letters, perhaps,
before eating a breakfast of exactly what he likes, nicely prepared
for him, and reading the newspaper that best comforts his soul;
when he has eaten and read, he lights his cigar or his pipe and
attends to his digestion in the most sanitary and comfortable
fashion; then in his study he sits down to steady direction of
other people, either by interview or by writing letters, or what
not. In this way, between directing people and eating what he
likes, he passes the whole day, except that for two or three hours,
sometimes indeed seven or eight hours, he attends to his physique
by riding, motoring, playing a game, or indulging in a sport that
he has chosen for himself. And, at the end of all that, he
probably has another bath that has been made ready for him, puts on
clean clothes that have been put out for him, goes down to a good
dinner that has been cooked for him, smokes, reads, learns, and
inwardly digests, or else plays cards, billiards, and acts host
till he is sleepy, and so to bed, in a clean, warm bed, in a clean,
fresh room. Is that exaggerated?"
"No; but when you talk of his directing other people, you forget
that he is doing what they couldn't."
"He may be doing what they couldn't; but ordinary directive ability
is not born in a man; it's acquired by habit and training. Suppose
fortune had reversed them at birth, the Gaunt or Tryst would by now
have it and the Malloring would not. The accident that they were
not reversed at birth has given the Malloring a thousandfold
advantage."
"It's no joke directing things," muttered Stanley.
"No work is any joke; but I just put it to you: Simply as work,
without taking in the question of reward, would you dream for a
minute of swapping your work with the work of one of your workmen?
No. Well, neither would a Malloring with one of his Gaunts. So
that, my boy, for work which is intrinsically more interesting and
pleasurable, the Malloring gets a hundred to a thousand times more
money."
"All this is rank socialism, my dear fellow."
"No; rank truth. Now, to take the life of a Gaunt. He gets up
summer and winter much earlier out of a bed that he cannot afford
time or money to keep too clean or warm, in a small room that
probably has not a large enough window; into clothes stiff with
work and boots stiff with clay; makes something hot for himself,
very likely brings some of it to his wife and children; goes out,
attending to his digestion crudely and without comfort; works with
his hands and feet from half past six or seven in the morning till
past five at night, except that twice he stops for an hour or so
and eats simple things that he would not altogether have chosen to
eat if he could have had his will. He goes home to a tea that has
been got ready for him, and has a clean-up without assistance,
smokes a pipe of shag, reads a newspaper perhaps two days old, and
goes out again to work for his own good, in his vegetable patch, or
to sit on a wooden bench in an atmosphere of beer and 'baccy.' And
so, dead tired, but not from directing other people, he drowses
himself to early lying again in his doubtful bed. Is that
exaggerated?"
"I suppose not, but he--"
"Has his compensations: Clean conscience--freedom from worry--
fresh air, all the rest of it! I know. Clean conscience granted,
but so has your Malloring, it would seem. Freedom from worry--yes,
except when a pair of boots is wanted, or one of the children is
ill; then he has to make up for lost time with a vengeance. Fresh
air--and wet clothes, with a good chance of premature rheumatism.
Candidly, which of those two lives demands more of the virtues on
which human life is founded--courage and patience, hardihood and
self-sacrifice? And which of two men who have lived those two
lives well has most right to the word 'superior'?"
Stanley dropped the Review and for fully a minute paced the room
without reply. Then he said:
"Felix, you're talking flat revolution."
Felix, who, faintly smiling, had watched him up and down, up and
down the Turkey carpet, answered:
"Not so. I am by no means a revolutionary person, because with all
the good-will in the world I have been unable to see how upheavals
from the bottom, or violence of any sort, is going to equalize
these lives or do any good. But I detest humbug, and I believe
that so long as you and your Mallorings go on blindly dosing
yourselves with humbug about duty and superiority, so long will you
see things as they are not. And until you see things as they are,
purged of all that sickening cant, you will none of you really move
to make the conditions of life more and ever more just. For, mark
you, Stanley, I, who do not believe in revolution from the bottom,
the more believe that it is up to us in honour to revolutionize
things from the top!"
"H'm!" said Stanley; "that's all very well; but the more you give
the more they want, till there's no end to it."
Felix stared round that room, where indeed one was all body.
"By George," he said, "I've yet to see a beginning. But, anyway,
if you give in a grudging spirit, or the spirit of a schoolmaster,
what can you expect? If you offer out of real good-will, so it is
taken." And suddenly conscious that he had uttered a constructive
phrase, Felix cast down his eyes, and added:
"I am going to my clean, warm bed. Good night, old man!"
When his brother had taken up his candlestick and gone, Stanley,
uttering a dubious sound, sat down on the lounge, drank deep out of
his tumbler, and once more took up his Review.
CHAPTER VII
The next day Stanley's car, fraught with Felix and a note from
Clara, moved swiftly along the grass-bordered roads toward
Joyfields. Lying back on the cushioned seat, the warm air flying
at his face, Felix contemplated with delight his favorite
countryside. Certainly this garden of England was very lovely, its
greenness, trees, and large, pied, lazy cattle; its very emptiness
of human beings even was pleasing.
Nearing Joyfields he noted the Mallorings' park and their long
Georgian house, carefully fronting south. There, too, was the pond
of what village there was, with the usual ducks on it; and three
well-remembered cottages in a row, neat and trim, of the old,
thatched sort, but evidently restored. Out of the door of one of
them two young people had just emerged, going in the same direction
as the car. Felix passed them and turned to look. Yes, it was
they! He stopped the car. They were walking, with eyes straight
before them, frowning. And Felix thought: 'Nothing of Tod in
either of them; regular Celts!'
The girl's vivid, open face, crisp, brown, untidy hair, cheeks
brimful of color, thick lips, eyes that looked up and out as a Skye
terrier's eyes look out of its shagginess--indeed, her whole figure
struck Felix as almost frighteningly vital; and she walked as if
she despised the ground she covered. The boy was even more
arresting. What a strange, pale-dark face, with its black,
uncovered hair, its straight black brows; what a proud, swan's-
eyed, thin-lipped, straight-nosed young devil, marching like a very
Highlander; though still rather run-up, from sheer youthfulness!
They had come abreast of the car by now, and, leaning out, he said:
"You don't remember me, I'm afraid!" The boy shook his head.
Wonderful eyes he had! But the girl put out her hand.
"Of course, Derek; it's Uncle Felix."
They both smiled now, the girl friendly, the boy rather drawn back
into himself. And feeling strangely small and ill at ease, Felix
murmured:
"I'm going to see your father. Can I give you a lift home?"
The answer came as he expected:
"No, thanks." Then, as if to tone it down, the girl added:
"We've got something to do first. You'll find him in the orchard."
She had a ringing voice, full of warmth. Lifting his hat, Felix
passed on. They WERE a couple! Strange, attractive, almost
frightening. Kirsteen had brought his brother a formidable little
brood.
Arriving at the cottage, he went up its mossy stones and through
the wicket gate. There was little change, indeed, since the days
of Clara's visit, save that the beehives had been moved farther
out. Nor did any one answer his knock; and mindful of the girl's
words, "You'll find him in the orchard," he made his way out among
the trees. The grass was long and starred with petals. Felix
wandered over it among bees busy with the apple-blossom. At the
very end he came on his brother, cutting down a pear-tree. Tod was
in shirt-sleeves, his brown arms bare almost to the shoulders. How
tremendous the fellow was! What resounding and terrific blows he
was dealing! Down came the tree, and Tod drew his arm across his
brow. This great, burnt, curly-headed fellow was more splendid to
look upon than even Felix had remembered, and so well built that
not a movement of his limbs was heavy. His cheek-bones were very
broad and high; his brows thick and rather darker than his bright
hair, so that his deep-set, very blue eyes seemed to look out of a
thicket; his level white teeth gleamed from under his tawny
moustache, and his brown, unshaven cheeks and jaw seemed covered
with gold powder. Catching sight of Felix, he came forward.
"Fancy," he said, "old Gladstone spending his leisure cutting down
trees--of all melancholy jobs!"
Felix did not quite know what to answer, so he put his arm within
his brother's. Tod drew him toward the tree.
"Sit down!" he said. Then, looking sorrowfully at the pear-tree,
he murmured:
"Seventy years--and down in seven minutes. Now we shall burn it.
Well, it had to go. This is the third year it's had no blossom."
His speech was slow, like that of a man accustomed to think aloud.
Felix admired him askance. "I might live next door," he thought,
"for all the notice he's taken of my turning up!"
"I came over in Stanley's car," he said. "Met your two coming
along--fine couple they are!"
"Ah!" said Tod. And there was something in the way he said it that
was more than a mere declaration of pride or of affection. Then he
looked at Felix.
"What have you come for, old man?"
Felix smiled. Quaint way to put it!
"For a talk."
"Ah!" said Tod, and he whistled.
A largish, well-made dog with a sleek black coat, white underneath,
and a black tail white-tipped, came running up, and stood before
Tod, with its head rather to one side and its yellow-brown eyes
saying: 'I simply must get at what you're thinking, you know.'
"Go and tell your mistress to come--Mistress!"
The dog moved his tail, lowered it, and went off.
"A gypsy gave him to me," said Tod; "best dog that ever lived."
"Every one thinks that of his own dog, old man."
"Yes," said Tod; "but this IS."
"He looks intelligent."
"He's got a soul," said Tod. "The gypsy said he didn't steal him,
but he did."
"Do you always know when people aren't speaking the truth, then?"
"Yes."
At such a monstrous remark from any other man, Felix would have
smiled; but seeing it was Tod, he only asked: "How?"
"People who aren't speaking the truth look you in the face and
never move their eyes."
"Some people do that when they are speaking the truth."
"Yes; but when they aren't, you can see them struggling to keep
their eyes straight. A dog avoids your eye when he's something to
conceal; a man stares at you. Listen!"
Felix listened and heard nothing.
"A wren"; and, screwing up his lips, Tod emitted a sound: "Look!"
Felix saw on the branch of an apple-tree a tiny brown bird with a
little beak sticking out and a little tail sticking up. And he
thought: 'Tod's hopeless!'
"That fellow," said Tod softly, "has got his nest there just behind
us." Again he emitted the sound. Felix saw the little bird move
its head with a sort of infinite curiosity, and hop twice on the
branch.
"I can't get the hen to do that," Tod murmured.
Felix put his hand on his brother's arm--what an arm!
"Yes," he said; "but look here, old man--I really want to talk to
you."
Tod shook his head. "Wait for her," he said.
Felix waited. Tod was getting awfully eccentric, living this
queer, out-of-the-way life with a cranky woman year after year;
never reading anything, never seeing any one but tramps and animals
and villagers. And yet, sitting there beside his eccentric brother
on that fallen tree, he had an extraordinary sense of rest. It
was, perhaps, but the beauty and sweetness of the day with its
dappling sunlight brightening the apple-blossoms, the wind-flowers,
the wood-sorrel, and in the blue sky above the fields those clouds
so unimaginably white. All the tiny noises of the orchard, too,
struck on his ear with a peculiar meaning, a strange fulness, as if
he had never heard such sounds before. Tod, who was looking at the
sky, said suddenly:
"Are you hungry?"
And Felix remembered that they never had any proper meals, but,
when hungry, went to the kitchen, where a wood-fire was always
burning, and either heated up coffee, and porridge that was already
made, with boiled eggs and baked potatoes and apples, or devoured
bread, cheese, jam, honey, cream, tomatoes, butter, nuts, and
fruit, that were always set out there on a wooden table, under a
muslin awning; he remembered, too, that they washed up their own
bowls and spoons and plates, and, having finished, went outside and
drew themselves a draught of water. Queer life, and deuced
uncomfortable--almost Chinese in its reversal of everything that
every one else was doing.
"No," he said, "I'm not."
"I am. Here she is."
Felix felt his heart beating--Clara was not alone in being
frightened of this woman. She was coming through the orchard with
the dog; a remarkable-looking woman--oh, certainly remarkable! She
greeted him without surprise and, sitting down close to Tod, said:
"I'm glad to see you."
Why did this family somehow make him feel inferior? The way she
sat there and looked at him so calmly! Still more the way she
narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her lips, as if rather malicious
thoughts were rising in her soul! Her hair, as is the way of fine,
soft, almost indigo-colored hair, was already showing threads of
silver; her whole face and figure thinner than he had remembered.
But a striking woman still--with wonderful eyes! Her dress--Felix
had scanned many a crank in his day--was not so alarming as it had
once seemed to Clara; its coarse-woven, deep-blue linen and needle-
worked yoke were pleasing to him, and he could hardly take his gaze
from the kingfisher-blue band or fillet that she wore round that
silver-threaded black hair.
He began by giving her Clara's note, the wording of which he had
himself dictated:
"DEAR KIRSTEEN:
"Though we have not seen each other for so long, I am sure you will
forgive my writing. It would give us so much pleasure if you and
the two children would come over for a night or two while Felix and
his young folk are staying with us. It is no use, I fear, to ask
Tod; but of course if he would come, too, both Stanley and myself
would be delighted.
"Yours cordially,
"CLARA FREELAND."
She read it, handed it to Tod, who also read it and handed it to
Felix. Nobody said anything. It was so altogether simple and
friendly a note that Felix felt pleased with it, thinking: 'I
expressed that well!'
Then Tod said: "Go ahead, old man! You've got something to say
about the youngsters, haven't you?"
How on earth did he know that? But then Tod HAD a sort of queer
prescience.
"Well," he brought out with an effort, "don't you think it's a pity
to embroil your young people in village troubles? We've been
hearing from Stanley--"
Kirsteen interrupted in her calm, staccato voice with just the
faintest lisp:
"Stanley would not understand."
She had put her arm through Tod's, but never removed her eyes from
her brother-in-law's face.
"Possibly," said Felix, "but you must remember that Stanley, John,
and myself represent ordinary--what shall we say--level-headed
opinion."
"With which we have nothing in common, I'm afraid."
Felix glanced from her to Tod. The fellow had his head on one side
and seemed listening to something in the distance. And Felix felt
a certain irritation.
"It's all very well," he said, "but I think you really have got to
look at your children's future from a larger point of view. You
don't surely want them to fly out against things before they've had
a chance to see life for themselves."
She answered:
"The children know more of life than most young people. They've
seen it close to, they've seen its realities. They know what the
tyranny of the countryside means."
"Yes, yes," said Felix, "but youth is youth."
"They are not too young to know and feel the truth."
Felix was impressed. How those narrowing eyes shone! What
conviction in that faintly lisping voice!
'I am a fool for my pains,' he thought, and only said:
"Well, what about this invitation, anyway?"
"Yes; it will be just the thing for them at the moment."
The words had to Felix a somewhat sinister import. He knew well
enough that she did not mean by them what others would have meant.
But he said: "When shall we expect them? Tuesday, I suppose, would
be best for Clara, after her weekend. Is there no chance of you
and Tod?"
She quaintly wrinkled her lips into not quite a smile, and
answered:
"Tod shall say. Do you hear, Tod?"
"In the meadow. It was there yesterday--first time this year."
Felix slipped his arm through his brother's.
"Quite so, old man."
"What?" said Tod. "Ah! let's go in. I'm awfully hungry." . . .
Sometimes out of a calm sky a few drops fall, the twigs rustle, and
far away is heard the muttering of thunder; the traveller thinks:
'A storm somewhere about.' Then all once more is so quiet and
peaceful that he forgets he ever had that thought, and goes on his
way careless.
So with Felix returning to Becket in Stanley's car. That woman's
face, those two young heathens--the unconscious Tod!
There was mischief in the air above that little household. But
once more the smooth gliding of the cushioned car, the soft peace
of the meadows so permanently at grass, the churches, mansions,
cottages embowered among their elms, the slow-flapping flight of
the rooks and crows lulled Felix to quietude, and the faint far
muttering of that thunder died away.
Nedda was in the drive when he returned, gazing at a nymph set up
there by Clara. It was a good thing, procured from Berlin, well
known for sculpture, and beginning to green over already, as though
it had been there a long time--a pretty creature with shoulders
drooping, eyes modestly cast down, and a sparrow perching on her
head.
"Well, Dad?"
"They're coming."
"When?"
"On Tuesday--the youngsters, only."
"You might tell me a little about them."
But Felix only smiled. His powers of description faltered before
that task; and, proud of those powers, he did not choose to subject
them to failure.
CHAPTER VIII
Not till three o'clock that Saturday did the Bigwigs begin to come.
Lord and Lady Britto first from Erne by car; then Sir Gerald and
Lady Malloring, also by car from Joyfields; an early afternoon
train brought three members of the Lower House, who liked a round
of golf--Colonel Martlett, Mr. Sleesor, and Sir John Fanfar--with
their wives; also Miss Bawtrey, an American who went everywhere;
and Moorsome, the landscape-painter, a short, very heavy man who
went nowhere, and that in almost perfect silence, which he
afterward avenged. By a train almost sure to bring no one else
came Literature in Public Affairs, alone, Henry Wiltram, whom some
believed to have been the very first to have ideas about the land.
He was followed in the last possible train by Cuthcott, the
advanced editor, in his habitual hurry, and Lady Maude Ughtred in
her beauty. Clara was pleased, and said to Stanley, while
dressing, that almost every shade of opinion about the land was
represented this week-end. She was not, she said, afraid of
anything, if she could keep Henry Wiltram and Cuthcott apart. The
House of Commons men would, of course, be all right. Stanley
assented: "They'll be 'fed up' with talk. But how about Britto--he
can sometimes be very nasty, and Cuthcott's been pretty rough on
him, in his rag."
Clara had remembered that, and she was putting Lady Maude on one
side of Cuthcott, and Moorsome on the other, so that he would be
quite safe at dinner, and afterward--Stanley must look out!
"What have you done with Nedda?" Stanley asked.
"Given her to Colonel Martlett, with Sir John Fanfar on the other
side; they both like something fresh." She hoped, however, to
foster a discussion, so that they might really get further this
week-end; the opportunity was too good to throw away.
"H'm!" Stanley murmured. "Felix said some very queer things the
other night. He, too, might make ructions."
Oh, no!--Clara persisted--Felix had too much good taste. She
thought that something might be coming out of this occasion,
something as it were national, that would bear fruit. And watching
Stanley buttoning his braces, she grew enthusiastic. For, think
how splendidly everything was represented! Britto, with his view
that the thing had gone too far, and all the little efforts we
might make now were no good, with Canada and those great spaces to
outbid anything we could do; though she could not admit that he was
right, there was a lot in what he said; he had great gifts--and
some day might--who knew? Then there was Sir John--Clara pursued--
who was almost the father of the new Tory policy: Assist the
farmers to buy their own land. And Colonel Martlett, representing
the older Tory policy of: What the devil would happen to the
landowners if they did? Secretly (Clara felt sure) he would never
go into a lobby to support that. He had said to her: 'Look at my
brother James's property; if we bring this policy in, and the
farmers take advantage, his house might stand there any day without
an acre round it.' Quite true--it might. The same might even
happen to Becket.
Stanley grunted.
Exactly!--Clara went on: And that was the beauty of having got the
Mallorings; theirs was such a steady point of view, and she was not
sure that they weren't right, and the whole thing really a question
of model proprietorship.
"H'm!" Stanley muttered. "Felix will have his knife into that."
Clara did not think that mattered. The thing was to get
everybody's opinion. Even Mr. Moorsome's would be valuable--if he
weren't so terrifically silent, for he must think a lot, sitting
all day, as he did, painting the land.
"He's a heavy ass," said Stanley.
Yes; but Clara did not wish to be narrow. That was why it was so
splendid to have got Mr. Sleesor. If anybody knew the Radical mind
he did, and he could give full force to what one always felt was at
the bottom of it--that the Radicals' real supporters were the urban
classes; so that their policy must not go too far with 'the Land,'
for fear of seeming to neglect the towns. For, after all, in the
end it was out of the pockets of the towns that 'the Land' would
have to be financed, and nobody really could expect the towns to
get anything out of it. Stanley paused in the adjustment of his
tie; his wife was a shrewd woman.
"You've hit it there," he said. "Wiltram will give it him hot on
that, though."
Of course, Clara assented. And it was magnificent that they had
got Henry Wiltram, with his idealism and his really heavy corn tax;
not caring what happened to the stunted products of the towns--and
they truly were stunted, for all that the Radicals and the half-
penny press said--till at all costs we could grow our own food.
There was a lot in that.
"Yes," Stanley muttered, "and if he gets on to it, shan't I have a
jolly time of it in the smoking-room? I know what Cuthcott's like
with his shirt out."
Clara's eyes brightened; she was very curious herself to see Mr.
Cuthcott with his--that is, to hear him expound the doctrine he was
always writing up, namely, that 'the Land' was gone and, short of
revolution, there was nothing for it but garden cities. She had
heard he was so cutting and ferocious that he really did seem as if
he hated his opponents. She hoped he would get a chance--perhaps
Felix could encourage him.
"What about the women?" Stanley asked suddenly. "Will they stand a
political powwow? One must think of them a bit."
Clara had. She was taking a farewell look at herself in the far-
away mirror through the door into her bedroom. It was a mistake--
she added--to suppose that women were not interested in 'the Land.'
Lady Britto was most intelligent, and Mildred Malloring knew every
cottage on her estate.
"Pokes her nose into 'em often enough," Stanley muttered.
Lady Fanfar again, and Mrs. Sleesor, and even Hilda Martlett, were
interested in their husbands, and Miss Bawtrey, of course,
interested in everything. As for Maude Ughtred, all talk would be
the same to her; she was always week-ending. Stanley need not
worry--it would be all right; some real work would get done, some
real advance be made. So saying, she turned her fine shoulders
twice, once this way and once that, and went out. She had never
told even Stanley her ambition that at Becket, under her aegis,
should be laid the foundation-stone of the real scheme, whatever it
might be, that should regenerate 'the Land.' Stanley would only
have laughed; even though it would be bound to make him Lord
Freeland when it came to be known some day. . . .
To the eyes and ears of Nedda that evening at dinner, all was new
indeed, and all wonderful. It was not that she was unaccustomed to
society or to conversation, for to their house at Hampstead many
people came, uttering many words, but both the people and the words
were so very different. After the first blush, the first
reconnaissance of the two Bigwigs between whom she sat, her eyes
WOULD stray and her ears would only half listen to them. Indeed,
half her ears, she soon found out, were quite enough to deal with
Colonel Martlett and Sir John Fanfar. Across the azaleas she let
her glance come now and again to anchor on her father's face, and
exchanged with him a most enjoyable blink. She tried once or twice
to get through to Alan, but he was always eating; he looked very
like a young Uncle Stanley this evening.
What was she feeling? Short, quick stabs of self-consciousness as
to how she was looking; a sort of stunned excitement due to sheer
noise and the number of things offered to her to eat and drink;
keen pleasure in the consciousness that Colonel Martlett and Sir
John Fanfar and other men, especially that nice one with the
straggly moustache who looked as if he were going to bite, glanced
at her when they saw she wasn't looking. If only she had been
quite certain that it was not because they thought her too young to
be there! She felt a sort of continual exhilaration, that this was
the great world--the world where important things were said and
done, together with an intense listening expectancy, and a sense
most unexpected and almost frightening, that nothing important was
being said or would be done. But this she knew to be impudent. On
Sunday evenings at home people talked about a future existence,
about Nietzsche, Tolstoy, Chinese pictures, post-impressionism, and
would suddenly grow hot and furious about peace, and Strauss,
justice, marriage, and De Maupassant, and whether people were
losing their souls through materialism, and sometimes one of them
would get up and walk about the room. But to-night the only words
she could catch were the names of two politicians whom nobody
seemed to approve of, except that nice one who was going to bite.
Once very timidly she asked Colonel Martlett whether he liked
Strauss, and was puzzled by his answer: "Rather; those 'Tales of
Hoffmann' are rippin', don't you think? You go to the opera much?"
She could not, of course, know that the thought which instantly
rose within her was doing the governing classes a grave injustice--
almost all of whom save Colonel Martlett knew that the 'Tales of
Hoffmann' were by one Offenbach. But beyond all things she felt
she would never, never learn to talk as they were all talking--so
quickly, so continuously, so without caring whether everybody or
only the person they were talking to heard what they said. She had
always felt that what you said was only meant for the person you
said it to, but here in the great world she must evidently not say
anything that was not meant for everybody, and she felt terribly
that she could not think of anything of that sort to say. And
suddenly she began to want to be alone. That, however, was surely
wicked and wasteful, when she ought to be learning such a
tremendous lot; and yet, what was there to learn? And listening
just sufficiently to Colonel Martlett, who was telling her how
great a man he thought a certain general, she looked almost
despairingly at the one who was going to bite. He was quite silent
at that moment, gazing at his plate, which was strangely empty.
And Nedda thought: 'He has jolly wrinkles about his eyes, only they
might be heart disease; and I like the color of his face, so nice
and yellow, only that might be liver. But I DO like him--I wish
I'd been sitting next to him; he looks real.' From that thought,
of the reality of a man whose name she did not know, she passed
suddenly into the feeling that nothing else of this about her was
real at all, neither the talk nor the faces, not even the things
she was eating. It was all a queer, buzzing dream. Nor did that
sensation of unreality cease when her aunt began collecting her
gloves, and they trooped forth to the drawing-room. There, seated
between Mrs. Sleesor and Lady Britto, with Lady Malloring opposite,
and Miss Bawtrey leaning over the piano toward them, she pinched
herself to get rid of the feeling that, when all these were out of
sight of each other, they would become silent and have on their
lips a little, bitter smile. Would it be like that up in their
bedrooms, or would it only be on her (Nedda's) own lips that this
little smile would come? It was a question she could not answer;
nor could she very well ask it of any of these ladies. She looked
them over as they sat there talking and felt very lonely. And
suddenly her eyes fell on her grandmother. Frances Freeland was
seated halfway down the long room in a sandalwood chair, somewhat
insulated by a surrounding sea of polished floor. She sat with a
smile on her lips, quite still, save for the continual movement of
her white hands on her black lap. To her gray hair some lace of
Chantilly was pinned with a little diamond brooch, and hung behind
her delicate but rather long ears. And from her shoulders was
depended a silvery garment, of stuff that looked like the mail
shirt of a fairy, reaching the ground on either side. A tacit
agreement had evidently been come to, that she was incapable of
discussing 'the Land' or those other subjects such as the French
murder, the Russian opera, the Chinese pictures, and the doings of
one, L---- , whose fate was just then in the air, so that she sat
alone.
And Nedda thought: 'How much more of a lady she looks than anybody
here! There's something deep in her to rest on that isn't in the
Bigwigs; perhaps it's because she's of a different generation.'
And, getting up, she went over and sat down beside her on a little
chair.
Frances Freeland rose at once and said:
"Now, my darling, you can't be comfortable in that tiny chair. You
must take mine."
"Oh, no, Granny; please!"
"Oh, yes; but you must! It's so comfortable, and I've simply been
longing to sit in the chair you're in. Now, darling, to please
me!"
Seeing that a prolonged struggle would follow if she did not get
up, Nedda rose and changed chairs.
"Do you like these week-ends, Granny?"
Frances Freeland seemed to draw her smile more resolutely across
her face. With her perfect articulation, in which there was,
however, no trace of bigwiggery, she answered:
"I think they're most interesting, darling. It's so nice to see
new people. Of course you don't get to know them, but it's very
amusing to watch, especially the head-dresses!" And sinking her
voice: "Just look at that one with the feather going straight up;
did you ever see such a guy?" and she cackled with a very gentle
archness. Gazing at that almost priceless feather, trying to reach
God, Nedda felt suddenly how completely she was in her
grandmother's little camp; how entirely she disliked bigwiggery.
Frances Freeland's voice brought her round.
"Do you know, darling, I've found the most splendid thing for
eyebrows? You just put a little on every night and it keeps them
in perfect order. I must give you my little pot."
"I don't like grease, Granny."
"Oh! but this isn't grease, darling. It's a special thing; and you
only put on just the tiniest touch."
Diving suddenly into the recesses of something, she produced an
exiguous round silver box. Prizing it open, she looked over her
shoulder at the Bigwigs, then placed her little finger on the
contents of the little box, and said very softly:
"You just take the merest touch, and you put it on like that, and
it keeps them together beautifully. Let me! Nobody'll see!"
Quite well understanding that this was all part of her
grandmother's passion for putting the best face upon things, and
having no belief in her eyebrows, Nedda bent forward; but in a
sudden flutter of fear lest the Bigwigs might observe the
operation, she drew back, murmuring: "Oh, Granny, darling! Not
just now!"
At that moment the men came in, and, under cover of the necessary
confusion, she slipped away into the window.
It was pitch-black outside, with the moon not yet up. The bloomy,
peaceful dark out there! Wistaria and early roses, clustering in,
had but the ghost of color on their blossoms. Nedda took a rose in
her fingers, feeling with delight its soft fragility, its coolness
against her hot palm. Here in her hand was a living thing, here
was a little soul! And out there in the darkness were millions
upon millions of other little souls, of little flame-like or
coiled-up shapes alive and true.
A voice behind her said:
"Nothing nicer than darkness, is there?"
She knew at once it was the one who was going to bite; the voice
was proper for him, having a nice, smothery sound. And looking
round gratefully, she said:
"Do you like dinner-parties?"
It was jolly to watch his eyes twinkle and his thin cheeks puff
out. He shook his head and muttered through that straggly
moustache:
"You're a niece, aren't you? I know your father. He's a big man."
Hearing those words spoken of her father, Nedda flushed.
"Yes, he is," she said fervently.
Her new acquaintance went on:
"He's got the gift of truth--can laugh at himself as well as
others; that's what makes him precious. These humming-birds here
to-night couldn't raise a smile at their own tomfoolery to save
their silly souls."
He spoke still in that voice of smothery wrath, and Nedda thought:
'He IS nice!'
"They've been talking about 'the Land'"--he raised his hands and
ran them through his palish hair--"'the Land!' Heavenly Father!
'The Land!' Why! Look at that fellow!"
Nedda looked and saw a man, like Richard Coeur de Lion in the
history books, with a straw-colored moustache just going gray.
"Sir Gerald Malloring--hope he's not a friend of yours! Divine
right of landowners to lead 'the Land' by the nose! And our friend
Britto!"
Nedda, following his eyes, saw a robust, quick-eyed man with a
suave insolence in his dark, clean-shaved face.
"Because at heart he's just a supercilious ruffian, too cold-
blooded to feel, he'll demonstrate that it's no use to feel--waste
of valuable time--ha! valuable!--to act in any direction. And
that's a man they believe things of. And poor Henry Wiltram, with
his pathetic: 'Grow our own food--maximum use of the land as food-
producer, and let the rest take care of itself!' As if we weren't
all long past that feeble individualism; as if in these days of
world markets the land didn't stand or fall in this country as a
breeding-ground of health and stamina and nothing else. Well, well!"
"Aren't they really in earnest, then?" asked Nedda timidly.
"Miss Freeland, this land question is a perfect tragedy. Bar one
or two, they all want to make the omelette without breaking eggs;
well, by the time they begin to think of breaking them, mark me--
there'll be no eggs to break. We shall be all park and suburb.
The real men on the land, what few are left, are dumb and helpless;
and these fellows here for one reason or another don't mean
business--they'll talk and tinker and top-dress--that's all. Does
your father take any interest in this? He could write something
very nice."
"He takes interest in everything," said Nedda. "Please go on, Mr.--
Mr.--" She was terribly afraid he would suddenly remember that
she was too young and stop his nice, angry talk.
"Cuthcott. I'm an editor, but I was brought up on a farm, and know
something about it. You see, we English are grumblers, snobs to
the backbone, want to be something better than we are; and
education nowadays is all in the direction of despising what is
quiet and humdrum. We never were a stay-at-home lot, like the
French. That's at the back of this business--they may treat it as
they like, Radicals or Tories, but if they can't get a fundamental
change of opinion into the national mind as to what is a sane and
profitable life; if they can't work a revolution in the spirit of
our education, they'll do no good. There'll be lots of talk and
tinkering, tariffs and tommy-rot, and, underneath, the land-bred
men dying, dying all the time. No, madam, industrialism and vested
interests have got us! Bar the most strenuous national heroism,
there's nothing for it now but the garden city!"
"Then if we WERE all heroic, 'the Land' could still be saved?"
Mr. Cuthcott smiled.
"Of course we might have a European war or something that would
shake everything up. But, short of that, when was a country ever
consciously and homogeneously heroic--except China with its opium?
When did it ever deliberately change the spirit of its education,
the trend of its ideas; when did it ever, of its own free will, lay
its vested interests on the altar; when did it ever say with a
convinced and resolute heart: 'I will be healthy and simple before
anything. I will not let the love of sanity and natural conditions
die out of me!' When, Miss Freeland, when?"
And, looking so hard at Nedda that he almost winked, he added:
"You have the advantage of me by thirty years. You'll see what I
shall not--the last of the English peasant. Did you ever read
'Erewhon,' where the people broke up their machines? It will take
almost that sort of national heroism to save what's left of him,
even."
For answer, Nedda wrinkled her brows horribly. Before her there
had come a vision of the old, lame man, whose name she had found
out was Gaunt, standing on the path under the apple-trees, looking
at that little something he had taken from his pocket. Why she
thought of him thus suddenly she had no idea, and she said quickly:
"It's awfully interesting. I do so want to hear about 'the Land.'
I only know a little about sweated workers, because I see something
of them."
"It's all of a piece," said Mr. Cuthcott; "not politics at all, but
religion--touches the point of national self-knowledge and faith,
the point of knowing what we want to become and of resolving to
become it. Your father will tell you that we have no more idea of
that at present than a cat of its own chemical composition. As for
these good people here to-night--I don't want to be disrespectful,
but if they think they're within a hundred miles of the land
question, I'm a--I'm a Jingo--more I can't say."
And, as if to cool his head, he leaned out of the window.
"Nothing is nicer than darkness, as I said just now, because you
can only see the way you MUST go instead of a hundred and fifty
ways you MIGHT. In darkness your soul is something like your own;
in daylight, lamplight, moonlight, never."
Nedda's spirit gave a jump; he seemed almost at last to be going to
talk about the things she wanted, above all, to find out. Her
cheeks went hot, she clenched her hands and said resolutely:
"Mr. Cuthcott, do you believe in God?"
Mr. Cuthcott made a queer, deep little noise; it was not a laugh,
however, and it seemed as if he knew she could not bear him to look
at her just then.
"H'm!" he said. "Every one does that--according to their natures.
Some call God IT, some HIM, some HER, nowadays--that's all. You
might as well ask--do I believe that I'm alive?"
"Yes," said Nedda, "but which do YOU call God?"
As she asked that, he gave a wriggle, and it flashed through her:
'He must think me an awful enfant terrible!' His face peered round
at her, queer and pale and puffy, with nice, straight eyes; and she
added hastily:
"It isn't a fair question, is it? Only you talked about darkness,
and the only way--so I thought--"
"Quite a fair question. My answer is, of course: 'All three'; but
the point is rather: Does one wish to make even an attempt to
define God to oneself? Frankly, I don't! I'm content to feel that
there is in one some kind of instinct toward perfection that one
will still feel, I hope, when the lights are going out; some kind
of honour forbidding one to let go and give up. That's all I've
got; I really don't know that I want more."
Nedda clasped her hands.
"I like that," she said; "only--what is perfection, Mr. Cuthcott?"
Again he emitted that deep little sound.
"Ah!" he repeated, "what is perfection? Awkward, that--isn't it?"
"Is it"--Nedda rushed the words out--"is it always to be sacrificing
yourself, or is it--is it always to be--to be expressing yourself?"
"To some--one; to some--the other; to some--half one, half the
other."
"But which is it to me?"
"Ah! that you've got to find out for yourself. There's a sort of
metronome inside us--wonderful, sell-adjusting little machine; most
delicate bit of mechanism in the world--people call it conscience--
that records the proper beat of our tempos. I guess that's all we
have to go by."
Nedda said breathlessly:
"Yes; and it's frightfully hard, isn't it?"
"Exactly," Mr. Cuthcott answered. "That's why people devised
religions and other ways of having the thing done second-hand. We
all object to trouble and responsibility if we can possibly avoid
it. Where do you live?"
"In Hampstead."
"Your father must be a stand-by, isn't he?"
"Oh, yes; Dad's splendid; only, you see, I AM a good deal younger
than he. There was just one thing I was going to ask you. Are
these very Bigwigs?"
Mr. Cuthcott turned to the room and let his screwed-up glance
wander. He looked just then particularly as if he were going to
bite.
"If you take 'em at their own valuation: Yes. If at the
country's: So-so. If at mine: Ha! I know what you'd like to
ask: Should I be a Bigwig in THEIR estimation? Not I! As you
knock about, Miss Freeland, you'll find out one thing--all
bigwiggery is founded on: Scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours.
Seriously, these are only tenpenny ones; but the mischief is, that
in the matter of 'the Land,' the men who really are in earnest are
precious scarce. Nothing short of a rising such as there was in
1832 would make the land question real, even for the moment. Not
that I want to see one--God forbid! Those poor doomed devils were
treated worse than dogs, and would be again."
Before Nedda could pour out questions about the rising in 1832,
Stanley's voice said:
"Cuthcott, I want to introduce you!"
Her new friend screwed his eyes up tighter and, muttering
something, put out his hand to her.
"Thank you for our talk. I hope we shall meet again. Any time you
want to know anything--I'll be only too glad. Good night!"
She felt the squeeze of his hand, warm and dry, but rather soft, as
of a man who uses a pen too much; saw him following her uncle
across the room, with his shoulders a little hunched, as if
preparing to inflict, and ward off, blows. And with the thought:
'He must be jolly when he gives them one!' she turned once more to
the darkness, than which he had said there was nothing nicer. It
smelled of new-mown grass, was full of little shiverings of leaves,
and all colored like the bloom of a black grape. And her heart
felt soothed.
CHAPTER IX
". . . When I first saw Derek I thought I should never feel
anything but shy and hopeless. In four days, only in four days,
the whole world is different. . . . And yet, if it hadn't been for
that thunder-storm, I shouldn't have got over being shy in time.
He has never loved anybody--nor have I. It can't often be like
that--it makes it solemn. There's a picture somewhere--not a good
one, I know--of a young Highlander being taken away by soldiers
from his sweetheart. Derek is fiery and wild and shy and proud and
dark--like the man in that picture. That last day along the hills--
along and along--with the wind in our faces, I could have walked
forever; and then Joyfields at the end! Their mother's wonderful;
I'm afraid of her. But Uncle Tod is a perfect dear. I never saw
any one before who noticed so many things that I didn't, and
nothing that I did. I am sure he has in him what Mr. Cuthcott said
we were all losing--the love of simple, natural conditions. And
then, THE moment, when I stood with Derek at the end of the
orchard, to say good-by. The field below covered with those moony-
white flowers, and the cows all dark and sleepy; the holy feeling
down there was wonderful, and in the branches over our heads, too,
and the velvety, starry sky, and the dewiness against one's face,
and the great, broad silence--it was all worshipping something, and
I was worshipping--worshipping happiness. I WAS happy, and I think
HE was. Perhaps I shall never be so happy again. When he kissed
me I didn't think the whole world had so much happiness in it. I
know now that I'm not cold a bit; I used to think I was. I believe
I could go with him anywhere, and do anything he wanted. What
would Dad think? Only the other day I was saying I wanted to know
everything. One only knows through love. It's love that makes the
world all beautiful--makes it like those pictures that seem to be
wrapped in gold, makes it like a dream--no, not like a dream--like
a wonderful tune. I suppose that's glamour--a goldeny, misty,
lovely feeling, as if my soul were wandering about with his--not in
my body at all. I want it to go on and on wandering--oh! I don't
want it back in my body, all hard and inquisitive and aching! I
shall never know anything so lovely as loving him and being loved.
I don't want anything more--nothing! Stay with me, please--
Happiness! Don't go away and leave me! . . . They frighten me,
though; he frightens me--their idealism; wanting to do great
things, and fight for justice. If only I'd been brought up more
like that--but everything's been so different. It's their mother,
I think, even more than themselves. I seem to have grown up just
looking on at life as at a show; watching it, thinking about it,
trying to understand--not living it at all. I must get over that;
I will. I believe I can tell the very moment I began to love him.
It was in the schoolroom the second evening. Sheila and I were
sitting there just before dinner, and he came, in a rage, looking
splendid. 'That footman put out everything just as if I were a
baby--asked me for suspenders to fasten on my socks; hung the
things on a chair in order, as if I couldn't find out for myself
what to put on first; turned the tongues of my shoes out!--curled
them over!' Then Derek looked at me and said: 'Do they do that for
you?--And poor old Gaunt, who's sixty-six and lame, has three
shillings a week to buy him everything. Just think of that! If we
had the pluck of flies--' And he clenched his fists. But Sheila
got up, looked hard at me, and said: 'That'll do, Derek.' Then he
put his hand on my arm and said: 'It's only Cousin Nedda!' I began
to love him then; and I believe he saw it, because I couldn't take
my eyes away. But it was when Sheila sang 'The Red Sarafan,' after
dinner, that I knew for certain. 'The Red Sarafan'--it's a
wonderful song, all space and yearning, and yet such calm--it's the
song of the soul; and he was looking at me while she sang. How can
he love me? I am nothing--no good for anything! Alan calls him a
'run-up kid, all legs and wings.' Sometimes I hate Alan; he's
conventional and stodgy--the funny thing is that he admires Sheila.
She'll wake him up; she'll stick pins into him. No, I don't want
Alan hurt--I want every one in the world to be happy, happy--as I
am. . . . The next day was the thunder-storm. I never saw
lightning so near--and didn't care a bit. If he were struck I knew
I should be; that made it all right. When you love, you don't
care, if only the something must happen to you both. When it was
over, and we came out from behind the stack and walked home through
the fields, all the beasts looked at us as if we were new and had
never been seen before; and the air was ever so sweet, and that
long, red line of cloud low down in the purple, and the elm-trees
so heavy and almost black. He put his arm round me, and I let
him. . . . It seems an age to wait till they come to stay with us
next week. If only Mother likes them, and I can go and stay at
Joyfields. Will she like them? It's all so different to what it
would be if they were ordinary. But if he were ordinary I
shouldn't love him; it's because there's nobody like him. That
isn't a loverish fancy--you only have to look at him against Alan
or Uncle Stanley or even Dad. Everything he does is so different;
the way he walks, and the way he stands drawn back into himself,
like a stag, and looks out as if he were burning and smouldering
inside; even the way he smiles. Dad asked me what I thought of
him! That was only the second day. I thought he was too proud,
then. And Dad said: 'He ought to be in a Highland regiment; pity--
great pity!' He is a fighter, of course. I don't like fighting,
but if I'm not ready to, he'll stop loving me, perhaps. I've got
to learn. O Darkness out there, help me! And Stars, help me! O
God, make me brave, and I will believe in you forever! If you are
the spirit that grows in things in spite of everything, until
they're like the flowers, so perfect that we laugh and sing at
their beauty, grow in me, too; make me beautiful and brave; then I
shall be fit for him, alive or dead; and that's all I want. Every
evening I shall stand in spirit with him at the end of that orchard
in the darkness, under the trees above the white flowers and the
sleepy cows, and perhaps I shall feel him kiss me again. . . . I'm
glad I saw that old man Gaunt; it makes what they feel more real to
me. He showed me that poor laborer Tryst, too, the one who mustn't
marry his wife's sister, or have her staying in the house without
marrying her. Why should people interfere with others like that?
It does make your blood boil! Derek and Sheila have been brought
up to be in sympathy with the poor and oppressed. If they had
lived in London they would have been even more furious, I expect.
And it's no use my saying to myself 'I don't know the laborer, I
don't know his hardships,' because he is really just the country
half of what I do know and see, here in London, when I don't hide
my eyes. One talk showed me how desperately they feel; at night,
in Sheila's room, when we had gone up, just we four. Alan began
it; they didn't want to, I could see; but he was criticising what
some of those Bigwigs had said--the 'Varsity makes boys awfully
conceited. It was such a lovely night; we were all in the big,
long window. A little bat kept flying past; and behind the copper-
beech the moon was shining on the lake. Derek sat in the
windowsill, and when he moved he touched me. To be touched by him
gives me a warm shiver all through. I could hear him gritting his
teeth at what Alan said--frightfully sententious, just like a
newspaper: 'We can't go into land reform from feeling, we must go
into it from reason.' Then Derek broke out: 'Walk through this
country as we've walked; see the pigsties the people live in; see
the water they drink; see the tiny patches of ground they have; see
the way their roofs let in the rain; see their peeky children; see
their patience and their hopelessness; see them working day in and
day out, and coming on the parish at the end! See all that, and
then talk about reason! Reason! It's the coward's excuse, and the
rich man's excuse, for doing nothing. It's the excuse of the man
who takes jolly good care not to see for fear that he may come to
feel! Reason never does anything, it's too reasonable. The thing
is to act; then perhaps reason will be jolted into doing
something.' But Sheila touched his arm, and he stopped very
suddenly. She doesn't trust us. I shall always be being pushed
away from him by her. He's just twenty, and I shall be eighteen in
a week; couldn't we marry now at once? Then, whatever happened, I
couldn't be cut off from him. If I could tell Dad, and ask him to
help me! But I can't--it seems desecration to talk about it, even
to Dad. All the way up in the train to-day, coming back home, I
was struggling not to show anything; though it's hateful to keep
things from Dad. Love alters everything; it melts up the whole
world and makes it afresh. Love is the sun of our spirits, and
it's the wind. Ah, and the rain, too! But I won't think of
that! . . . I wonder if he's told Aunt Kirsteen! . . ."
CHAPTER X
While Nedda sat, long past midnight, writing her heart out in her
little, white, lilac-curtained room of the old house above the
Spaniard's Road, Derek, of whom she wrote, was walking along the
Malvern hills, hurrying upward in the darkness. The stars were his
companions; though he was no poet, having rather the fervid temper
of the born swordsman, that expresses itself in physical ecstasies.
He had come straight out from a stormy midnight talk with Sheila.
What was he doing--had been the burden of her cry--falling in love
just at this moment when they wanted all their wits and all their
time and strength for this struggle with the Mallorings? It was
foolish, it was weak; and with a sweet, soft sort of girl who could
be no use. Hotly he had answered: What business was it of hers?
As if one fell in love when one wished! She didn't know--her blood
didn't run fast enough! Sheila had retorted, "I've more blood in
my big toe than Nedda in all her body! A lot of use you'll be,
with your heart mooning up in London!" And crouched together on
the end of her bed, gazing fixedly up at him through her hair, she
had chanted mockingly: "Here we go gathering wool and stars--wool
and stars--wool and stars!"
He had not deigned to answer, but had gone out, furious with her,
striding over the dark fields, scrambling his way through the
hedges toward the high loom of the hills. Up on the short grass in
the cooler air, with nothing between him and those swarming stars,
he lost his rage. It never lasted long--hers was more enduring.
With the innate lordliness of a brother he already put it down to
jealousy. Sheila was hurt that he should want any one but her; as
if his love for Nedda would make any difference to their resolution
to get justice for Tryst and the Gaunts, and show those landed
tyrants once for all that they could not ride roughshod.
Nedda! with her dark eyes, so quick and clear, so loving when they
looked at him! Nedda, soft and innocent, the touch of whose lips
had turned his heart to something strange within him, and wakened
such feelings of chivalry! Nedda! To see whom for half a minute
he felt he would walk a hundred miles.
This boy's education had been administered solely by his mother
till he was fourteen, and she had brought him up on mathematics,
French, and heroism. His extensive reading of history had been
focussed on the personality of heroes, chiefly knights errant, and
revolutionaries. He had carried the worship of them to the
Agricultural College, where he had spent four years; and a rather
rough time there had not succeeded in knocking romance out of him.
He had found that you could not have such beliefs comfortably
without fighting for them, and though he ended his career with the
reputation of a rebel and a champion of the weak, he had had to
earn it. To this day he still fed himself on stories of rebellions
and fine deeds. The figures of Spartacus, Montrose, Hofer,
Garibaldi, Hampden, and John Nicholson, were more real to him than
the people among whom he lived, though he had learned never to
mention--especially not to the matter-of-fact Sheila--his
encompassing cloud of heroes; but, when he was alone, he pranced a
bit with them, and promised himself that he too would reach the
stars. So you may sometimes see a little, grave boy walking
through a field, unwatched as he believes, suddenly fling his feet
and his head every which way. An active nature, romantic, without
being dreamy and book-loving, is not too prone to the attacks of
love; such a one is likely to survive unscathed to a maturer age.
But Nedda had seduced him, partly by the appeal of her touchingly
manifest love and admiration, and chiefly by her eyes, through
which he seemed to see such a loyal, and loving little soul
looking. She had that indefinable something which lovers know that
they can never throw away. And he had at once made of her,
secretly, the crown of his active romanticism--the lady waiting for
the spoils of his lance. Queer is the heart of a boy--strange its
blending of reality and idealism!
Climbing at a great pace, he reached Malvern Beacon just as it came
dawn, and stood there on the top, watching. He had not much
aesthetic sense; but he had enough to be impressed by the slow
paling of the stars over space that seemed infinite, so little were
its dreamy confines visible in the May morning haze, where the
quivering crimson flags and spears of sunrise were forging up in a
march upon the sky. That vision of the English land at dawn, wide
and mysterious, hardly tallied with Mr. Cuthcott's view of a future
dedicate to Park and Garden City. While Derek stood there gazing,
the first lark soared up and began its ecstatic praise. Save for
that song, silence possessed all the driven dark, right out to the
Severn and the sea, and the fastnesses of the Welsh hills, and the
Wrekin, away in the north, a black point in the gray. For a moment
dark and light hovered and clung together. Would victory wing back
into night or on into day? Then, as a town is taken, all was over
in one overmastering rush, and light proclaimed. Derek tightened
his belt and took a bee-line down over the slippery grass. He
meant to reach the cottage of the laborer Tryst before that early
bird was away to the fields. He meditated as he went. Bob Tryst
was all right! If they only had a dozen or two like him! A dozen
or two whom they could trust, and who would trust each other and
stand firm to form the nucleus of a strike, which could be timed
for hay harvest. What slaves these laborers still were! If only
they could be relied on, if only they would stand together!
Slavery! It WAS slavery; so long as they could be turned out of
their homes at will in this fashion. His rebellion against the
conditions of their lives, above all against the manifold petty
tyrannies that he knew they underwent, came from use of his eyes
and ears in daily contact with a class among whom he had been more
or less brought up. In sympathy with, and yet not of them, he had
the queer privilege of feeling their slights as if they were his
own, together with feelings of protection, and even of contempt
that they should let themselves be slighted. He was near enough to
understand how they must feel; not near enough to understand why,
feeling as they did, they did not act as he would have acted. In
truth, he knew them no better than he should.
He found Tryst washing at his pump. In the early morning light the
big laborer's square, stubborn face, with its strange, dog-like
eyes, had a sodden, hungry, lost look. Cutting short ablutions
that certainly were never protracted, he welcomed Derek, and
motioned him to pass into the kitchen. The young man went in, and
perched himself on the window-sill beside a pot of Bridal Wreath.
The cottage was one of the Mallorings', and recently repaired. A
little fire was burning, and a teapot of stewed tea sat there
beside it. Four cups and spoons and some sugar were put out on a
deal table, for Tryst was, in fact, brewing the morning draught of
himself and children, who still lay abed up-stairs. The sight made
Derek shiver and his eyes darken. He knew the full significance of
what he saw.
"Did you ask him again, Bob?"
"Yes, I asked 'im."
"What did he say?"
"Said as orders was plain. 'So long as you lives there,' he says,
'along of yourself alone, you can't have her come back.'"
"Did you say the children wanted looking after badly? Did you make
it clear? Did you say Mrs. Tryst wished it, before she--"
"I said that."
"What did he say then?"
"'Sorry for you, m'lad, but them's m'lady's orders, an' I can't go
contrary. I don't wish to go into things,' he says; 'you know
better'n I how far 'tis gone when she was 'ere before; but seein'
as m'lady don't never give in to deceased wife's sister marryin',
if she come back 'tis certain to be the other thing. So, as that
won't do neither, you go elsewhere,' he says."
Having spoken thus at length, Tryst lifted the teapot and poured
out the dark tea into the three cups.
"Will 'ee have some, sir?"
Derek shook his head.
Taking the cups, Tryst departed up the narrow stairway. And Derek
remained motionless, staring at the Bridal Wreath, till the big man
came down again and, retiring into a far corner, sat sipping at his
own cup.
"Bob," said the boy suddenly, "do you LIKE being a dog; put to what
company your master wishes?"
Tryst set his cup down, stood up, and crossed his thick arms--the
swift movement from that stolid creature had in it something
sinister; but he did not speak.
"Do you like it, Bob?"
"I'll not say what I feels, Mr. Derek; that's for me. What I
does'll be for others, p'raps."
And he lifted his strange, lowering eyes to Derek's. For a full
minute the two stared, then Derek said:
"Look out, then; be ready!" and, getting off the sill, he went out.
On the bright, slimy surface of the pond three ducks were quietly
revelling in that hour before man and his damned soul, the dog,
rose to put the fear of God into them. In the sunlight, against
the green duckweed, their whiteness was truly marvellous; difficult
to believe that they were not white all through. Passing the three
cottages, in the last of which the Gaunts lived, he came next to
his own home, but did not turn in, and made on toward the church.
It was a very little one, very old, and had for him a curious
fascination, never confessed to man or beast. To his mother, and
Sheila, more intolerant, as became women, that little, lichened,
gray stone building was the very emblem of hypocrisy, of a creed
preached, not practised; to his father it was nothing, for it was
not alive, and any tramp, dog, bird, or fruit-tree meant far more.
But in Derek it roused a peculiar feeling, such as a man might have
gazing at the shores of a native country, out of which he had been
thrown for no fault of his own--a yearning deeply muffled up in
pride and resentment. Not infrequently he would come and sit
brooding on the grassy hillock just above the churchyard. Church-
going, with its pageantry, its tradition, dogma, and demand for
blind devotion, would have suited him very well, if only blind
devotion to his mother had not stood across that threshold; he
could not bring himself to bow to that which viewed his rebellious
mother as lost. And yet the deep fibres of heredity from her
papistic Highland ancestors, and from old pious Moretons, drew him
constantly to this spot at times when no one would be about. It
was his enemy, this little church, the fold of all the instincts
and all the qualities against which he had been brought up to
rebel; the very home of patronage and property and superiority; the
school where his friends the laborers were taught their place! And
yet it had that queer, ironical attraction for him. In some such
sort had his pet hero Montrose rebelled, and then been drawn
despite himself once more to the side of that against which he had
taken arms.
While he leaned against the rail, gazing at that ancient edifice,
he saw a girl walk into the churchyard at the far end, sit down on
a gravestone, and begin digging a little hole in the grass with the
toe of her boot. She did not seem to see him, and at his ease he
studied her face, one of those broad, bright English country faces
with deep-set rogue eyes and red, thick, soft lips, smiling on
little provocation. In spite of her disgrace, in spite of the fact
that she was sitting on her mother's grave, she did not look
depressed. And Derek thought: 'Wilmet Gaunt is the jolliest of
them all! She isn't a bit a bad girl, as they say; it's only that
she must have fun. If they drive her out of here, she'll still
want fun wherever she is; she'll go to a town and end up like those
girls I saw in Bristol.' And the memory of those night girls, with
their rouged faces and cringing boldness, came back to him with
horror.
He went across the grass toward her.
She looked round as he came, and her face livened.
"Well, Wilmet?"
"You're an early bird, Mr. Derek."
"Haven't been to bed."
"Oh!"
"Been up Malvern Beacon to see the sun rise."
"You're tired, I expect!"
"No."
"Must be fine up there. You'd see a long ways from there; near to
London I should think. Do you know London, Mr. Derek?"
"No."
"They say 'tis a funny place, too." Her rogue eyes gleamed from
under a heavy frown. "It'd not be all 'Do this' an' 'Do that'; an'
'You bad girl' an' 'You little hussy!' in London. They say there's
room for more'n one sort of girl there."
"All towns are beastly places, Wilmet."
Again her rogue's eyes gleamed. "I don' know so much about that,
Mr. Derek. I'm going where I won't be chivied about and pointed
at, like what I am here."
"Your dad's stuck to you; you ought to stick to him."
"Ah, Dad! He's losin' his place for me, but that don't stop his
tongue at home. 'Tis no use to nag me--nag me. Suppose one of
m'lady's daughters had a bit of fun--they say there's lots as do--
I've heard tales--there'd be none comin' to chase her out of her
home. 'No, my girl, you can't live here no more, endangerin' the
young men. You go away. Best for you's where they'll teach you to
be'ave. Go on! Out with you! I don't care where you go; but you
just go!' 'Tis as if girls were all pats o' butter--same square,
same pattern on it, same weight, an' all."
Derek had come closer; he put his hand down and gripped her arm.
Her eloquence dried up before the intentness of his face, and she
just stared up at him.
"Now, look here, Wilmet; you promise me not to scoot without
letting us know. We'll get you a place to go to. Promise."
A little sheepishly the rogue-girl answered:
"I promise; only, I'm goin'."
Suddenly she dimpled and broke into her broad smile.
"Mr. Derek, d'you know what they say--they say you're in love. You
was seen in th' orchard. Ah! 'tis all right for you and her! But
if any one kiss and hug ME, I got to go!"
Derek drew back among the graves, as if he had been struck with a
whip.
She looked up at him with coaxing sweetness.
"Don't you mind me, Mr. Derek, and don't you stay here neither. If
they saw you here with me, they'd say: 'Aw--look! Endangerin'
another young man--poor young man!' Good mornin', Mr. Derek!"
The rogue eyes followed him gravely, then once more began examining
the grass, and the toe of her boot again began kicking a little
hole. But Derek did not look back.
CHAPTER XI
It is in the nature of men and angels to pursue with death such
birds as are uncommon, such animals as are rare; and Society had no
use for one like Tod, so uncut to its pattern as to be practically
unconscious of its existence. Not that he had deliberately turned
his back on anything; he had merely begun as a very young man to
keep bees. The better to do that he had gone on to the cultivation
of flowers and fruit, together with just enough farming as kept his
household in vegetables, milk, butter, and eggs. Living thus
amongst insects, birds, cows, and the peace of trees, he had become
queer. His was not a very reflective mind, it distilled but slowly
certain large conclusions, and followed intently the minute
happenings of his little world. To him a bee, a bird, a flower, a
tree was well-nigh as interesting as a man; yet men, women, and
especially children took to him, as one takes to a Newfoundland
dog, because, though capable of anger, he seemed incapable of
contempt, and to be endowed with a sort of permanent wonder at
things. Then, too, he was good to look at, which counts for more
than a little in the scales of our affections; indeed, the slight
air of absence in his blue eyes was not chilling, as is that which
portends a wandering of its owner on his own business. People
recognized that it meant some bee or other in that bonnet, or
elsewhere, some sound or scent or sight of life, suddenly
perceived--always of life! He had often been observed gazing with
peculiar gravity at a dead flower, bee, bird, or beetle, and, if
spoken to at such a moment, would say, "Gone!" touching a wing or
petal with his finger. To conceive of what happened after death
did not apparently come within the few large conclusions of his
reflective powers. That quaint grief of his in the presence of the
death of things that were not human had, more than anything,
fostered a habit among the gentry and clergy of the neighborhood of
drawing up the mouth when they spoke of him, and slightly raising
the shoulders. For the cottagers, to be sure, his eccentricity
consisted rather in his being a 'gentleman,' yet neither eating
flesh, drinking wine, nor telling them how they ought to behave
themselves, together with the way he would sit down on anything and
listen to what they had to tell him, without giving them the
impression that he was proud of himself for doing so. In fact, it
was the extraordinary impression he made of listening and answering
without wanting anything either for himself or for them, that they
could not understand. How on earth it came about that he did not
give them advice about their politics, religion, morals, or
monetary states, was to them a never-ending mystery; and though
they were too well bred to shrug their shoulders, there did lurk in
their dim minds the suspicion that 'the good gentleman,' as they
called him, was 'a tiddy-bit off.' He had, of course, done many
practical little things toward helping them and their beasts, but
always, as it seemed, by accident, so that they could never make up
their minds afterward whether he remembered having done them,
which, in fact, he probably did not; and this seemed to them
perhaps the most damning fact of all about his being--well, about
his being--not quite all there. Another worrying habit he had,
too, that of apparently not distinguishing between them and any
tramps or strangers who might happen along and come across him.
This was, in their eyes, undoubtedly a fault; for the village was,
after all, their village, and he, as it were, their property. To
crown all, there was a story, full ten years old now, which had
lost nothing in the telling, of his treatment of a cattle-drover.
To the village it had an eerie look, that windmill-like rage let
loose upon a man who, after all, had only been twisting a bullock's
tail and running a spiked stick into its softer parts, as any
drover might. People said--the postman and a wagoner had seen the
business, raconteurs born, so that the tale had perhaps lost
nothing--that he had positively roared as he came leaping down into
the lane upon the man, a stout and thick-set fellow, taken him up
like a baby, popped him into a furzebush, and held him there.
People said that his own bare arms had been pricked to the very
shoulder from pressing the drover down into that uncompromising
shrub, and the man's howls had pierced the very heavens. The
postman, to this day, would tell how the mere recollection of
seeing it still made him sore all over. Of the words assigned to
Tod on this occasion, the mildest and probably most true were: "By
the Lord God, if you treat a beast like that again, I'll cut your
liver out, you hell-hearted sweep!"
The incident, which had produced a somewhat marked effect in regard
to the treatment of animals all round that neighborhood, had never
been forgotten, nor in a sense forgiven. In conjunction with the
extraordinary peace and mildness of his general behavior, it had
endowed Tod with mystery; and people, especially simple folk,
cannot bring themselves to feel quite at home with mystery.
Children only--to whom everything is so mysterious that nothing can
be--treated him as he treated them, giving him their hands with
confidence. But children, even his own, as they grew up, began to
have a little of the village feeling toward Tod; his world was not
theirs, and what exactly his world was they could not grasp.
Possibly it was the sense that they partook of his interest and
affection too much on a level with any other kind of living thing
that might happen to be about, which discomfited their
understanding. They held him, however, in a certain reverence.
That early morning he had already done a good two hours' work in
connection with broad beans, of which he grew, perhaps, the best in
the whole county, and had knocked off for a moment, to examine a
spider's web. This marvellous creation, which the dew had visited
and clustered over, as stars over the firmament, was hung on the
gate of the vegetable garden, and the spider, a large and active
one, was regarding Tod with the misgiving natural to its species.
Intensely still Tod stood, absorbed in contemplation of that bright
and dusty miracle. Then, taking up his hoe again, he went back to
the weeds that threatened his broad beans. Now and again he
stopped to listen, or to look at the sky, as is the way of
husbandmen, thinking of nothing, enjoying the peace of his muscles.
"Please, sir, father's got into a fit again."
Two little girls were standing in the lane below. The elder, who
had spoken in that small, anxious voice, had a pale little face
with pointed chin; her hair, the color of over-ripe corn, hung
fluffy on her thin shoulders, her flower-like eyes, with something
motherly in them already, were the same hue as her pale-blue,
almost clean, overall. She had her smaller, chubbier sister by the
hand, and, having delivered her message, stood still, gazing up at
Tod, as one might at God. Tod dropped his hoe.
"Biddy come with me; Susie go and tell Mrs. Freeland, or Miss
Sheila."
He took the frail little hand of the elder Tryst and ran. They ran
at the child's pace, the one so very massive, the other such a
whiff of flesh and blood.
"Did you come at once, Biddy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where was he taken?"
"In the kitchen--just as I was cookin' breakfast."
"Ah! Is it a bad one?"
"Yes, sir, awful bad--he's all foamy."
"What did you do for it?"
"Susie and me turned him over, and Billy's seein' he don't get his
tongue down his throat--like what you told us, and we ran to you.
Susie was frightened, he hollered so."
Past the three cottages, whence a woman at a window stared in amaze
to see that queer couple running, past the pond where the ducks,
whiter than ever in the brightening sunlight, dived and circled
carelessly, into the Tryst kitchen. There on the brick floor lay
the distressful man, already struggling back out of epilepsy, while
his little frightened son sat manfully beside him.
"Towels, and hot water, Biddy!"
With extraordinary calm rapidity the small creature brought what
might have been two towels, a basin, and the kettle; and in silence
she and Tod steeped his forehead.
"Eyes look better, Biddy?"
"He don't look so funny now, sir."
Picking up that form, almost as big as his own, Tod carried it up
impossibly narrow stairs and laid it on a dishevelled bed.
"Phew! Open the window, Biddy."
The small creature opened what there was of window.
"Now, go down and heat two bricks and wrap them in something, and
bring them up."
Tryst's boots and socks removed, Tod rubbed the large, warped feet.
While doing this he whistled, and the little boy crept up-stairs
and squatted in the doorway, to watch and listen. The morning air
overcame with its sweetness the natural odor of that small room,
and a bird or two went flirting past. The small creature came back
with the bricks, wrapped in petticoats of her own, and, placing
them against the soles of her father's feet, she stood gazing at
Tod, for all the world like a little mother dog with puppies.
"You can't go to school to-day, Biddy."
"Is Susie and Billy to go?"
"Yes; there's nothing to be frightened of now. He'll be nearly all
right by evening. But some one shall stay with you."
At this moment Tryst lifted his hand, and the small creature went
and stood beside him, listening to the whispering that emerged from
his thick lips.
"Father says I'm to thank you, please."
"Yes. Have you had your breakfasts?"
The small creature and her smaller brother shook their heads.
"Go down and get them."
Whispering and twisting back, they went, and by the side of the bed
Tod sat down. In Tryst's eyes was that same look of dog-like
devotion he had bent on Derek earlier that morning. Tod stared out
of the window and gave the man's big hand a squeeze. Of what did
he think, watching a lime-tree outside, and the sunlight through
its foliage painting bright the room's newly whitewashed wall,
already gray-spotted with damp again; watching the shadows of the
leaves playing in that sunlight? Almost cruel, that lovely shadow
game of outside life so full and joyful, so careless of man and
suffering; too gay almost, too alive! Of what did he think,
watching the chase and dart of shadow on shadow, as of gray
butterflies fluttering swift to the sack of flowers, while beside
him on the bed the big laborer lay? . . .
When Kirsteen and Sheila came to relieve him of that vigil he went
down-stairs. There in the kitchen Biddy was washing up, and Susie
and Billy putting on their boots for school. They stopped to gaze
at Tod feeling in his pockets, for they knew that things sometimes
happened after that. To-day there came out two carrots, some lumps
of sugar, some cord, a bill, a pruning knife, a bit of wax, a bit
of chalk, three flints, a pouch of tobacco, two pipes, a match-box
with a single match in it, a six-pence, a necktie, a stick of
chocolate, a tomato, a handkerchief, a dead bee, an old razor, a
bit of gauze, some tow, a stick of caustic, a reel of cotton, a
needle, no thimble, two dock leaves, and some sheets of yellowish
paper. He separated from the rest the sixpence, the dead bee, and
what was edible. And in delighted silence the three little Trysts
gazed, till Biddy with the tip of one wet finger touched the bee.
"Not good to eat, Biddy."
At those words, one after the other, cautiously, the three little
Trysts smiled. Finding that Tod smiled too, they broadened, and
Billy burst into chuckles. Then, clustering in the doorway,
grasping the edibles and the sixpence, and consulting with each
other, they looked long after his big figure passing down the road.
CHAPTER XII
Still later, that same morning, Derek and Sheila moved slowly up
the Mallorings' well-swept drive. Their lips were set, as though
they had spoken the last word before battle, and an old cock
pheasant, running into the bushes close by, rose with a whir and
skimmed out toward his covert, scared, perhaps, by something
uncompromising in the footsteps of those two.
Only when actually under the shelter of the porch, which some folk
thought enhanced the old Greek-temple effect of the Mallorings'
house, Derek broke through that taciturnity:
"What if they won't?"
"Wait and see; and don't lose your head, Derek." The man who stood
there when the door opened was tall, grave, wore his hair in
powder, and waited without speech.
"Will you ask Sir Gerald and Lady Malloring if Miss Freeland and
Mr. Derek Freeland could see them, please; and will you say the
matter is urgent?"
The man bowed, left them, and soon came back.
"My lady will see you, miss; Sir Gerald is not in. This way."
Past the statuary, flowers, and antlers of the hall, they traversed
a long, cool corridor, and through a white door entered a white
room, not very large, and very pretty. Two children got up as they
came in and flapped out past them like young partridges, and Lady
Malloring rose from her writing-table and came forward, holding out
her hand. The two young Freelands took it gravely. For all their
hostility they could not withstand the feeling that she would think
them terrible young prigs if they simply bowed. And they looked
steadily at one with whom they had never before been at quite such
close quarters. Lady Malloring, who had originally been the
Honorable Mildred Killory, a daughter of Viscount Silport, was
tall, slender, and not very striking, with very fair hair going
rather gray; her expression in repose was pleasant, a little
anxious; only by her eyes was the suspicion awakened that she was a
woman of some character. They had that peculiar look of belonging
to two worlds, so often to be met with in English eyes, a look of
self-denying aspiration, tinctured with the suggestion that denial
might not be confined to self.
In a quite friendly voice she said:
"Can I do anything for you?" And while she waited for an answer
her glance travelled from face to face of the two young people,
with a certain curiosity. After a silence of several seconds,
Sheila answered:
"Not for us, thank you; for others, you can."
Lady Malloring's eyebrows rose a little, as if there seemed to her
something rather unjust in those words--'for others.'
"Yes?" she said.
Sheila, whose hands were clenched, and whose face had been fiery
red, grew suddenly almost white.
"Lady Malloring, will you please let the Gaunts stay in their
cottage and Tryst's wife's sister come to live with the children
and him?"
Lady Malloring raised one hand; the motion, quite involuntary,
ended at the tiny cross on her breast. She said quietly:
"I'm afraid you don't understand."
"Yes," said Sheila, still very pale, "we understand quite well. We
understand that you are acting in what you believe to be the
interests of morality. All the same, won't you? Do!"
"I'm very sorry, but I can't."
"May we ask why?"
Lady Malloring started, and transferred her glance to Derek.
"I don't know," she said with a smile, "that I am obliged to
account for my actions to you two young people. Besides, you must
know why, quite well."
Sheila put out her hand.
"Wilmet Gaunt will go to the bad if you turn them out."
"I am afraid I think she has gone to the bad already, and I do not
mean her to take others there with her. I am sorry for poor Tryst,
and I wish he could find some nice woman to marry; but what he
proposes is impossible."
The blood had flared up again in Sheila's cheeks; she was as red as
the comb of a turkey-cock.
"Why shouldn't he marry his wife's sister? It's legal, now, and
you've no right to stop it."
Lady Malloring bit her lips; she looked straight and hard at
Sheila.
"I do not stop it; I have no means of stopping it. Only, he cannot
do it and live in one of our cottages. I don't think we need
discuss this further."
"I beg your pardon--"
The words had come from Derek. Lady Malloring paused in her walk
toward the bell. With his peculiar thin-lipped smile the boy went
on:
"We imagined you would say no; we really came because we thought it
fair to warn you that there may be trouble."
Lady Malloring smiled.
"This is a private matter between us and our tenants, and we should
be so glad if you could manage not to interfere."
Derek bowed, and put his hand within his sister's arm. But Sheila
did not move; she was trembling with anger.
"Who are you," she suddenly burst out, "to dispose of the poor,
body and soul? Who are you, to dictate their private lives? If
they pay their rent, that should be enough for you."
Lady Malloring moved swiftly again toward the bell. She paused
with her hand on it, and said:
"I am sorry for you two; you have been miserably brought up!"
There was a silence; then Derek said quietly:
"Thank you; we shall remember that insult to our people. Don't
ring, please; we're going."
In a silence if anything more profound than that of their approach,
the two young people retired down the drive. They had not yet
learned--most difficult of lessons--how to believe that people
could in their bones differ from them. It had always seemed to
them that if only they had a chance of putting directly what they
thought, the other side must at heart agree, and only go on saying
they didn't out of mere self-interest. They came away, therefore,
from this encounter with the enemy a little dazed by the discovery
that Lady Malloring in her bones believed that she was right. It
confused them, and heated the fires of their anger.
They had shaken off all private dust before Sheila spoke.
"They're all like that--can't see or feel--simply certain they're
superior! It makes--it makes me hate them! It's terrible,
ghastly." And while she stammered out those little stabs of
speech, tears of rage rolled down her cheeks.
Derek put his arm round her waist.
"All right! No good groaning; let's think seriously what to do."
There was comfort to the girl in that curiously sudden reversal of
their usual attitudes.
"Whatever's done," he went on, "has got to be startling. It's no
good pottering and protesting, any more." And between his teeth he
muttered: "'Men of England, wherefore plough?' . . ."
In the room where the encounter had taken place Mildred Malloring
was taking her time to recover. From very childhood she had felt
that the essence of her own goodness, the essence of her duty in
life, was the doing of 'good' to others; from very childhood she
had never doubted that she was in a position to do this, and that
those to whom she did good, although they might kick against it as
inconvenient, must admit that it WAS their 'good.' The thought:
'They don't admit that I am superior!' had never even occurred to
her, so completely was she unselfconscious, in her convinced
superiority. It was hard, indeed, to be flung against such
outspoken rudeness. It shook her more than she gave sign of, for
she was not by any means an insensitive woman--shook her almost to
the point of feeling that there was something in the remonstrance
of those dreadful young people. Yet, how could there be, when no
one knew better than she that the laborers on the Malloring estate
were better off than those on nine out of ten estates; better paid
and better housed, and--better looked after in their morals. Was
she to give up that?--when she knew that she WAS better able to
tell what was good for them than they were themselves. After all,
without stripping herself naked of every thought, experience, and
action since her birth, how could she admit that she was not better
able? And slowly, in the white room with the moss-green carpet,
she recovered, till there was only just a touch of soreness left,
at the injustice implicit in their words. Those two had been
'miserably brought up,' had never had a chance of finding their
proper place, of understanding that they were just two callow young
things, for whom Life had some fearful knocks in store. She could
even feel now that she had meant that saying: 'I am sorry for you
two!' She WAS sorry for them, sorry for their want of manners and
their point of view, neither of which they could help, of course,
with a mother like that. For all her gentleness and sensibility,
there was much practical directness about Mildred Malloring; for
her, a page turned was a page turned, an idea absorbed was never
disgorged; she was of religious temperament, ever trimming her
course down the exact channel marked out with buoys by the Port
Authorities, and really incapable of imagining spiritual wants in
others that could not be satisfied by what satisfied herself. And
this pathetic strength she had in common with many of her fellow
creatures in every class. Sitting down at the writing-table from
which she had been disturbed, she leaned her thin, rather long,
gentle, but stubborn face on her hand, thinking. These Gaunts were
a source of irritation in the parish, a kind of open sore. It
would be better if they could be got rid of before quarter day, up
to which she had weakly said they might remain. Far better for
them to go at once, if it could be arranged. As for the poor
fellow Tryst, thinking that by plunging into sin he could improve
his lot and his poor children's, it was really criminal of those
Freelands to encourage him. She had refrained hitherto from
seriously worrying Gerald on such points of village policy--his
hands were so full; but he must now take his part. And she rang
the bell.
"Tell Sir Gerald I'd like to see him, please, as soon as he gets
back."
"Sir Gerald has just come in, my lady."
"Now, then!"
Gerald Malloring--an excellent fellow, as could be seen from his
face of strictly Norman architecture, with blue stained-glass
windows rather deep set in--had only one defect: he was not a poet.
Not that this would have seemed to him anything but an advantage,
had he been aware of it. His was one of those high-principled
natures who hold that breadth is synonymous with weakness. It may
be said without exaggeration that the few meetings of his life with
those who had a touch of the poet in them had been exquisitely
uncomfortable. Silent, almost taciturn by nature, he was a great
reader of poetry, and seldom went to sleep without having digested
a page or two of Wordsworth, Milton, Tennyson, or Scott. Byron,
save such poems as 'Don Juan' or 'The Waltz,' he could but did not
read, for fear of setting a bad example. Burns, Shelley, and Keats
he did not care for. Browning pained him, except by such things
as: 'How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix' and the
'Cavalier Tunes'; while of 'Omar Khayyam' and 'The Hound of Heaven'
he definitely disapproved. For Shakespeare he had no real liking,
though he concealed this, from humility in the face of accepted
opinion. His was a firm mind, sure of itself, but not self-
assertive. His points were so good, and he had so many of them,
that it was only when he met any one touched with poetry that his
limitations became apparent; it was rare, however, and getting more
so every year, for him to have this unpleasant experience.
When summoned by his wife, he came in with a wrinkle between his
straight brows; he had just finished a morning's work on a drainage
scheme, like the really good fellow that he was. She greeted him
with a little special smile. Nothing could be friendlier than the
relations between these two. Affection and trust, undeviating
undemonstrativeness, identity of feeling as to religion, children,
property; and, in regard to views on the question of sex, a really
strange unanimity, considering that they were man and woman.
"It's about these Gaunts, Gerald. I feel they must go at once.
They're only creating bad feeling by staying till quarter day. I
have had the young Freelands here."
"Those young pups!"
"Can't it be managed?"
Malloring did not answer hastily. He had that best point of the
good Englishman, a dislike to being moved out of a course of
conduct by anything save the appeal of his own conscience.
"I don't know," he said, "why we should alter what we thought was
just. Must give him time to look round and get a job elsewhere."
"I think the general state of feeling demands it. It's not fair to
the villagers to let the Freelands have such a handle for
agitating. Labor's badly wanted everywhere; he can't have any
difficulty in getting a place, if he likes."
"No. Only, I rather admire the fellow for sticking by his girl,
though he is such a 'land-lawyer.' I think it's a bit harsh to
move him suddenly."
"So did I, till I saw from those young furies what harm it's doing.
They really do infect the cottagers. You know how discontent
spreads. And Tryst--they're egging him on, too."
Malloring very thoughtfully filled a pipe. He was not an alarmist;
if anything, he erred on the side of not being alarmed until it was
all over and there was no longer anything to be alarmed at! His
imagination would then sometimes take fire, and he would say that
such and such, or so and so, was dangerous.
"I'd rather go and have a talk with Freeland," he said. "He's
queer, but he's not at all a bad chap."
Lady Malloring rose, and took one of his real-leather buttons in
her hand.
"My dear Gerald, Mr. Freeland doesn't exist."
"Don't know about that; a man can always come to life, if he likes,
in his own family."
Lady Malloring was silent. It was true. For all their unanimity
of thought and feeling, for all the latitude she had in domestic
and village affairs, Gerald had a habit of filling his pipe with
her decisions. Quite honestly, she had no objection to their
becoming smoke through HIS lips, though she might wriggle just a
little. To her credit, she did entirely carry out in her life her
professed belief that husbands should be the forefronts of their
wives. For all that, there burst from her lips the words:
"That Freeland woman! When I think of the mischief she's always
done here, by her example and her irreligion--I can't forgive her.
I don't believe you'll make any impression on Mr. Freeland; he's
entirely under her thumb."
Smoking slowly, and looking just over the top of his wife's head,
Malioring answered:
"I'll have a try; and don't you worry!"
Lady Malloring turned away. Her soreness still wanted salve.
"Those two young people," she murmured, "said some very unpleasant
things to me. The boy, I believe, might have some good in him, but
the girl is simply terrible."
"H'm! I think just the reverse, you know."
"They'll come to awful grief if they're not brought up sharp. They
ought to be sent to the colonies to learn reality."
Malloring nodded.
"Come out, Mildred, and see how they're getting on with the new
vinery." And they went out together through the French window.
The vinery was of their own designing, and of extraordinary
interest. In contemplation of its lofty glass and aluminium-cased
pipes the feeling of soreness left her. It was very pleasant,
standing with Gerald, looking at what they had planned together;
there was a soothing sense of reality about that visit, after the
morning's happening, with its disappointment, its reminder of
immorality and discontent, and of folk ungrateful for what was done
for their good. And, squeezing her husband's arm, she murmured:
"It's really exactly what we thought it would be, Gerald!"
CHAPTER XIII
About five o'clock of that same afternoon, Gerald Malloring went to
see Tod. An open-air man himself, who often deplored the long
hours he was compelled to spend in the special atmosphere of the
House of Commons, he rather envied Tod his existence in this
cottage, crazed from age, and clothed with wistaria, rambler roses,
sweetbrier, honeysuckle, and Virginia creeper. Freeland had, in
his opinion, quite a jolly life of it--the poor fellow not being
able, of course, to help having a cranky wife and children like
that. He pondered, as he went along, over a talk at Becket, when
Stanley, still under the influence of Felix's outburst, had uttered
some rather queer sayings. For instance, he had supposed that they
(meaning, apparently, himself and Malloring) WERE rather unable to
put themselves in the position of these Trysts and Gaunts. He
seemed to speak of them as one might speak generically of Hodge,
which had struck Malloring as singular, it not being his habit to
see anything in common between an individual case, especially on
his own estate, and the ethics of a general proposition. The place
for general propositions was undoubtedly the House of Commons,
where they could be supported one way or the other, out of blue
books. He had little use for them in private life, where
innumerable things such as human nature and all that came into
play. He had stared rather hard at his host when Stanley had
followed up that first remark with: "I'm bound to say, I shouldn't
care to have to get up at half past five, and go out without a
bath!" What that had to do with the land problem or the regulation
of village morality Malloring had been unable to perceive. It all
depended on what one was accustomed to; and in any case threw no
light on the question, as to whether or not he was to tolerate on
his estate conduct of which his wife and himself distinctly
disapproved. At the back of national life there was always this
problem of individual conduct, especially sexual conduct--without
regularity in which, the family, as the unit of national life, was
gravely threatened, to put it on the lowest ground. And he did not
see how to bring it home to the villagers that they had got to be
regular, without making examples now and then.
He had hoped very much to get through his call without coming
across Freeland's wife and children, and was greatly relieved to
find Tod, seated on a window-sill in front of his cottage, smoking,
and gazing apparently at nothing. In taking the other corner of
the window-sill, the thought passed through his mind that Freeland
was really a very fine-looking fellow. Tod was, indeed, about
Malloring's own height of six feet one, with the same fairness and
straight build of figure and feature. But Tod's head was round and
massive, his hair crisp and uncut; Malloring's head long and
narrow, his hair smooth and close-cropped. Tod's eyes, blue and
deep-set, seemed fixed on the horizon, Malloring's, blue and deep-
set, on the nearest thing they could light on. Tod smiled, as it
were, without knowing; Malloring seemed to know what he was smiling
at almost too well. It was comforting, however, that Freeland was
as shy and silent as himself, for this produced a feeling that
there could not be any real difference between their points of
view. Perceiving at last that if he did not speak they would
continue sitting there dumb till it was time for him to go,
Malloring said:
"Look here, Freeland; about my wife and yours and Tryst and the
Gaunts, and all the rest of it! It's a pity, isn't it? This is a
small place, you know. What's your own feeling?"
Tod answered:
"A man has only one life."
Malloring was a little puzzled.
"In this world. I don't follow."
"Live and let live."
A part of Malloring undoubtedly responded to that curt saying, a
part of him as strongly rebelled against it; and which impulse he
was going to follow was not at first patent.
"You see, YOU keep apart," he said at last. "You couldn't say that
so easily if you had, like us, to take up the position in which we
find ourselves."
"Why take it up?"
Malloring frowned. "How would things go on?"
"All right," said Tod.
Malloring got up from the sill. This was 'laisser-faire' with a
vengeance! Such philosophy had always seemed to him to savor
dangerously of anarchism. And yet twenty years' experience as a
neighbor had shown him that Tod was in himself perhaps the most
harmless person in Worcestershire, and held in a curious esteem by
most of the people about. He was puzzled, and sat down again.
"I've never had a chance to talk things over with you," he said.
"There are a good few people, Freeland, who can't behave
themselves; we're not bees, you know!"
He stopped, having an uncomfortable suspicion that his hearer was
not listening.
"First I've heard this year," said Tod.
For all the rudeness of that interruption, Malloring felt a stir of
interest. He himself liked birds. Unfortunately, he could hear
nothing but the general chorus of their songs.
"Thought they'd gone," murmured Tod.
Malloring again got up. "Look here, Freeland," he said, "I wish
you'd give your mind to this. You really ought not to let your
wife and children make trouble in the village."
Confound the fellow! He was smiling; there was a sort of twinkle
in his smile, too, that Malloring found infectious!
"No, seriously," he said, "you don't know what harm you mayn't do."
"Have you ever watched a dog looking at a fire?" asked Tod.
"Yes, often; why?"
"He knows better than to touch it."
"You mean you're helpless? But you oughtn't to be."
The fellow was smiling again!
"Then you don't mean to do anything?"
Tod shook his head.
Malloring flushed. "Now, look here, Freeland," he said, "forgive
my saying so, but this strikes me as a bit cynical. D'you think I
enjoy trying to keep things straight?"
Tod looked up.
"Birds," he said, "animals, insects, vegetable life--they all eat
each other more or less, but they don't fuss about it."
Malloring turned abruptly and went down the path. Fuss! He never
fussed. Fuss! The word was an insult, addressed to him! If there
was one thing he detested more than another, whether in public or
private life, it was 'fussing.' Did he not belong to the League
for Suppression of Interference with the Liberty of the Subject?
Was he not a member of the party notoriously opposed to fussy
legislation? Had any one ever used the word in connection with
conduct of his, before? If so, he had never heard them. Was it
fussy to try and help the Church to improve the standard of morals
in the village? Was it fussy to make a simple decision and stick
to it? The injustice of the word really hurt him. And the more it
hurt him, the slower and more dignified and upright became his
march toward his drive gate.
'Wild geese' in the morning sky had been forerunners; very heavy
clouds were sweeping up from the west, and rain beginning to fall.
He passed an old man leaning on the gate of a cottage garden and
said: "Good evening!"
The old man touched his hat but did not speak.
"How's your leg, Gaunt?"
"'Tis much the same, Sir Gerald."
"Rain coming makes it shoot, I expect."
"It do."
Malloring stood still. The impulse was on him to see if, after
all, the Gaunts' affair could not be disposed of without turning
the old fellow and his son out.
"Look here!" he said; "about this unfortunate business. Why don't
you and your son make up your minds without more ado to let your
granddaughter go out to service? You've been here all your lives;
I don't want to see you go."
The least touch of color invaded the old man's carved and grayish
face.
"Askin' your pardon," he said, "my son sticks by his girl, and I
sticks by my son!"
"Oh! very well; you know your own business, Gaunt. I spoke for
your good."
A faint smile curled the corners of old Gaunt's mouth downward
beneath his gray moustaches.
"Thank you kindly," he said.
Malloring raised a finger to his cap and passed on. Though he felt
a longing to stride his feelings off, he did not increase his pace,
knowing that the old man's eyes were following him. But how pig-
headed they were, seeing nothing but their own point of view!
Well, he could not alter his decision. They would go at the June
quarter--not a day before, nor after.
Passing Tryst's cottage, he noticed a 'fly' drawn up outside, and
its driver talking to a woman in hat and coat at the cottage
doorway. She avoided his eye.
'The wife's sister again!' he thought. 'So that fellow's going to
be an ass, too? Hopeless, stubborn lot!' And his mind passed on
to his scheme for draining the bottom fields at Cantley Bromage.
This village trouble was too small to occupy for long the mind of
one who had so many duties. . . .
Old Gaunt remained at the gate watching till the tall figure passed
out of sight, then limped slowly down the path and entered his
son's cottage. Tom Gaunt, not long in from work, was sitting in
his shirtsleeves, reading the paper--a short, thick-set man with
small eyes, round, ruddy cheeks, and humorous lips indifferently
concealed by a ragged moustache. Even in repose there was about
him something talkative and disputatious. He was clearly the kind
of man whose eyes and wit would sparkle above a pewter pot. A good
workman, he averaged out an income of perhaps eighteen shillings a
week, counting the two shillings' worth of vegetables that he grew.
His erring daughter washed for two old ladies in a bungalow, so
that with old Gaunt's five shillings from the parish, the total
resources of this family of five, including two small boys at
school, was seven and twenty shillings a week. Quite a sum! His
comparative wealth no doubt contributed to the reputation of Tom
Gaunt, well known as local wag and disturber of political meetings.
His method with these gatherings, whether Liberal or Tory, had a
certain masterly simplicity. By interjecting questions that could
not be understood, and commenting on the answers received, he
insured perpetual laughter, with the most salutary effects on the
over-consideration of any political question, together with a
tendency to make his neighbors say: "Ah! Tom Gaunt, he's a proper
caution, he is!" An encomium dear to his ears. What he seriously
thought about anything in this world, no one knew; but some
suspected him of voting Liberal, because he disturbed their
meetings most. His loyalty to his daughter was not credited to
affection. It was like Tom Gaunt to stick his toes in and kick--
the Quality, for choice. To look at him and old Gaunt, one would
not have thought they could be son and father, a relationship
indeed ever dubious. As for his wife, she had been dead twelve
years. Some said he had joked her out of life, others that she had
gone into consumption. He was a reader--perhaps the only one in
all the village, and could whistle like a blackbird. To work hard,
but without too great method, to drink hard, but with perfect
method, and to talk nineteen to the dozen anywhere except at home--
was his mode of life. In a word, he was a 'character.'
Old Gaunt sat down in a wooden rocking-chair, and spoke.
"Sir Gerald 'e've a-just passed."
"Sir Gerald 'e can goo to hell. They'll know un there, by 'is
little ears."
"'E've a-spoke about us stoppin'; so as Mettie goes out to
sarvice."
"'E've a-spoke about what 'e don't know 'bout, then. Let un do
what they like, they can't put Tom Gaunt about; he can get work
anywhere--Tom Gaunt can, an' don't you forget that, old man."
The old man, placing his thin brown hands on his knees, was silent.
And thoughts passed through and through him. 'If so be as Tom
goes, there'll be no one as'll take me in for less than three bob a
week. Two bob a week, that's what I'll 'ave to feed me--Two bob a
week--two bob a week! But if so be's I go with Tom, I'll 'ave to
reg'lar sit down under he for me bread and butter.' And he
contemplated his son.
"Where are you goin', then?" he said.
Tom Gaunt rustled the greenish paper he was reading, and his
little, hard gray eyes fixed his father.
"Who said I was going?"
Old Gaunt, smoothing and smoothing the lined, thin cheeks of the
parchmenty, thin-nosed face that Frances Freeland had thought to be
almost like a gentleman's, answered: "I thart you said you was
goin'."
"You think too much, then--that's what 'tis. You think too much,
old man."
With a slight deepening of the sardonic patience in his face, old
Gaunt rose, took a bowl and spoon down from a shelf, and very
slowly proceeded to make himself his evening meal. It consisted of
crusts of bread soaked in hot water and tempered with salt, pepper,
onion, and a touch of butter. And while he waited, crouched over
the kettle, his son smoked his grayish clay and read his greenish
journal; an old clock ticked and a little cat purred without
provocation on the ledge of the tight-closed window. Then the door
opened and the rogue-girl appeared. She shook her shoulders as
though to dismiss the wetting she had got, took off her turn-down,
speckly, straw hat, put on an apron, and rolled up her sleeves.
Her arms were full and firm and red; the whole of her was full and
firm. From her rosy cheeks to her stout ankles she was
superabundant with vitality, the strangest contrast to her shadowy,
thin old grandfather. About the preparation of her father's tea
she moved with a sort of brooding stolidity, out of which would
suddenly gleam a twinkle of rogue-sweetness, as when she stopped to
stroke the little cat or to tickle the back of her grandfather's
lean neck in passing. Having set the tea, she stood by the table
and said slowly: "Tea's ready, father. I'm goin' to London."
Tom Gaunt put down his pipe and journal, took his seat at the
table, filled his mouth with sausage, and said: "You're goin' where
I tell you."
"I'm goin' to London."
Tom Gaunt stayed the morsel in one cheek and fixed her with his
little, wild boar's eye.
"Ye're goin' to catch the stick," he said. "Look here, my girl,
Tom Gaunt's been put about enough along of you already. Don't you
make no mistake."
"I'm goin' to London," repeated the rogue-girl stolidly. "You can
get Alice to come over."
"Oh! Can I? Ye're not goin' till I tell you. Don't you think
it!"
"I'm goin'. I saw Mr. Derek this mornin'. They'll get me a place
there."
Tom Gaunt remained with his fork as it were transfixed. The effort
of devising contradiction to the chief supporters of his own
rebellion was for the moment too much for him. He resumed
mastication.
"You'll go where I want you to go; and don't you think you can tell
me where that is."
In the silence that ensued the only sound was that of old Gaunt
supping at his crusty-broth. Then the rogue-girl went to the
window and, taking the little cat on her breast, sat looking out
into the rain. Having finished his broth, old Gaunt got up, and,
behind his son's back, he looked at his granddaughter and thought:
'Goin' to London! 'Twud be best for us all. WE shudn' need to be
movin', then. Goin' to London!' But he felt desolate.
CHAPTER XIV
When Spring and first love meet in a girl's heart, then the birds
sing.
The songs that blackbirds and dusty-coated thrushes flung through
Nedda's window when she awoke in Hampstead those May mornings
seemed to have been sung by herself all night. Whether the sun
were flashing on the leaves, or rain-drops sieving through on a
sou'west wind, the same warmth glowed up in her the moment her eyes
opened. Whether the lawn below were a field of bright dew, or dry
and darkish in a shiver of east wind, her eyes never grew dim all
day; and her blood felt as light as ostrich feathers.
Stormed by an attack of his cacoethes scribendi, after those few
blank days at Becket, Felix saw nothing amiss with his young
daughter. The great observer was not observant of things that
other people observed. Neither he nor Flora, occupied with matters
of more spiritual importance, could tell, offhand, for example, on
which hand a wedding-ring was worn. They had talked enough of
Becket and the Tods to produce the impression on Flora's mind that
one day or another two young people would arrive in her house on a
visit; but she had begun a poem called 'Dionysus at the Well,' and
Felix himself had plunged into a satiric allegory entitled 'The
Last of the Laborers.' Nedda, therefore, walked alone; but at her
side went always an invisible companion. In that long, imaginary
walking-out she gave her thoughts and the whole of her heart, and
to be doing this never surprised her, who, before, had not given
them whole to anything. A bee knows the first summer day and
clings intoxicated to its flowers; so did Nedda know and cling.
She wrote him two letters and he wrote her one. It was not poetry;
indeed, it was almost all concerned with Wilmet Gaunt, asking Nedda
to find a place in London where the girl could go; but it ended
with the words:
"Your lover,
"DEREK."
This letter troubled Nedda. She would have taken it at once to
Felix or to Flora if it had not been for the first words, "Dearest
Nedda," and those last three. Except her mother, she instinctively
distrusted women in such a matter as that of Wilmet Gaunt, feeling
they would want to know more than she could tell them, and not be
too tolerant of what they heard. Casting about, at a loss, she
thought suddenly of Mr. Cuthcott.
At dinner that day she fished round carefully. Felix spoke of him
almost warmly. What Cuthcott could have been doing at Becket, of
all places, he could not imagine--the last sort of man one expected
to see there; a good fellow, rather desperate, perhaps, as men of
his age were apt to get if they had too many women, or no woman,
about them.
Which, said Nedda, had Mr. Cuthcott?
Oh! None. How had he struck Nedda? And Felix looked at his
little daughter with a certain humble curiosity. He always felt
that the young instinctively knew so much more than he did.
"I liked him awfully. He was like a dog."
"Ah!" said Felix, "he IS like a dog--very honest; he grins and runs
about the city, and might be inclined to bay the moon."
'I don't mind that,' Nedda thought, 'so long as he's not
"superior."'
"He's very human," Felix added.
And having found out that he lived in Gray's Inn, Nedda thought: 'I
will; I'll ask him.'
To put her project into execution, she wrote this note:
"DEAR MR. CUTHCOTT:
"You were so kind as to tell me you wouldn't mind if I bothered you
about things. I've got a very bothery thing to know what to do
about, and I would be so glad of your advice. It so happens that I
can't ask my father and mother. I hope you won't think me very
horrible, wasting your time. And please say no, if you'd rather.
"Yours sincerely,
"NEDDA FREELAND."
The answer came:
"DEAR MISS FREELAND:
"Delighted. But if very bothery, better save time and ink, and
have a snack of lunch with me to-morrow at the Elgin restaurant,
close to the British Museum. Quiet and respectable. No flowers by
request. One o'clock.
"Very truly yours,
"GILES CUTHCOTT."
Putting on 'no flowers' and with a fast-beating heart, Nedda, went
on her first lonely adventure. To say truth she did not know in
the least how ever she was going to ask this almost strange man
about a girl of doubtful character. But she kept saying to
herself: 'I don't care--he has nice eyes.' And her spirit would
rise as she got nearer, because, after all, she was going to find
things out, and to find things out was jolly. The new warmth and
singing in her heart had not destroyed, but rather heightened, her
sense of the extraordinary interest of all things that be. And
very mysterious to her that morning was the kaleidoscope of Oxford
Street and its innumerable girls, and women, each going about her
business, with a life of her own that was not Nedda's. For men she
had little use just now, they had acquired a certain insignificance,
not having gray-black eyes that smoked and flared, nor Harris tweed
suits that smelled delicious. Only once on her journey from Oxford
Circus she felt the sense of curiosity rise in her, in relation to
a man, and this was when she asked a policeman at Tottenham Court
Road, and he put his head down fully a foot to listen to her. So
huge, so broad, so red in the face, so stolid, it seemed wonderful
to her that he paid her any attention! If he were a human being,
could she really be one, too? But that, after all, was no more
odd than everything. Why, for instance, the spring flowers in
that woman's basket had been born; why that high white cloud
floated over; why and what was Nedda Freeland?
At the entrance of the little restaurant she saw Mr. Cuthcott
waiting. In a brown suit, with his pale but freckled face, and his
gnawed-at, sandy moustache, and his eyes that looked out and
beyond, he was certainly no beauty. But Nedda thought: 'He's even
nicer than I remembered, and I'm sure he knows a lot.'
At first, to be sitting opposite to him, in front of little plates
containing red substances and small fishes, was so exciting that
she simply listened to his rapid, rather stammering voice
mentioning that the English had no idea of life or cookery, that
God had so made this country by mistake that everything, even the
sun, knew it. What, however, would she drink? Chardonnet? It
wasn't bad here.
She assented, not liking to confess that she did not know what
Chardonnet might be, and hoping it was some kind of sherbet. She
had never yet drunk wine, and after a glass felt suddenly extremely
strong.
"Well," said Mr. Cuthcott, and his eyes twinkled, "what's your
botheration? I suppose you want to strike out for yourself. MY
daughters did that without consulting me."
"Oh! Have you got daughters?"
"Yes--funny ones; older than you."
"That's why you understand, then"
Mr. Cuthcott smiled. "They WERE a liberal education!"
And Nedda thought: 'Poor Dad, I wonder if I am!'
"Yes," Mr. Cuthcott murmured, "who would think a gosling would ever
become a goose?"
"Ah!" said Nedda eagerly, "isn't it wonderful how things grow?"
She felt his eyes suddenly catch hold of hers.
"You're in love!" he said.
It seemed to her a great piece of luck that he had found that out.
It made everything easy at once, and her words came out pell-mell.
"Yes, and I haven't told my people yet. I don't seem able. He's
given me something to do, and I haven't much experience."
A funny little wriggle passed over Mr. Cuthcott's face. "Yes, yes;
go on! Tell us about it."
She took a sip from her glass, and the feeling that he had been
going to laugh passed away.
"It's about the daughter of a laborer, down there in Worcestershire,
where he lives, not very far from Becket. He's my cousin, Derek,
the son of my other uncle at Joyfields. He and his sister feel
most awfully strongly about the laborers."
"Ah!" said Mr. Cuthcott, "the laborers! Queer how they're in the
air, all of a sudden."
"This girl hasn't been very good, and she has to go from the
village, or else her family have. He wants me to find a place for
her in London."
"I see; and she hasn't been very good?"
"Not very." She knew that her cheeks were flushing, but her eyes
felt steady, and seeing that his eyes never moved, she did not
mind. She went on:
"It's Sir Gerald Malloring's estate. Lady Malloring--won't--"
She heard a snap. Mr. Cuthcott's mouth had closed.
"Oh!" he said, "say no more!"
'He CAN bite nicely!' she thought.
Mr. Cuthcott, who had begun lightly thumping the little table with
his open hand, broke out suddenly:
"That petty bullying in the country! I know it! My God! Those
prudes, those prisms! They're the ruination of half the girls on
the--" He looked at Nedda and stopped short. "If she can do any
kind of work, I'll find her a place. In fact, she'd better come,
for a start, under my old housekeeper. Let your cousin know; she
can turn up any day. Name? Wilmet Gaunt? Right you are!" He
wrote it on his cuff.
Nedda rose to her feet, having an inclination to seize his hand, or
stroke his head, or something. She subsided again with a fervid
sigh, and sat exchanging with him a happy smile. At last she said:
"Mr. Cuthcott, is there any chance of things like that changing?"
"Changing?" He certainly had grown paler, and was again lightly
thumping the table. "Changing? By gum! It's got to change! This
d--d pluto-aristocratic ideal! The weed's so grown up that it's
choking us. Yes, Miss Freeland, whether from inside or out I don't
know yet, but there's a blazing row coming. Things are going to be
made new before long."
Under his thumps the little plates had begun to rattle and leap.
And Nedda thought: 'I DO like him.'
But she said anxiously:
"You believe there's something to be done, then? Derek is simply
full of it; I want to feel like that, too, and I mean to."
His face grew twinkly; he put out his hand. And wondering a little
whether he meant her to, Nedda timidly stretched forth her own and
grasped it.
"I like you," he said. "Love your cousin and don't worry."
Nedda's eyes slipped into the distance.
"But I'm afraid for him. If you saw him, you'd know."
"One's always afraid for the fellows that are worth anything.
There was another young Freeland at your uncle's the other night--"
"My brother Alan!"
"Oh! your brother? Well, I wasn't afraid for him, and it seemed a
pity. Have some of this; it's about the only thing they do well
here."
"Oh, thank you, no. I've had a lovely lunch. Mother and I
generally have about nothing." And clasping her hands she added:
"This is a secret, isn't it, Mr. Cuthcott?"
"Dead."
He laughed and his face melted into a mass of wrinkles. Nedda
laughed also and drank up the rest of her wine. She felt blissful.
"Yes," said Mr. Cuthcott, "there's nothing like loving. How long
have you been at it?"
"Only five days, but it's everything."
Mr. Cuthcott sighed. "That's right. When you can't love, the only
thing is to hate."
"Oh!" said Nedda.
Mr. Cuthcott again began banging on the little table. "Look at
them, look at them!" His eyes wandered angrily about the room,
wherein sat some few who had passed though the mills of gentility.
"What do they know of life? Where are their souls and sympathies?
They haven't any. I'd like to see their blood flow, the silly
brutes."
Nedda looked at them with alarm and curiosity. They seemed to her
somewhat like everybody she knew. She said timidly: "Do you think
OUR blood ought to flow, too?"
Mr. Cuthcott relapsed into twinkles. "Rather! Mine first!"
'He IS human!' thought Nedda. And she got up: "I'm afraid I ought
to go now. It's been awfully nice. Thank you so very much. Good-
by!"
He shook her firm little hand with his frail thin one, and stood
smiling till the restaurant door cut him off from her view.
The streets seemed so gorgeously full of life now that Nedda's head
swam. She looked at it all with such absorption that she could not
tell one thing from another. It seemed rather long to the
Tottenham Court Road, though she noted carefully the names of all
the streets she passed, and was sure she had not missed it. She
came at last to one called POULTRY. 'Poultry!' she thought; 'I
should have remembered that--Poultry?' And she laughed. It was so
sweet and feathery a laugh that the driver of an old four-wheeler
stopped his horse. He was old and anxious-looking, with a gray
beard and deep folds in his red cheeks.
"Poultry!" she said. "Please, am I right for the Tottenham Court
Road?"
The old man answered: "Glory, no, miss; you're goin' East!"
'East!' thought Nedda; 'I'd better take him.' And she got in. She
sat in the four-wheeler, smiling. And how far this was due to
Chardonnet she did not consider. She was to love and not worry.
It was wonderful! In this mood she was put down, still smiling, at
the Tottenham Court Road Tube, and getting out her purse she
prepared to pay the cabman. The fare would be a shilling, but she
felt like giving him two. He looked so anxious and worn, in spite
of his red face. He took them, looked at her, and said: "Thank
you, miss; I wanted that."
"Oh!" murmured Nedda, "then please take this, too. It's all I
happen to have, except my Tube fare."
The old man took it, and water actually ran along his nose.
"God bless yer!" he said. And taking up his whip, he drove off
quickly.
Rather choky, but still glowing, Nedda descended to her train. It
was not till she was walking to the Spaniard's Road that a cloud
seemed to come over her sky, and she reached home dejected.
In the garden of the Freelands' old house was a nook shut away by
berberis and rhododendrons, where some bees were supposed to make
honey, but, knowing its destination, and belonging to a union, made
no more than they were obliged. In this retreat, which contained a
rustic bench, Nedda was accustomed to sit and read; she went there
now. And her eyes began filling with tears. Why must the poor old
fellow who had driven her look so anxious and call on God to bless
her for giving him that little present? Why must people grow old
and helpless, like that Grandfather Gaunt she had seen at Becket?
Why was there all the tyranny that made Derek and Sheila so wild?
And all the grinding poverty that she herself could see when she
went with her mother to their Girls' Club, in Bethnal Green? What
was the use of being young and strong if nothing happened, nothing
was really changed, so that one got old and died seeing still the
same things as before? What was the use even of loving, if love
itself had to yield to death? The trees! How they grew from tiny
seeds to great and beautiful things, and then slowly, slowly dried
and decayed away to dust. What was the good of it all? What
comfort was there in a God so great and universal that he did not
care to keep her and Derek alive and loving forever, and was not
interested enough to see that the poor old cab-driver should not be
haunted day and night with fear of the workhouse for himself and an
old wife, perhaps? Nedda's tears fell fast, and how far THIS was
Chardonnet no one could tell.
Felix, seeking inspiration from the sky in regard to 'The Last of
the Laborers,' heard a noise like sobbing, and, searching, found
his little daughter sitting there and crying as if her heart would
break. The sight was so unusual and so utterly disturbing that he
stood rooted, quite unable to bring her help. Should he sneak
away? Should he go for Flora? What should he do? Like many men
whose work keeps them centred within themselves, he instinctively
avoided everything likely to pain or trouble him; for this reason,
when anything did penetrate those mechanical defences he became
almost strangely tender. Loath, for example, to believe that any
one was ill, if once convinced of it, he made so good a nurse that
Flora, at any rate, was in the habit of getting well with
suspicious alacrity. Thoroughly moved now, he sat down on the
bench beside Nedda, and said:
"My darling!"
She leaned her forehead against his arm and sobbed the more.
Felix waited, patting her far shoulder gently.
He had often dealt with such situations in his books, and now that
one had come true was completely at a loss. He could not even
begin to remember what was usually said or done, and he only made
little soothing noises.
To Nedda this tenderness brought a sudden sharp sense of guilt and
yearning. She began:
"It's not because of that I'm crying, Dad, but I want you to know
that Derek and I are in love."
The words: 'You! What! In those few days!' rose, and got as far
as Felix's teeth; he swallowed them and went on patting her
shoulder. Nedda in love! He felt blank and ashy. That special
feeling of owning her more than any one else, which was so warming
and delightful, so really precious--it would be gone! What right
had she to take it from him, thus, without warning! Then he
remembered how odious he had always said the elderly were, to spoke
the wheels of youth, and managed to murmur:
"Good luck to you, my pretty!"
He said it, conscious that a father ought to be saying:
'You're much too young, and he's your cousin!' But what a father
ought to say appeared to him just then both sensible and
ridiculous. Nedda rubbed her cheek against his hand.
"It won't make any difference, Dad, I promise you!"
And Felix thought: 'Not to you, only to me!' But he said:
"Not a scrap, my love! What WERE you crying about?"
"About the world; it seems so heartless."
And she told him about the water that had run along the nose of the
old four-wheeler man.
But while he seemed to listen, Felix thought: 'I wish to God I were
made of leather; then I shouldn't feel as if I'd lost the warmth
inside me. I mustn't let her see. Fathers ARE queer--I always
suspected that. There goes my work for a good week!' Then he
answered:
"No, my dear, the world is not heartless; it's only arranged
according to certain necessary contraries: No pain, no pleasure; no
dark, no light, and the rest of it. If you think, it couldn't be
arranged differently."
As he spoke a blackbird came running with a chuckle from underneath
the berberis, looked at them with alarm, and ran back. Nedda
raised her face.
"Dad, I mean to do something with my life!"
Felix answered:
"Yes. That's right."
But long after Nedda had fallen into dreams that night, he lay
awake, with his left foot enclosed between Floras', trying to
regain that sense of warmth which he knew he must never confess to
having lost.
CHAPTER XV
Flora took the news rather with the air of a mother-dog that says
to her puppy: "Oh, very well, young thing! Go and stick your teeth
in it and find out for yourself!" Sooner or later this always
happened, and generally sooner nowadays. Besides, she could not
help feeling that she would get more of Felix, to her a matter of
greater importance than she gave sign of. But inwardly the news
had given her a shock almost as sharp as that felt by him. Was she
really the mother of one old enough to love? Was the child that
used to cuddle up to her in the window-seat to be read to, gone
from her; that used to rush in every morning at all inconvenient
moments of her toilet; that used to be found sitting in the dark on
the stairs, like a little sleepy owl, because, for-sooth, it was so
'cosey'?
Not having seen Derek, she did not as yet share her husband's
anxiety on that score, though his description was dubious:
"Upstanding young cockerel, swinging his sporran and marching to
pipes--a fine spurn about him! Born to trouble, if I know
anything, trying to sweep the sky with his little broom!"
"Is he a prig?"
"No-o. There's simplicity about his scorn, and he seems to have
been brought up on facts, not on literature, like most of these
young monkeys. The cousinship I don't think matters; Kirsteen
brings in too strong an out-strain. He's HER son, not Tod's. But
perhaps," he added, sighing, "it won't last."
Flora shook her head. "It will last!" she said; "Nedda's deep."
And if Nedda held, so would Fate; no one would throw Nedda over!
They naturally both felt that. 'Dionysus at the Well,' no less
than 'The Last of the Laborers,' had a light week of it.
Though in a sense relieved at having parted with her secret, Nedda
yet felt that she had committed desecration. Suppose Derek should
mind her people knowing!
On the day that he and Sheila were to come, feeling she could not
trust herself to seem even reasonably calm, she started out,
meaning to go to the South Kensington Museum and wander the time
away there; but once out-of-doors the sky seemed what she wanted,
and, turning down the hill on the north side, she sat down under a
gorse bush. Here tramps, coming in to London, passed the night
under the stars; here was a vision, however dim, of nature. And
nature alone could a little soothe her ecstatic nerves.
How would he greet her? Would he be exactly as he was when they
stood at the edge of Tod's orchard, above the dreamy, darkening
fields, joining hands and lips, moved as they had never been moved
before?
May blossom was beginning to come out along the hedge of the
private grounds that bordered that bit of Cockney Common, and from
it, warmed by the sun, the scent stole up to her. Familiar, like
so many children of the cultured classes, with the pagan and fairy-
tales of nature, she forgot them all the moment she was really by
herself with earth and sky. In their breadth, their soft and
stirring continuity, they rejected bookish fancy, and woke in her
rapture and yearning, a sort of long delight, a never-appeased
hunger. Crouching, hands round knees, she turned her face to get
the warmth of the sun, and see the white clouds go slowly by, and
catch all the songs that the birds sang. And every now and then
she drew a deep breath. It was true what Dad had said: There was
no real heartlessness in nature. It was warm, beating, breathing.
And if things ate each other, what did it matter? They had lived
and died quickly, helping to make others live. The sacred swing
and circle of it went on forever, full and harmonious under the
lighted sky, under the friendly stars. It was wonderful to be
alive! And all done by love. Love! More, more, more love! And
then death, if it must come! For, after all, to Nedda death was so
far away, so unimaginably dim and distant, that it did not really
count.
While she sat, letting her fingers, that were growing slowly black,
scrabble the grass and fern, a feeling came on her of a Presence, a
creature with wings above and around, that seemed to have on its
face a long, mysterious smile of which she, Nedda, was herself a
tiny twinkle. She would bring Derek here. They two would sit
together and let the clouds go over them, and she would learn all
that he really thought, and tell him all her longings and fears;
they would be silent, too, loving each other too much to talk. She
made elaborate plans of what they were to do and see, beginning
with the East End and the National Gallery, and ending with sunrise
from Parliament Hill; but she somehow knew that nothing would
happen as she had designed. If only the first moment were not
different from what she hoped!
She sat there so long that she rose quite stiff, and so hungry that
she could not help going home and stealing into the kitchen. It
was three o'clock, and the old cook, as usual, asleep in an
armchair, with her apron thrown up between her face and the fire.
What would Cookie say if she knew? In that oven she had been
allowed to bake in fancy perfect little doll loaves, while Cookie
baked them in reality. Here she had watched the mysterious making
of pink cream, had burned countless 'goes' of toffy, and cocoanut
ice; and tasted all kinds of loveliness. Dear old Cookie!
Stealing about on tiptoe, seeking what she might devour, she found
four small jam tarts and ate them, while the cook snored softly.
Then, by the table, that looked so like a great loaf-platter, she
stood contemplating cook. Old darling, with her fat, pale, crumply
face! Hung to the dresser, opposite, was a little mahogany
looking-glass tilted forward. Nedda could see herself almost down
to her toes. 'I mean to be prettier than I am!' she thought,
putting her hands on her waist. 'I wonder if I can pull them in a
bit!' Sliding her fingers under her blouse, she began to pull at
certain strings. They would not budge. They were loose, yes,
really too comfortable. She would have to get the next size
smaller! And dropping her chin, she rubbed it on the lace edging
of her chest, where it felt warm and smelled piny. Had Cookie ever
been in love? Her gray hairs were coming, poor old duck! The
windows, where a protection of wire gauze kept out the flies, were
opened wide, and the sun shone in and dimmed the fire. The kitchen
clock ticked like a conscience; a faint perfume of frying-pan and
mint scented the air. And, for the first time since this new
sensation of love had come to her, Nedda felt as if a favorite
book, read through and done with, were dropping from her hands.
The lovely times in that kitchen, in every nook of that old house
and garden, would never come again! Gone! She felt suddenly cast
down to sadness. They HAD been lovely times! To be deserting in
spirit all that had been so good to her--it seemed like a crime!
She slid down off the table and, passing behind the cook, put her
arms round those substantial sides. Without meaning to, out of
sheer emotion, she pressed them somewhat hard, and, as from a
concertina emerges a jerked and drawn-out chord, so from the cook
came a long, quaking sound; her apron fell, her body heaved, and
her drowsy, flat, soft voice, greasy from pondering over dishes,
murmured:
"Ah, Miss Nedda! it's you, my dear! Bless your pretty 'eart."
But down Nedda's cheeks, behind her, rolled two tears.
"Cookie, oh, Cookie!" And she ran out. . . .
And the first moment? It was like nothing she had dreamed of.
Strange, stiff! One darting look, and then eyes down; one
convulsive squeeze, then such a formal shake of hot, dry hands, and
off he had gone with Felix to his room, and she with Sheila to
hers, bewildered, biting down consternation, trying desperately to
behave 'like a little lady,' as her old nurse would have put it--
before Sheila, especially, whose hostility she knew by instinct she
had earned. All that evening, furtive watching, formal talk, and
underneath a ferment of doubt and fear and longing. All a mistake!
An awful mistake! Did he love her? Heaven! If he did not, she
could never face any one again. He could not love her! His eyes
were like those of a swan when its neck is drawn up and back in
anger. Terrible--having to show nothing, having to smile at
Sheila, at Dad, and Mother! And when at last she got to her room,
she stood at the window and at first simply leaned her forehead
against the glass and shivered. What had she done? Had she
dreamed it all--dreamed that they had stood together under those
boughs in the darkness, and through their lips exchanged their
hearts? She must have dreamed it! Dreamed that most wonderful,
false dream! And the walk home in the thunder-storm, and his arm
round her, and her letters, and his letter--dreamed it all! And
now she was awake! From her lips came a little moan, and she sank
down huddled, and stayed there ever so long, numb and chilly.
Undress--go to bed? Not for the world. By the time the morning
came she had got to forget that she had dreamed. For very shame
she had got to forget that; no one should see. Her cheeks and ears
and lips were burning, but her body felt icy cold. Then--what time
she did not know at all--she felt she must go out and sit on the
stairs. They had always been her comforters, those wide, shallow,
cosey stairs. Out and down the passage, past all their rooms--his
the last--to the dark stairs, eerie at night, where the scent of
age oozed out of the old house. All doors below, above, were
closed; it was like looking down into a well, to sit with her head
leaning against the banisters. And silent, so silent--just those
faint creakings that come from nowhere, as it might be the
breathing of the house. She put her arms round a cold banister and
hugged it hard. It hurt her, and she embraced it the harder. The
first tears of self-pity came welling up, and without warning a
great sob burst out of her. Alarmed at the sound, she smothered
her mouth with her arm. No good; they came breaking out! A door
opened; all the blood rushed to her heart and away from it, and
with a little dreadful gurgle she was silent. Some one was
listening. How long that terrible listening lasted she had no
idea; then footsteps, and she was conscious that it was standing in
the dark behind her. A foot touched her back. She gave a little
gasp. Derek's voice whispered hoarsely:
"What? Who are you?"
And, below her breath, she answered: "Nedda."
His arms wrenched her away from the banister, his voice in her ear
said:
"Nedda, darling, Nedda!"
But despair had sunk too deep; she could only quiver and shake and
try to drive sobbing out of her breath. Then, most queer, not his
words, nor the feel of his arms, comforted her--any one could
pity!--but the smell and the roughness of his Norfolk jacket. So
he, too, had not been in bed; he, too, had been unhappy! And,
burying her face in his sleeve, she murmured:
"Oh, Derek! Why?"
"I didn't want them all to see. I can't bear to give it away.
Nedda, come down lower and let's love each other!"
Softly, stumbling, clinging together, they went down to the last
turn of the wide stairs. How many times had she not sat there, in
white frocks, her hair hanging down as now, twisting the tassels of
little programmes covered with hieroglyphics only intelligible to
herself, talking spasmodically to spasmodic boys with budding
'tails,' while Chinese lanterns let fall their rose and orange
light on them and all the other little couples as exquisitely
devoid of ease. Ah! it was worth those hours of torture to sit
there together now, comforting each other with hands and lips and
whisperings. It was more, as much more than that moment in the
orchard, as sun shining after a Spring storm is more than sun in
placid mid-July. To hear him say: "Nedda, I love you!" to feel it
in his hand clasped on her heart was much more, now that she knew
how difficult it was for him to say or show it, except in the dark
with her alone. Many a long day they might have gone through
together that would not have shown her so much of his real heart as
that hour of whispering and kisses.
He had known she was unhappy, and yet he couldn't! It had only
made him more dumb! It was awful to be like that! But now that
she knew, she was glad to think that it was buried so deep in him
and kept for her alone. And if he did it again she would just know
that it was only shyness and pride. And he was not a brute and a
beast, as he insisted. But suppose she had chanced not to come
out! Would she ever have lived through the night? And she shivered.
"Are you cold, darling? Put on my coat."
It was put on her in spite of all effort to prevent him. Never was
anything so warm, so delicious, wrapping her in something more than
Harris tweed. And the hall clock struck--Two!
She could just see his face in the glimmer that filtered from the
skylight at the top. And she felt that he was learning her,
learning all that she had to give him, learning the trust that was
shining through her eyes. There was just enough light for them to
realize the old house watching from below and from above--a glint
on the dark floor there, on the dark wall here; a blackness that
seemed to be inhabited by some spirit, so that their hands clutched
and twitched, when the tiny, tiny noises of Time, playing in wood
and stone, clicked out.
That stare of the old house, with all its knowledge of lives past,
of youth and kisses spent and gone, of hopes spun and faiths
abashed, the old house cynical, stirred in them desire to clutch
each other close and feel the thrill of peering out together into
mystery that must hold for them so much of love and joy and
trouble! And suddenly she put her fingers to his face, passed them
softly, clingingly, over his hair, forehead, eyes, traced the sharp
cheek-bones down to his jaw, round by the hard chin up to his lips,
over the straight bone of his nose, lingering, back, to his eyes
again.
"Now, if I go blind, I shall know you. Give me one kiss, Derek.
You MUST be tired."
Buried in the old dark house that kiss lasted long; then,
tiptoeing--she in front--pausing at every creak, holding breath,
they stole up to their rooms. And the clock struck--Three!
CHAPTER XVI
Felix (nothing if not modern) had succumbed already to the feeling
that youth ruled the roost. Whatever his misgivings, his and
Flora's sense of loss, Nedda must be given a free hand! Derek gave
no outward show of his condition, and but for his little daughter's
happy serenity Felix would have thought as she had thought that
first night. He had a feeling that his nephew rather despised one
so soaked in mildness and reputation as Felix Freeland; and he got
on better with Sheila, not because she was milder, but because she
was devoid of that scornful tang which clung about her brother.
No! Sheila was not mild. Rich-colored, downright of speech, with
her mane of short hair, she was a no less startling companion. The
smile of Felix had never been more whimsically employed than during
that ten-day visit. The evening John Freeland came to dinner was
the highwater mark of his alarmed amusement. Mr. Cuthcott, also
bidden, at Nedda's instigation, seemed to take a mischievous
delight in drawing out those two young people in face of their
official uncle. The pleasure of the dinner to Felix--and it was
not too great--was in watching Nedda's face. She hardly spoke, but
how she listened! Nor did Derek say much, but what he did say had
a queer, sarcastic twinge about it.
"An unpleasant young man," was John's comment afterward. "How the
deuce did he ever come to be Tod's son? Sheila, of course, is one
of these hot-headed young women that make themselves a nuisance
nowadays, but she's intelligible. By the way, that fellow
Cuthcott's a queer chap!"
One subject of conversation at dinner had been the morality of
revolutionary violence. And the saying that had really upset John
had been Derek's: "Conflagration first--morality afterward!" He
had looked at his nephew from under brows which a constant need for
rejecting petitions to the Home Office had drawn permanently down
and in toward the nose, and made no answer.
To Felix these words had a more sinister significance. With his
juster appreciation both of the fiery and the official points of
view, his far greater insight into his nephew than ever John would
have, he saw that they were more than a mere arrow of controversy.
And he made up his mind that night that he would tackle his nephew
and try to find out exactly what was smouldering within that crisp,
black pate.
Following him into the garden next morning, he said to himself: 'No
irony--that's fatal. Man to man--or boy to boy--whichever it is!'
But, on the garden path, alongside that young spread-eagle, whose
dark, glowering, self-contained face he secretly admired, he merely
began:
"How do you like your Uncle John?"
"He doesn't like me, Uncle Felix."
Somewhat baffled, Felix proceeded:
"I say, Derek, fortunately or unfortunately, I've some claim now to
a little knowledge of you. You've got to open out a bit to me.
What are you going to do with yourself in life? You can't support
Nedda on revolution."
Having drawn this bow at a venture, he paused, doubtful of his
wisdom. A glance at Derek's face confirmed his doubt. It was
closer than ever, more defiant.
"There's a lot of money in revolution, Uncle Felix--other
people's."
Dash the young brute! There was something in him! He swerved off
to a fresh line.
"How do you like London?"
"I don't like it. But, Uncle Felix, don't you wish YOU were seeing
it for the first time? What books you'd write!"
Felix felt that unconscious thrust go 'home.' Revolt against
staleness and clipped wings, against the terrible security of his
too solid reputation, smote him.
"What strikes you most about it, then?" he asked.
"That it ought to be jolly well blown up. Everybody seems to know
that, too--they look it, anyway, and yet they go on as if it
oughtn't."
"Why ought it to be blown up?"
"Well, what's the good of anything while London and all these other
big towns are sitting on the country's chest? England must have
been a fine place once, though!"
"Some of us think it a fine place still."
"Of course it is, in a way. But anything new and keen gets sat on.
England's like an old tom-cat by the fire: too jolly comfortable
for anything!"
At this support to his own theory that the country was going to the
dogs, owing to such as John and Stanley, Felix thought: 'Out of the
mouths of babes!' But he merely said: "You're a cheerful young
man!"
"It's got cramp," Derek muttered; "can't even give women votes.
Fancy my mother without a vote! And going to wait till every
laborer is off the land before it attends to them. It's like the
port you gave us last night, Uncle Felix, wonderful crust!"
"And what is to be your contribution to its renovation?"
Derek's face instantly resumed its peculiar defiant smile, and
Felix thought: 'Young beggar! He's as close as wax.' After their
little talk, however, he had more understanding of his nephew. His
defiant self-sufficiency seemed more genuine. . . .
In spite of his sensations when dining with Felix, John Freeland
(little if not punctilious) decided that it was incumbent on him to
have the 'young Tods' to dinner, especially since Frances Freeland
had come to stay with him the day after the arrival of those two
young people at Hampstead. She had reached Porchester Gardens
faintly flushed from the prospect of seeing darling John, with one
large cane trunk, and a hand-bag of a pattern which the man in the
shop had told her was the best thing out. It had a clasp which had
worked beautifully in the shop, but which, for some reason, on the
journey had caused her both pain and anxiety. Convinced, however,
that she could cure it and open the bag the moment she could get to
that splendid new pair of pincers in her trunk, which a man had
only yesterday told her were the latest, she still felt that she
had a soft thing, and dear John must have one like it if she could
get him one at the Stores to-morrow.
John, who had come away early from the Home Office, met her in that
dark hall, to which he had paid no attention since his young wife
died, fifteen years ago. Embracing him, with a smile of love
almost timorous from intensity, Frances Freeland looked him up and
down, and, catching what light there was gleaming on his temples,
determined that she had in her bag, as soon as she could get it
open, the very thing for dear John's hair. He had such a nice
moustache, and it was a pity he was getting bald. Brought to her
room, she sat down rather suddenly, feeling, as a fact, very much
like fainting--a condition of affairs to which she had never in the
past and intended never in the future to come, making such a fuss!
Owing to that nice new patent clasp, she had not been able to get
at her smelling-salts, nor the little flask of brandy and the one
hard-boiled egg without which she never travelled; and for want of
a cup of tea her soul was nearly dying within her. Dear John would
never think she had not had anything since breakfast (she travelled
always by a slow train, disliking motion), and she would not for
the world let him know--so near dinner-time, giving a lot of
trouble! She therefore stayed quite quiet, smiling a little, for
fear he might suspect her. Seeing John, however, put her bag down
in the wrong place, she felt stronger.
"No, darling--not there--in the window."
And while he was changing the position of the bag, her heart
swelled with joy because his back was so straight, and with the
thought: 'What a pity the dear boy has never married again! It
does so keep a man from getting moony!' With all that writing and
thinking he had to do, such important work, too, it would have been
so good for him, especially at night. She would not have expressed
it thus in words--that would not have been quite nice--but in
thought Frances Freeland was a realist.
When he was gone, and she could do as she liked, she sat stiller
than ever, knowing by long experience that to indulge oneself in
private only made it more difficult not to indulge oneself in
public. It really was provoking that this nice new clasp should go
wrong just this once, and that the first time it was used! And she
took from her pocket a tiny prayer-book, and, holding it to the
light, read the eighteenth psalm--it was a particularly good one,
that never failed her when she felt low--she used no glasses, and
up to the present had avoided any line between the brows, knowing
it was her duty to remain as nice as she could to look at, so as
not to spoil the pleasure of people round about her. Then saying
to herself firmly, "I do not, I WILL not want any tea--but I shall
be glad of dinner!" she rose and opened her cane trunk. Though she
knew exactly where they were, she was some time finding the
pincers, because there were so many interesting things above them,
each raising a different train of thought. A pair of field-
glasses, the very latest--the man had said--for darling Derek; they
would be so useful to keep his mind from thinking about things that
it was no good thinking about. And for dear Flora (how wonderful
that she could write poetry--poetry!) a really splendid, and
perfectly new, little pill. She herself had already taken two, and
they had suited her to perfection. For darling Felix a new kind of
eau de cologne, made in Worcester, because that was the only scent
he would use. For her pet Nedda, a piece of 'point de Venise' that
she really could not be selfish enough to keep any longer,
especially as she was particularly fond of it. For Alan, a new
kind of tin-opener that the dear boy would like enormously; he was
so nice and practical. For Sheila, such a nice new novel by Mr.
and Mrs. Whirlingham--a bright, wholesome tale, with such a good
description of quite a new country in it--the dear child was so
clever, it would be a change for her. Then, actually resting on
the pincers, she came on her pass-book, recently made up,
containing little or no balance, just enough to get darling John
that bag like hers with the new clasp, which would be so handy for
his papers when he went travelling. And having reached the
pincers, she took them in her hand, and sat down again to be quite
quiet a moment, with her still-dark eyelashes resting on her ivory
cheeks and her lips pressed to a colorless line; for her head swam
from stooping over. In repose, with three flies circling above her
fine gray hair, she might have served a sculptor for a study of the
stoic spirit. Then, going to the bag, her compressed lips
twitching, her gray eyes piercing into its clasp with a kind of
distrustful optimism, she lifted the pincers and tweaked it hard.
If the atmosphere of that dinner, to which all six from Hampstead
came, was less disturbed than John anticipated, it was due to his
sense of hospitality, and to every one's feeling that controversy
would puzzle and distress Granny. That there were things about
which people differed, Frances Freeland well knew, but that they
should so differ as to make them forget to smile and have good
manners would not have seemed right to her at all. And of this, in
her presence, they were all conscious; so that when they had
reached the asparagus there was hardly anything left that could by
any possibility be talked about. And this--for fear of seeming
awkward--they at once proceeded to discuss, Flora remarking that
London was very full. John agreed.
Frances Freeland, smiling, said:
"It's so nice for Derek and Sheila to be seeing it like this for
the first time."
Sheila said:
"Why? Isn't it always as full as this?"
John answered:
"In August practically empty. They say a hundred thousand people,
at least, go away."
"Double!" remarked Felix.
"The figures are variously given. My estimate--"
"One in sixty. That shows you!"
At this interruption of Derek's John frowned slightly. "What does
it show you?" he said.
Derek glanced at his grandmother.
"Oh, nothing!"
"Of course it shows you," exclaimed Sheila, "what a heartless great
place it is. All 'the world' goes out of town, and 'London's
empty!' But if you weren't told so you'd never know the
difference."
Derek muttered: "I think it shows more than that."
Under the table Flora was touching John's foot warningly; Nedda
attempting to touch Derek's; Felix endeavoring to catch John's eye;
Alan trying to catch Sheila's; John biting his lip and looking
carefully at nothing. Only Frances Freeland was smiling and gazing
lovingly at dear Derek, thinking he would be so handsome when he
had grown a nice black moustache. And she said:
"Yes, dear. What were you going to say?"
Derek looked up.
"Do you really want it, Granny?"
Nedda murmured across the table: "No, Derek."
Frances Freeland raised her brows quizzically. She almost looked
arch.
"But of course I do, darling. I want to hear immensely. It's so
interesting."
"Derek was going to say, Mother"--every one at once looked at
Felix, who had thus broken in--"that all we West-End people--John
and I and Flora and Stanley, and even you--all we people born in
purple and fine linen, are so accustomed to think we're all that
matters, that when we're out of London there's nobody in it. He
meant to say that this is appalling enough, but that what is still
more appalling is the fact that we really ARE all that matters, and
that if people try to disturb us, we can, and jolly well will, take
care they don't disturb us long. Is that what you meant, Derek?"
Derek turned a rather startled look on Felix.
"What he meant to say," went on Felix, "was, that age and habit,
vested interests, culture and security sit so heavy on this
country's chest, that aspiration may wriggle and squirm but will
never get from under. That, for all we pretend to admire
enthusiasm and youth, and the rest of it, we push it out of us just
a little faster than it grows up. Is that what you meant, Derek?"
"You'll try to, but you won't succeed!"
"I'm afraid we shall, and with a smile, too, so that you won't see
us doing it."
"I call that devilish."
"I call it natural. Look at a man who's growing old; notice how
very gracefully and gradually he does it. Take my hair--your aunt
says she can't tell the difference from month to month. And there
it is, or rather isn't--little by little."
Frances Freeland, who during Felix's long speech had almost closed
her eyes, opened them, and looked piercingly at the top of his
head.
"Darling," she said, "I've got the very thing for it. You must
take some with you when you go tonight. John is going to try it."
Checked in the flow of his philosophy, Felix blinked like an owl
surprised.
"Mother," he said, "YOU only have the gift of keeping young."
"Oh! my dear, I'm getting dreadfully old. I have the greatest
difficulty in keeping awake sometimes when people are talking. But
I mean to fight against it. It's so dreadfully rude, and ugly,
too; I catch myself sometimes with my mouth open."
Flora said quietly: "Granny, I have the very best thing for that--
quite new!"
A sweet but rather rueful smile passed over Frances Freeland's
face. "Now," she said, "you're chaffing me," and her eyes looked
loving.
It is doubtful if John understood the drift of Felix's exordium, it
is doubtful if he had quite listened--he having so much to not
listen to at the Home Office that the practice was growing on him.
A vested interest to John was a vested interest, culture was
culture, and security was certainly security--none of them were
symbols of age. Further, the social question--at least so far as
it had to do with outbreaks of youth and enthusiasm--was too
familiar to him to have any general significance whatever. What
with women, labor people, and the rest of it, he had no time for
philosophy--a dubious process at the best. A man who had to get
through so many daily hours of real work did not dissipate his
energy in speculation. But, though he had not listened to Felix's
remarks, they had ruffled him. There is no philosophy quite so
irritating as that of a brother! True, no doubt, that the country
was in a bad way, but as to vested interests and security, that was
all nonsense! The guilty causes were free thought and industrialism.
Having seen them all off to Hampstead, he gave his mother her good-
night kiss. He was proud of her, a wonderful woman, who always put
a good face on everything! Even her funny way of always having
some new thing or other to do you good--even that was all part of
her wanting to make the best of things. She never lost her 'form'!
John worshipped that kind of stoicism which would die with its head
up rather than live with its tail down. Perhaps the moment of
which he was most proud in all his life was that, when, at the
finish of his school mile, he overheard a vulgar bandsman say: "I
like that young ----'s running; he breathes through his ---- nose."
At that moment, if he had stooped to breathe through his mouth, he
must have won; as it was he had lost in great distress and perfect
form.
When, then, he had kissed Frances Freeland, and watched her ascend
the stairs, breathless because she WOULD breathe through her nose
to the very last step, he turned into his study, lighted his pipe,
and sat down to a couple of hours of a report upon the forces of
constabulary available in the various counties, in the event of any
further agricultural rioting, such as had recently taken place on a
mild scale in one or two districts where there was still Danish
blood. He worked at the numbers steadily, with just that
engineer's touch of mechanical invention which had caused him to be
so greatly valued in a department where the evolution of twelve
policemen out of ten was constantly desired. His mastery of
figures was highly prized, for, while it had not any of that
flamboyance which has come from America and the game of poker, it
possessed a kind of English optimism, only dangerous when, as
rarely happened, it was put to the test. He worked two full pipes
long, and looked at the clock. Twelve! No good knocking off just
yet! He had no liking for bed this many a long year, having, from
loyalty to memory and a drier sense of what became one in the Home
Department, preserved his form against temptations of the flesh.
Yet, somehow, to-night he felt no spring, no inspiration, in his
handling of county constabulary. A kind of English stolidity about
them baffled him--ten of them remained ten. And leaning that
forehead, whose height so troubled Frances Freeland, on his neat
hand, he fell to brooding. Those young people with everything
before them! Did he envy them? Or was he glad of his own age?
Fifty! Fifty already; a fogey! An official fogey! For all the
world like an umbrella, that every day some one put into a stand
and left there till it was time to take it out again. Neatly
rolled, too, with an elastic and button! And this fancy, which had
never come to him before, surprised him. One day he, too, would
wear out, slit all up his seams, and they would leave him at home,
or give him away to the butler.
He went to the window. A scent of--of May, or something! And
nothing in sight save houses just like his own! He looked up at
the strip of sky privileged to hang just there. He had got a bit
rusty with his stars. There, however, certainly was Venus. And he
thought of how he had stood by the ship's rail on that honeymoon
trip of his twenty years ago, giving his young wife her first
lesson in counting the stars. And something very deep down, very
mossed and crusted over in John's heart, beat and stirred, and hurt
him. Nedda--he had caught her looking at that young fellow just as
Anne had once looked at him, John Freeland, now an official fogey,
an umbrella in a stand. There was a policeman! How ridiculous the
fellow looked, putting one foot before the other, flirting his
lantern and trying the area gates! This confounded scent of
hawthorn--could it be hawthorn?--got here into the heart of London!
The look in that girl's eyes! What was he about, to let them make
him feel as though he could give his soul for a face looking up
into his own, for a breast touching his, and the scent of a woman's
hair. Hang it! He would smoke a cigarette and go to bed! He
turned out the light and began to mount the stairs; they creaked
abominably--the felt must be wearing out. A woman about the place
would have kept them quiet. Reaching the landing of the second
floor, he paused a moment from habit, to look down into the dark
hall. A voice, thin, sweet, almost young, said:
"Is that you, darling?" John's heart stood still. What--was that?
Then he perceived that the door of the room that had been his
wife's was open, and remembered that his mother was in there.
"What! Aren't you asleep, Mother?"
Frances Freeland's voice answered cheerfully: "Oh, no, dear; I'm
never asleep before two. Come in."
John entered. Propped very high on her pillows, in perfect
regularity, his mother lay. Her carved face was surmounted by a
piece of fine lace, her thin, white fingers on the turnover of the
sheet moved in continual interlocking, her lips smiled.
"There's something you must have," she said. "I left my door open
on purpose. Give me that little bottle, darling."
John took from a small table by the bed a still smaller bottle.
Frances Freeland opened it, and out came three tiny white globules.
"Now," she said, "pop them in! You've no idea how they'll send you
to sleep! They're the most splendid things; perfectly harmless.
Just let them rest on the tongue and swallow!"
John let them rest--they were sweetish--and swallowed.
"How is it, then," he said, "that you never go to sleep before
two?"
Frances Freeland corked the little bottle, as if enclosing within
it that awkward question.
"They don't happen to act with me, darling; but that's nothing.
It's the very thing for any one who has to sit up so late," and her
eyes searched his face. Yes--they seemed to say--I know you
pretend to have work; but if you only had a dear little wife!
"I shall leave you this bottle when I go. Kiss me."
John bent down, and received one of those kisses of hers that had
such sudden vitality in the middle of them, as if her lips were
trying to get inside his cheek. From the door he looked back. She
was smiling, composed again to her stoic wakefulness.
"Shall I shut the door, Mother?"
"Please, darling."
With a little lump in his throat John closed the door.
CHAPTER XVII
The London which Derek had said should be blown up was at its
maximum of life those May days. Even on this outer rampart of
Hampstead, people, engines, horses, all had a touch of the spring
fever; indeed, especially on this rampart of Hampstead was there
increase of the effort to believe that nature was not dead and
embalmed in books. The poets, painters, talkers who lived up there
were at each other all the time in their great game of make-
believe. How could it be otherwise, when there was veritably
blossom on the trees and the chimneys were ceasing to smoke? How
otherwise, when the sun actually shone on the ponds? But the four
young people (for Alan joined in--hypnotized by Sheila) did not
stay in Hampstead. Chiefly on top of tram and 'bus they roamed the
wilderness. Bethnal Green and Leytonstone, Kensington and Lambeth,
St. James's and Soho, Whitechapel, Shoreditch, West Ham, and
Piccadilly, they traversed the whole ant-heap at its most ebullient
moment. They knew their Whitman and their Dostoievsky sufficiently
to be aware that they ought to love and delight in everything--in
the gentleman walking down Piccadilly with a flower in his
buttonhole, and in the lady sewing that buttonhole in Bethnal
Green; in the orator bawling himself hoarse close to the Marble
Arch, the coster loading his barrow in Covent Garden; and in Uncle
John Freeland rejecting petitions in Whitehall. All these things,
of course, together with the long lines of little gray houses in
Camden Town, long lines of carts with bobtail horses rattling over
Blackfriars' Bridge, long smells drifting behind taxicabs--all
these things were as delightful and as stimulating to the soul as
the clouds that trailed the heavens, the fronds of the lilac, and
Leonardo's Cartoon in the Diploma Gallery. All were equal
manifestations of that energy in flower known as 'Life.' They knew
that everything they saw and felt and smelled OUGHT equally to make
them long to catch creatures to their hearts and cry: Hosanna! And
Nedda and Alan, bred in Hampstead, even knew that to admit that
these things did not all move them in the same way would be
regarded as a sign of anaemia. Nevertheless--most queerly--these
four young people confessed to each other all sorts of sensations
besides that 'Hosanna' one. They even confessed to rage and pity
and disgust one moment, and to joy and dreams the next, and they
differed greatly as to what excited which. It was truly odd! The
only thing on which they did seem to agree was that they were
having 'a thundering good time.' A sort of sense of "Blow
everything!" was in their wings, and this was due not to the fact
that they were thinking of and loving and admiring the little gray
streets and the gentleman in Piccadilly--as, no doubt, in
accordance with modern culture, they should have been--but to the
fact that they were loving and admiring themselves, and that
entirely without the trouble of thinking about it at all. The
practice, too, of dividing into couples was distinctly precious to
them, for, though they never failed to start out together, they
never failed to come home two by two. In this way did they put to
confusion Whitman and Dostoievsky, and all the other thinkers in
Hampstead. In the daytime they all, save Alan, felt that London
ought to be blown up; but at night it undermined their philosophies
so that they sat silent on the tops of their respective 'buses,
with arms twined in each other's. For then a something seemed to
have floated up from that mass of houses and machines, of men and
trees, and to be hovering above them, violet-colored, caught
between the stars and the lights, a spirit of such overpowering
beauty that it drenched even Alan in a kind of awe. After all, the
huge creature that sat with such a giant's weight on the country's
chest, the monster that had spoiled so many fields and robbed so
many lives of peace and health, could fly at night upon blue and
gold and purple wings, murmur a passionate lullaby, and fall into
deep sleep!
One such night they went to the gallery at the opera, to supper at
an oyster-shop, under Alan's pilotage, and then set out to walk
back to Hampstead, timing themselves to catch the dawn. They had
not gone twenty steps up Southampton Row before Alan and Sheila
were forty steps in front. A fellow-feeling had made Derek and
Nedda stand to watch an old man who walked, tortuous, extremely
happy, bidding them all come. And when they moved on, it was very
slowly, just keeping sight of the others across the lumbered
dimness of Covent Garden, where tarpaulin-covered carts and barrows
seemed to slumber under the blink of lamps and watchmen's lanterns.
Across Long Acre they came into a street where there was not a soul
save the two others, a long way ahead. Walking with his arm
tightly laced with hers, touching her all down one side, Derek felt
that it would be glorious to be attacked by night-birds in this
dark, lonely street, to have a splendid fight and drive them off,
showing himself to Nedda for a man, and her protector. But nothing
save one black cat came near, and that ran for its life. He bent
round and looked under the blue veil-thing that wrapped Nedda's
head. Her face seemed mysteriously lovely, and her eyes, lifted so
quickly, mysteriously true. She said:
"Derek, I feel like a hill with the sun on it!"
"I feel like that yellow cloud with the wind in it."
"I feel like an apple-tree coming into blossom."
"I feel like a giant."
"I feel like a song."
"I feel I could sing you."
"On a river, floating along."
"A wide one, with great plains on each side, and beasts coming down
to drink, and either the sun or a yellow moon shining, and some one
singing, too, far off."
"The Red Sarafan."
"Let's run!"
From that yellow cloud sailing in moonlight a spurt of rain had
driven into their faces, and they ran as fast as their blood was
flowing, and the raindrops coming down, jumping half the width of
the little dark streets, clutching each other's arms. And peering
round into her face, so sweet and breathless, into her eyes, so
dark and dancing, he felt he could run all night if he had her
there to run beside him through the dark. Into another street they
dashed, and again another, till she stopped, panting.
"Where are we now?"
Neither knew. A policeman put them right for Portland Place. Half
past one! And it would be dawn soon after three! They walked
soberly again now into the outer circle of Regent's Park; talked
soberly, too, discussing sublunary matters, and every now and then,
their arms, round each other, gave little convulsive squeezes. The
rain had stopped and the moon shone clear; by its light the trees
and flowers were clothed in colors whose blood had spilled away;
the town's murmur was dying, the house lights dead already. They
came out of the park into a road where the latest taxis were
rattling past; a face, a bare neck, silk hat, or shirt-front
gleamed in the window-squares, and now and then a laugh came
floating through. They stopped to watch them from under the low-
hanging branches of an acacia-tree, and Derek, gazing at her face,
still wet with rain, so young and round and soft, thought: 'And she
loves me!' Suddenly she clutched him round the neck, and their
lips met.
They talked not at all for a long time after that kiss, walking
slowly up the long, empty road, while the whitish clouds sailed
across the dark river of the sky and the moon slowly sank. This
was the most delicious part of all that long walk home, for the
kiss had made them feel as though they had no bodies, but were just
two spirits walking side by side. This is its curious effect
sometimes in first love between the very young. . . .
Having sent Flora to bed, Felix was sitting up among his books.
There was no need to do this, for the young folk had latch-keys,
but, having begun the vigil, he went on with it, a volume about
Eastern philosophies on his knee, a bowl of narcissus blooms,
giving forth unexpected whiffs of odor, beside him. And he sank
into a long reverie.
Could it be said--as was said in this Eastern book--that man's life
was really but a dream; could that be said with any more truth than
it had once been said, that he rose again in his body, to perpetual
life? Could anything be said with truth, save that we knew
nothing? And was that not really what had always been said by man--
that we knew nothing, but were just blown over and about the world
like soughs of wind, in obedience to some immortal, unknowable
coherence! But had that want of knowledge ever retarded what was
known as the upward growth of man? Had it ever stopped man from
working, fighting, loving, dying like a hero if need were? Had
faith ever been anything but embroidery to an instinctive heroism,
so strong that it needed no such trappings? Had faith ever been
anything but anodyne, or gratification of the aesthetic sense? Or
had it really body and substance of its own? Was it something
absolute and solid, that he--Felix Freeland--had missed? Or again,
was it, perhaps, but the natural concomitant of youth, a naive
effervescence with which thought and brooding had to part? And,
turning the page of his book, he noticed that he could no longer
see to read, the lamp had grown too dim, and showed but a
decorative glow in the bright moonlight flooding through the study
window. He got up and put another log on the fire, for these last
nights of May were chilly.
Nearly three! Where were these young people? Had he been asleep,
and they come in? Sure enough, in the hall Alan's hat and Sheila's
cloak--the dark-red one he had admired when she went forth--were
lying on a chair. But of the other two--nothing! He crept up-
stairs. Their doors were open. They certainly took their time--
these young lovers. And the same sore feeling which had attacked
Felix when Nedda first told him of her love came on him badly in
that small of the night when his vitality was lowest. All the
hours she had spent clambering about him, or quietly resting on his
knee with her head tucked in just where his arm and shoulder met,
listening while he read or told her stories, and now and again
turning those clear eyes of hers wide open to his face, to see if
he meant it; the wilful little tugs of her hand when they two went
exploring the customs of birds, or bees, or flowers; all her
'Daddy, I love yous!' and her rushes to the front door, and long
hugs when he came back from a travel; all those later crookings of
her little finger in his, and the times he had sat when she did not
know it, watching her, and thinking: 'That little creature, with
all that's before her, is my very own daughter to take care of, and
share joy and sorrow with. . . .' Each one of all these seemed to
come now and tweak at him, as the songs of blackbirds tweak the
heart of one who lies, unable to get out into the Spring. His lamp
had burned itself quite out; the moon was fallen below the clump of
pines, and away to the north-east something stirred in the stain
and texture of the sky. Felix opened the window. What peace out
there! The chill, scentless peace of night, waiting for dawn's
renewal of warmth and youth. Through that bay window facing north
he could see on one side the town, still wan with the light of its
lamps, on the other the country, whose dark bloom was graying fast.
Suddenly a tiny bird twittered, and Felix saw his two truants
coming slowly from the gate across the grass, his arm round her
shoulders, hers round his waist. With their backs turned to him,
they passed the corner of the house, across where the garden sloped
away. There they stood above the wide country, their bodies
outlined against a sky fast growing light, evidently waiting for
the sun to rise. Silent they stood, while the birds, one by one,
twittered out their first calls. And suddenly Felix saw the boy
fling his hand up into the air. The Sun! Far away on the gray
horizon was a flare of red!
CHAPTER XVIII
The anxieties of the Lady Mallorings of this life concerning the
moral welfare of their humbler neighbors are inclined to march in
front of events. The behavior in Tryst's cottage was more correct
than it would have been in nine out of ten middle or upper class
demesnes under similar conditions. Between the big laborer and
'that woman,' who, since the epileptic fit, had again come into
residence, there had passed nothing whatever that might not have
been witnessed by Biddy and her two nurslings. For love is an
emotion singularly dumb and undemonstrative in those who live the
life of the fields; passion a feeling severely beneath the thumb of
a propriety born of the age-long absence of excitants,
opportunities, and the aesthetic sense; and those two waited,
almost as a matter of course, for the marriage which was forbidden
them in this parish. The most they did was to sit and look at one
another.
On the day of which Felix had seen the dawn at Hampstead, Sir
Gerald's agent tapped on the door of Tryst's cottage, and was
answered by Biddy, just in from school for the midday meal.
"Your father home, my dear?"
"No, sir; Auntie's in."
"Ask your auntie to come and speak to me."
The mother-child vanished up the narrow stairs, and the agent
sighed. A strong-built, leathery-skinned man in a brown suit and
leggings, with a bristly little moustache and yellow whites to his
eyes, he did not, as he had said to his wife that morning, 'like
the job a little bit.' And while he stood there waiting, Susie and
Billy emerged from the kitchen and came to stare at him. The agent
returned that stare till a voice behind him said: "Yes, sir?"
'That woman' was certainly no great shakes to look at: a fresh,
decent, faithful sort of body! And he said gruffly: "Mornin',
miss. Sorry to say my orders are to make a clearance here. I
suppose Tryst didn't think we should act on it, but I'm afraid I've
got to put his things out, you know. Now, where are you all going;
that's the point?"
"I shall go home, I suppose; but Tryst and the children--we don't
know."
The agent tapped his leggings with a riding-cane. "So you've been
expecting it!" he said with relief. "That's right." And, staring
down at the mother-child, he added: "Well, what d'you say, my dear;
you look full of sense, you do!"
Biddy answered: "I'll go and tell Mr. Freeland, sir."
"Ah! You're a bright maid. He'll know where to put you for the
time bein'. Have you had your dinner?"
"No, sir; it's just ready."
"Better have it--better have it first. No hurry. What've you got
in the pot that smells so good?"
"Bubble and squeak, sir."
"Bubble and squeak! Ah!" And with those words the agent withdrew
to where, in a farm wagon drawn up by the side of the road, three
men were solemnly pulling at their pipes. He moved away from them
a little, for, as he expressed it to his wife afterward: "Look bad,
you know, look bad--anybody seeing me! Those three little children--
that's where it is! If our friends at the Hall had to do these jobs
for themselves, there wouldn't be any to do!"
Presently, from his discreet distance, he saw the mother-child
going down the road toward Tod's, in her blue 'pinny' and corn-
colored hair. Nice little thing! Pretty little thing, too! Pity,
great pity! And he went back to the cottage. On his way a thought
struck him so that he well-nigh shivered. Suppose the little thing
brought back that Mrs. Freeland, the lady who always went about in
blue, without a hat! Phew! Mr. Freeland--he was another sort; a
bit off, certainly--harmless, quite harmless! But that lady! And
he entered the cottage. The woman was washing up; seemed a
sensible body. When the two kids cleared off to school he could go
to work and get it over; the sooner the better, before people came
hanging round. A job of this kind sometimes made nasty blood! His
yellowish eyes took in the nature of the task before him. Funny
jam-up they did get about them, to be sure! Every blessed little
thing they'd ever bought, and more, too! Have to take precious
good care nothing got smashed, or the law would be on the other
leg! And he said to the woman:
"Now, miss, can I begin?"
"I can't stop you, sir."
'No,' he thought, 'you can't stop me, and I blamed well wish you
could!' But he said: "Got an old wagon out here. Thought I'd save
him damage by weather or anything; we'll put everything in that,
and run it up into the empty barn at Marrow and leave it. And
there they'll be for him when he wants 'em."
The woman answered: "You're very kind, I'm sure."
Perceiving that she meant no irony, the agent produced a sound from
somewhere deep and went out to summon his men.
With the best intentions, however, it is not possible, even in
villages so scattered that they cannot be said to exist, to do
anything without every one's knowing; and the work of 'putting out'
the household goods of the Tryst family, and placing them within
the wagon, was not an hour in progress before the road in front of
the cottage contained its knot of watchers. Old Gaunt first,
alone--for the rogue-girl had gone to Mr. Cuthcott's and Tom Gaunt
was at work. The old man had seen evictions in his time, and
looked on silently, with a faint, sardonic grin. Four children, so
small that not even school had any use for them as yet, soon
gathered round his legs, followed by mothers coming to retrieve
them, and there was no longer silence. Then came two laborers, on
their way to a job, a stone-breaker, and two more women. It was
through this little throng that the mother-child and Kirsteen
passed into the fast-being-gutted cottage.
The agent was standing by Tryst's bed, keeping up a stream of
comment to two of his men, who were taking that aged bed to pieces.
It was his habit to feel less when he talked more; but no one could
have fallen into a more perfect taciturnity than he when he saw
Kirsteen coming up those narrow stairs. In so small a space as
this room, where his head nearly touched the ceiling, was it fair
to be confronted by that lady--he put it to his wife that same
evening--"Was it fair?" He had seen a mother wild duck look like
that when you took away its young--snaky fierce about the neck, and
its dark eye! He had seen a mare, going to bite, look not half so
vicious! "There she stood, and--let me have it?--not a bit! Too
much the lady for that, you know!--Just looked at me, and said very
quiet: 'Ah! Mr. Simmons, and are you really doing this?' and put
her hand on that little girl of his. 'Orders are orders, ma'am!'
What could I say? 'Ah!' she said, 'yes, orders are orders, but
they needn't be obeyed.' 'As to that, ma'am,' I said--mind you,
she's a lady; you can't help feeling that 'I'm a working man, the
same as Tryst here; got to earn my living.' 'So have slave-
drivers, Mr. Simmons.' 'Every profession,' I said, 'has got its
dirty jobs, ma'am. And that's a fact.' 'And will have,' she said,
'so long as professional men consent to do the dirty work of their
employers.' 'And where should I be, I should like to know,' I
said, 'if I went on that lay? I've got to take the rough with the
smooth.' 'Well,' she said, 'Mr. Freeland and I will take Tryst and
the little ones in at present.' Good-hearted people, do a lot for
the laborers, in their way. All the same, she's a bit of a vixen.
Picture of a woman, too, standin' there; shows blood, mind you!
Once said, all over--no nagging. She took the little girl off with
her. And pretty small I felt, knowing I'd got to finish that job,
and the folk outside gettin' nastier all the time--not sayin' much,
of course, but lookin' a lot!" The agent paused in his recital and
gazed fixedly at a bluebottle crawling up the windowpane.
Stretching out his thumb and finger, he nipped it suddenly and
threw it in the grate. "Blest if that fellow himself didn't turn
up just as I was finishing. I was sorry for the man, you know.
There was his home turned out-o'-doors. Big man, too! 'You
blanky-blank!' he says; 'if I'd been here you shouldn't ha' done
this!' Thought he was goin' to hit me. 'Come, Tryst!' I said,
'it's not my doing, you know!' 'Ah!' he said, 'I know that; and
it'll be blanky well the worse for THEM!' Rough tongue; no class
of man at all, he is! 'Yes,' he said, 'let 'em look out; I'll be
even with 'em yet!' 'None o' that!' I told him; 'you know which
side the law's buttered. I'm making it easy for you, too, keeping
your things in the wagon, ready to shift any time!' He gave me a
look--he's got very queer eyes, swimmin', sad sort of eyes, like a
man in liquor--and he said: 'I've been here twenty years,' he said.
'My wife died here.' And all of a sudden he went as dumb as a
fish. Never let his eyes off us, though, while we finished up the
last of it; made me feel funny, seein' him glowering like that all
the time. He'll savage something over this, you mark my words!"
Again the agent paused, and remained as though transfixed, holding
that face of his, whose yellow had run into the whites of the eyes,
as still as wood. "He's got some feeling for the place, I
suppose," he said suddenly; "or maybe they've put it into him about
his rights; there's plenty of 'em like that. Well, anyhow, nobody
likes his private affairs turned inside out for every one to gape
at. I wouldn't myself." And with that deeply felt remark the
agent put out his leathery-yellow thumb and finger and nipped a
second bluebottle. . . .
While the agent was thus recounting to his wife the day's doings,
the evicted Tryst sat on the end of his bed in a ground-floor room
of Tod's cottage. He had taken off his heavy boots, and his feet,
in their thick, soiled socks, were thrust into a pair of Tod's
carpet slippers. He sat without moving, precisely as if some one
had struck him a blow in the centre of the forehead, and over and
over again he turned the heavy thought: 'They've turned me out o'
there--I done nothing, and they turned me out o' there! Blast
them--they turned me out o' there!' . . .
In the orchard Tod sat with a grave and puzzled face, surrounded by
the three little Trysts. And at the wicket gate Kirsteen, awaiting
the arrival of Derek and Sheila--summoned home by telegram--stood
in the evening glow, her blue-clad figure still as that of any
worshipper at the muezzin-call.
CHAPTER XIX
"A fire, causing the destruction of several ricks and an empty
cowshed, occurred in the early morning of Thursday on the home farm
of Sir Gerald Malloring's estate in Worcestershire. Grave
suspicions of arson are entertained, but up to the present no
arrest has been made. The authorities are in doubt whether the
occurrence has any relation with recent similar outbreaks in the
eastern counties."
So Stanley read at breakfast, in his favorite paper; and the little
leader thereon:
"The outbreak of fire on Sir Gerald Malloring's Worcestershire
property may or may not have any significance as a symptom of
agrarian unrest. We shall watch the upshot with some anxiety.
Certain it is that unless the authorities are prepared to deal
sharply with arson, or other cases of deliberate damage to the
property of landlords, we may bid good-by to any hope of
ameliorating the lot of the laborer"
--and so on.
If Stanley had risen and paced the room there would have been a
good deal to be said for him; for, though he did not know as much
as Felix of the nature and sentiments of Tod's children, he knew
enough to make any but an Englishman uneasy. The fact that he went
on eating ham, and said to Clara, "Half a cup!" was proof positive
of that mysterious quality called phlegm which had long enabled his
country to enjoy the peace of a weedy duck-pond.
Stanley, a man of some intelligence--witness his grasp of the
secret of successful plough-making (none for the home market!)--had
often considered this important proposition of phlegm. People said
England was becoming degenerate and hysterical, growing soft, and
nervous, and towny, and all the rest of it. In his view there was
a good deal of bosh about that! "Look," he would say, "at the
weight that chauffeurs put on! Look at the House of Commons, and
the size of the upper classes!" If there were growing up little
shrill types of working men and Socialists, and new women, and
half-penny papers, and a rather larger crop of professors and long-
haired chaps--all the better for the rest of the country! The
flesh all these skimpy ones had lost, solid people had put on. The
country might be suffering a bit from officialism, and the tendency
of modern thought, but the breed was not changing. John Bull was
there all right under his moustache. Take it off and clap on
little side-whiskers, and you had as many Bulls as you liked, any
day. There would be no social upheaval so long as the climate was
what it was! And with this simple formula, and a kind of very
deep-down throaty chuckle, he would pass to a subject of more
immediate importance. There was something, indeed, rather masterly
in his grasp of the fact that rain might be trusted to put out any
fire--give it time. And he kept a special vessel in a special
corner which recorded for him faithfully the number of inches that
fell; and now and again he wrote to his paper to say that there
were more inches in his vessel than there had been "for thirty
years." His conviction that the country was in a bad way was
nothing but a skin affection, causing him local irritation rather
than affecting the deeper organs of his substantial body.
He did not readily confide in Clara concerning his own family,
having in a marked degree the truly domestic quality of thinking it
superior to his wife's. She had been a Tomson, not one of THE
Tomsons, and it was quite a question whether he or she were trying
to forget that fact the faster. But he did say to her as he was
getting into the car:
"It's just possible I might go round by Tod's on my way home. I
want a run."
She answered: "Be careful what you say to that woman. I don't want
her here by any chance. The young ones were quite bad enough."
And when he had put in his day at the works he did turn the nose of
his car toward Tod's. Travelling along grass-bordered roads, the
beauty of this England struck his not too sensitive spirit and made
him almost gasp. It was that moment of the year when the
countryside seems to faint from its own loveliness, from the
intoxication of its scents and sounds. Creamy-white may, splashed
here and there with crimson, flooded the hedges in breaking waves
of flower-foam; the fields were all buttercup glory; every tree had
its cuckoo, calling; every bush its blackbird or thrush in full
even-song. Swallows were flying rather low, and the sky, whose
moods they watch, had the slumberous, surcharged beauty of a long,
fine day, with showers not far away. Some orchards were still in
blossom, and the great wild bees, hunting over flowers and grasses
warm to their touch, kept the air deeply murmurous. Movement,
light, color, song, scent, the warm air, and the fluttering leaves
were confused, till one had almost become the other.
And Stanley thought, for he was not rhapsodic 'Wonderful pretty
country! The way everything's looked after--you never see it
abroad!'
But the car, a creature with little patience for natural beauty,
had brought him to the crossroads and stood, panting slightly,
under the cliff-bank whereon grew Tod's cottage, so loaded now with
lilac, wistaria, and roses that from the road nothing but a peak or
two of the thatched roof could be seen.
Stanley was distinctly nervous. It was not a weakness his face and
figure were very capable of showing, but he felt that dryness of
mouth and quivering of chest which precede adventures of the soul.
Advancing up the steps and pebbled path, which Clara had trodden
once, just nineteen years ago, and he himself but three times as
yet in all, he cleared his throat and said to himself: 'Easy, old
man! What is it, after all? She won't bite!' And in the very
doorway he came upon her.
What there was about this woman to produce in a man of common sense
such peculiar sensations, he no more knew after seeing her than
before. Felix, on returning from his visit, had said, "She's like
a Song of the Hebrides sung in the middle of a programme of English
ballads." The remark, as any literary man's might, had conveyed
nothing to Stanley, and that in a far-fetched way. Still, when she
said: "Will you come in?" he felt heavier and thicker than he had
ever remembered feeling; as a glass of stout might feel coming
across a glass of claret. It was, perhaps, the gaze of her eyes,
whose color he could not determine, under eyebrows that waved in
the middle and twitched faintly, or a dress that was blue, with the
queerest effect of another color at the back of it, or perhaps the
feeling of a torrent flowing there under a coat of ice, that might
give way in little holes, so that your leg went in but not the
whole of you. Something, anyway, made him feel both small and
heavy--that awkward combination for a man accustomed to associate
himself with cheerful but solid dignity. In seating himself by
request at a table, in what seemed to be a sort of kitchen, he
experienced a singular sensation in the legs, and heard her say, as
it might be to the air:
"Biddy, dear, take Susie and Billy out."
And thereupon a little girl with a sad and motherly face came
crawling out from underneath the table, and dropped him a little
courtesy. Then another still smaller girl came out, and a very
small boy, staring with all his eyes.
All these things were against Stanley, and he felt that if he did
not make it quite clear that he was there he would soon not know
where he was.
"I came," he said, "to talk about this business up at Malloring's."
And, encouraged by having begun, he added: "Whose kids were those?"
A level voice with a faint lisp answered him:
"They belong to a man called Tryst; he was turned out of his
cottage on Wednesday because his dead wife's sister was staying
with him, so we've taken them in. Did you notice the look on the
face of the eldest?"
Stanley nodded. In truth, he had noticed something, though what he
could not have said.
"At nine years old she has to do the housework and be a mother to
the other two, besides going to school. This is all because Lady
Malloring has conscientious scruples about marriage with a deceased
wife's sister."
'Certainly'--thought Stanley--'that does sound a bit thick!' And
he asked:
"Is the woman here, too?"
"No, she's gone home for the present."
He felt relief.
"I suppose Malloring's point is," he said, "whether or not you're
to do what you like with your own property. For instance, if you
had let this cottage to some one you thought was harming the
neighborhood, wouldn't you terminate his tenancy?"
She answered, still in that level voice:
"Her action is cowardly, narrow, and tyrannical, and no amount of
sophistry will make me think differently."
Stanley felt precisely as if one of his feet had gone through the
ice into water so cold that it seemed burning hot! Sophistry! In
a plain man like himself! He had always connected the word with
Felix. He looked at her, realizing suddenly that the association
of his brother's family with the outrage on Malloring's estate was
probably even nearer than he had feared.
"Look here, Kirsteen!" he said, uttering the unlikely name with
resolution, for, after all, she was his sister-in-law: "Did this
fellow set fire to Malloring's ricks?"
He was aware of a queer flash, a quiver, a something all over her
face, which passed at once back to its intent gravity.
"We have no reason to suppose so. But tyranny produces revenge, as
you know."
Stanley shrugged his shoulders. "It's not my business to go into
the rights and wrongs of what's been done. But, as a man of the
world and a relative, I do ask you to look after your youngsters
and see they don't get into a mess. They're an inflammable young
couple--young blood, you know!"
Having made this speech, Stanley looked down, with a feeling that
it would give her more chance.
"You are very kind," he heard her saying in that quiet, faintly
lisping voice; "but there are certain principles involved."
And, suddenly, his curious fear of this woman took shape.
Principles! He had unconsciously been waiting for that word, than
which none was more like a red rag to him.
"What principles can possibly be involved in going against the law?"
"And where the law is unjust?"
Stanley was startled, but he said: "Remember that your principles,
as you call them, may hurt other people besides yourself; Tod and
your children most of all. How is the law unjust, may I ask?"
She had been sitting at the table opposite, but she got up now and
went to the hearth. For a woman of forty-two--as he supposed she
would be--she was extraordinarily lithe, and her eyes, fixed on him
from under those twitching, wavy brows, had a curious glow in their
darkness. The few silver threads in the mass of her over-fine
black hair seemed to give it extra vitality. The whole of her had
a sort of intensity that made him profoundly uncomfortable. And he
thought suddenly: 'Poor old Tod! Fancy having to go to bed with
that woman!'
Without raising her voice, she began answering his question.
"These poor people have no means of setting law in motion, no means
of choosing where and how they will live, no means of doing
anything except just what they are told; the Mallorings have the
means to set the law in motion, to choose where and how to live,
and to dictate to others. That is why the law is unjust. With
every independent pound a year, this equal law of yours--varies!"
"Phew!" said Stanley. "That's a proposition!"
"I give you a simple case. If I had chosen not to marry Tod but to
live with him in free love, we could have done it without
inconvenience. We have some independent income; we could have
afforded to disregard what people thought or did. We could have
bought (as we did buy) our piece of land and our cottage, out of
which we could not have been turned. Since we don't care for
society, it would have made absolutely no difference to our present
position. But Tryst, who does not even want to defy the law--what
happens to him? What happens to hundreds of laborers all over the
country who venture to differ in politics, religion, or morals from
those who own them?"
'By George!' thought Stanley, 'it's true, in a way; I never looked
at it quite like that.' But the feeling that he had come to
persuade her to be reasonable, and the deeply rooted Englishry of
him, conspired to make him say:
"That's all very well; but, you see, it's only a necessary incident
of property-holding. You can't interfere with plain rights."
"You mean--an evil inherent in property-holding?"
"If you like; I don't split words. The lesser of two evils.
What's your remedy? You don't want to abolish property; you've
confessed that property gives YOU your independence!"
Again that curious quiver and flash!
"Yes; but if people haven't decency enough to see for themselves
how the law favors their independence, they must be shown that it
doesn't pay to do to others as they would hate to be done by."
"And you wouldn't try reasoning?"
"They are not amenable to reason."
Stanley took up his hat.
"Well, I think some of us are. I see your point; but, you know,
violence never did any good; it isn't--isn't English."
She did not answer. And, nonplussed thereby, he added lamely: "I
should have liked to have seen Tod and your youngsters. Remember
me to them. Clara sent her regards"; and, looking round the room
in a rather lost way, he held out his hand.
He had an impression of something warm and dry put into it, with
even a little pressure.
Back in the car, he said to his chauffeur, "Go home the other way,
Batter, past the church."
The vision of that kitchen, with its brick floor, its black oak
beams, bright copper pans, the flowers on the window-sill, the
great, open hearth, and the figure of that woman in her blue dress
standing before it, with her foot poised on a log, clung to his
mind's eye with curious fidelity. And those three kids, popping
out like that--proof that the whole thing was not a rather bad
dream! 'Queer business!' he thought; 'bad business! That woman's
uncommonly all there, though. Lot in what she said, too. Where
the deuce should we all be if there were many like her!' And
suddenly he noticed, in a field to the right, a number of men
coming along the hedge toward the road--evidently laborers. What
were they doing? He stopped the car. There were fifteen or twenty
of them, and back in the field he could see a girl's red blouse,
where a little group of four still lingered. 'By George!' he
thought, 'those must be the young Tods going it!' And, curious to
see what it might mean, Stanley fixed his attention on the gate
through which the men were bound to come. First emerged a fellow
in corduroys tied below the knee, with long brown moustaches
decorating a face that, for all its haggardness, had a jovial look.
Next came a sturdy little red-faced, bow-legged man in shirt-
sleeves rolled up, walking alongside a big, dark fellow with a cap
pushed up on his head, who had evidently just made a joke. Then
came two old men, one of whom was limping, and three striplings.
Another big man came along next, in a little clearance, as it were,
between main groups. He walked heavily, and looked up lowering at
the car. The fellow's eyes were queer, and threatening, and sad--
giving Stanley a feeling of discomfort. Then came a short, square
man with an impudent, loquacious face and a bit of swagger in his
walk. He, too, looked up at Stanley and made some remark which
caused two thin-faced fellows with him to grin sheepishly. A spare
old man, limping heavily, with a yellow face and drooping gray
moustaches, walked next, alongside a warped, bent fellow, with
yellowish hair all over his face, whose expression struck Stanley
as half-idiotic. Then two more striplings of seventeen or so,
whittling at bits of sticks; an active, clean-shorn chap with
drawn-in cheeks; and, last of all, a small man by himself, without
a cap on a round head covered with thin, light hair, moving at a
'dot-here, dot-there' walk, as though he had beasts to drive.
Stanley noted that all--save the big man with the threatening, sad
eyes, the old, yellow-faced man with a limp, and the little man who
came out last, lost in his imaginary beasts--looked at the car
furtively as they went their ways. And Stanley thought: 'English
peasant! Poor devil! Who is he? What is he? Who'd miss him if
he did die out? What's the use of all this fuss about him? He's
done for! Glad I've nothing to do with him at Becket, anyway!
"Back to the land!" "Independent peasantry!" Not much! Shan't
say that to Clara, though; knock the bottom out of her week-ends!'
And to his chauffeur he muttered:
"Get on, Batter!"
So, through the peace of that country, all laid down in grass,
through the dignity and loveliness of trees and meadows, this May
evening, with the birds singing under a sky surcharged with warmth
and color, he sped home to dinner.
CHAPTER XX
But next morning, turning on his back as it came dawn, Stanley
thought, with the curious intensity which in those small hours so
soon becomes fear: 'By Jove! I don't trust that woman a yard! I
shall wire for Felix!' And the longer he lay on his back, the more
the conviction bored a hole in him. There was a kind of fever in
the air nowadays, that women seemed to catch, as children caught
the measles. What did it all mean? England used to be a place to
live in. One would have thought an old country like this would
have got through its infantile diseases! Hysteria! No one gave in
to that. Still, one must look out! Arson was about the limit!
And Stanley had a vision, suddenly, of his plough-works in flames.
Why not? The ploughs were not for the English market. Who knew
whether these laboring fellows mightn't take that as a grievance,
if trouble began to spread? This somewhat far-fetched notion,
having started to burrow, threw up a really horrid mole-hill on
Stanley. And it was only the habit, in the human mind, of saying
suddenly to fears: Stop! I'm tired of you! that sent him to sleep
about half past four.
He did not, however, neglect to wire to Felix:
"If at all possible, come down again at once; awkward business at
Joyfields."
Nor, on the charitable pretext of employing two old fellows past
ordinary work, did he omit to treble his night-watchman. . .
On Wednesday, the day of which he had seen the dawn rise, Felix had
already been startled, on returning from his constitutional, to
discover his niece and nephew in the act of departure. All the
explanation vouchsafed had been: "Awfully sorry, Uncle Felix;
Mother's wired for us." Save for the general uneasiness which
attended on all actions of that woman, Felix would have felt
relieved at their going. They had disturbed his life, slipped
between him and Nedda! So much so that he did not even expect her
to come and tell him why they had gone, nor feel inclined to ask
her. So little breaks the fine coherence of really tender ties!
The deeper the quality of affection, the more it 'starts and
puffs,' and from sheer sensitive feeling, each for the other,
spares attempt to get back into touch!
His paper--though he did not apply to it the word 'favorite,'
having that proper literary feeling toward all newspapers, that
they took him in rather than he them--gave him on Friday morning
precisely the same news, of the rick-burning, as it gave to Stanley
at breakfast and to John on his way to the Home Office. To John,
less in the know, it merely brought a knitting of the brow and a
vague attempt to recollect the numbers of the Worcestershire
constabulary. To Felix it brought a feeling of sickness. Men
whose work in life demands that they shall daily whip their nerves,
run, as a rule, a little in advance of everything. And goodness
knows what he did not see at that moment. He said no word to
Nedda, but debated with himself and Flora what, if anything, was to
be done. Flora, whose sense of humor seldom deserted her, held the
more comfortable theory that there was nothing to be done as yet.
Soon enough to cry when milk was spilled! He did not agree, but,
unable to suggest a better course, followed her advice. On
Saturday, however, receiving Stanley's wire, he had much difficulty
in not saying to her, "I told you so!" The question that agitated
him now was whether or not to take Nedda with him. Flora said:
"Yes. The child will be the best restraining influence, if there
is really trouble brewing!" Some feeling fought against this in
Felix, but, suspecting it to be mere jealousy, he decided to take
her. And, to the girl's rather puzzled delight, they arrived at
Becket that day in time for dinner. It was not too reassuring to
find John there, too. Stanley had also wired to him. The matter
must indeed be serious!
The usual week-end was in progress. Clara had made one of her
greatest efforts. A Bulgarian had providentially written a book in
which he showed, beyond doubt, that persons fed on brown bread,
potatoes, and margarine, gave the most satisfactory results of all.
It was a discovery of the first value as a topic for her dinner-
table--seeming to solve the whole vexed problem of the laborers
almost at one stroke. If they could only be got to feed themselves
on this perfect programme, what a saving of the situation! On
those three edibles, the Bulgarian said--and he had been well
translated--a family of five could be maintained at full efficiency
for a shilling per day. Why! that would leave nearly eight
shillings a week, in many cases more, for rent, firing, insurance,
the man's tobacco, and the children's boots. There would be no
more of that terrible pinching by the mothers, to feed the husband
and children properly, of which one heard so much; no more
lamentable deterioration in our stock! Brown bread, potatoes,
margarine--quite a great deal could be provided for seven
shillings! And what was more delicious than a well-baked potato
with margarine of good quality? The carbohydrates--or was it
hybocardrates--ah, yes! the kybohardrates--would be present in
really sufficient quantity! Little else was talked of all through
dinner at her end of the table. Above the flowers which Frances
Freeland always insisted on arranging--and very charmingly--when
she was there--over bare shoulders and white shirt-fronts, those
words bombed and rebombed. Brown bread, potatoes, margarine,
carbohydrates, calorific! They mingled with the creaming sizzle of
champagne, with the soft murmur of well-bred deglutition. White
bosoms heaved and eyebrows rose at them. And now and again some
Bigwig versed in science murmured the word 'Fats.' An agricultural
population fed to the point of efficiency without disturbance of
the existing state of things! Eureka! If only into the bargain
they could be induced to bake their own brown bread and cook their
potatoes well! Faces flushed, eyes brightened, and teeth shone.
It was the best, the most stimulating, dinner ever swallowed in
that room. Nor was it until each male guest had eaten, drunk, and
talked himself into torpor suitable to the company of his wife,
that the three brothers could sit in the smoking-room together,
undisturbed.
When Stanley had described his interview with 'that woman,' his
glimpse of the red blouse, and the laborers' meeting, there was a
silence before John said:
"It might be as well if Tod would send his two youngsters abroad
for a bit."
Felix shook his head.
"I don't think he would, and I don't think they'd go. But we might
try to get those two to see that anything the poor devils of
laborers do is bound to recoil on themselves, fourfold. I
suppose," he added, with sudden malice, "a laborers' rising would
have no chance?"
Neither John nor Stanley winced.
"Rising? Why should they rise?"
"They did in '32."
"In '32!" repeated John. "Agriculture had its importance then.
Now it has none. Besides, they've no cohesion, no power, like the
miners or railway men. Rising? No chance, no earthly! Weight of
metal's dead against it."
Felix smiled.
"Money and guns! Guns and money! Confess with me, brethren, that
we're glad of metal."
John stared and Stanley drank off his whiskey and potash. Felix
really was a bit 'too thick' sometimes. Then Stanley said:
"Wonder what Tod thinks of it all. Will you go over, Felix, and
advise that our young friends be more considerate to these poor
beggars?"
Felix nodded. And with 'Good night, old man' all round, and no
shaking of the hands, the three brothers dispersed.
But behind Felix, as he opened his bedroom door, a voice whispered:
"Dad!" And there, in the doorway of the adjoining room, was Nedda
in her dressing-gown.
"Do come in for a minute. I've been waiting up. You ARE late."
Felix followed her into her room. The pleasure he would once have
had in this midnight conspiracy was superseded now, and he stood
blinking at her gravely. In that blue gown, with her dark hair
falling on its lace collar and her face so round and childish, she
seemed more than ever to have defrauded him. Hooking her arm in
his, she drew him to the window; and Felix thought: 'She just wants
to talk to me about Derek. Dog in the manger that I am! Here goes
to be decent!' So he said:
"Well, my dear?"
Nedda pressed his hand with a little coaxing squeeze.
"Daddy, darling, I do love you!"
And, though Felix knew that she had grasped what he was feeling, a
sort of warmth spread in him. She had begun counting his fingers
with one of her own, sitting close beside him. The warmth in Felix
deepened, but he thought: 'She must want a good deal out of me!'
Then she began:
"Why did we come down again? I know there's something wrong! It's
hard not to know, when you're anxious." And she sighed. That
little sigh affected Felix.
"I'd always rather know the truth, Dad. Aunt Clara said something
about a fire at the Mallorings'."
Felix stole a look at her. Yes! There was a lot in this child of
his! Depth, warmth, and strength to hold to things. No use to
treat her as a child! And he answered:
"My dear, there's really nothing beyond what you know--our young
man and Sheila are hotheads, and things over there are working up a
bit. We must try and smooth them down."
"Dad, ought I to back him whatever he does?"
What a question! The more so that one cannot answer superficially
the questions of those whom one loves.
"Ah!" he said at last. "I don't know yet. Some things it's not
your duty to do; that's certain. It can't be right to do things
simply because he does them--THAT'S not real--however fond one is."
"No; I feel that. Only, it's so hard to know what I do really
think--there's always such a lot trying to make one feel that only
what's nice and cosey is right!"
And Felix thought: 'I've been brought up to believe that only
Russian girls care for truth. It seems I was wrong. The saints
forbid I should be a stumbling-block to my own daughter searching
for it! And yet--where's it all leading? Is this the same child
that told me only the other night she wanted to know everything?
She's a woman now! So much for love!' And he said:
"Let's go forward quietly, without expecting too much of ourselves."
"Yes, Dad; only I distrust myself so."
"No one ever got near the truth who didn't."
"Can we go over to Joyfields to-morrow? I don't think I could bear
a whole day of Bigwigs and eating, with this hanging--"
"Poor Bigwigs! All right! We'll go. And now, bed; and think of
nothing!"
Her whisper tickled his ear:
"You are a darling to me, Dad!"
He went out comforted.
And for some time after she had forgotten everything he leaned out
of his window, smoking cigarettes, and trying to see the body and
soul of night. How quiet she was--night, with her mystery, bereft
of moon, in whose darkness seemed to vibrate still the song of the
cuckoos that had been calling so all day! And whisperings of
leaves communed with Felix.
CHAPTER XXI
What Tod thought of all this was, perhaps, as much of an enigma to
Tod as to his three brothers, and never more so than on that Sunday
morning when two police constables appeared at his door with a
warrant for the arrest of Tryst. After regarding them fixedly for
full thirty seconds, he said, "Wait!" and left them in the doorway.
Kirsteen was washing breakfast things which had a leadless glaze,
and Tryst's three children, extremely tidy, stood motionless at the
edge of the little scullery, watching.
When she had joined him in the kitchen Tod shut the door.
"Two policemen," he said, "want Tryst. Are they to have him?"
In the life together of these two there had, from the very start,
been a queer understanding as to who should decide what. It had
become by now so much a matter of instinct that combative
consultations, which bulk so large in married lives, had no place
in theirs. A frowning tremor passed over her face.
"I suppose they must. Derek is out. Leave it to me, Tod, and take
the tinies into the orchard."
Tod took the three little Trysts to the very spot where Derek and
Nedda had gazed over the darkening fields in exchanging that first
kiss, and, sitting on the stump of the apple-tree he had cut down,
he presented each of them with an apple. While they ate, he
stared. And his dog stared at him. How far there worked in Tod
the feelings of an ordinary man watching three small children whose
only parent the law was just taking into its charge it would be
rash to say, but his eyes were extremely blue and there was a frown
between them.
"Well, Biddy?" he said at last.
Biddy did not reply; the habit of being a mother had imposed on
her, together with the gravity of her little, pale, oval face, a
peculiar talent for silence. But the round-cheeked Susie said:
"Billy can eat cores."
After this statement, silence was broken only by munching, till Tod
remarked:
"What makes things?"
The children, having the instinct that he had not asked them, but
himself, came closer. He had in his hand a little beetle.
"This beetle lives in rotten wood; nice chap, isn't he?"
"We kill beetles; we're afraid of them." So Susie.
They were now round Tod so close that Billy was standing on one of
his large feet, Susie leaning her elbows on one of his broad knees,
and Biddy's slender little body pressed against his huge arm.
"No," said Tod; "beetles are nice chaps."
"The birds eats them," remarked Billy.
"This beetle," said Tod, "eats wood. It eats through trees and the
trees get rotten."
Biddy spoke:
"Then they don't give no more apples." Tod put the beetle down and
Billy got off his foot to tread on it. When he had done his best
the beetle emerged and vanished in the grass. Tod, who had offered
no remonstrance, stretched out his hand and replaced Billy on his
foot.
"What about my treading on you, Billy?" he said.
"Why?"
"I'm big and you're little."
On Billy's square face came a puzzled defiance. If he had not been
early taught his station he would evidently have found some
poignant retort. An intoxicated humblebee broke the silence by
buzzing into Biddy's fluffed-out, corn-gold hair. Tod took it off
with his hand.
"Lovely chap, isn't he?"
The children, who had recoiled, drew close again, while the drunken
bee crawled feebly in the cage of Tod's large hand.
"Bees sting," said Biddy; "I fell on a bee and it stang me!"
"You stang it first," said Tod. "This chap wouldn't sting--not for
worlds. Stroke it!"
Biddy put out her little, pale finger but stayed it a couple of
inches from the bee.
"Go on," said Tod.
Opening her mouth a little, Biddy went on and touched the bee.
"It's soft," she said. "Why don't it buzz?"
"I want to stroke it, too," said Susie. And Billy stamped a little
on Tod's foot.
"No," said Tod; "only Biddy."
There was perfect silence till the dog, rising, approached its
nose, black with a splash of pinky whiteness on the end of the
bridge, as if to love the bee.
"No," said Tod. The dog looked at him, and his yellow-brown eyes
were dark with anxiety.
"It'll sting the dog's nose," said Biddy, and Susie and Billy came
yet closer.
It was at this moment, when the heads of the dog, the bee, Tod,
Biddy, Susie, and Billy might have been contained within a noose
three feet in diameter, that Felix dismounted from Stanley's car
and, coming from the cottage, caught sight of that little idyll
under the dappled sunlight, green, and blossom. It was something
from the core of life, out of the heartbeat of things--like a rare
picture or song, the revelation of the childlike wonder and
delight, to which all other things are but the supernumerary
casings--a little pool of simplicity into which fever and yearning
sank and were for a moment drowned. And quite possibly he would
have gone away without disturbing them if the dog had not growled
and wagged his tail.
But when the children had been sent down into the field he
experienced the usual difficulty in commencing a talk with Tod.
How far was his big brother within reach of mere unphilosophic
statements; how far was he going to attend to facts?
"We came back yesterday," he began; "Nedda and I. You know all
about Derek and Nedda, I suppose?"
Tod nodded.
"What do you think of it?"
"He's a good chap."
"Yes," murmured Felix, "but a firebrand. This business at
Malloring's--what's it going to lead to, Tod? We must look out,
old man. Couldn't you send Derek and Sheila abroad for a bit?"
"Wouldn't go."
"But, after all, they're dependent on you."
"Don't say that to them; I should never see them again."
Felix, who felt the instinctive wisdom of that remark, answered
helplessly:
"What's to be done, then?"
"Sit tight." And Tod's hand came down on Felix's shoulder.
"But suppose they get into real trouble? Stanley and John don't
like it; and there's Mother." And Felix added, with sudden heat,
"Besides, I can't stand Nedda being made anxious like this."
Tod removed his hand. Felix would have given a good deal to have
been able to see into the brain behind the frowning stare of those
blue eyes.
"Can't help by worrying. What must be, will. Look at the birds!"
The remark from any other man would have irritated Felix
profoundly; coming from Tod, it seemed the unconscious expression
of a really felt philosophy. And, after all, was he not right?
What was this life they all lived but a ceaseless worrying over
what was to come? Was not all man's unhappiness caused by nervous
anticipations of the future? Was not that the disease, and the
misfortune, of the age; perhaps of all the countless ages man had
lived through?
With an effort he recalled his thoughts from that far flight. What
if Tod had rediscovered the secret of the happiness that belonged
to birds and lilies of the field--such overpowering interest in the
moment that the future did not exist? Why not? Were not the only
minutes when he himself was really happy those when he lost himself
in work, or love? And why were they so few? For want of pressure
to the square moment. Yes! All unhappiness was fear and lack of
vitality to live the present fully. That was why love and fighting
were such poignant ecstasies--they lived their present to the full.
And so it would be almost comic to say to those young people: Go
away; do nothing in this matter in which your interest and your
feelings are concerned! Don't have a present, because you've got
to have a future! And he said:
"I'd give a good deal for your power of losing yourself in the
moment, old boy!"
"That's all right," said Tod. He was examining the bark of a tree,
which had nothing the matter with it, so far as Felix could see;
while his dog, who had followed them, carefully examined Tod. Both
were obviously lost in the moment. And with a feeling of defeat
Felix led the way back to the cottage.
In the brick-floored kitchen Derek was striding up and down; while
around him, in an equilateral triangle, stood the three women,
Sheila at the window, Kirsteen by the open hearth, Nedda against
the wall opposite. Derek exclaimed at once:
"Why did you let them, Father? Why didn't you refuse to give him
up?"
Felix looked at his brother. In the doorway, where his curly head
nearly touched the wood, Tod's face was puzzled, rueful. He did
not answer.
"Any one could have said he wasn't here. We could have smuggled
him away. Now the brutes have got him! I don't know that, though--"
And he made suddenly for the door.
Tod did not budge. "No," he said.
Derek turned; his mother was at the other door; at the window, the
two girls.
The comedy of this scene, if there be comedy in the face of grief,
was for the moment lost on Felix.
'It's come,' he thought. 'What now?'
Derek had flung himself down at the table and was burying his head
in his hands. Sheila went up to him.
"Don't be a fool, Derek."
However right and natural that remark, it seemed inadequate.
And Felix looked at Nedda. The blue motor scarf she had worn had
slipped off her dark head; her face was white; her eyes, fixed
immovably on Derek, seemed waiting for him to recognize that she
was there. The boy broke out again:
"It was treachery! We took him in; and now we've given him up.
They wouldn't have touched US if we'd got him away. Not they!"
Felix literally heard the breathing of Tod on one side of him and
of Kirsteen on the other. He crossed over and stood opposite his
nephew.
"Look here, Derek," he said; "your mother was quite right. You
might have put this off for a day or two; but it was bound to come.
You don't know the reach of the law. Come, my dear fellow! It's
no good making a fuss, that's childish--the thing is to see that
the man gets every chance."
Derek looked up. Probably he had not yet realized that his uncle
was in the room; and Felix was astonished at his really haggard
face; as if the incident had bitten and twisted some vital in his
body.
"He trusted us."
Felix saw Kirsteen quiver and flinch, and understood why they had
none of them felt quite able to turn their backs on that display of
passion. Something deep and unreasoning was on the boy's side;
something that would not fit with common sense and the habits of
civilized society; something from an Arab's tent or a Highland
glen. Then Tod came up behind and put his hands on his son's
shoulders.
"Come!" he said; "milk's spilt."
"All right!" said Derek gruffly, and he went to the door.
Felix made Nedda a sign and she slipped out after him.
CHAPTER XXII
Nedda, her blue head-gear trailing, followed along at the boy's
side while he passed through the orchard and two fields; and when
he threw himself down under an ash-tree she, too, subsided, waiting
for him to notice her.
"I am here," she said at last.
At that ironic little speech Derek sat up.
"It'll kill him," he said.
"But--to burn things, Derek! To light horrible cruel flames, and
burn things, even if they aren't alive!"
Derek said through his teeth:
"It's I who did it! If I'd never talked to him he'd have been like
the others. They were taking him in a cart, like a calf."
Nedda got possession of his hand and held it tight.
That was a bitter and frightening hour under the faintly rustling
ash-tree, while the wind sprinkled over her flakes of the may
blossom, just past its prime. Love seemed now so little a thing,
seemed to have lost warmth and power, seemed like a suppliant
outside a door. Why did trouble come like this the moment one felt
deeply?
The church bell was tolling; they could see the little congregation
pass across the churchyard into that weekly dream they knew too
well. And presently the drone emerged, mingling with the voices
outside, of sighing trees and trickling water, of the rub of wings,
birds' songs, and the callings of beasts everywhere beneath the sky.
In spite of suffering because love was not the first emotion in his
heart, the girl could only feel he was right not to be loving her;
that she ought to be glad of what was eating up all else within
him. It was ungenerous, unworthy, to want to be loved at such a
moment. Yet she could not help it! This was her first experience
of the eternal tug between self and the loved one pulled in the
hearts of lovers. Would she ever come to feel happy when he was
just doing what he thought was right? And she drew a little away
from him; then perceived that unwittingly she had done the right
thing, for he at once tried to take her hand again. And this was
her first lesson, too, in the nature of man. If she did not give
her hand, he wanted it! But she was not one of those who calculate
in love; so she gave him her hand at once. That went to his heart;
and he put his arm round her, till he could feel the emotion under
those stays that would not be drawn any closer. In this nest
beneath the ash-tree they sat till they heard the organ wheeze and
the furious sound of the last hymn, and saw the brisk coming-forth
with its air of, 'Thank God! And now, to eat!' till at last there
was no stir again about the little church--no stir at all save that
of nature's ceaseless thanksgiving. . . .
Tod, his brown face still rueful, had followed those two out into
the air, and Sheila had gone quickly after him. Thus left alone
with his sister-in-law, Felix said gravely:
"If you don't want the boy to get into real trouble, do all you can
to show him that the last way in the world to help these poor
fellows is to let them fall foul of the law. It's madness to light
flames you can't put out. What happened this morning? Did the man
resist?"
Her face still showed how bitter had been her mortification, and he
was astonished that she kept her voice so level and emotionless.
"No. He went with them quite quietly. The back door was open; he
could have walked out. I did not advise him to. I'm glad no one
saw his face except myself. You see," she added, "he's devoted to
Derek, and Derek knows it; that's why he feels it so, and will feel
it more and more. The boy has a great sense of honour, Felix."
Under that tranquillity Felix caught the pain and yearning in her
voice. Yes! This woman really felt and saw. She was not one of
those who make disturbance with their brains and powers of
criticism; rebellion leaped out from the heat in her heart. But he
said:
"Is it right to fan this flame? Do you think any good end is being
served?" Waiting for her answer, he found himself gazing at the
ghost of dark down on her upper lip, wondering that he had never
noticed it before.
Very low, as if to herself, she said:
"I would kill myself to-day if I didn't believe that tyranny and
injustice must end."
"In our time?"
"Perhaps not."
"Are you content to go on working for an Utopia that you will never
see?"
"While our laborers are treated and housed more like dogs than
human beings, while the best life under the sun--because life on
the soil might be the best life--is despised and starved, and made
the plaything of people's tongues, neither I nor mine are going to
rest."
The admiration she inspired in Felix at that moment was mingled
with a kind of pity. He said impressively:
"Do you know the forces you are up against? Have you looked into
the unfathomable heart of this trouble? Understood the tug of the
towns, the call of money to money; grasped the destructive
restlessness of modern life; the abysmal selfishness of people when
you threaten their interests; the age-long apathy of those you want
to help? Have you grasped all these?"
"And more!"
Felix held out his hand. "Then," he said, "you are truly brave!"
She shook her head.
"It got bitten into me very young. I was brought up in the
Highlands among the crofters in their worst days. In some ways the
people here are not so badly off, but they're still slaves."
"Except that they can go to Canada if they want, and save old
England."
She flushed. "I hate irony."
Felix looked at her with ever-increasing interest; she certainly
was of the kind that could be relied on to make trouble.
"Ah!" he murmured. "Don't forget that when we can no longer smile
we can only swell and burst. It IS some consolation to reflect
that by the time we've determined to do something really effectual
for the ploughmen of England there'll be no ploughmen left!"
"I cannot smile at that."
And, studying her face, Felix thought, 'You're right there! You'll
get no help from humor.' . . .
Early that afternoon, with Nedda between them, Felix and his nephew
were speeding toward Transham.
The little town--a hamlet when Edmund Moreton dropped the E from
his name and put up the works which Stanley had so much enlarged--
had monopolized by now the hill on which it stood. Living entirely
on its ploughs, it yet had but little of the true look of a British
factory town, having been for the most part built since ideas came
into fashion. With its red roofs and chimneys, it was only
moderately ugly, and here and there an old white, timbered house
still testified to the fact that it had once been country. On this
fine Sunday afternoon the population were in the streets, and
presented all that long narrow-headedness, that twist and
distortion of feature, that perfect absence of beauty in face,
figure, and dress, which is the glory of the Briton who has been
for three generations in a town. 'And my great-grandfather'--
thought Felix--'did all this! God rest his soul!'
At a rather new church on the very top they halted, and went in to
inspect the Morton memorials. There they were, in dedicated
corners. 'Edmund and his wife Catherine'--'Charles Edmund and his
wife Florence'--'Maurice Edmund and his wife Dorothy.' Clara had
set her foot down against 'Stanley and his wife Clara' being in the
fourth; her soul was above ploughs, and she, of course, intended to
be buried at Becket, as Clara, dowager Lady Freeland, for her
efforts in regard to the land. Felix, who had a tendency to note
how things affected other people, watched Derek's inspection of
these memorials and marked that they excited in him no tendency to
ribaldry. The boy, indeed, could hardly be expected to see in them
what Felix saw--an epitome of the great, perhaps fatal, change that
had befallen his native country; a record of the beginning of that
far-back fever, whose course ran ever faster, which had emptied
country into town and slowly, surely, changed the whole spirit of
life. When Edmund Moreton, about 1780, took the infection
disseminated by the development of machinery, and left the farming
of his acres to make money, that thing was done which they were all
now talking about trying to undo, with their cries of: "Back to the
land! Back to peace and sanity in the shade of the elms! Back to
the simple and patriarchal state of feeling which old documents
disclose. Back to a time before these little squashed heads and
bodies and features jutted every which way; before there were long
squashed streets of gray houses; long squashed chimneys emitting
smoke-blight; long squashed rows of graves; and long squashed
columns of the daily papers. Back to well-fed countrymen who could
not read, with Common rights, and a kindly feeling for old
'Moretons,' who had a kindly feeling for them!" Back to all that?
A dream! Sirs! A dream! There was nothing for it now, but--
progress! Progress! On with the dance! Let engines rip, and the
little, squash-headed fellows with them! Commerce, literature,
religion, science, politics, all taking a hand; what a glorious
chance had money, ugliness, and ill will! Such were the
reflections of Felix before the brass tablet:
"IN LOVING MEMORY OF
EDMUND MORTON
AND
HIS DEVOTED WIFE
CATHERINE.
AT REST IN THE LORD. A.D., 1816."
From the church they went about their proper business, to interview
a Mr. Pogram, of the firm of Pogram & Collet, solicitors, in whose
hands the interests of many citizens of Transham and the country
round were almost securely deposited. He occupied, curiously
enough, the house where Edmund Morton himself had lived, conducting
his works on the one hand and the squirearchy of the parish on the
other. Incorporated now into the line of a long, loose street, it
still stood rather apart from its neighbors, behind some large
shrubs and trees of the holmoak variety.
Mr. Pogram, who was finishing his Sunday after-lunch cigar, was a
short, clean-shaved man with strong cheeks and those rather lustful
gray-blue eyes which accompany a sturdy figure. He rose when they
were introduced, and, uncrossing his fat little thighs, asked what
he could do for them.
Felix propounded the story of the arrest, so far as might be, in
words of one syllable, avoiding the sentimental aspect of the
question, and finding it hard to be on the side of disorder, as any
modern writer might. There was something, however, about Mr.
Pogram that reassured him. The small fellow looked a fighter--
looked as if he would sympathize with Tryst's want of a woman about
him. The tusky but soft-hearted little brute kept nodding his
round, sparsely covered head while he listened, exuding a smell of
lavender-water, cigars, and gutta-percha. When Felix ceased he
said, rather dryly:
"Sir Gerald Malloring? Yes. Sir Gerald's country agents, I rather
think, are Messrs. Porter of Worcester. Quite so."
And a conviction that Mr. Pogram thought they should have been
Messrs. Pogram & Collet of Transham confirmed in Felix the feeling
that they had come to the right man.
"I gather," Mr. Pogram said, and he looked at Nedda with a glance
from which he obviously tried to remove all earthly desires, "that
you, sir, and your nephew wish to go and see the man. Mrs. Pogram
will be delighted to show Miss Freeland our garden. Your great-
grandfather, sir, on the mother's side, lived in this house.
Delighted to meet you; often heard of your books; Mrs. Pogram has
read one--let me see--'The Bannister,' was it?"
"'The Balustrade,'" Felix answered gently.
Mr. Pogram rang the bell. "Quite so," he said. "Assizes are just
over so that he can't come up for trial till August or September;
pity--great pity! Bail in cases of arson--for a laborer, very
doubtful! Ask your mistress to come, please."
There entered a faded rose of a woman on whom Mr. Pogram in his
time had evidently made a great impression. A vista of two or
three little Pograms behind her was hastily removed by the maid.
And they all went into the garden.
"Through here," said Mr. Pogram, coming to a side door in the
garden wall, "we can make a short cut to the police station. As we
go along I shall ask you one or two blunt questions." And he
thrust out his under lip:
"For instance, what's your interest in this matter?"
Before Felix could answer, Derek had broken in:
"My uncle has come out of kindness. It's my affair, sir. The man
has been tyrannously treated."
Mr. Pogram cocked his eye. "Yes, yes; no doubt, no doubt! He's
not confessed, I understand?"
"No; but--"
Mr. Pogram laid a finger on his lips.
"Never say die; that's what we're here for. So," he went on,
"you're a rebel; Socialist, perhaps. Dear me! Well, we're all of
us something, nowadays--I'm a humanitarian myself. Often say to
Mrs. Pogram--humanity's the thing in this age--and so it is! Well,
now, what line shall we take?" And he rubbed his hands. "Shall we
have a try at once to upset what evidence they've got? We should
want a strong alibi. Our friends here will commit if they can--
nobody likes arson. I understand he was sleeping in your cottage.
His room, now? Was it on the ground floor?"
"Yes; but--"
Mr. Pogram frowned, as who should say: Ah! Be careful! "He had
better reserve his defence and give us time to turn round," he said
rather shortly.
They had arrived at the police station and after a little parley
were ushered into the presence of Tryst.
The big laborer was sitting on the stool in his cell, leaning back
against the wall, his hands loose and open at his sides. His gaze
passed at once from Felix and Mr. Pogram, who were in advance, to
Derek; and the dumb soul seemed suddenly to look through, as one
may see all there is of spirit in a dog reach out to its master.
This was the first time Felix had seen him who had caused already
so much anxiety, and that broad, almost brutal face, with the
yearning fidelity in its tragic eyes, made a powerful impression on
him. It was the sort of face one did not forget and might be glad
of not remembering in dreams. What had put this yearning spirit
into so gross a frame, destroying its solid coherence? Why could
not Tryst have been left by nature just a beer-loving serf, devoid
of grief for his dead wife, devoid of longing for the nearest he
could get to her again, devoid of susceptibility to this young
man's influence? And the thought of all that was before the mute
creature, sitting there in heavy, hopeless patience, stung Felix's
heart so that he could hardly bear to look him in the face.
Derek had taken the man's thick, brown hand; Felix could see with
what effort the boy was biting back his feelings.
"This is Mr. Pogram, Bob. A solicitor who'll do all he can for
you."
Felix looked at Mr. Pogram. The little man was standing with arms
akimbo; his face the queerest mixture of shrewdness and compassion,
and he was giving off an almost needlessly strong scent of gutta-
percha.
"Yes, my man," he said, "you and I are going to have a talk when
these gentlemen have done with you," and, turning on his heel, he
began to touch up the points of his little pink nails with a
penknife, in front of the constable who stood outside the cell
door, with his professional air of giving a man a chance.
Invaded by a feeling, apt to come to him in Zoos, that he was
watching a creature who had no chance to escape being watched,
Felix also turned; but, though his eyes saw not, his ears could not
help hearing.
"Forgive me, Bob! It's I who got you into this!"
"No, sir; naught to forgive. I'll soon be back, and then they'll
see!"
By the reddening of Mr. Pogram's ears Felix formed the opinion that
the little man, also, could hear.
"Tell her not to fret, Mr. Derek. I'd like a shirt, in case I've
got to stop. The children needn' know where I be; though I an't
ashamed."
"It may be a longer job than you think, Bob."
In the silence that followed Felix could not help turning. The
laborer's eyes were moving quickly round his cell, as if for the
first time he realized that he was shut up; suddenly he brought
those big hands of his together and clasped them between his knees,
and again his gaze ran round the cell. Felix heard the clearing of
a throat close by, and, more than ever conscious of the scent of
gutta-percha, grasped its connection with compassion in the heart
of Mr. Pogram. He caught Derek's muttered, "Don't ever think we're
forgetting you, Bob," and something that sounded like, "And don't
ever say you did it." Then, passing Felix and the little lawyer,
the boy went out. His head was held high, but tears were running
down his cheeks. Felix followed.
A bank of clouds, gray-white, was rising just above the red-tiled
roofs, but the sun still shone brightly. And the thought of the
big laborer sitting there knocked and knocked at Felix's heart
mournfully, miserably. He had a warmer feeling for his young
nephew than he had ever had. Mr. Pogram rejoined them soon, and
they walked on together,
"Well?" said Felix.
Mr. Pogram answered in a somewhat grumpy voice:
"Not guilty, and reserve defence. You have influence, young man!
Dumb as a waiter. Poor devil!" And not another word did he say
till they had re-entered his garden.
Here the ladies, surrounded by many little Pograms, were having
tea. And seated next the little lawyer, whose eyes were fixed on
Nedda, Felix was able to appreciate that in happier mood he exhaled
almost exclusively the scent of lavender-water and cigars.
CHAPTER XXIII
On their way back to Becket, after the visit to Tryst, Felix and
Nedda dropped Derek half-way on the road to Joyfields. They found
that the Becket household already knew of the arrest. Woven into a
dirge on the subject of 'the Land,' the last town doings, and
adventures on golf courses, it formed the genial topic of the
dinner-table; for the Bulgarian with his carbohydrates was already
a wonder of the past. The Bigwigs of this week-end were quite a
different lot from those of three weeks ago, and comparatively
homogeneous, having only three different plans for settling the
land question, none of which, fortunately, involved any more real
disturbance of the existing state of things than the potato, brown-
bread plan, for all were based on the belief held by the
respectable press, and constructive portions of the community, that
omelette can be made without breaking eggs. On one thing alone,
the whole house party was agreed--the importance of the question.
Indeed, a sincere conviction on this point was like the card one
produces before one is admitted to certain functions. No one came
to Becket without it; or, if he did, he begged, borrowed, or stole
it the moment he smelled Clara's special pot-pourri in the hall;
and, though he sometimes threw it out of the railway-carriage
window in returning to town, there was nothing remarkable about
that. The conversational debauch of the first night's dinner--and,
alas! there were only two even at Becket during a week-end--had
undoubtedly revealed the feeling, which had set in of late, that
there was nothing really wrong with the condition of the
agricultural laborer, the only trouble being that the unreasonable
fellow did not stay on the land. It was believed that Henry
Wiltram, in conjunction with Colonel Martlett, was on the point of
promoting a policy for imposing penalties on those who attempted to
leave it without good reason, such reason to be left to the
discretion of impartial district boards, composed each of one
laborer, one farmer, and one landowner, decision going by favor of
majority. And though opinion was rather freely expressed that,
since the voting would always be two to one against, this might
trench on the liberty of the subject, many thought that the
interests of the country were so much above this consideration that
something of the sort would be found, after all, to be the best
arrangement. The cruder early notions of resettling the land by
fostering peasant proprietorship, with habitable houses and
security of tenure, were already under a cloud, since it was more
than suspected that they would interfere unduly with the game laws
and other soundly vested interests. Mere penalization of those who
(or whose fathers before them) had at great pains planted so much
covert, enclosed so much common, and laid so much country down in
grass was hardly a policy for statesmen. A section of the guests,
and that perhaps strongest because most silent, distinctly favored
this new departure of Henry Wiltram's. Coupled with his swinging
corn tax, it was indubitably a stout platform.
A second section of the guests spoke openly in favor of Lord
Settleham's policy of good-will. The whole thing, they thought,
must be voluntary, and they did not see any reason why, if it were
left to the kindness and good intentions of the landowner, there
should be any land question at all. Boards would be formed in
every county on which such model landowners as Sir Gerald
Malloring, or Lord Settleham himself, would sit, to apply the
principles of goodwill. Against this policy the only criticism was
levelled by Felix. He could have agreed, he said, if he had not
noticed that Lord Settleham, and nearly all landowners, were
thoroughly satisfied with their existing good-will and averse to
any changes in their education that might foster an increase of it.
If--he asked--landowners were so full of good-will, and so
satisfied that they could not be improved in that matter, why had
they not already done what was now proposed, and settled the land
question? He himself believed that the land question, like any
other, was only capable of settlement through improvement in the
spirit of all concerned, but he found it a little difficult to
credit Lord Settleham and the rest of the landowners with sincerity
in the matter so long as they were unconscious of any need for
their own improvement. According to him, they wanted it both ways,
and, so far as he could see, they meant to have it!
His use of the word sincere, in connection with Lord Settleham, was
at once pounced on. He could not know Lord Settleham--one of the
most sincere of men. Felix freely admitted that he did not, and
hastened to explain that he did not question the--er--parliamentary
sincerity of Lord Settleham and his followers. He only ventured to
doubt whether they realized the hold that human nature had on them.
His experience, he said, of the houses where they had been bred,
and the seminaries where they had been trained, had convinced him
that there was still a conspiracy on foot to blind Lord Settleham
and those others concerning all this; and, since they were
themselves part of the conspiracy, there was very little danger of
their unmasking it. At this juncture Felix was felt to have
exceeded the limit of fair criticism, and only that toleration
toward literary men of a certain reputation, in country houses, as
persons brought there to say clever and irresponsible things,
prevented people from taking him seriously.
The third section of the guests, unquestionably more static than
the others, confined themselves to pointing out that, though the
land question was undoubtedly serious, nothing whatever would
result from placing any further impositions upon landowners. For,
after all, what was land? Simply capital invested in a certain
way, and very poorly at that. And what was capital? Simply a
means of causing wages to be paid. And whether they were paid to
men who looked after birds and dogs, loaded your guns, beat your
coverts, or drove you to the shoot, or paid to men who ploughed and
fertilized the land, what did it matter? To dictate to a man to
whom he was to pay wages was, in the last degree, un-English.
Everybody knew the fate which had come, or was coming, upon
capital. It was being driven out of the country by leaps and
bounds--though, to be sure, it still perversely persisted in
yielding every year a larger revenue by way of income tax. And it
would be dastardly to take advantage of land just because it was
the only sort of capital which could not fly the country in times
of need. Stanley himself, though--as became a host--he spoke
little and argued not at all, was distinctly of this faction; and
Clara sometimes felt uneasy lest her efforts to focus at Becket all
interest in the land question should not quite succeed in
outweighing the passivity of her husband's attitude. But, knowing
that it is bad policy to raise the whip too soon, she trusted to
her genius to bring him 'with one run at the finish,' as they say,
and was content to wait.
There was universal sympathy with the Mallorings. If a model
landlord like Malloring had trouble with his people, who--who
should be immune? Arson! It was the last word! Felix, who
secretly shared Nedda's horror of the insensate cruelty of flames,
listened, nevertheless, to the jubilation that they had caught the
fellow, with profound disturbance. For the memory of the big
laborer seated against the wall, his eyes haunting round his cell,
quarrelled fiercely with his natural abhorrence of any kind of
violence, and his equally natural dislike of what brought anxiety
into his own life--and the life, almost as precious, of his little
daughter. Scarcely a word of the evening's conversation but gave
him in high degree the feeling: How glib all this is, how far from
reality! How fatted up with shell after shell of comfort and
security! What do these people know, what do they realize, of the
pressure and beat of raw life that lies behind--what do even I, who
have seen this prisoner, know? For us it's as simple as killing a
rat that eats our corn, or a flea that sucks our blood. Arson!
Destructive brute--lock him up! And something in Felix said: For
order, for security, this may be necessary. But something also
said: Our smug attitude is odious!
He watched his little daughter closely, and several times marked
the color rush up in her face, and once could have sworn he saw
tears in her eyes. If the temper of this talk were trying to him,
hardened at a hundred dinner-tables, what must it be to a young and
ardent creature! And he was relieved to find, on getting to the
drawing-room, that she had slipped behind the piano and was
chatting quietly with her Uncle John. . . .
As to whether this or that man liked her, Nedda perhaps was not
more ignorant than other women; and she had noted a certain warmth
and twinkle in Uncle John's eyes the other evening, a certain
rather jolly tendency to look at her when he should have been
looking at the person to whom he was talking; so that she felt
toward him a trustful kindliness not altogether unmingled with a
sense that he was in that Office which controls the destinies of
those who 'get into trouble.' The motives even of statesmen, they
say, are mixed; how much more so, then, of girls in love! Tucked
away behind a Steinway, which instinct told her was not for use,
she looked up under her lashes at her uncle's still military figure
and said softly:
"It was awfully good of you to come, too, Uncle John."
And John, gazing down at that round, dark head, and those slim,
pretty, white shoulders, answered:
"Not at all--very glad to get a breath of fresh air."
And he stealthily tightened his white waistcoat--a rite neglected
of late; the garment seemed to him at the moment unnecessarily
loose.
"You have so much experience, Uncle. Do you think violent
rebellion is ever justifiable?"
"I do not."
Nedda sighed. "I'm glad you think that," she murmured, "because I
don't think it is, either. I do so want you to like Derek, Uncle
John, because--it's a secret from nearly every one--he and I are
engaged."
John jerked his head up a little, as though he had received a
slight blow. The news was not palatable. He kept his form,
however, and answered:
"Oh! Really! Ah!"
Nedda said still more softly: "Please don't judge him by the other
night; he wasn't very nice then, I know."
John cleared his throat.
Instinct warned her that he agreed, and she said rather sadly:
"You see, we're both awfully young. It must be splendid to have
experience."
Over John's face, with its double line between the brows, its
double line in the thin cheeks, its single firm line of mouth
beneath a gray moustache, there passed a little grimace.
"As to being young," he said, "that'll change for the--er--better
only too fast."
What was it in this girl that reminded him of that one with whom he
had lived but two years, and mourned fifteen? Was it her youth?
Was it that quick way of lifting her eyes, and looking at him with
such clear directness? Or the way her hair grew? Or what?
"Do you like the people here, Uncle John?"
The question caught John, as it were, between wind and water.
Indeed, all her queries seemed to be trying to incite him to those
wide efforts of mind which bring into use the philosophic nerve;
and it was long since he had generalized afresh about either things
or people, having fallen for many years past into the habit of
reaching his opinions down out of some pigeonhole or other. To
generalize was a youthful practice that one took off as one takes
certain garments off babies when they come to years of discretion.
But since he seemed to be in for it, he answered rather shortly:
"Not at all."
Nedda sighed again.
"Nor do I. They make me ashamed of myself."
John, whose dislike of the Bigwigs was that of the dogged worker of
this life for the dogged talkers, wrinkled his brows:
"How's that?"
"They make me feel as if I were part of something heavy sitting on
something else, and all the time talking about how to make things
lighter for the thing it's sitting on."
A vague recollection of somebody--some writer, a dangerous one--
having said something of this sort flitted through John.
"Do YOU think England is done for, Uncle--I mean about 'the Land'?"
In spite of his conviction that 'the country was in a bad way,'
John was deeply, intimately shocked by that simple little question.
Done for! Never! Whatever might be happening underneath, there
must be no confession of that. No! the country would keep its
form. The country would breathe through its nose, even if it did
lose the race. It must never know, or let others know, even if it
were beaten. And he said:
"What on earth put that into your head?"
"Only that it seems funny, if we're getting richer and richer, and
yet all the time farther and farther away from the life that every
one agrees is the best for health and happiness. Father put it
into my head, making me look at the little, towny people in
Transham this afternoon. I know I mean to begin at once to learn
about farm work."
"You?" This pretty young thing with the dark head and the pale,
slim shoulders! Farm work! Women were certainly getting queer.
In his department he had almost daily evidence of that!
"I should have thought art was more in your line!"
Nedda looked up at him; and he was touched by that look, so
straight and young.
"It's this. I don't believe Derek will be able to stay in England.
When you feel very strongly about things it must be awfully
difficult to."
In bewilderment John answered:
"Why! I should have said this was the country of all others for
movements, and social work, and--and--cranks--" he paused.
"Yes; but those are all for curing the skin, and I suppose we're
really dying of heart disease, aren't we? Derek feels that,
anyway, and, you see, he's not a bit wise, not even patient--so I
expect he'll have to go. I mean to be ready, anyway."
And Nedda got up. "Only, if he does something rash, don't let them
hurt him, Uncle John, if you can help it."
John felt her soft fingers squeezing his almost desperately, as if
her emotions had for the moment got out of hand. And he was moved,
though he knew that the squeeze expressed feeling for his nephew,
not for himself. When she slid away out of the big room all
friendliness seemed to go out with her, and very soon after he
himself slipped away to the smoking-room. There he was alone, and,
lighting a cigar, because he still had on his long-tailed coat
which did not go with that pipe he would so much have preferred, he
stepped out of the French window into the warm, dark night. He
walked slowly in his evening pumps up a thin path between
columbines and peonies, late tulips, forget-me-nots, and pansies
peering up in the dark with queer, monkey faces. He had a love for
flowers, rather starved for a long time past, and, strangely, liked
to see them, not in the set and orderly masses that should
seemingly have gone with his character, but in wilder beds, where
one never knew what flower was coming next. Once or twice he
stopped and bent down, ascertaining which kind it was, living its
little life down there, then passed on in that mood of stammering
thought which besets men of middle age who walk at night--a mood
caught between memory of aspirations spun and over, and vision of
aspirations that refuse to take shape. Why should they, any more--
what was the use? And turning down another path he came on
something rather taller than himself, that glowed in the darkness
as though a great moon, or some white round body, had floated to
within a few feet of the earth. Approaching, he saw it for what it
was--a little magnolia-tree in the full of its white blossoms.
Those clustering flower-stars, printed before him on the dark coat
of the night, produced in John more feeling than should have been
caused by a mere magnolia-tree; and he smoked somewhat furiously.
Beauty, seeking whom it should upset, seemed, like a girl, to
stretch out arms and say: "I am here!" And with a pang at heart,
and a long ash on his cigar, between lips that quivered oddly, John
turned on his heel and retraced his footsteps to the smoking-room.
It was still deserted. Taking up a Review, he opened it at an
article on 'the Land,' and, fixing his eyes on the first page, did
not read it, but thought: 'That child! What folly! Engaged! H'm!
To that young--! Why, they're babes! And what is it about her
that reminds me--reminds me--What is it? Lucky devil, Felix--to
have her for daughter! Engaged! The little thing's got her
troubles before her. Wish I had! By George, yes--wish I had!'
And with careful fingers he brushed off the ash that had fallen on
his lapel. . . .
The little thing who had her troubles before her, sitting in her
bedroom window, had watched his white front and the glowing point
of his cigar passing down there in the dark, and, though she did
not know that they belonged to him, had thought: 'There's some one
nice, anyway, who likes being out instead of in that stuffy
drawing-room, playing bridge, and talking, talking.' Then she felt
ashamed of her uncharitableness. After all, it was wrong to think
of them like that. They did it for rest after all their hard work;
and she--she did not work at all! If only Aunt Kirsteen would let
her stay at Joyfields, and teach her all that Sheila knew! And
lighting her candles, she opened her diary to write.
"Life," she wrote, "is like looking at the night. One never knows
what's coming, only suspects, as in the darkness you suspect which
trees are what, and try to see whether you are coming to the edge
of anything. . . . A moth has just flown into my candle before I
could stop it! Has it gone quite out of the world? If so, why
should it be different for us? The same great Something makes all
life and death, all light and dark, all love and hate--then why one
fate for one living thing, and the opposite for another? But
suppose there IS nothing after death--would it make me say: 'I'd
rather not live'? It would only make me delight more in life of
every kind. Only human beings brood and are discontented, and
trouble about future life. While Derek and I were sitting in that
field this morning, a bumblebee flew to the bank and tucked its
head into the grass and went to sleep, just tired out with flying
and working at its flowers; it simply snoozed its head down and
went off. We ought to live every minute to the utmost, and when
we're tired out, tuck in our heads and sleep. . . . If only Derek
is not brooding over that poor man! Poor man--all alone in the
dark, with months of misery before him! Poor soul! Oh! I am sorry
for all the unhappiness of people! I can't bear to think of it. I
simply can't." And dropping her pen, Nedda went again to her
window and leaned out. So sweet the air smelled that it made her
ache with delight to breathe it in. Each leaf that lived out
there, each flower, each blade of grass, were sworn to conspiracy
of perfume. And she thought: 'They MUST all love each other; it
all goes together so beautifully!' Then, mingled with the incense
of the night, she caught the savor of woodsmoke. It seemed to make
the whole scent even more delicious, but she thought, bewildered:
'Smoke! Cruel fire--burning the wood that once grew leaves like
those. Oh! it IS so mixed!' It was a thought others have had
before her.
CHAPTER XXIV
To see for himself how it fared with the big laborer at the hands
of Preliminary Justice, Felix went into Transham with Stanley the
following morning. John having departed early for town, the
brothers had not further exchanged sentiments on the subject of
what Stanley called 'the kick-up at Joyfields.' And just as night
will sometimes disperse the brooding moods of nature, so it had
brought to all three the feeling: 'Haven't we made too much of
this? Haven't we been a little extravagant, and aren't we rather
bored with the whole subject?' Arson was arson; a man in prison
more or less was a man in prison more or less! This was especially
Stanley's view, and he took the opportunity to say to Felix: "Look
here, old man, the thing is, of course, to see it in proportion."
It was with this intention, therefore, that Felix entered the
building where the justice of that neighborhood was customarily
dispensed. It was a species of small hall, somewhat resembling a
chapel, with distempered walls, a platform, and benches for the
public, rather well filled that morning--testimony to the stir the
little affair had made. Felix, familiar with the appearance of
London police courts, noted the efforts that had been made to
create resemblance to those models of administration. The justices
of the peace, hastily convoked and four in number, sat on the
platform, with a semicircular backing of high gray screens and a
green baize barrier in front of them, so that their legs and feet
were quite invisible. In this way had been preserved the really
essential feature of all human justice--at whose feet it is well
known one must not look! Their faces, on the contrary, were
entirely exposed to view, and presented that pleasing variety of
type and unanimity of expression peculiar to men keeping an open
mind. Below them, with his face toward the public, was placed a
gray-bearded man at a table also covered with green baize, that
emblem of authority. And to the side, at right angles, raised into
the air, sat a little terrier of a man, with gingery, wired hair,
obviously the more articulate soul of these proceedings. As Felix
sat down to worship, he noticed Mr. Pogram at the green baize
table, and received from the little man a nod and the faintest
whiff of lavender and gutta-percha. The next moment he caught
sight of Derek and Sheila, screwed sideways against one of the
distempered walls, looking, with their frowning faces, for all the
world like two young devils just turned out of hell. They did not
greet him, and Felix set to work to study the visages of Justice.
They impressed him, on the whole, more favorably than he had
expected. The one to his extreme left, with a gray-whiskered face,
was like a large and sleepy cat of mature age, who moved not,
except to write a word now and then on the paper before him, or to
hand back a document. Next to him, a man of middle age with bald
forehead and dark, intelligent eyes seemed conscious now and again
of the body of the court, and Felix thought: 'You have not been a
magistrate long.' The chairman, who sat next, with the moustache
of a heavy dragoon and gray hair parted in the middle, seemed, on
the other hand, oblivious of the public, never once looking at
them, and speaking so that they could not hear him, and Felix
thought: 'You have been a magistrate too long.' Between him and
the terrier man, the last of the four wrote diligently, below a
clean, red face with clipped white moustache and little peaked
beard. And Felix thought: 'Retired naval!' Then he saw that they
were bringing in Tryst. The big laborer advanced between two
constables, his broad, unshaven face held high, and his lowering
eyes, through which his strange and tragical soul seemed looking,
turned this way and that. Felix, who, no more than any one else,
could keep his gaze off the trapped creature, felt again all the
sensations of the previous afternoon.
"Guilty? or, Not guilty?" As if repeating something learned by
heart, Tryst answered: "Not guilty, sir." And his big hands, at
his sides, kept clenching and unclenching. The witnesses, four in
number, began now to give their testimony. A sergeant of police
recounted how he had been first summoned to the scene of burning,
and afterward arrested Tryst; Sir Gerald's agent described the
eviction and threats uttered by the evicted man; two persons, a
stone-breaker and a tramp, narrated that they had seen him going in
the direction of the rick and barn at five o'clock, and coming away
therefrom at five-fifteen. Punctuated by the barking of the
terrier clerk, all this took time, during which there passed
through Felix many thoughts. Here was a man who had done a wicked,
because an antisocial, act; the sort of act no sane person could
defend; an act so barbarous, stupid, and unnatural that the very
beasts of the field would turn noses away from it! How was it,
then, that he himself could not feel incensed? Was it that in
habitually delving into the motives of men's actions he had lost
the power of dissociating what a man did from what he was; had come
to see him, with his thoughts, deeds, and omissions, as a coherent
growth? And he looked at Tryst. The big laborer was staring with
all his soul at Derek. And, suddenly, he saw his nephew stand up--
tilt his dark head back against the wall--and open his mouth to
speak. In sheer alarm Felix touched Mr. Pogram on the arm. The
little square man had already turned; he looked at that moment
extremely like a frog.
"Gentlemen, I wish to say--"
"Who are you? Sit down!" It was the chairman, speaking for the
first time in a voice that could be heard.
"I wish to say that he is not responsible. I--"
"Silence! Silence, sir! Sit down!"
Felix saw his nephew waver, and Sheila pulling at his sleeve; then,
to his infinite relief, the boy sat down. His sallow face was red;
his thin lips compressed to a white line. And slowly under the
eyes of the whole court he grew deadly pale.
Distracted by fear that the boy might make another scene, Felix
followed the proceedings vaguely. They were over soon enough:
Tryst committed, defence reserved, bail refused--all as Mr. Pogram
had predicted.
Derek and Sheila had vanished, and in the street outside, idle at
this hour of a working-day, were only the cars of the four
magistrates; two or three little knots of those who had been in
court, talking of the case; and in the very centre of the street,
an old, dark-whiskered man, lame, and leaning on a stick.
"Very nearly being awkward," said the voice of Mr. Pogram in his
ear. "I say, do you think--no hand himself, surely no real hand
himself?"
Felix shook his head violently. If the thought had once or twice
occurred to him, he repudiated it with all his force when shaped by
another's mouth--and such a mouth, so wide and rubbery!
"No, no! Strange boy! Extravagant sense of honour--too sensitive,
that's all!"
"Quite so," murmured Mr. Pogram soothingly. "These young people!
We live in a queer age, Mr. Freeland. All sorts of ideas about,
nowadays. Young men like that--better in the army--safe in the
army. No ideas there!"
"What happens now?" said Felix.
"Wait!" said Mr. Pogram. "Nothing else for it--wait. Three
months--twiddle his thumbs. Bad system! Rotten!"
"And suppose in the end he's proved innocent?"
Mr. Pogram shook his little round head, whose ears were very red.
"Ah!" he said: "Often say to my wife: 'Wish I weren't a
humanitarian!' Heart of india-rubber--excellent thing--the
greatest blessing. Well, good-morning! Anything you want to say
at any time, let me know!" And exhaling an overpowering whiff of
gutta-percha, he grasped Felix's hand and passed into a house on
the door of which was printed in brazen letters: "Edward Pogram,
James Collet. Solicitors. Agents."
On leaving the little humanitarian, Felix drifted back toward the
court. The cars were gone, the groups dispersed; alone, leaning on
his stick, the old, dark-whiskered man stood like a jackdaw with a
broken wing. Yearning, at that moment, for human intercourse,
Felix went up to him.
"Fine day," he said.
"Yes, sir, 'tis fine enough." And they stood silent, side by side.
The gulf fixed by class and habit between soul and human soul
yawned before Felix as it had never before. Stirred and troubled,
he longed to open his heart to this old, ragged, dark-eyed,
whiskered creature with the game leg, who looked as if he had
passed through all the thorns and thickets of hard and primitive
existence; he longed that the old fellow should lay bare to him his
heart. And for the life of him he could not think of any mortal
words which might bridge the unreal gulf between them. At last he
said:
"You a native here?"
"No, sir. From over Malvern way. Livin' here with my darter,
owin' to my leg. Her 'usband works in this here factory."
"And I'm from London," Felix said.
"Thart you were. Fine place, London, they say!"
Felix shook his head. "Not so fine as this Worcestershire of
yours."
The old man turned his quick, dark gaze. "Aye!" he said,
"people'll be a bit nervy-like in towns, nowadays. The country be
a good place for a healthy man, too; I don't want no better place
than the country--never could abide bein' shut in."
"There aren't so very many like you, judging by the towns."
The old man smiled--that smile was the reverse of a bitter tonic
coated with sweet stuff to make it palatable.
"'Tes the want of a life takes 'em," he said. "There's not a many
like me. There's not so many as can't do without the smell of the
earth. With these 'ere newspapers--'tesn't taught nowadays. The
boys and gells they goes to school, and 'tes all in favor of the
towns there. I can't work no more; I'm 's good as gone meself; but
I feel sometimes I'll 'ave to go back. I don't like the streets,
an' I guess 'tes worse in London."
"Ah! Perhaps," Felix said, "there are more of us like you than you
think."
Again the old man turned his dark, quick glance.
"Well, an' I widden say no to that, neither. I've seen 'em
terrible homesick. 'Tes certain sure there's lots would never go,
ef 'twasn't so mortial hard on the land. 'Tisn't a bare livin',
after that. An' they're put upon, right and left they're put upon.
'Tes only a man here and there that 'as something in 'im too
strong. I widden never 'ave stayed in the country ef 'twasn't that
I couldn't stand the town life. 'Tes like some breeds o' cattle--
you take an' put 'em out o' their own country, an' you 'ave to take
an' put 'em back again. Only some breeds, though. Others they
don' mind where they go. Well, I've seen the country pass in my
time, as you might say; where you used to see three men you only
see one now."
"Are they ever going back onto the land?"
"They tark about it. I read my newspaper reg'lar. In some places
I see they're makin' unions. That an't no good."
"Why?"
The old man smiled again.
"Why! Think of it! The land's different to anythin' else--that's
why! Different work, different hours, four men's work to-day and
one's to-morrow. Work land wi' unions, same as they've got in this
'ere factory, wi' their eight hours an' their do this an' don' do
that? No! You've got no weather in factories, an' such-like. On
the land 'tes a matter o' weather. On the land a man must be ready
for anythin' at any time; you can't work it no other way. 'Tes
along o' God's comin' into it; an' no use pullin' this way an'
that. Union says to me: You mustn't work after hours. Hoh! I've
'ad to set up all night wi' ship an' cattle hundreds o' times, an'
no extra for it. 'Tes not that way they'll do any good to keep
people on the land. Oh, no!"
"How, then?"
"Well, you'll want new laws, o' course, to prevent farmers an'
landowners takin' their advantage; you want laws to build new
cottages; but mainly 'tes a case of hands together; can't be no
other--the land's so ticklish. If 'tesn't hands together, 'tes
nothing. I 'ad a master once that was never content so long's we
wasn't content. That farm was better worked than any in the
parish."
"Yes, but the difficulty is to get masters that can see the other
side; a man doesn't care much to look at home."
The old man's dark eyes twinkled.
'No; an' when 'e does, 'tes generally to say: 'Lord, an't I right,
an' an't they wrong, just?' That's powerful customary!"
"It is," said Felix; "God bless us all!"
"Ah! You may well say that, sir; an' we want it, too. A bit more
wages wouldn't come amiss, neither. An' a bit more freedom; 'tes a
man's liberty 'e prizes as well as money."
"Did you hear about this arson case?"
The old man cast a glance this way and that before he answered in a
lower voice:
"They say 'e was put out of his cottage. I've seen men put out for
votin' Liberal; I've seen 'em put out for free-thinkin'; all sorts
o' things I seen em put out for. 'Tes that makes the bad blood. A
man wants to call 'is soul 'is own, when all's said an' done. An'
'e can't, not in th' old country, unless 'e's got the dibs."
"And yet you never thought of emigrating?"
"Thart of it--ah! thart of it hundreds o' times; but some'ow cudden
never bring mysel' to the scratch o' not seein' th' Beacon any
more. I can just see it from 'ere, you know. But there's not so
many like me, an' gettin' fewer every day."
"Yes," murmured Felix, "that I believe."
"'Tes a 'and-made piece o' goods--the land! You has to be fond of
it, same as of your missis and yer chillen. These poor pitiful
fellows that's workin' in this factory, makin' these here Colonial
ploughs--union's all right for them--'tes all mechanical; but a man
on the land, 'e's got to put the land first, whether 'tes his own
or some one else's, or he'll never do no good; might as well go for
a postman, any day. I'm keepin' of you, though, with my tattle!"
In truth, Felix had looked at the old man, for the accursed
question had begun to worry him: Ought he or not to give the lame
old fellow something? Would it hurt his feelings? Why could he
not say simply: 'Friend, I'm better off than you; help me not to
feel so unfairly favored'? Perhaps he might risk it. And, diving
into his trousers pockets, he watched the old man's eyes. If they
followed his hand, he would risk it. But they did not.
Withdrawing his hand, he said:
"Have a cigar?"
The old fellow's dark face twinkled.
"I don' know," he said, "as I ever smoked one; but I can have a
darned old try!"
"Take the lot," said Felix, and shuffled into the other's pocket
the contents of his cigar-case. "If you get through one, you'll
want the rest. They're pretty good."
"Ah!" said the old man. "Shuldn' wonder, neither."
"Good-by. I hope your leg will soon be better."
"Thank 'ee, sir. Good-by, thank 'ee!"
Looking back from the turning, Felix saw him still standing there
in the middle of the empty street.
Having undertaken to meet his mother, who was returning this
afternoon to Becket, he had still two hours to put away, and
passing Mr. Pogram's house, he turned into a path across a clover-
field and sat down on a stile. He had many thoughts, sitting at
the foot of this little town--which his great-grandfather had
brought about. And chiefly he thought of the old man he had been
talking to, sent there, as it seemed to him, by Providence, to
afford a prototype for his 'The Last of the Laborers.' Wonderful
that the old fellow should talk of loving 'the Land,' whereon he
must have toiled for sixty years or so, at a number of shillings
per week, that would certainly not buy the cigars he had shovelled
into that ragged pocket. Wonderful! And yet, a marvellous sweet
thing, when all was said--this land! Changing its sheen and
texture, the feel of its air, its very scent, from day to day.
This land with myriad offspring of flowers and flying folk; the
majestic and untiring march of seasons: Spring and its wistful
ecstasy of saplings, and its yearning, wild, wind-loosened heart;
gleam and song, blossom and cloud, and the swift white rain; each
upturned leaf so little and so glad to flutter; each wood and field
so full of peeping things! Summer! Ah! Summer, when on the
solemn old trees the long days shone and lingered, and the glory of
the meadows and the murmur of life and the scent of flowers
bewildered tranquillity, till surcharge of warmth and beauty
brooded into dark passion, and broke! And Autumn, in mellow haze
down on the fields and woods; smears of gold already on the
beeches, smears of crimson on the rowans, the apple-trees still
burdened, and a flax-blue sky well-nigh merging with the misty air;
the cattle browsing in the lingering golden stillness; not a breath
to fan the blue smoke of the weed-fires--and in the fields no one
moving--who would disturb such mellow peace? And Winter! The long
spaces, the long dark; and yet--and yet, what delicate loveliness
of twig tracery; what blur of rose and brown and purple caught in
the bare boughs and in the early sunset sky! What sharp dark
flights of birds in the gray-white firmament! Who cared what
season held in its arms this land that had bred them all!
Not wonderful that into the veins of those who nursed it, tending,
watching its perpetual fertility, should be distilled a love so
deep and subtle that they could not bear to leave it, to abandon
its hills, and greenness, and bird-songs, and all the impress of
their forefathers throughout the ages.
Like so many of his fellows--cultured moderns, alien to the larger
forms of patriotism, that rich liquor brewed of maps and figures,
commercial profit, and high-cockalorum, which served so perfectly
to swell smaller heads--Felix had a love of his native land
resembling love for a woman, a kind of sensuous chivalry, a passion
based on her charm, on her tranquillity, on the power she had to
draw him into her embrace, to make him feel that he had come from
her, from her alone, and into her alone was going back. And this
green parcel of his native land, from which the half of his blood
came, and that the dearest half, had a potency over his spirit that
he might well be ashamed of in days when the true Briton was a
town-bred creature with a foot of fancy in all four corners of the
globe. There was ever to him a special flavor about the elm-girt
fields, the flowery coppices, of this country of the old Moretons,
a special fascination in its full, white-clouded skies, its grass-
edged roads, its pied and creamy cattle, and the blue-green loom of
the Malvern hills. If God walked anywhere for him, it was surely
here. Sentiment! Without sentiment, without that love, each for
his own corner, 'the Land' was lost indeed! Not if all Becket blew
trumpets till kingdom came, would 'the Land' be reformed, if they
lost sight of that! To fortify men in love for their motherland,
to see that insecurity, grinding poverty, interference, petty
tyranny, could no longer undermine that love--this was to be,
surely must be, done! Monotony? Was that cry true? What work now
performed by humble men was less monotonous than work on the land?
What work was even a tenth part so varied? Never quite the same
from day to day: Now weeding, now hay, now roots, now hedging; now
corn, with sowing, reaping, threshing, stacking, thatching; the
care of beasts, and their companionship; sheep-dipping, shearing,
wood-gathering, apple-picking, cider-making; fashioning and tarring
gates; whitewashing walls; carting; trenching--never, never two
days quite the same! Monotony! The poor devils in factories, in
shops, in mines; poor devils driving 'busses, punching tickets,
cleaning roads; baking; cooking; sewing; typing! Stokers; machine-
tenders; brick-layers; dockers; clerks! Ah! that great company
from towns might well cry out: Monotony! True, they got their
holidays; true, they had more social life--a point that might well
be raised at Becket: Holidays and social life for men on the soil!
But--and suddenly Felix thought of the long, long holiday that was
before the laborer Tryst. 'Twiddle his thumbs'--in the words of
the little humanitarian--twiddle his thumbs in a space twelve feet
by seven! No sky to see, no grass to smell, no beast to bear him
company; no anything--for, what resources in himself had this poor
creature? No anything, but to sit with tragic eyes fixed on the
wall before him for eighty days and eighty nights, before they
tried him. And then--not till then--would his punishment for that
moment's blind revenge for grievous wrong begin! What on this
earth of God's was more disproportioned, and wickedly extravagant,
more crassly stupid, than the arrangements of his most perfect
creature, man? What a devil was man, who could yet rise to such
sublime heights of love and heroism! What a ferocious brute, the
most ferocious and cold-blooded brute that lived! Of all creatures
most to be stampeded by fear into a callous torturer! 'Fear'--
thought Felix--'fear! Not momentary panic, such as makes our
brother animals do foolish things; conscious, calculating fear,
paralyzing the reason of our minds and the generosity of our
hearts. A detestable thing Tryst has done, a hateful act; but his
punishment will be twentyfold as hateful!'
And, unable to sit and think of it, Felix rose and walked on
through the fields. . . .
CHAPTER XXV
He was duly at Transham station in time for the London train, and,
after a minute consecrated to looking in the wrong direction, he
saw his mother already on the platform with her bag, an air-
cushion, and a beautifully neat roll.
'Travelling third!' he thought. 'Why will she do these things?'
Slightly flushed, she kissed Felix with an air of abstraction.
"How good of you to meet me, darling!"
Felix pointed in silence to the crowded carriage from which she had
emerged. Frances Freeland looked a little rueful. "It would have
been delightful," she said. "There was a dear baby there and, of
course, I couldn't have the window down, so it WAS rather hot."
Felix, who could just see the dear baby, said dryly:
"So that's how you go about, is it? Have you had any lunch?"
Frances Freeland put her hand under his arm. "Now, don't fuss,
darling! Here's sixpence for the porter. There's only one trunk--
it's got a violet label. Do you know them? They're so useful.
You see them at once. I must get you some."
"Let me take those things. You won't want this cushion. I'll let
the air out."
"I'm afraid you won't be able, dear. It's quite the best screw
I've ever come across--a splendid thing; I can't get it undone."
"Ah!" said Felix. "And now we may as well go out to the car!"
He was conscious of a slight stoppage in his mother's footsteps and
rather a convulsive squeeze of her hand on his arm. Looking at her
face, he discovered it occupied with a process whose secret he
could not penetrate, a kind of disarray of her features, rapidly
and severely checked, and capped with a resolute smile. They had
already reached the station exit, where Stanley's car was snorting.
Frances Freeland looked at it, then, mounting rather hastily, sat,
compressing her lips.
When they were off, Felix said:
"Would you like to stop at the church and have a look at the
brasses to your grandfather and the rest of them?"
His mother, who had slipped her hand under his arm again, answered:
"No, dear; I've seen them. The church is not at all beautiful. I
like the old church at Becket so much better; it is such a pity
your great-grandfather was not buried there."
She had never quite got over the lack of 'niceness' about those
ploughs.
Going, as was the habit of Stanley's car, at considerable speed,
Felix was not at first certain whether the peculiar little squeezes
his arm was getting were due to the bounds of the creature under
them or to some cause more closely connected with his mother, and
it was not till they shaved a cart at the turning of the Becket
drive that it suddenly dawned on him that she was in terror. He
discovered it in looking round just as she drew her smile over a
spasm of her face and throat. And, leaning out of the car, he
said:
"Drive very slowly, Batter; I want to look at the trees."
A little sigh rewarded him. Since SHE had said nothing, He said
nothing, and Clara's words in the hall seemed to him singularly
tactless:
"Oh! I meant to have reminded you, Felix, to send the car back and
take a fly. I thought you knew that Mother's terrified of motors."
And at his mother's answer:
"Oh! no; I quite enjoyed it, dear," he thought: 'Bless her heart!
She IS a stoic!'
Whether or no to tell her of the 'kick-up at Joyfields' exercised
his mind. The question was intricate, for she had not yet been
informed that Nedda and Derek were engaged, and Felix did not feel
at liberty to forestall the young people. That was their business.
On the other hand, she would certainly glean from Clara a garbled
understanding of the recent events at Joyfields, if she were not
first told of them by himself. And he decided to tell her, with
the natural trepidation of one who, living among principles and
theories, never quite knew what those, for whom each fact is
unrelated to anything else under the moon, were going to think.
Frances Freeland, he knew well, kept facts and theories especially
unrelated, or, rather, modified her facts to suit her theories,
instead of, like Felix, her theories to suit her facts. For
example, her instinctive admiration for Church and State, her
instinctive theory that they rested on gentility and people who
were nice, was never for a moment shaken when she saw a half-
starved baby of the slums. Her heart would impel her to pity and
feed the poor little baby if she could, but to correlate the
creature with millions of other such babies, and those millions
with the Church and State, would not occur to her. And if Felix
made an attempt to correlate them for her she would look at him and
think: 'Dear boy! How good he is! I do wish he wouldn't let that
line come in his forehead; it does so spoil it!' And she would
say: "Yes, darling, I know, it's very sad; only I'm NOT clever."
And, if a Liberal government chanced to be in power, would add: "Of
course, I do think this Government is dreadful. I MUST show you a
sermon of the dear Bishop of Walham. I cut it out of the 'Daily
Mystery.' He puts things so well--he always has such nice ideas."
And Felix, getting up, would walk a little and sit down again too
suddenly. Then, as if entreating him to look over her want of
'cleverness,' she would put out a hand that, for all its whiteness,
had never been idle and smooth his forehead. It had sometimes
touched him horribly to see with what despair she made attempts to
follow him in his correlating efforts, and with what relief she
heard him cease enough to let her say: "Yes, dear; only, I must
show you this new kind of expanding cork. It's simply splendid.
It bottles up everything!" And after staring at her just a moment
he would acquit her of irony. Very often after these occasions he
had thought, and sometimes said: "Mother, you're the best
Conservative I ever met." She would glance at him then, with a
special loving doubtfulness, at a loss as to whether or no he had
designed to compliment her.
When he had given her half an hour to rest he made his way to the
blue corridor, where a certain room was always kept for her, who
never occupied it long enough at a time to get tired of it. She
was lying on a sofa in a loose gray cashmere gown. The windows
were open, and the light breeze just moved in the folds of the
chintz curtains and stirred perfume from a bowl of pinks--her
favorite flowers. There was no bed in this bedroom, which in all
respects differed from any other in Clara's house, as though the
spirit of another age and temper had marched in and dispossessed
the owner. Felix had a sensation that one was by no means all body
here. On the contrary. There was not a trace of the body
anywhere; as if some one had decided that the body was not quite
nice. No bed, no wash-stand, no chest of drawers, no wardrobe, no
mirror, not even a jar of Clara's special pot-pourri. And Felix
said:
"This can't be your bedroom, Mother?"
Frances Freeland answered, with a touch of deprecating quizzicality:
"Oh yes, darling. I must show you my arrangements." And she rose.
"This," she said, "you see, goes under there, and that under here;
and that again goes under this. Then they all go under that, and
then I pull this. It's lovely."
"But why?" said Felix.
"Oh! but don't you see? It's so nice; nobody can tell. And it
doesn't give any trouble."
"And when you go to bed?"
"Oh! I just pop my clothes into this and open that. And there I
am. It's simply splendid."
"I see," said Felix. "Do you think I might sit down, or shall I go
through?"
Frances Freeland loved him with her eyes, and said:
"Naughty boy!"
And Felix sat down on what appeared to be a window-seat.
"Well," he said, with slight uneasiness, for she was hovering, "I
think you're wonderful."
Frances Freeland put away an impeachment that she evidently felt to
be too soft.
"Oh! but it's all so simple, darling." And Felix saw that she had
something in her hand, and mind.
"This is my little electric brush. It'll do wonders with your
hair. While you sit there, I'll just try it."
A clicking and a whirring had begun to occur close to his ear, and
something darted like a gadfly at his scalp.
"I came to tell you something serious, Mother."
"Yes, darling; it'll be simply lovely to hear it; and you mustn't
mind this, because it really is a first-rate thing--quite new."
Now, how is it, thought Felix, that any one who loves the new as
she does, when it's made of matter, will not even look at it when
it's made of mind? And, while the little machine buzzed about his
head, he proceeded to detail to her the facts of the state of
things that existed at Joyfields.
When he had finished, she said:
"Now, darling, bend down a little."
Felix bent down. And the little machine began severely tweaking
the hairs on the nape of his neck. He sat up again rather suddenly.
Frances Freeland was contemplating the little machine.
"How very provoking! It's never done that before!"
"Quite so!" Felix murmured. "But about Joyfields?"
"Oh, my dear, it IS such a pity they don't get on with those
Mallorings! I do think it sad they weren't brought up to go to
church."
Felix stared, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry that his
recital had not roused within her the faintest suspicion of
disaster. How he envied her that single-minded power of not seeing
further than was absolutely needful! And suddenly he thought: 'She
really is wonderful! With her love of church, how it must hurt her
that we none of us go, not even John! And yet she never says a
word. There really is width about her; a power of accepting the
inevitable. Never was woman more determined to make the best of a
bad job. It's a great quality!' And he heard her say:
"Now, darling, if I give you this, you must promise me to use it
every morning. You'll find you'll soon have a splendid crop of
little young hairs."
"I know," he said gloomily; "but they won't come to anything. Age
has got my head, Mother, just as it's got 'the Land's.'"
"Oh, nonsense! You must go on with it, that's all!"
Felix turned so that he could look at her. She was moving round
the room now, meticulously adjusting the framed photographs of her
family that were the only decoration of the walls. How formal,
chiselled, and delicate her face, yet how almost fanatically
decisive! How frail and light her figure, yet how indomitably
active! And the memory assailed him of how, four years ago, she
had defeated double pneumonia without having a doctor, simply by
lying on her back. 'She leaves trouble,' he thought, 'until it's
under her nose, then simply tells it that it isn't there. There's
something very English about that.'
She was chasing a bluebottle now with a little fan made of wire,
and, coming close to Felix, said:
"Have you seen these, darling? You've only to hit the fly and it
kills him at once."
"But do you ever hit the fly?"
"Oh, yes!" And she waved the fan at the bluebottle, which avoided
it without seeming difficulty.
"I can't bear hurting them, but I DON'T like flies. There!"
The bluebottle flew out of the window behind Felix and in at the
one that was not behind him. He rose.
"You ought to rest before tea, Mother."
He felt her searching him with her eyes, as if trying desperately
to find something she might bestow upon or do for him.
"Would you like this wire--"
With a feeling that he was defrauding love, he turned and fled.
She would never rest while he was there! And yet there was that in
her face which made him feel a brute to go.
Passing out of the house, sunk in its Monday hush, no vestige of a
Bigwig left, Felix came to that new-walled mound where the old
house of the Moretons had been burned 'by soldiers from Tewkesbury
and Gloucester,' as said the old chronicles dear to the heart of
Clara. And on the wall he sat him down. Above, in the uncut
grass, he could see the burning blue of a peacock's breast, where
the heraldic bird stood digesting grain in the repose of perfect
breeding, and below him gardeners were busy with the gooseberries.
'Gardeners and the gooseberries of the great!' he thought. 'Such
is the future of our Land.' And he watched them. How methodically
they went to work! How patient and well-done-for they looked!
After all, was it not the ideal future? Gardeners, gooseberries,
and the great! Each of the three content in that station of life
into which--! What more could a country want? Gardeners,
gooseberries, and the great! The phrase had a certain hypnotic
value. Why trouble? Why fuss? Gardeners, gooseberries, and the
great! A perfect land! A land dedicate to the week-end!
Gardeners, goose--! And suddenly he saw that he was not alone.
Half hidden by the angle of the wall, on a stone of the
foundations, carefully preserved and nearly embedded in the nettles
which Clara had allowed to grow because they added age to the
appearance, was sitting a Bigwig. One of the Settleham faction, he
had impressed Felix alike by his reticence, the steady sincerity of
his gray eyes, a countenance that, beneath a simple and delicate
urbanity, had still in it something of the best type of schoolboy.
'How comes he to have stayed?' he mused. 'I thought they always
fed and scattered!' And having received an answer to his
salutation, he moved across and said:
"I imagined you'd gone."
"I've been having a look round. It's very jolly here. My
affections are in the North, but I suppose this is pretty well the
heart of England."
"Near 'the big song,'" Felix answered. "There'll never be anything
more English than Shakespeare, when all's said and done." And he
took a steady, sidelong squint at his companion. 'This is another
of the types I've been looking for,' he reflected. The peculiar
'don't-quite-touch-me' accent of the aristocrat--and of those who
would be--had almost left this particular one, as though he
secretly aspired to rise superior and only employed it in the
nervousness of his first greetings. 'Yes,' thought Felix, 'he's
just about the very best we can do among those who sit upon 'the
Land.' I would wager there's not a better landlord nor a better
fellow in all his class, than this one. He's chalks away superior
to Malloring, if I know anything of faces--would never have turned
poor Tryst out. If this exception were the rule! And yet--! Does
he, can he, go quite far enough to meet the case? If not--what
hope of regeneration from above? Would he give up his shooting?
Could he give up feeling he's a leader? Would he give up his town
house and collecting whatever it is he collects? Could he let
himself sink down and merge till he was just unseen leaven of good-
fellowship and good-will, working in the common bread?' And
squinting at that sincere, clean, charming, almost fine face, he
answered himself unwillingly: 'He could not!' And suddenly he knew
that he was face to face with the tremendous question which soon or
late confronts all thinkers. Sitting beside him--was the highest
product of the present system! With its charm, humanity, courage,
chivalry up to a point, its culture, and its cleanliness, this
decidedly rare flower at the end of a tall stalk, with dark and
tortuous roots and rank foliage, was in a sense the sole
justification of power wielded from above. And was it good enough?
Was it quite good enough? Like so many other thinkers, Felix
hesitated to reply. If only merit and the goods of this world
could be finally divorced! If the reward of virtue were just men's
love and an unconscious self-respect! If only 'to have nothing'
were the highest honour! And yet, to do away with this beside him
and put in its place--What? No kiss-me-quick change had a chance
of producing anything better. To scrap the long growth of man and
start afresh was but to say: 'Since in the past the best that man
has done has not been good enough, I have a perfect faith in him
for the future!' No! That was a creed for archangels and other
extremists. Safer to work on what we had! And he began:
"Next door to this estate I'm told there's ten thousand acres
almost entirely grass and covert, owned by Lord Baltimore, who
lives in Norfolk, London, Cannes, and anywhere else that the whim
takes him. He comes down here twice a year to shoot. The case is
extremely common. Surely it spells paralysis. If land is to be
owned at all in such great lumps, owners ought at least to live on
the lumps, and to pass very high examinations as practical farmers.
They ought to be the life and soul, the radiating sun, of their
little universes; or else they ought to be cleared out. How expect
keen farming to start from such an example? It really looks to me
as if the game laws would have to go." And he redoubled his
scrutiny of the Bigwig's face. A little furrow in its brow had
deepened visibly, but nodding, he said:
"The absentee landlord is a curse, of course. I'm afraid I'm a bit
of a one myself. And I'm bound to say--though I'm keen on
shooting--if the game laws were abolished, it might do a lot."
"YOU wouldn't move in that direction, I suppose?"
The Bigwig smiled--charming, rather whimsical, that smile.
"Honestly, I'm not up to it. The spirit, you know, but the flesh--!
My line is housing and wages, of course."
'There it is,' thought Felix. 'Up to a point, they'll move--not up
to THE point. It's all fiddling. One won't give up his shooting;
another won't give up his power; a third won't give up her week-
ends; a fourth won't give up his freedom. Our interest in the
thing is all lackadaisical, a kind of bun-fight of pet notions.
There's no real steam.' And abruptly changing the subject, he
talked of pictures to the pleasant Bigwig in the sleepy afternoon.
Of how this man could paint, and that man couldn't. And in the
uncut grass the peacock slowly moved, displaying his breast of
burning blue; and below, the gardeners worked among the gooseberries.
CHAPTER XXVI
Nedda, borrowing the bicycle of Clara's maid, Sirrett, had been
over to Joyfields, and only learned on her return of her
grandmother's arrival. In her bath before dinner there came to her
one of those strategic thoughts that even such as are no longer
quite children will sometimes conceive. She hurried desperately
into her clothes, and, ready full twenty minutes before the gong
was due to sound, made her way to her grandmother's room. Frances
Freeland had just pulled THIS, and, to her astonishment, THAT had
not gone in properly. She was looking at it somewhat severely,
when she heard Nedda's knock. Drawing a screen temporarily over
the imperfection, she said: "Come in!"
The dear child looked charming in her white evening dress with one
red flower in her hair; and while she kissed her, she noted that
the neck of her dress was just a little too open to be quite nice,
and at once thought: 'I've got the very thing for that.'
Going to a drawer that no one could have suspected of being there,
she took from it a little diamond star. Getting delicate but firm
hold of the Mechlin at the top of the frock, she popped it in, so
that the neck was covered at least an inch higher, and said:
"Now, ducky, you're to keep that as a little present. You've no
idea how perfectly it suits you just like this." And having
satisfied for the moment her sense of niceness and that continual
itch to part with everything she had, she surveyed her
granddaughter, lighted up by that red flower, and said:
"How sweet you look!"
Nedda, looking down past cheeks colored by pleasure at the new
little star on a neck rather browned by her day in the sun,
murmured:
"Oh, Granny! it's much too lovely! You mustn't give it to me!"
These were moments that Frances Freeland loved best in life; and,
with the untruthfulness in which she only indulged when she gave
things away, or otherwise benefited her neighbors with or without
their will, she added: "It's quite wasted; I never wear it myself."
And, seeing Nedda's smile, for the girl recollected perfectly
having admired it during dinner at Uncle John's, and at Becket
itself, she said decisively, "So that's that!" and settled her down
on the sofa. But just as she was thinking, 'I have the very thing
for the dear child's sunburn,' Nedda said: "Granny, dear, I've been
meaning to tell you--Derek and I are engaged."
For the moment Frances Freeland could do nothing but tremulously
interlace her fingers.
"Oh, but, darling," she said very gravely, "have you thought?"
"I think of nothing else, Granny."
"But has he thought?"
Nedda nodded.
Frances Freeland sat staring straight before her. Nedda and Derek,
Derek and Nedda! The news was almost unintelligible; those two
were still for her barely more than little creatures to be tucked
up at night. Engaged! Marriage! Between those who were both as
near to her, almost, as her own children had been! The effort was
for the moment quite too much for her, and a sort of pain disturbed
her heart. Then the crowning principle of her existence came a
little to her aid. No use in making a fuss; must put the best face
on it, whether it were going to come to anything or not! And she
said:
"Well, darling, I don't know, I'm sure. I dare say it's very
lovely for you. But do you think you've seen enough of him?"
Nedda gave her a swift look, then dropped her lashes, so that her
eyes seemed closed. Snuggling up, she said:
"No, Granny, I do wish I could see more; if only I could go and
stay with them a little!"
And as she planted that dart of suggestion, the gong sounded.
In Frances Freeland, lying awake till two, as was her habit, the
suggestion grew. To this growth not only her custom of putting the
best face on things, but her incurable desire to make others happy,
and an instinctive sympathy with love-affairs, all contributed;
moreover, Felix had said something about Derek's having been
concerned in something rash. If darling Nedda were there it would
occupy his mind and help to make him careful. Never dilatory in
forming resolutions, she decided to take the girl over with her on
the morrow. Kirsteen had a dear little spare room, and Nedda
should take her bag. It would be a nice surprise for them all.
Accordingly, next morning, not wanting to give any trouble, she
sent Thomas down to the Red Lion, where they had a comfortable fly,
with a very steady, respectable driver, and ordered it to come at
half past two. Then, without saying anything to Clara, she told
Nedda to be ready to pop in her bag, trusting to her powers of
explaining everything to everybody without letting anybody know
anything. Little difficulties of this sort never bunkered her; she
was essentially a woman of action. And on the drive to Joyfields
she stilled the girl's quavering with:
"It's all right, darling; it'll be very nice for them."
She was perhaps the only person in the world who was not just a
little bit afraid of Kirsteen. Indeed, she was constitutionally
unable to be afraid of anything, except motor-cars, and, of course,
earwigs, and even them one must put up with. Her critical sense
told her that this woman in blue was just like anybody else,
besides her father had been the colonel of a Highland regiment,
which was quite nice, and one must put the best face on her.
In this way, pointing out the beauty of each feature of the
scenery, and not permitting herself or Nedda to think about the
bag, they drove until they came to Joyfields.
Kirsteen alone was in, and, having sent Nedda into the orchard to
look for her uncle, Frances Freeland came at once to the point. It
was so important, she thought, that darling Nedda should see more
of dear Derek. They were very young, and if she could stay for a
few weeks, they would both know their minds so much better. She
had made her bring her bag, because she knew dear Kirsteen would
agree with her; and it would be so nice for them all. Felix had
told her about that poor man who had done this dreadful thing, and
she thought that if Nedda were here it would be a distraction. She
was a very good child, and quite useful in the house. And while
she was speaking she watched Kirsteen, and thought: 'She is very
handsome, and altogether ladylike; only it is such a pity she wears
that blue thing in her hair--it makes her so conspicuous.' And
rather unexpectedly she said:
"Do you know, dear, I believe I know the very thing to keep your
hair from getting loose. It's such lovely hair. And this is quite
a new thing, and doesn't show at all; invented by a very nice
hairdresser in Worcester. It's simplicity itself. Do let me show
you!" Quickly going over, she removed the kingfisher-blue fillet,
and making certain passes with her fingers through the hair,
murmured:
"It's so beautifully fine; it seems such a pity not to show it all,
dear. Now look at yourself!" And from the recesses of her pocket
she produced a little mirror. "I'm sure Tod will simply love it
like that. It'll be such a nice change for him."
Kirsteen, with just a faint wrinkling of her lips and eyebrows,
waited till she had finished. Then she said:
"Yes, Mother, dear, I'm sure he will," and replaced the fillet. A
patient, half-sad, half-quizzical smile visited Frances Freeland's
lips, as who should say: 'Yes, I know you think that I'm a fuss-
box, but it really is a pity that you wear it so, darling!'
At sight of that smile, Kirsteen got up and kissed her gravely on
the forehead.
When Nedda came back from a fruitless search for Tod, her bag was
already in the little spare bedroom and Frances Freeland gone. The
girl had never yet been alone with her aunt, for whom she had a
fervent admiration not unmixed with awe. She idealized her, of
course, thinking of her as one might think of a picture or statue,
a symbolic figure, standing for liberty and justice and the redress
of wrong. Her never-varying garb of blue assisted the girl's
fancy, for blue was always the color of ideals and aspiration--was
not blue sky the nearest one could get to heaven--were not blue
violets the flowers of spring? Then, too, Kirsteen was a woman
with whom it would be quite impossible to gossip or small-talk;
with her one could but simply and directly say what one felt, and
only that over things which really mattered. And this seemed to
Nedda so splendid that it sufficed in itself to prevent the girl
from saying anything whatever. She longed to, all the same,
feeling that to be closer to her aunt meant to be closer to Derek.
Yet, with all, she knew that her own nature was very different;
this, perhaps, egged her on, and made her aunt seem all the more
exciting. She waited breathless till Kirsteen said:
"Yes, you and Derek must know each other better. The worst kind of
prison in the world is a mistaken marriage."
Nedda nodded fervently. "It must be. But I think one knows, Aunt
Kirsteen!"
She felt as if she were being searched right down to the soul
before the answer came:
"Perhaps. I knew myself. I have seen others who did--a few. I
think you might."
Nedda flushed from sheer joy. "I could never go on if I didn't
love. I feel I couldn't, even if I'd started."
With another long look through narrowing eyes, Kirsteen answered:
"Yes. You would want truth. But after marriage truth is an
unhappy thing, Nedda, if you have made a mistake."
"It must be dreadful. Awful."
"So don't make a mistake, my dear--and don't let him."
Nedda answered solemnly:
"I won't--oh, I won't!"
Kirsteen had turned away to the window, and Nedda heard her say
quietly to herself:
"'Liberty's a glorious feast!'"
Trembling all over with the desire to express what was in her,
Nedda stammered:
"I would never keep anything that wanted to be free--never, never!
I would never try to make any one do what they didn't want to!"
She saw her aunt smile, and wondered whether she had said anything
exceptionally foolish. But it was not foolish--surely not--to say
what one really felt.
"Some day, Nedda, all the world will say that with you. Until then
we'll fight those who won't say it. Have you got everything in
your room you want? Let's come and see."
To pass from Becket to Joyfields was really a singular experience.
At Becket you were certainly supposed to do exactly what you liked,
but the tyranny of meals, baths, scents, and other accompaniments
of the 'all-body' regime soon annihilated every impulse to do
anything but just obey it. At Joyfields, bodily existence was a
kind of perpetual skirmish, a sort of grudged accompaniment to a
state of soul. You might be alone in the house at any meal-time.
You might or might not have water in your jug. And as to baths,
you had to go out to a little white-washed shed at the back, with a
brick floor, where you pumped on yourself, prepared to shout out,
"Halloo! I'm here!" in case any one else came wanting to do the
same. The conditions were in fact almost perfect for seeing more
of one another. Nobody asked where you were going, with whom
going, or how going. You might be away by day or night without
exciting curiosity or comment. And yet you were conscious of a
certain something always there, holding the house together; some
principle of life, or perhaps--just a woman in blue. There, too,
was that strangest of all phenomena in an English home--no game
ever played, outdoors or in.
The next fortnight, while the grass was ripening, was a wonderful
time for Nedda, given up to her single passion--of seeing more of
him who so completely occupied her heart. She was at peace now
with Sheila, whose virility forbade that she should dispute pride
of place with this soft and truthful guest, so evidently immersed
in rapture. Besides, Nedda had that quality of getting on well
with her own sex, found in those women who, though tenacious, are
not possessive; who, though humble, are secretly very self-
respecting; who, though they do not say much about it, put all
their eggs in one basket; above all, who disengage, no matter what
their age, a candid but subtle charm.
But that fortnight was even more wonderful for Derek, caught
between two passions--both so fervid. For though the passion of
his revolt against the Mallorings did not pull against his passion
for Nedda, they both tugged at him. And this had one curious
psychological effect. It made his love for Nedda more actual, less
of an idealization. Now that she was close to him, under the same
roof, he felt the full allurement of her innocent warmth; he would
have been cold-blooded indeed if he had not taken fire, and, his
pride always checking the expression of his feelings, they glowed
ever hotter underneath.
Yet, over those sunshiny days there hung a shadow, as of something
kept back, not shared between them; a kind of waiting menace.
Nedda learned of Kirsteen and Sheila all the useful things she
could; the evenings she passed with Derek, those long evenings of
late May and early June, this year so warm and golden. They walked
generally in the direction of the hills. A favorite spot was a
wood of larches whose green shoots had not yet quite ceased to
smell of lemons. Tall, slender things those trees, whose stems and
dried lower branch-growth were gray, almost sooty, up to the
feathery green of the tops, that swayed and creaked faintly in a
wind, with a soughing of their branches like the sound of the sea.
From the shelter of those Highland trees, rather strange in such a
countryside, they two could peer forth at the last sunlight gold-
powdering the fringed branches, at the sunset flush dyeing the sky
above the Beacon; watch light slowly folding gray wings above the
hay-fields and the elms; mark the squirrels scurry along, and the
pigeons' evening flight. A stream ran there at the edge, and
beech-trees grew beside it. In the tawny-dappled sand bed of that
clear water, and the gray-green dappled trunks of those beeches
with their great, sinuous, long-muscled roots, was that something
which man can never tame or garden out of the land: the strength of
unconquerable fertility--the remote deep life in Nature's heart.
Men and women had their spans of existence; those trees seemed as
if there forever! From generation to generation lovers might come
and, looking on this strength and beauty, feel in their veins the
sap of the world. Here the laborer and his master, hearing the
wind in the branches and the water murmuring down, might for a
brief minute grasp the land's unchangeable wild majesty. And on
the far side of that little stream was a field of moon-colored
flowers that had for Nedda a strange fascination. Once the boy
jumped across and brought her back a handkerchief full. They were
of two kinds: close to the water's edge the marsh orchis, and
farther back, a small marguerite. Out of this they made a crown of
the alternate flowers, and a girdle for her waist. That was an
evening of rare beauty, and warm enough already for an early chafer
to go blooming in the dusk. An evening when they wandered with
their arms round each other a long time, silent, stopping to listen
to an owl; stopping to point out each star coming so shyly up in
the gray-violet of the sky. And that was the evening when they had
a strange little quarrel, sudden as a white squall on a blue sea,
or the tiff of two birds shooting up in a swift spiral of attack
and then--all over. Would he come to-morrow to see her milking?
He could not. Why? He could not; he would be out. Ah! he never
told her where he went; he never let her come with him among the
laborers like Sheila.
"I can't; I'm pledged not."
"Then you don't trust me!"
"Of course I trust you; but a promise is a promise. You oughtn't
to ask me, Nedda."
"No; but I would never have promised to keep anything from you."
"You don't understand."
"Oh! yes, I do. Love doesn't mean the same to you that it does to me."
"How do you know what it means to me?"
"I couldn't have a secret from you."
"Then you don't count honour."
"Honour only binds oneself!"
"What d'you mean by that?"
"I include you--you don't include me in yourself, that's all."
"I think you're very unjust. I was obliged to promise; it doesn't
only concern myself."
Then silent, motionless, a yard apart, they looked fiercely at each
other, their hearts stiff and sore, and in their brains no glimmer
of perception of anything but tragedy. What more tragic than to
have come out of an elysium of warm arms round each other, to this
sudden hostility! And the owl went on hooting, and the larches
smelled sweet! And all around was the same soft dusk wherein the
flowers in her hair and round her waist gleamed white! But for
Nedda the world had suddenly collapsed. Tears rushed into her eyes;
she shook her head and turned away, hiding them passionately. . . .
A full minute passed, each straining to make no sound and catch
the faintest sound from the other, till in her breathing there was
a little clutch. His fingers came stealing round, touched her
cheeks, and were wetted. His arms suddenly squeezed all breath
out of her; his lips fastened on hers. She answered those lips
with her own desperately, bending her head back, shutting her wet
eyes. And the owl hooted, and the white flowers fell into the dusk
off her hair and waist.
After that, they walked once more enlaced, avoiding with what
perfect care any allusion to the sudden tragedy, giving themselves
up to the bewildering ecstasy that had started throbbing in their
blood with that kiss, longing only not to spoil it. And through
the sheltering larch wood their figures moved from edge to edge,
like two little souls in paradise, unwilling to come forth.
After that evening love had a poignancy it had not quite had
before; at once deeper, sweeter, tinged for both of them with the
rich darkness of passion, and with discovery that love does not
mean a perfect merger of one within another. For both felt
themselves in the right over that little quarrel. The boy that he
could not, must not, resign what was not his to resign; feeling
dimly, without being quite able to shape the thought even to
himself, that a man has a life of action into which a woman cannot
always enter, with which she cannot always be identified. The girl
feeling that she did not want any life into which he did not enter,
so that it was hard that he should want to exclude her from
anything. For all that, she did not try again to move him to let
her into the secret of his plans of revolt and revenge, and
disdained completely to find them out from Sheila or her aunt.
And the grass went on ripening. Many and various as the breeds of
men, or the trees of a forest, were the stalks that made up that
greenish jungle with the waving, fawn-colored surface; of rye-grass
and brome-grass, of timothy, plantain, and yarrow; of bent-grass
and quake-grass, foxtail, and the green-hearted trefoil; of
dandelion, dock, musk-thistle, and sweet-scented vernal.
On the 10th of June Tod began cutting his three fields; the whole
family, with Nedda and the three Tryst children, working like
slaves. Old Gaunt, who looked to the harvests to clothe him for
the year, came to do his share of raking, and any other who could
find some evening hours to spare. The whole was cut and carried in
three days of glorious weather.
The lovers were too tired the last evening of hay harvest to go
rambling, and sat in the orchard watching the moon slide up through
the coppice behind the church. They sat on Tod's log, deliciously
weary, in the scent of the new-mown hay, while moths flitted gray
among the blue darkness of the leaves, and the whitened trunks of
the apple-trees gleamed ghostly. It was very warm; a night of
whispering air, opening all hearts. And Derek said:
"You'll know to-morrow, Nedda."
A flutter of fear overtook her. What would she know?
CHAPTER XXVII
On the 13th of June Sir Gerald Malloring, returning home to dinner
from the House of Commons, found on his hall table, enclosed in a
letter from his agent, the following paper:
"We, the undersigned laborers on Sir Gerald Malloring's estate, beg
respectfully to inform him that we consider it unjust that any
laborer should be evicted from his cottage for any reason connected
with private life, or social or political convictions. And we
respectfully demand that, before a laborer receives notice to quit
for any such reason, the case shall be submitted to all his fellow
laborers on the estate; and that in the future he shall only
receive such notice if a majority of his fellow laborers record
their votes in favor of the notice being given. In the event of
this demand being refused, we regretfully decline to take any hand
in getting in the hay on Sir Gerald Malloring's estate."
Then followed ninety-three signatures, or signs of the cross with
names printed after them.
The agent's letter which enclosed this document mentioned that the
hay was already ripe for cutting; that everything had been done to
induce the men to withdraw the demand, without success, and that
the farmers were very much upset. The thing had been sprung on
them, the agent having no notion that anything of the sort was on
foot. It had been very secretly, very cleverly, managed; and, in
the agent's opinion, was due to Mr. Freeland's family. He awaited
Sir Gerald's instructions. Working double tides, with luck and
good weather, the farmers and their families might perhaps save
half of the hay.
Malloring read this letter twice, and the enclosure three times,
and crammed them deep down into his pocket.
It was pre-eminently one of those moments which bring out the
qualities of Norman blood. And the first thing he did was to look
at the barometer. It was going slowly down. After a month of
first-class weather it would not do that without some sinister
intention. An old glass, he believed in it implicitly. He tapped,
and it sank further. He stood there frowning. Should he consult
his wife? General friendliness said: Yes! A Norman instinct of
chivalry, and perhaps the deeper Norman instinct, that, when it
came to the point, women were too violent, said, No! He went up-
stairs three at a time, and came down two. And all through dinner
he sat thinking it over, and talking as if nothing had happened; so
that he hardly spoke. Three-quarters of the hay at stake, if it
rained soon! A big loss to the farmers, a further reduction in
rents already far too low. Should he grin and bear it, and by
doing nothing show these fellows that he could afford to despise
their cowardly device? For it WAS cowardly to let his grass get
ripe and play it this low trick! But if he left things unfought
this time, they would try it on again with the corn--not that there
was much of that on the estate of a man who only believed in corn
as a policy.
Should he make the farmers sack the lot and get in other labor?
But where? Agricultural laborers were made, not born. And it took
a deuce of a lot of making, at that! Should he suspend wages till
they withdrew their demand? That might do--but he would still lose
the hay. The hay! After all, anybody, pretty well, could make
hay; it was the least skilled of all farm work, so long as the
farmers were there to drive the machines and direct. Why not act
vigorously? And his jaws set so suddenly on a piece of salmon that
he bit his tongue. The action served to harden a growing purpose.
So do small events influence great! Suspend those fellows' wages,
get down strike-breakers, save the hay! And if there were a row--
well, let there be a row! The constabulary would have to act. It
was characteristic of his really Norman spirit that the notion of
agreeing to the demand, or even considering whether it were just,
never once came into his mind. He was one of those, comprising
nowadays nearly all his class, together with their press, who
habitually referred to his country as a democratic power, a
champion of democracy--but did not at present suspect the meaning
of the word; nor, to say truth, was it likely they ever would.
Nothing, however, made him more miserable than indecision. And so,
now that he was on the point of deciding, and the decision promised
vigorous consequences, he felt almost elated. Closing his jaws
once more too firmly, this time on lamb, he bit his tongue again.
It was impossible to confess what he had done, for two of his
children were there, expected to eat with that well-bred detachment
which precludes such happenings; and he rose from dinner with his
mind made up. Instead of going back to the House of Commons, he
went straight to a strike-breaking agency. No grass should grow
under the feet of his decision! Thence he sought the one post-
office still open, despatched a long telegram to his agent, another
to the chief constable of Worcestershire; and, feeling he had done
all he could for the moment, returned to the 'House,' where they
were debating the rural housing question. He sat there, paying
only moderate attention to a subject on which he was acknowledged
an authority. To-morrow, in all probability, the papers would have
got hold of the affair! How he loathed people poking their noses
into his concerns! And suddenly he was assailed, very deep down,
by a feeling with which in his firmness he had not reckoned--a sort
of remorse that he was going to let a lot of loafing blackguards
down onto his land, to toss about his grass, and swill their
beastly beer above it. And all the real love he had for his fields
and coverts, all the fastidiousness of an English gentleman, and,
to do him justice, the qualms of a conscience telling him that he
owed better things than this to those born on his estate, assaulted
him in force. He sat back in his seat, driving his long legs hard
against the pew in front. His thick, wavy, still brown hair was
beautifully parted above the square brow that frowned over deep-set
eyes and a perfectly straight nose. Now and again he bit into a
side of his straw-colored moustache, or raised a hand and twisted
the other side. Without doubt one of the handsomest and perhaps
the most Norman-looking man in the whole 'House.' There was a
feeling among those round him that he was thinking deeply. And so
he was. But he had decided, and he was not a man who went back on
his decisions.
Morning brought even worse sensations. Those ruffians that he had
ordered down--the farmers would never consent to put them up! They
would have to camp. Camp on his land! It was then that for two
seconds the thought flashed through him: Ought I to have considered
whether I could agree to that demand? Gone in another flash. If
there was one thing a man could not tolerate, it was dictation!
Out of the question! But perhaps he had been a little hasty about
strike-breakers. Was there not still time to save the situation
from that, if he caught the first train? The personal touch was
everything. If he put it to the men on the spot, with these
strike-breakers up his sleeve, surely they must listen! After all,
they were his own people. And suddenly he was overcome with
amazement that they should have taken such a step. What had got
into them? Spiritless enough, as a rule, in all conscience; the
sort of fellows who hadn't steam even to join the miniature rifle-
range that he had given them! And visions of them, as he was
accustomed to pass them in the lanes, slouching along with their
straw bags, their hoes, and their shamefaced greetings, passed
before him. Yes! It was all that fellow Freeland's family! The
men had been put up to it--put up to it! The very wording of their
demand showed that! Very bitterly he thought of the unneighborly
conduct of that woman and her cubs. It was impossible to keep it
from his wife! And so he told her. Rather to his surprise, she
had no scruples about the strike-breakers. Of course, the hay must
be saved! And the laborers be taught a lesson! All the
unpleasantness he and she had gone through over Tryst and that
Gaunt girl must not go for nothing! It must never be said or
thought that the Freeland woman and her children had scored over
them! If the lesson were once driven home, they would have no
further trouble.
He admired her firmness, though with a certain impatience. Women
never quite looked ahead; never quite realized all the consequences
of anything. And he thought: 'By George! I'd no idea she was so
hard! But, then, she always felt more strongly about Tryst and
that Gaunt girl than I did.'
In the hall the glass was still going down. He caught the 9.15,
wiring to his agent to meet him at the station, and to the
impresario of the strike-breakers to hold up their departure until
he telegraphed. The three-mile drive up from the station, fully
half of which was through his own land, put him in possession of
all the agent had to tell: Nasty spirit abroad--men dumb as fishes--
the farmers, puzzled and angry, had begun cutting as best they
could. Not a man had budged. He had seen young Mr. and Miss
Freeland going about. The thing had been worked very cleverly. He
had suspected nothing--utterly unlike the laborers as he knew them.
They had no real grievance, either! Yes, they were going on with
all their other work--milking, horses, and that; it was only the
hay they wouldn't touch. Their demand was certainly a very funny
one--very funny--had never heard of anything like it. Amounted
almost to security of tenure. The Tryst affair no doubt had done
it! Malloring cut him short:
"Till they've withdrawn this demand, Simmons, I can't discuss that
or anything."
The agent coughed behind his hand.
Naturally! Only perhaps there might be a way of wording it that
would satisfy them. Never do to really let them have such
decisions in their hands, of course!
They were just passing Tod's. The cottage wore its usual air of
embowered peace. And for the life of him Malloring could not
restrain a gesture of annoyance.
On reaching home he sent gardeners and grooms in all directions
with word that he would be glad to meet the men at four o'clock at
the home farm. Much thought, and interviews with several of the
farmers, who all but one--a shaky fellow at best--were for giving
the laborers a sharp lesson, occupied the interval. Though he had
refused to admit the notion that the men could be chicaned, as his
agent had implied, he certainly did wonder a little whether a
certain measure of security might not in some way be guaranteed,
which would still leave him and the farmers a free hand. But the
more he meditated on the whole episode, the more he perceived how
intimately it interfered with the fundamental policy of all good
landowners--of knowing what was good for their people better than
those people knew themselves.
As four o'clock approached, he walked down to the home farm. The
sky was lightly overcast, and a rather chill, draughty, rustling
wind had risen. Resolved to handle the men with the personal
touch, he had discouraged his agent and the farmers from coming to
the conference, and passed the gate with the braced-up feeling of
one who goes to an encounter. In that very spick-and-span farmyard
ducks were swimming leisurely on the greenish pond, white pigeons
strutting and preening on the eaves of the barn, and his keen eye
noted that some tiles were out of order up there. Four o'clock!
Ah, here was a fellow coming! And instinctively he crisped his
hands that were buried in his pockets, and ran over to himself his
opening words. Then, with a sensation of disgust, he saw that the
advancing laborer was that incorrigible 'land lawyer' Gaunt. The
short, square man with the ruffled head and the little bright-gray
eyes saluted, uttered an "Afternoon, Sir Gerald!" in his teasing
voice, and stood still. His face wore the jeering twinkle that had
disconcerted so many political meetings. Two lean fellows, rather
alike, with lined faces and bitten, drooped moustaches, were the
next to come through the yard gate. They halted behind Gaunt,
touching their forelocks, shuffling a little, and looking sidelong
at each other. And Malloring waited. Five past four! Ten past!
Then he said:
"D'you mind telling the others that I'm here?"
Gaunt answered:
"If so be as you was waitin' for the meetin', I fancy as 'ow you've
got it, Sir Gerald!"
A wave of anger surged up in Malloring, dyeing his face brick-red.
So! He had come all that way with the best intentions--to be
treated like this; to meet this 'land lawyer,' who, he could see,
was only here to sharpen his tongue, and those two scarecrow-
looking chaps, who had come to testify, no doubt, to his
discomfiture. And he said sharply:
"So that's the best you can do to meet me, is it?"
Gaunt answered imperturbably:
"I think it is, Sir Gerald."
"Then you've mistaken your man."
"I don't think so, Sir Gerald."
Without another look Malloring passed the three by, and walked back
to the house. In the hall was the agent, whose face clearly showed
that he had foreseen this defeat. Malloring did not wait for him
to speak.
"Make arrangements. The strike-breakers will be down by noon to-
morrow. I shall go through with it now, Simmons, if I have to
clear the whole lot out. You'd better go in and see that they're
ready to send police if there's any nonsense. I'll be down again
in a day or two." And, without waiting for reply, he passed into
his study. There, while the car was being got ready, he stood in
the window, very sore; thinking of what he had meant to do;
thinking of his good intentions; thinking of what was coming to the
country, when a man could not even get his laborers to come and
hear what he had to say. And a sense of injustice, of anger, of
bewilderment, harrowed his very soul.
CHAPTER XXVIII
For the first two days of this new 'kick-up,' that 'fellow
Freeland's' family undoubtedly tasted the sweets of successful
mutiny. The fellow himself alone shook his head. He, like Nedda,
had known nothing, and there was to him something unnatural and
rather awful in this conduct toward dumb crops.
From the moment he heard of it he hardly spoke, and a perpetual
little frown creased a brow usually so serene. In the early
morning of the day after Malloring went back to town, he crossed
the road to a field where the farmer, aided by his family and one
of Malloring's gardeners, was already carrying the hay; and, taking
up a pitchfork, without a word to anybody, he joined in the work.
The action was deeper revelation of his feeling than any
expostulation, and the young people watched it rather aghast.
"It's nothing," Derek said at last; "Father never has understood,
and never will, that you can't get things without fighting. He
cares more for trees and bees and birds than he does for human
beings."
"That doesn't explain why he goes over to the enemy, when it's only
a lot of grass."
Kirsteen answered:
"He hasn't gone over to the enemy, Sheila. You don't understand
your father; to neglect the land is sacrilege to him. It feeds us--
he would say--we live on it; we've no business to forget that but
for the land we should all be dead."
"That's beautiful," said Nedda quickly; "and true."
Sheila answered angrily:
"It may be true in France with their bread and wine. People don't
live off the land here; they hardly eat anything they grow
themselves. How can we feel like that when we're all brought up on
mongrel food? Besides, it's simply sentimental, when there are
real wrongs to fight about."
"Your father is not sentimental, Sheila. It's too deep with him
for that, and too unconscious. He simply feels so unhappy about
the waste of that hay that he can't keep his hands off it."
Derek broke in: "Mother's right. And it doesn't matter, except
that we've got to see that the men don't follow his example.
They've a funny feeling about him."
Kirsteen shook her head.
"You needn't be afraid. He's always been too strange to them!"
"Well, I'm going to stiffen their backs. Coming Sheila?" And they
went.
Left, as she seemed always to be in these days of open mutiny,
Nedda said sadly:
"What is coming, Aunt Kirsteen?"
Her aunt was standing in the porch, looking straight before her; a
trail of clematis had drooped over her fine black hair down on to
the blue of her linen dress. She answered, without turning:
"Have you ever seen, on jubilee nights, bonfire to bonfire, from
hill to hill, to the end of the land? This is the first lighted."
Nedda felt something clutch her heart. What was that figure in
blue? Priestess? Prophetess? And for a moment the girl felt
herself swept into the vision those dark glowing eyes were seeing;
some violent, exalted, inexorable, flaming vision. Then something
within her revolted, as though one had tried to hypnotize her into
seeing what was not true; as though she had been forced for the
moment to look, not at what was really there, but at what those
eyes saw projected from the soul behind them. And she said quietly:
"I don't believe, Aunt Kirsteen. I don't really believe. I think
it must go out."
Kirsteen turned.
"You are like your father," she said--"a doubter."
Nedda shook her head.
"I can't persuade myself to see what isn't there. I never can,
Aunt Kirsteen."
Without reply, save a quiver of her brows, Kirsteen went back into
the house. And Nedda stayed on the pebbled path before the
cottage, unhappy, searching her own soul. Did she fail to see
because she was afraid to see, because she was too dull to see; or
because, as she had said, there was really nothing there--no flames
to leap from hill to hill, no lift, no tearing in the sky that hung
over the land? And she thought: 'London--all those big towns,
their smoke, the things they make, the things we want them to make,
that we shall always want them to make. Aren't they there? For
every laborer who's a slave Dad says there are five town workers
who are just as much slaves! And all those Bigwigs with their
great houses, and their talk, and their interest in keeping things
where they are! Aren't they there? I don't--I can't believe
anything much can happen, or be changed. Oh! I shall never see
visions, and dream dreams!' And from her heart she sighed.
In the meantime Derek and Sheila were going their round on
bicycles, to stiffen the backs of the laborers. They had hunted
lately, always in a couple, desiring no complications, having
decided that it was less likely to provoke definite assault and
opposition from the farmers. To their mother was assigned all
correspondence; to themselves the verbal exhortations, the personal
touch. It was past noon, and they were already returning, when
they came on the char-a-bancs containing the head of the strike-
breaking column. The two vehicles were drawn up opposite the gate
leading to Marrow Farm, and the agent was detaching the four men
destined to that locality, with their camping-gear. By the open
gate the farmer stood eying his new material askance. Dejected
enough creatures they looked--poor devils picked up at ten pound
the dozen, who, by the mingled apathy and sheepish amusement on
their faces, might never have seen a pitchfork, or smelled a field
of clover, in their lives.
The two young Freelands rode slowly past; the boy's face scornfully
drawn back into itself; the girl's flaming scarlet.
"Don't take notice," Derek said; "we'll soon stop that."
And they had gone another mile before he added:
"We've got to make our round again; that's all."
The words of Mr. Pogram, 'You have influence, young man,' were
just. There was about Derek the sort of quality that belongs to
the good regimental officer; men followed and asked themselves why
the devil they had, afterward. And if it be said that no worse
leader than a fiery young fool can be desired for any movement, it
may also be said that without youth and fire and folly there is
usually no movement at all.
Late in the afternoon they returned home, dead beat. That evening
the farmers and their wives milked the cows, tended the horses, did
everything that must be done, not without curses. And next morning
the men, with Gaunt and a big, dark fellow, called Tulley, for
spokesmen, again proffered their demand. The agent took counsel
with Malloring by wire. His answer, "Concede nothing," was
communicated to the men in the afternoon, and received by Gaunt
with the remark: "I thart we should be hearin' that. Please to
thank Sir Gerald. The men concedes their gratitood." . . .
That night it began to rain. Nedda, waking, could hear the heavy
drops pattering on the sweetbrier and clematis thatching her open
window. The scent of rain-cooled leaves came in drifts, and it
seemed a shame to sleep. She got up; put on her dressing-gown, and
went to thrust her nose into that bath of dripping sweetness. Dark
as the clouds had made the night, there was still the faint light
of a moon somewhere behind. The leaves of the fruit-trees joined
in the long, gentle hissing, and now and again rustled and sighed
sharply; a cock somewhere, as by accident, let off a single crow.
There were no stars. All was dark and soft as velvet. And Nedda
thought: 'The world is dressed in living creatures! Trees,
flowers, grass, insects, ourselves--woven together--the world is
dressed in life! I understand Uncle Tod's feeling! If only it
would rain till they have to send these strike-breakers back
because there's no hay worth fighting about!' Suddenly her heart
beat fast. The wicket gate had clicked. There was something
darker than the darkness coming along the path! Scared, but with
all protective instinct roused, she leaned out, straining to see.
A faint grating sound from underneath came up to her. A window
being opened! And she flew to her door. She neither barred it,
however, nor cried out, for in that second it had flashed across
her: 'Suppose it's he! Gone out to do something desperate, as
Tryst did!' If it were, he would come up-stairs and pass her door,
going to his room. She opened it an inch, holding her breath. At
first, nothing! Was it fancy? Or was some one noiselessly rifling
the room down-stairs? But surely no one would steal of Uncle Tod,
who, everybody knew, had nothing valuable. Then came a sound as of
bootless feet pressing the stairs stealthily! And the thought
darted through her, 'If it isn't he, what shall I do?' And then--
'What shall I do--if it IS!'
Desperately she opened the door, clasping her hands on the place
whence her heart had slipped down to her bare feet. But she knew
it was he before she heard him whisper: "Nedda!" and, clutching him
by the sleeve, she drew him in and closed the door. He was wet
through, dripping; so wet that the mere brushing against him made
her skin feel moist through its thin coverings.
"Where have you been? What have you been doing? Oh, Derek!"
There was just light enough to see his face, his teeth, the whites
of his eyes.
"Cutting their tent-ropes in the rain. Hooroosh!"
It was such a relief that she just let out a little gasping "Oh!"
and leaned her forehead against his coat. Then she felt his wet
arms round her, his wet body pressed to hers, and in a second he
was dancing with her a sort of silent, ecstatic war dance.
Suddenly he stopped, went down on his knees, pressing his face to
her waist, and whispering: "What a brute, what a brute! Making her
wet! Poor little Nedda!"
Nedda bent over him; her hair covered his wet head, her hands
trembled on his shoulders. Her heart felt as if it would melt
right out of her; she longed so to warm and dry him with herself.
And, in turn, his wet arms clutched her close, his wet hands could
not keep still on her. Then he drew back, and whispering: "Oh,
Nedda! Nedda!" fled out like a dark ghost. Oblivious that she was
damp from head to foot, Nedda stood swaying, her eyes closed and
her lips just open; then, putting out her arms, she drew them
suddenly in and clasped herself. . . .
When she came down to breakfast the next morning, he had gone out
already, and Uncle Tod, too; her aunt was writing at the bureau.
Sheila greeted her gruffly, and almost at once went out. Nedda
swallowed coffee, ate her egg, and bread and honey, with a heavy
heart. A newspaper lay open on the table; she read it idly till
these words caught her eye:
"The revolt which has paralyzed the hay harvest on Sir Gerald
Malloring's Worcestershire estate and led to the introduction of
strike-breakers, shows no sign of abatement. A very wanton spirit
of mischief seems to be abroad in this neighborhood. No reason can
be ascertained for the arson committed a short time back, nor for
this further outbreak of discontent. The economic condition of the
laborers on this estate is admittedly rather above than below the
average."
And at once she thought: '"Mischief!" What a shame!' Were people,
then, to know nothing of the real cause of the revolt--nothing of
the Tryst eviction, the threatened eviction of the Gaunts? Were
they not to know that it was on principle, and to protest against
that sort of petty tyranny to the laborers all over the country,
that this rebellion had been started? For liberty! only simple
liberty not to be treated as though they had no minds or souls of
their own--weren't the public to know that? If they were allowed
to think that it was all wanton mischief--that Derek was just a
mischief-maker--it would be dreadful! Some one must write and make
this known? Her father? But Dad might think it too personal--his
own relations! Mr. Cuthcott! Into whose household Wilmet Gaunt
had gone. Ah! Mr. Cuthcott who had told her that he was always at
her service! Why not? And the thought that she might really do
something at last to help made her tingle all over. If she
borrowed Sheila's bicycle she could catch the nine-o'clock train to
London, see him herself, make him do something, perhaps even bring
him back with her! She examined her purse. Yes, she had money.
She would say nothing, here, because, of course, he might refuse!
At the back of her mind was the idea that, if a real newspaper took
the part of the laborers, Derek's position would no longer be so
dangerous; he would be, as it were, legally recognized, and that,
in itself, would make him more careful and responsible. Whence she
got this belief in the legalizing power of the press it is
difficult to say, unless that, reading newspapers but seldom, she
still took them at their own valuation, and thought that when they
said: "We shall do this," or "We must do that," they really were
speaking for the country, and that forty-five millions of people
were deliberately going to do something, whereas, in truth, as was
known to those older than Nedda, they were speaking, and not too
conclusively at that, for single anonymous gentlemen in a hurry who
were not going to do anything. She knew that the press had power,
great power--for she was always hearing that--and it had not
occurred to her as yet to examine the composition of that power so
as to discover that, while the press certainly had a certain
monopoly of expression, and that same 'spirit of body' which makes
police constables swear by one another, it yet contained within its
ring fence the sane and advisable futility of a perfectly balanced
contradiction; so that its only functions, practically speaking,
were the dissemination of news, seven-tenths of which would have
been happier in obscurity; and--'irritation of the Dutch!' Not, of
course, that the press realized this; nor was it probable that any
one would tell it, for it had power--great power.
She caught her train--glowing outwardly from the speed of her ride,
and inwardly from the heat of adventure and the thought that at
last she was being of some use.
The only other occupants of her third-class compartment were a
friendly looking man, who might have been a sailor or other
wanderer on leave, and his thin, dried-up, black-clothed cottage
woman of an old mother. They sat opposite each other. The son
looked at his mother with beaming eyes, and she remarked: "An' I
says to him, says I, I says, 'What?' I says; so 'e says to me, he
says, 'Yes,' he says; 'that's what I say,' he says." And Nedda
thought: 'What an old dear! And the son looks nice too; I do like
simple people.'
They got out at the first stop and she journeyed on alone. Taking
a taxicab from Paddington, she drove toward Gray's Inn. But now
that she was getting close she felt very nervous. How expect a
busy man like Mr. Cuthcott to spare time to come down all that way?
It would be something, though, if she could get him even to
understand what was really happening, and why; so that he could
contradict that man in the other paper. It must be wonderful to be
writing, daily, what thousands and thousands of people read! Yes!
It must be a very sacred-feeling life! To be able to say things in
that particularly authoritative way which must take such a lot of
people in--that is, make such a lot of people think in the same
way! It must give a man a terrible sense of responsibility, make
him feel that he simply must be noble, even if he naturally wasn't.
Yes! it must be a wonderful profession, and only fit for the
highest! In addition to Mr. Cuthcott, she knew as yet but three
young journalists, and those all weekly.
At her timid ring the door was opened by a broad-cheeked girl,
enticingly compact in apron and black frock, whose bright color,
thick lips, and rogue eyes came of anything but London. It flashed
across Nedda that this must be the girl for whose sake she had
faced Mr. Cuthcott at the luncheon-table! And she said: "Are you
Wilmet Gaunt?"
The girl smiled till her eyes almost disappeared, and answered:
"Yes, miss."
"I'm Nedda Freeland, Miss Sheila's cousin. I've just come from
Joyfields. How are you getting on?"
"Fine, thank you, miss. Plenty of life here."
Nedda thought: 'That's what Derek said of her. Bursting with life!
And so she is.' And she gazed doubtfully at the girl, whose prim
black dress and apron seemed scarcely able to contain her.
"Is Mr. Cuthcott in?"
"No, miss; he'll be down at the paper. Two hundred and five
Floodgate Street."
'Oh!' thought Nedda with dismay; 'I shall never venture there!'
And glancing once more at the girl, whose rogue slits of eyes, deep
sunk between check-bones and brow, seemed to be quizzing her and
saying: 'You and Mr. Derek--oh! I know!' she went sadly away. And
first she thought she would go home to Hampstead, then that she
would go back to the station, then: 'After all, why shouldn't I go
and try? They can't eat me. I will!'
She reached her destination at the luncheon-hour, so that the
offices of the great evening journal were somewhat deserted.
Producing her card, she was passed from hand to hand till she
rested in a small bleak apartment where a young woman was typing
fast. She longed to ask her how she liked it, but did not dare.
The whole atmosphere seemed to her charged with a strenuous
solemnity, as though everything said, 'We have power--great power.'
And she waited, sitting by the window which faced the street. On
the buildings opposite she could read the name of another great
evening journal. Why, it was the one which had contained the
paragraph she had read at breakfast! She had bought a copy of it
at the station. Its temperament, she knew, was precisely opposed
to that of Mr. Cuthcott's paper. Over in that building, no doubt
there would be the same strenuously loaded atmosphere, so that if
they opened the windows on both sides little puffs of power would
meet in mid-air, above the heads of the passers-by, as might the
broadsides of old three-deckers, above the green, green sea.
And for the first time an inkling of the great comic equipoise in
Floodgate Street and human affairs stole on Nedda's consciousness.
They puffed and puffed, and only made smoke in the middle! That
must be why Dad always called them: 'Those fellows!' She had
scarcely, however, finished beginning to think these thoughts when
a handbell sounded sharply in some adjoining room, and the young
woman nearly fell into her typewriter. Readjusting her balance,
she rose, and, going to the door, passed out in haste. Through the
open doorway Nedda could see a large and pleasant room, whose walls
seemed covered with prints of men standing in attitudes such that
she was almost sure they were statesmen; and, at a table in the
centre, the back of Mr. Cuthcott in a twiddly chair, surrounded by
sheets of paper reposing on the floor, shining like autumn leaves
on a pool of water. She heard his voice, smothery, hurried, but
still pleasant, say: "Take these, Miss Mayne, take these! Begin on
them, begin! Confound it! What's the time?" And the young
woman's voice: "Half past one, Mr. Cuthcott!" And a noise from Mr.
Cuthcott's throat that sounded like an adjuration to the Deity not
to pass over something. Then the young woman dipped and began
gathering those leaves of paper, and over her comely back Nedda had
a clear view of Mr. Cuthcott hunching one brown shoulder as though
warding something off, and of one of his thin hands ploughing up
and throwing back his brown hair on one side, and heard the sound
of his furiously scratching pen. And her heart pattered; it was so
clear that he was 'giving them one' and had no time for her. And
involuntarily she looked at the windows beyond him to see if there
were any puffs of power issuing therefrom. But they were closed.
She saw the young woman rise and come back toward her, putting the
sheets of paper in order; and, as the door was closing, from the
twiddly chair a noise that seemed to couple God with the
condemnation of silly souls. When the young woman was once more at
the typewriter she rose and said: "Have you given him my card yet?"
The young woman looked at her surprised, as if she had broken some
rule of etiquette, and answered: "No."
"Then don't, please. I can see that he's too busy. I won't wait."
The young woman abstractedly placed a sheet of paper in her typewriter.
"Very well," she said. "Good morning!"
And before Nedda reached the door she heard the click-click of the
machine, reducing Mr. Cuthcott to legibility.
'I was stupid to come,' she thought. 'He must be terribly
overworked. Poor man! He does say lovely things!' And,
crestfallen, she went along the passages, and once more out into
Floodgate Street. She walked along it frowning, till a man who was
selling newspapers said as she passed: "Mind ye don't smile, lydy!"
Seeing that he was selling Mr. Cuthcott's paper, she felt for a
coin to buy one, and, while searching, scrutinized the newsvender's
figure, almost entirely hidden by the words:
GREAT HOUSING SCHEME
HOPE FOR THE MILLION!
on a buff-colored board; while above it, his face, that had not
quite blood enough to be scorbutic, was wrapped in the expression
of those philosophers to whom a hope would be fatal. He was, in
fact, just what he looked--a street stoic. And a dim perception of
the great social truth: "The smell of half a loaf is not better
than no bread!" flickered in Nedda's brain as she passed on. Was
that what Derek was doing with the laborers--giving them half the
smell of a liberty that was not there? And a sudden craving for
her father came over her. He--he only, was any good, because he,
only, loved her enough to feel how distracted and unhappy she was
feeling, how afraid of what was coming. So, making for a Tube
station, she took train to Hampstead. . . .
It was past two, and Felix, on the point of his constitutional. He
had left Becket the day after Nedda's rather startling removal to
Joyfields, and since then had done his level best to put the whole
Tryst affair, with all its somewhat sinister relevance to her life
and his own, out of his mind as something beyond control. He had
but imperfectly succeeded.
Flora, herself not too present-minded, had in these days occasion
to speak to him about the absent-minded way in which he fulfilled
even the most domestic duties, and Alan was always saying to him,
"Buck up, Dad!" With Nedda's absorption into the little Joyfields
whirlpool, the sun shone but dimly for Felix. And a somewhat
febrile attention to 'The Last of the Laborers' had not brought it
up to his expectations. He fluttered under his buff waistcoat when
he saw her coming in at the gate. She must want something of him!
For to this pitch of resignation, as to his little daughter's love
for him, had he come! And if she wanted something of him, things
would be going wrong again down there! Nor did the warmth of her
embrace, and her: "Oh! Dad, it IS nice to see you!" remove that
instinctive conviction; though delicacy, born of love, forbade him
to ask her what she wanted. Talking of the sky and other matters,
thinking how pretty she was looking, he waited for the new,
inevitable proof that youth was first, and a mere father only
second fiddle now. A note from Stanley had already informed him of
the strike. The news had been something of a relief. Strikes, at
all events, were respectable and legitimate means of protest, and
to hear that one was in progress had not forced him out of his
laborious attempt to believe the whole affair only a mole-hill. He
had not, however, heard of the strike-breakers, nor had he seen any
newspaper mention of the matter; and when she had shown him the
paragraph; recounted her visit to Mr. Cuthcott, and how she had
wanted to take him back with her to see for himself--he waited a
moment, then said almost timidly: "Should I be of any use, my
dear?" She flushed and squeezed his hand in silence; and he knew
he would.
When he had packed a handbag and left a note for Flora, he rejoined
her in the hall.
It was past seven when they reached their destination, and, taking
the station 'fly,' drove slowly up to Joyfields, under a showery
sky.
CHAPTER XXIX
When Felix and Nedda reached Tod's cottage, the three little
Trysts, whose activity could never be quite called play, were all
the living creatures about the house.
"Where is Mrs. Freeland, Biddy?"
"We don't know; a man came, and she went."
"And Miss Sheila?"
"She went out in the mornin'. And Mr. Freeland's gone."
Susie added: "The dog's gone, too."
"Then help me to get some tea."
"Yes."
With the assistance of the mother-child, and the hindrance of Susie
and Billy, Nedda made and laid tea, with an anxious heart. The
absence of her aunt, who so seldom went outside the cottage,
fields, and orchard, disturbed her; and, while Felix refreshed
himself, she fluttered several times on varying pretexts to the
wicket gate.
At her third visit, from the direction of the church, she saw
figures coming on the road--dark figures carrying something,
followed by others walking alongside. What sun there had been had
quite given in to heavy clouds; the light was dull, the elm-trees
dark; and not till they were within two hundred yards could Nedda
make out that these were figures of policemen. Then, alongside
that which they were carrying, she saw her aunt's blue dress. WHAT
were they carrying like that? She dashed down the steps, and
stopped. No! If it were HE they would bring him in! She rushed
back again, distracted. She could see now a form stretched on a
hurdle. It WAS he!
"Dad! Quick!"
Felix came, startled at that cry, to find his little daughter on
the path wringing her hands and flying back to the wicket gate.
They were close now. She saw them begin to mount the steps, those
behind raising their arms so that the hurdle should be level.
Derek lay on his back, with head and forehead swathed in wet blue
linen, torn from his mother's skirt; and the rest of his face very
white. He lay quite still, his clothes covered with mud.
Terrified, Nedda plucked at Kirsteen's sleeve.
"What is it?"
"Concussion!" The stillness of that blue-clothed figure, so calm
beside her, gave her strength to say quietly:
"Put him in my room, Aunt Kirsteen; there's more air there!" And
she flew up-stairs, flinging wide her door, making the bed ready,
snatching her night things from the pillow; pouring out cold water,
sprinkling the air with eau de cologne. Then she stood still.
Perhaps, they would not bring him there? Yes, they were coming up.
They brought him in, and laid him on the bed. She heard one say:
"Doctor'll be here directly, ma'am. Let him lie quiet." Then she
and his mother were alone beside him.
"Undo his boots," said Kirsteen.
Nedda's fingers trembled, and she hated them for fumbling so, while
she drew off those muddy boots. Then her aunt said softly: "Hold
him up, dear, while I get his things off."
And, with a strange rapture that she was allowed to hold him thus,
she supported him against her breast till he was freed and lying
back inert. Then, and only then, she whispered:
"How long before he--?"
Kirsteen shook her head; and, slipping her arm round the girl,
murmured: "Courage, Nedda!"
The girl felt fear and love rush up desperately to overwhelm her.
She choked them back, and said quite quietly: "I will. I promise.
Only let me help nurse him!"
Kirsteen nodded. And they sat down to wait.
That quarter of an hour was the longest of her life. To see him
thus, living, yet not living, with the spirit driven from him by a
cruel blow, perhaps never to come back! Curious, how things still
got themselves noticed when all her faculties were centred in
gazing at his face. She knew that it was raining again; heard the
swish and drip, and smelled the cool wet perfume through the scent
of the eau de cologne that she had spilled. She noted her aunt's
arm, as it hovered, wetting the bandage; the veins and rounded
whiteness from under the loose blue sleeve slipped up to the elbow.
One of his feet lay close to her at the bed's edge; she stole her
hand beneath the sheet. That foot felt very cold, and she grasped
it tight. If only she could pass life into him through her hot
hand. She heard the ticking of her little travelling-clock, and
was conscious of flies wheeling close up beneath the white ceiling,
of how one by one they darted at each other, making swift zigzags
in the air. And something in her she had not yet known came
welling up, softening her eyes, her face, even the very pose of her
young body--the hidden passion of a motherliness, that yearned so
to 'kiss the place,' to make him well, to nurse and tend, restore
and comfort him. And with all her might she watched the movements
of those rounded arms under the blue sleeves--how firm and exact
they were, how soft and quiet and swift, bathing the dark head!
Then from beneath the bandage she caught sight suddenly of his
eyes. And her heart turned sick. Oh, they were not quite closed!
As if he hadn't life enough to close them! She bit into her lip to
stop a cry. It was so terrible to see them without light. Why did
not that doctor come? Over and over and over again within her the
prayer turned: Let him live! Oh, let him live!
The blackbirds out in the orchard were tuning up for evening. It
seemed almost dreadful they should be able to sing like that. All
the world was going on just the same! If he died, the world would
have no more light for her than there was now in his poor eyes--and
yet it would go on the same! How was that possible? It was not
possible, because she would die too! She saw her aunt turn her
head like a startled animal; some one was coming up the stairs! It
was the doctor, wiping his wet face--a young man in gaiters. How
young--dreadfully young! No; there was a little gray at the sides
of his hair! What would he say? And Nedda sat with hands tight
clenched in her lap, motionless as a young crouching sphinx. An
interminable testing, and questioning, and answer! Never smoked--
never drank--never been ill! The blow--ah, here! Just here!
Concussion--yes! Then long staring into the eyes, the eyelids
lifted between thumb and finger. And at last (how could he talk so
loud! Yet it was a comfort too--he would not talk like that if
Derek were going to die!)--Hair cut shorter--ice--watch him like a
lynx! This and that, if he came to. Nothing else to be done. And
then those blessed words:
"But don't worry too much. I think it'll be all right." She could
not help a little sigh escaping her clenched teeth.
The doctor was looking at her. His eyes were nice.
"Sister?"
"Cousin."
"Ah! Well, I'll get back now, and send you out some ice, at once."
More talk outside the door. Nedda, alone with her lover, crouched
forward on her knees, and put her lips to his. They were not so
cold as his foot, and the first real hope and comfort came to her.
Watch him like a lynx--wouldn't she? But how had it all happened?
And where was Sheila? and Uncle Tod?
Her aunt had come back and was stroking her shoulder. There had
been fighting in the barn at Marrow Farm. They had arrested
Sheila. Derek had jumped down to rescue her and struck his head
against a grindstone. Her uncle had gone with Sheila. They would
watch, turn and turn about. Nedda must go now and eat something,
and get ready to take the watch from eight to midnight.
Following her resolve to make no fuss, the girl went out. The
police had gone. The mother-child was putting her little folk to
bed; and in the kitchen Felix was arranging the wherewithal to eat.
He made her sit down and kept handing things; watching like a cat
to see that she put them in her mouth, in the way from which only
Flora had suffered hitherto; he seemed so anxious and unhappy, and
so awfully sweet, that Nedda forced herself to swallow what she
thought would never go down a dry and choky throat. He kept coming
up and touching her shoulder or forehead. Once he said:
"It's all right, you know, my pet; concussion often takes two
days."
Two days with his eyes like that! The consolation was not so vivid
as Felix might have wished; but she quite understood that he was
doing his best to give it. She suddenly remembered that he had no
room to sleep in. He must use Derek's. No! That, it appeared,
was to be for her when she came off duty. Felix was going to have
an all-night sitting in the kitchen. He had been looking forward
to an all-night sitting for many years, and now he had got his
chance. It was a magnificent opportunity--"without your mother, my
dear, to insist on my sleeping." And staring at his smile, Nedda
thought: 'He's like Granny--he comes out under difficulties. If
only I did!'
The ice arrived by motor-cycle just before her watch began. It was
some comfort to have that definite thing to see to. How timorous
and humble are thoughts in a sick-room, above all when the sick are
stretched behind the muffle of unconsciousness, withdrawn from the
watcher by half-death! And yet, for him or her who loves, there is
at least the sense of being alone with the loved one, of doing all
that can be done; and in some strange way of twining hearts with
the exiled spirit. To Nedda, sitting at his feet, and hardly ever
turning eyes away from his still face, it sometimes seemed that the
flown spirit was there beside her. And she saw into his soul in
those hours of watching, as one looking into a stream sees the
leopard-like dapple of its sand and dark-strewn floor, just reached
by sunlight. She saw all his pride, courage, and impatience, his
reserve, and strange unwilling tenderness, as she had never seen
them. And a queer dreadful feeling moved her that in some previous
existence she had looked at that face dead on a field of battle,
frowning up at the stars. That was absurd--there were no previous
existences! Or was it prevision of what would come some day?
When, at half past nine, the light began to fail, she lighted two
candles in tall, thin, iron candlesticks beside her. They burned
without flicker, those spires of yellow flame, slowly conquering
the dying twilight, till in their soft radiance the room was full
of warm dusky shadows, the night outside ever a deeper black. Two
or three times his mother came, looked at him, asked her if she
should stay, and, receiving a little silent shake of the head, went
away again. At eleven o'clock, when once more she changed the ice-
cap, his eyes had still no lustre, and for a moment her courage
failed her utterly. It seemed to her that he could never win back,
that death possessed the room already, possessed those candle-
flames, the ticking of the clock, the dark, dripping night,
possessed her heart. Could he be gone before she had been his!
Gone! Where? She sank down on her knees, covering her eyes. What
good to watch, if he were never coming back! A long time--it
seemed hours--passed thus, with the feeling growing deeper in her
that no good would come while she was watching. And behind the
barrier of her hands she tried desperately to rally courage. If
things were--they were! One must look them in the face! She took
her hands away. His eyes! Was it light in them? Was it? They
were seeing--surely they saw. And his lips made the tiniest
movement. In that turmoil of exultation she never knew how she
managed to continue kneeling there, with her hands on his. But all
her soul shone down to him out of her eyes, and drew and drew at
his spirit struggling back from the depths of him. For many
minutes that struggle lasted; then he smiled. It was the feeblest
smile that ever was on lips, but it made the tears pour down
Nedda's cheeks and trickle off on to his hands. Then, with a
stoicism that she could not believe in, so hopelessly unreal it
seemed, so utterly the negation of the tumult within her, she
settled back again at his feet to watch and not excite him. And
still his lips smiled that faint smile, and his opened eyes grew
dark and darker with meaning.
So at midnight Kirsteen found them.
CHAPTER XXX
In the early hours of his all-night sitting Felix had first only
memories, and then Kirsteen for companion.
"I worry most about Tod," she said. "He had that look in his face
when he went off from Marrow Farm. He might do something terrible
if they ill-treat Sheila. If only she has sense enough to see and
not provoke them."
"Surely she will," Felix murmured.
"Yes, if she realizes. But she won't, I'm afraid. Even I have
only known him look like that three times. Tod is so gentle--
passion stores itself in him; and when it comes, it's awful. If he
sees cruelty, he goes almost mad. Once he would have killed a man
if I hadn't got between them. He doesn't know what he's doing at
such moments. I wish--I wish he were back. It's hard one can't
pierce through, and see him."
Gazing at her eyes so dark and intent, Felix thought: 'If YOU can't
pierce through--none can.'
He learned the story of the disaster.
Early that morning Derek had assembled twenty of the strongest
laborers, and taken them a round of the farms to force the strike-
breakers to desist. There had been several fights, in all of which
the strike-breakers had been beaten. Derek himself had fought
three times. In the afternoon the police had come, and the
laborers had rushed with Derek and Sheila, who had joined them,
into a barn at Marrow Farm, barred it, and thrown mangolds at the
police, when they tried to force an entrance. One by one the
laborers had slipped away by a rope out of a ventilation-hole high
up at the back, and they had just got Sheila down when the police
appeared on that side, too. Derek, who had stayed to the last,
covering their escape with mangolds, had jumped down twenty feet
when he saw them taking Sheila, and, pitching forward, hit his head
against a grindstone. Then, just as they were marching Sheila and
two of the laborers away, Tod had arrived and had fallen in
alongside the policemen--he and the dog. It was then she had seen
that look on his face.
Felix, who had never beheld his big brother in Berserk mood, could
offer no consolation; nor had he the heart to adorn the tale, and
inflict on this poor woman his reflection: 'This, you see, is what
comes of the ferment you have fostered. This is the reward of
violence!' He longed, rather, to comfort her; she seemed so lonely
and, in spite of all her stoicism, so distraught and sad. His
heart went out, too, to Tod. How would he himself have felt,
walking by the side of policemen whose arms were twisted in
Nedda's! But so mixed are the minds of men that at this very
moment there was born within him the germ of a real revolt against
the entry of his little daughter into this family of hotheads. It
was more now than mere soreness and jealousy; it was fear of a
danger hitherto but sniffed at, but now only too sharply savored.
When she left him to go up-stairs, Felix stayed consulting the dark
night. As ever, in hours of ebbed vitality, the shapes of fear and
doubt grew clearer and more positive; they loomed huge out there
among the apple-trees, where the drip-drip of the rain made music.
But his thoughts were still nebulous, not amounting to resolve. It
was no moment for resolves--with the boy lying up there between the
tides of chance; and goodness knew what happening to Tod and
Sheila. The air grew sharper; he withdrew to the hearth, where a
wood fire still burned, gray ash, red glow, scent oozing from it.
And while he crouched there, blowing it with bellows, he heard soft
footsteps, and saw Nedda standing behind him transformed.
But in the midst of all his glad sympathy Felix could not help
thinking: 'Better for you, perhaps, if he had never returned from
darkness!'
She came and crouched down by him.
"Let me sit with you, Dad. It smells so good."
"Very well; but you must sleep."
"I don't believe I'll ever want to sleep again."
And at the glow in her Felix glowed too. What is so infectious as
delight? They sat a long time talking, as they had not talked
since the first fatal visit to Becket. Of how love, and mountains,
works of art, and doing things for others were the only sources of
happiness; except scents, and lying on one's back looking through
tree-tops at the sky; and tea, and sunlight, flowers, and hard
exercise; oh, and the sea! Of how, when things went hard, one
prayed--but what did one pray to? Was it not to something in
oneself? It was of no use to pray to the great mysterious Force
that made one thing a cabbage, and the other a king; for That could
obviously not be weak-minded enough to attend. And gradually
little pauses began to creep into their talk; then a big pause, and
Nedda, who would never want to sleep again, was fast asleep.
Felix watched those long, dark lashes resting on her cheeks; the
slow, soft rise of her breast; the touching look of trust and
goodness in that young face abandoned to oblivion after these hours
of stress; watched the little tired shadows under the eyes, the
tremors of the just-parted lips. And, getting up, stealthy as a
cat, he found a light rug, and ever more stealthily laid it over
her. She stirred at that, smiled up at him, and instantly went off
again. And he thought: 'Poor little sweetheart, she WAS tired!'
And a passionate desire to guard her from trials and troubles came
on him.
At four o'clock Kirsteen slipped in again, and whispered: "She made
me promise to come for her. How pretty she looks, sleeping!"
"Yes," Felix answered; "pretty and good!"
Nedda raised her head, stared up at her aunt, and a delighted smile
spread over her face. "Is it time again? How lovely!" Then,
before either could speak or stop her, she was gone.
"She is more in love," Kirsteen murmured, "than I ever saw a girl
of her age."
"She is more in love," Felix answered, "than is good to see."
"She is not truer than Derek is."
"That may be, but she will suffer from him."
"Women who love must always suffer."
Her cheeks were sunken, shadowy; she looked very tired. When she
had gone to get some sleep, Felix restored the fire and put on a
kettle, meaning to make himself some coffee. Morning had broken,
clear and sparkling after the long rain, and full of scent and
song. What glory equalled this early morning radiance, the dewy
wonder of everything! What hour of the day was such a web of youth
and beauty as this, when all the stars from all the skies had
fallen into the grass! A cold nose was thrust into his hand, and
he saw beside him Tod's dog. The animal was wet, and lightly moved
his white-tipped tail; while his dark-yellow eyes inquired of Felix
what he was going to give a dog to eat. Then Felix saw his brother
coming in. Tod's face was wild and absent as a man with all his
thoughts turned on something painful in the distance. His ruffled
hair had lost its brightness; his eyes looked as if driven back
into his head; he was splashed with mud, and wet from head to foot.
He walked up to the hearth without a word.
"Well, old man?" said Felix anxiously.
Tod looked at him, but did not answer.
"Come," said Felix; "tell us!"
"Locked up," said Tod in a voice unlike his own. "I didn't knock
them down."
"Heavens! I should hope not."
"I ought to have."
Felix put his hand within his brother's arm.
"They twisted her arms; one of them pushed her from behind. I
can't understand it. How was it I didn't? I can't understand."
"I can," said Felix. "They were the Law. If they had been mere
men you'd have done it, fast enough."
"I can't understand," Tod repeated. "I've been walking ever since."
Felix stroked his shoulder.
"Go up-stairs, old man. Kirsteen's anxious."
Tod sat down and took his boots off.
"I can't understand," he said once more. Then, without another
word, or even a look at Felix, he went out and up the stairs.
And Felix thought: 'Poor Kirsteen! Ah, well--they're all about as
queer, one as the other! How to get Nedda out of it?'
And, with that question gnawing at him, he went out into the
orchard. The grass was drenching wet, so he descended to the road.
Two wood-pigeons were crooning to each other, truest of all sounds
of summer; there was no wind, and the flies had begun humming. In
the air, cleared of dust, the scent of hay was everywhere. What
about those poor devils of laborers, now? They would get the sack
for this! and he was suddenly beset with a feeling of disgust.
This world where men, and women too, held what they had, took what
they could; this world of seeing only one thing at a time; this
world of force, and cunning, of struggle, and primitive appetites;
of such good things, too, such patience, endurance, heroism--and
yet at heart so unutterably savage!
He was very tired; but it was too wet to sit down, so he walked on.
Now and again he passed a laborer going to work; but very few in
all those miles, and they quite silent. 'Did they ever really
whistle?' Felix thought. 'Were they ever jolly ploughmen? Or was
that always a fiction? Surely, if they can't give tongue this
morning, they never can!' He crossed a stile and took a slanting
path through a little wood. The scent of leaves and sap, the
dapple of sunlight--all the bright early glow and beauty struck him
with such force that he could have cried out in the sharpness of
sensation. At that hour when man was still abed and the land lived
its own life, how full and sweet and wild that life seemed, how in
love with itself! Truly all the trouble in the world came from the
manifold disharmonies of the self-conscious animal called Man!
Then, coming out on the road again, he saw that he must be within a
mile or two of Becket; and finding himself suddenly very hungry,
determined to go there and get some breakfast.
CHAPTER XXXI
Duly shaved with one of Stanley's razors, bathed, and breakfasted,
Felix was on the point of getting into the car to return to
Joyfields when he received a message from his mother: Would he
please go up and see her before he went?
He found her looking anxious and endeavoring to conceal it.
Having kissed him, she drew him to her sofa and said: "Now,
darling, come and sit down here, and tell me all about this
DREADFUL business." And taking up an odorator she blew over him a
little cloud of scent. "It's quite a new perfume; isn't it
delicious?"
Felix, who dreaded scent, concealed his feelings, sat down, and
told her. And while he told her he was conscious of how
pathetically her fastidiousness was quivering under those gruesome
details--fighting with policemen, fighting with common men, prison--
FOR A LADY; conscious too of her still more pathetic effort to put
a good face on it. When he had finished she remained so perfectly
still, with lips so hard compressed, that he said:
"It's no good worrying, Mother."
Frances Freeland rose, pulled something hard, and a cupboard
appeared. She opened it, and took out a travelling-bag.
"I must go back with you at once," she said.
"I don't think it's in the least necessary, and you'll only knock
yourself up."
"Oh, nonsense, darling! I must."
Knowing that further dissuasion would harden her determination,
Felix said: "I'm going in the car."
"That doesn't matter. I shall be ready in ten minutes. Oh! and do
you know this? It's splendid for taking lines out under the eyes!"
She was holding out a little round box with the lid off. "Just wet
your finger with it, and dab it gently on."
Touched by this evidence of her deep desire that he should put as
good a face on it as herself, Felix dabbed himself under the eyes.
"That's right. Now, wait for me, dear; I shan't be a minute. I've
only to get my things. They'll all go splendidly in this little bag."
In a quarter of an hour they had started. During that journey
Frances Freeland betrayed no sign of tremor. She was going into
action, and, therefore, had no patience with her nerves.
"Are you proposing to stay, Mother?" Felix hazarded; "because I
don't think there's a room for you."
"Oh! that's nothing, darling. I sleep beautifully in a chair. It
suits me better than lying down." Felix cast up his eyes, and made
no answer.
On arriving, they found that the doctor had been there, expressed
his satisfaction, and enjoined perfect quiet. Tod was on the point
of starting back to Transham, where Sheila and the two laborers
would be brought up before the magistrates. Felix and Kirsteen
took hurried counsel. Now that Mother, whose nursing was beyond
reproach, had come, it would be better if they went with Tod. All
three started forthwith in the car.
Left alone, Frances Freeland took her bag--a noticeably old one,
without any patent clasp whatever, so that she could open it--went
noiselessly upstairs, tapped on Derek's door, and went in. A faint
but cheerful voice remarked: "Halloo, Granny!"
Frances Freeland went up to the bed, smiled down on him ineffably,
laid a finger on his lips, and said, in the stillest voice: "You
mustn't talk, darling!" Then she sat down in the window with her
bag beside her. Half a tear had run down her nose, and she had no
intention that it should be seen. She therefore opened her bag,
and, having taken out a little bottle, beckoned Nedda.
"Now, darling," she whispered, "you must just take one of these.
It's nothing new; they're what my mother used to give me at your
age. And for one hour you must go out and get some fresh air, and
then you can come back."
"Must I, Granny?"
"Yes; you must keep up your strength. Kiss me."
Nedda kissed a cheek that seemed extraordinarily smooth and soft,
received a kiss in the middle of her own, and, having stayed a
second by the bed, looking down with all her might, went out.
Frances Freeland, in the window, wasted no thoughts, but began to
run over in her mind the exact operations necessary to defeat this
illness of darling Derek's. Her fingers continually locked and
interlocked themselves with fresh determinations; her eyes, fixed
on imaginary foods, methods of washing, and ways of keeping him
quiet, had an almost fanatical intensity. Like a good general she
marshalled her means of attack and fixed them in perfect order.
Now and then she gazed into her bag, making quite sure that she had
everything, and nothing that was new-fangled or liable to go wrong.
For into action she never brought any of those patent novelties
that delighted her soul in times of peace. For example, when she
herself had pneumonia and no doctor, for two months, it was well
known that she had lain on her back, free from every kind of
remedy, employing only courage, nature, and beef tea, or some such
simple sustenance.
Having now made her mental dispositions, she got up without sound
and slipped off a petticoat that she suspected of having rustled a
little when she came in; folding and popping it where it could not
be suspected any more, she removed her shoes and put on very old
velvet slippers. She walked in these toward the bed, listening to
find out whether she could hear herself, without success. Then,
standing where she could see when his eyes opened, she began to
take stock. That pillow wasn't very comfortable! A little table
was wanted on both sides, instead of on one. There was no
odorator, and she did not see one of those arrangements! All these
things would have to be remedied.
Absorbed in this reconnoitring, she failed to observe that darling
Derek was looking at her through eyelashes that were always so nice
and black. He said suddenly, in that faint and cheerful voice:
"All right, Granny; I'm going to get up to-morrow."
Frances Freeland, whose principle it was that people should always
be encouraged to believe themselves better than they were,
answered. "Yes, darling, of course; you'll be up in no time.
It'll be delightful to see you in a chair to-morrow. But you
mustn't talk."
Derek sighed, closed his eyes, and went off into a faint.
It was in moments such as these that Frances Freeland was herself.
Her face flushed a little and grew terribly determined. Conscious
that she was absolutely alone in the house, she ran to her bag,
took out her sal volatile, applied it vigorously to his nose, and
poured a little between his lips. She did other things to him, and
not until she had brought him round, and the best of it was already
made, did she even say to herself: 'It's no use fussing; I must
make the best of it.'
Then, having discovered that he felt quite comfortable--as he said--
she sat down in a chair to fan him and tremble vigorously. She
would not have allowed that movement of her limbs if it had in any
way interfered with the fanning. But since, on the contrary, it
seemed to be of assistance, she certainly felt it a relief; for,
whatever age her spirit might be, her body was seventy-three.
And while she fanned she thought of Derek as a little, black-
haired, blazing-gray-eyed slip of a sallow boy, all little thin
legs and arms moving funnily like a foal's. He had been such a
dear, gentlemanlike little chap. It was dreadful he should be
forgetting himself so, and getting into such trouble. And her
thoughts passed back beyond him to her own four little sons, among
whom she had been so careful not to have a favorite, but to love
them all equally. And she thought of how their holland suits wore
out, especially in the elastic, and got green behind, almost before
they were put on; and of how she used to cut their hairs, spending
at least three-quarters of an hour on each, because she had never
been quick at it, while they sat so good--except Stanley, and
darling Tod, who WOULD move just as she had got into the comb
particularly nice bits of his hair, always so crisp and difficult!
And of how she had cut off Felix's long golden curls when he was
four, and would have cried over it, if crying hadn't always been
silly! And of how beautifully they had all had their measles
together, so that she had been up with them day and night for about
a fortnight. And of how it was a terrible risk with Derek and
darling Nedda, not at all a wise match, she was afraid. And yet,
if they really were attached, of course one must put the best face
on it! And how lovely it would be to see another little baby some
day; and what a charming little mother Nedda would make--if only
the dear child would do her hair just a little differently! And
she perceived that Derek was asleep--and one of her own legs, from
the knee down. She would certainly have bad pins and needles if
she did not get up; but, since she would not wake him for the
world, she must do something else to cure it. And she hit upon
this plan. She had only to say, 'Nonsense, you haven't anything of
the sort!' and it was sure to go away. She said this to her leg,
but, being a realist, she only made it feel like a pin-cushion.
She knew, however, that she had only to persevere, because it would
never do to give in. She persevered, and her leg felt as if red-
hot needles were being stuck in it. Then, for the life of her, she
could not help saying a little psalm. The sensation went away and
left her leg quite dead. She would have no strength in it at all
when she got up. But that would be easily cured, when she could
get to her bag, with three globules of nux vomica--and darling
Derek must not be waked up for anything! She waited thus till
Nedda came back, and then said, "Sssh!"
He woke at once, so that providentially she was able to get up,
and, having stood with her weight on one leg for five minutes, so
as to be quite sure she did not fall, she crossed back to the
window, took her nux vomica, and sat down with her tablets to note
down the little affairs she would require, while Nedda took her
place beside the bed, to fan him. Having made her list, she went
to Nedda and whispered that she was going down to see about one or
two little things, and while she whispered she arranged the dear
child's hair. If only she would keep it just like that, it would
be so much more becoming! And she went down-stairs.
Accustomed to the resources of Stanley's establishment, or at least
to those of John's and Felix's, and of the hotels she stayed at,
she felt for a moment just a little nonplussed at discovering at
her disposal nothing but three dear little children playing with a
dog, and one bicycle. For a few seconds she looked at the latter
hard. If only it had been a tricycle! Then, feeling certain that
she could not make it into one, she knew that she must make the
best of it, especially as, in any case, she could not have used it,
for it would never do to leave darling Nedda alone in the house.
She decided therefore to look in every room to see if she could
find the things she wanted. The dog, who had been attracted by
her, left the children and came too, and the children, attracted by
the dog, followed; so they all five went into a room on the ground
floor. It was partitioned into two by a screen; in one portion was
a rough camp bedstead, and in the other two dear little child's
beds, that must once have been Derek's and Sheila's, and one still
smaller, made out of a large packing-case. The eldest of the
little children said:
"That's where Billy sleeps, Susie sleeps here, and I sleeps there;
and our father sleeped in here before he went to prison." Frances
Freeland experienced a shock. To prison! The idea of letting
these little things know such a thing as that! The best face had
so clearly not been put on it that she decided to put it herself.
"Oh, not to prison, dear! Only into a house in the town for a
little while."
It seemed to her quite dreadful that they should know the truth--it
was simply necessary to put it out of their heads. That dear
little girl looked so old already, such a little mother! And, as
they stood about her, she gazed piercingly at their heads. They
were quite clean.
The second dear little thing said:
"We like bein' here; we hope Father won't be comin' back from
prison for a long time, so as we can go on stayin' here. Mr.
Freeland gives us apples."
The failure of her attempt to put a nicer idea into their heads
disconcerted Frances Freeland for a moment only. She said:
"Who told you he was in prison?"
Biddy answered slowly: "Nobody didn't tell us; we picked it up."
"Oh, but you should never pick things up! That's not at all nice.
You don't know what harm they may do you."
Billy replied: "We picked up a dead cat yesterday. It didn't
scratch a bit, it didn't."
And Biddy added: "Please, what is prison like?"
Pity seized on Frances Freeland for these little derelicts, whose
heads and pinafores and faces were so clean. She pursed her lips
very tight and said:
"Hold out your hands, all of you."
Three small hands were held out, and three small pairs of gray-blue
eyes looked up at her. From the recesses of her pocket she drew
forth her purse, took from it three shillings, and placed one in
the very centre of each palm. The three small hands closed; two
small grave bodies dipped in little courtesies; the third remained
stock-still, but a grin spread gradually on its face from ear to ear.
"What do you say?" said Frances Freeland.
"Thank you."
"Thank you--what?"
"Thank you, ma'am."
"That's right. Now run away and play a nice game in the orchard."
The three turned immediately and went. A sound of whispering rose
busily outside. Frances Freeland, glancing through the window, saw
them unlatching the wicket gate. Sudden alarm seized her. She put
out her head and called. Biddy came back.
"You mustn't spend them all at once."
Biddy shook her head.
"No. Once we had a shillin', and we were sick. We're goin' to
spend three pennies out of one shillin' every day, till they're
gone."
"And aren't you going to put any by for a rainy day?"
"No."
Frances Freeland did not know what to answer. Dear little things!
The dear little things vanished.
In Tod's and Kirsteen's room she found a little table and a pillow,
and something that might do, and having devised a contrivance by
which this went into that and that into this and nothing whatever
showed, she conveyed the whole very quietly up near dear Derek's
room, and told darling Nedda to go down-stairs and look for
something that she knew she would not find, for she could not think
at the moment of any better excuse. When the child had gone, she
popped this here, and popped that there. And there she was! And
she felt better. It was no use whatever to make a fuss about that
aspect of nursing which was not quite nice. One just put the best
face upon it, quietly did what was necessary, and pretended that it
was not there. Kirsteen had not seen to things quite as she should
have. But then dear Kirsteen was so clever.
Her attitude, indeed, to that blue bird, who had alighted now
twenty-one years ago in the Freeland nest, had always, after the
first few shocks, been duly stoical. For, however her
fastidiousness might jib at neglect of the forms of things, she was
the last woman not to appreciate really sterling qualities. Though
it was a pity dear Kirsteen did expose her neck and arms so that
they had got quite brown, a pity that she never went to church and
had brought up the dear children not to go, and to have ideas that
were not quite right about 'the Land,' still she was emphatically a
lady, and devoted to dear Tod, and very good. And her features
were so regular, and she had such a good color, and was so slim and
straight in the back, that she was always a pleasure to look at.
And if she was not quite so practical as she might have been, that
was not everything; and she would never get stout, as there was
every danger of Clara doing. So that from the first she had always
put a good face on her. Derek's voice interrupted her thoughts:
"I'm awfully thirsty, Granny."
"Yes, darling. Don't move your head; and just let me pop in some
of this delicious lemonade with a spoon."
Nedda, returning, found her supporting his head with one hand,
while with the other she kept popping in the spoon, her soul
smiling at him lovingly through her lips and eyes.
CHAPTER XXXII
Felix went back to London the afternoon of Frances Freeland's
installation, taking Sheila with him. She had been 'bound over to
keep the peace'--a task which she would obviously be the better
able to accomplish at a distance. And, though to take charge of
her would be rather like holding a burning match till there was no
match left, he felt bound to volunteer.
He left Nedda with many misgivings; but had not the heart to wrench
her away.
The recovery of a young man who means to get up to-morrow is not so
rapid when his head, rather than his body, is the seat of trouble.
Derek's temperament was against him. He got up several times in
spirit, to find that his body had remained in bed. And this did
not accelerate his progress. It had been impossible to dispossess
Frances Freeland from command of the sick-room; and, since she was
admittedly from experience and power of paying no attention to her
own wants, the fittest person for the position, there she remained,
taking turn and turn about with Nedda, and growing a little whiter,
a little thinner, more resolute in face, and more loving in her
eyes, from day to day. That tragedy of the old--the being laid
aside from life before the spirit is ready to resign, the feeling
that no one wants you, that all those you have borne and brought up
have long passed out on to roads where you cannot follow, that even
the thought-life of the world streams by so fast that you lie up in
a backwater, feebly, blindly groping for the full of the water, and
always pushed gently, hopelessly back; that sense that you are
still young and warm, and yet so furbelowed with old thoughts and
fashions that none can see how young and warm you are, none see how
you long to rub hearts with the active, how you yearn for something
real to do that can help life on, and how no one will give it you!
All this--this tragedy--was for the time defeated. She was, in
triumph, doing something real for those she loved and longed to do
things for. She had Sheila's room.
For a week at least Derek asked no questions, made no allusion to
the mutiny, not even to the cause of his own disablement. It had
been impossible to tell whether the concussion had driven coherent
recollection from his mind, or whether he was refraining from an
instinct of self-preservation, barring such thoughts as too
exciting. Nedda dreaded every day lest he should begin. She knew
that the questions would fall on her, since no answer could
possibly be expected from Granny except: "It's all right, darling,
everything's going on perfectly--only you mustn't talk!"
It began the last day of June, the very first day that he got up.
"They didn't save the hay, did they?"
Was he fit to hear the truth? Would he forgive her if she did not
tell it? If she lied about this, could she go on lying to his
other questions? When he discovered, later, would not the effect
undo the good of lies now? She decided to lie; but, when she
opened her lips, simply could not, with his eyes on her; and said
faintly: "Yes, they did."
His face contracted. She slipped down at once and knelt beside his
chair. He said between his teeth:
"Go on; tell me. Did it all collapse?"
She could only stroke his hands and bow her head.
"I see. What's happened to them?"
Without looking up, she murmured:
"Some have been dismissed; the others are working again all right."
"All right!"
She looked up then so pitifully that he did not ask her anything
more. But the news put him back a week. And she was in despair.
The day he got up again he began afresh:
"When are the assizes?"
"The 7th of August."
"Has anybody been to see Bob Tryst?"
"Yes; Aunt Kirsteen has been twice."
Having been thus answered, he was quiet for a long time. She had
slipped again out of her chair to kneel beside him; it seemed the
only place from which she could find courage for her answers. He
put his hand, that had lost its brown, on her hair. At that she
plucked up spirit to ask:
"Would you like me to go and see him?"
He nodded.
"Then, I will--to-morrow."
"Don't ever tell me what isn't true, Nedda! People do; that's why
I didn't ask before."
She answered fervently:
"I won't! Oh, I won't!"
She dreaded this visit to the prison. Even to think of those
places gave her nightmare. Sheila's description of her night in a
cell had made her shiver with horror. But there was a spirit in
Nedda that went through with things; and she started early the next
day, refusing Kirsteen's proffered company.
The look of that battlemented building, whose walls were pierced
with emblems of the Christian faith, turned her heartsick, and she
stood for several minutes outside the dark-green door before she
could summon courage to ring the bell.
A stout man in blue, with a fringe of gray hair under his peaked
cap, and some keys dangling from a belt, opened, and said:
"Yes, miss?"
Being called 'miss' gave her a little spirit, and she produced the
card she had been warming in her hand.
"I have come to see a man called Robert Tryst, waiting for trial at
the assizes."
The stout man looked at the card back and front, as is the way of
those in doubt, closed the door behind her, and said:
"Just a minute, miss."
The shutting of the door behind her sent a little shiver down
Nedda's spine; but the temperature of her soul was rising, and she
looked round. Beyond the heavy arch, beneath which she stood, was
a courtyard where she could see two men, also in blue, with peaked
caps. Then, to her left, she became conscious of a shaven-headed
noiseless being in drab-gray clothes, on hands and knees, scrubbing
the end of a corridor. Her tremor at the stealthy ugliness of this
crouching figure yielded at once to a spasm of pity. The man gave
her a look, furtive, yet so charged with intense penetrating
curiosity that it seemed to let her suddenly into innumerable
secrets. She felt as if the whole life of people shut away in
silence and solitude were disclosed to her in the swift,
unutterably alive look of this noiseless kneeling creature, riving
out of her something to feed his soul and body on. That look
seemed to lick its lips. It made her angry, made her miserable,
with a feeling of pity she could hardly bear. Tears, too startled
to flow, darkened her eyes. Poor man! How he must hate her, who
was free, and all fresh from the open world and the sun, and people
to love and talk to! The 'poor man' scrubbed on steadily, his ears
standing out from his shaven head; then, dragging his knee-mat
skew-ways, he took the chance to look at her again. Perhaps
because his dress and cap and stubble of hair and even the color of
his face were so drab-gray, those little dark eyes seemed to her
the most terribly living things she had ever seen. She felt that
they had taken her in from top to toe, clothed and unclothed, taken
in the resentment she had felt and the pity she was feeling; they
seemed at once to appeal, to attack, and to possess her ravenously,
as though all the starved instincts in a whole prisoned world had
rushed up and for a second stood outside their bars. Then came the
clank of keys, the eyes left her as swiftly as they had seized her,
and he became again just that stealthy, noiseless creature
scrubbing a stone floor. And, shivering, Nedda thought:
'I can't bear myself here--me with everything in the world I want--
and these with nothing!'
But the stout janitor was standing by her again, together with
another man in blue, who said:
"Now, miss; this way, please!"
And down that corridor they went. Though she did not turn, she
knew well that those eyes were following, still riving something
from her; and she heaved a sigh of real relief when she was round a
corner. Through barred windows that had no glass she could see
another court, where men in the same drab-gray clothes printed with
arrows were walking one behind the other, making a sort of moving
human hieroglyphic in the centre of the concrete floor. Two
warders with swords stood just outside its edge. Some of those
walking had their heads up, their chests expanded, some slouched
along with heads almost resting on their chests; but most had their
eyes fixed on the back of the neck of the man in front; and there
was no sound save the tramp of feet.
Nedda put her hand to her throat. The warder beside her said in a
chatty voice:
"That's where the 'ards takes their exercise, miss. You want to
see a man called Tryst, waitin' trial, I think. We've had a woman
here to see him, and a lady in blue, once or twice."
"My aunt."
"Ah! just so. Laborer, I think--case of arson. Funny thing; never
yet found a farm-laborer that took to prison well."
Nedda shivered. The words sounded ominous. Then a little flame
lit itself within her.
"Does anybody ever 'take to' prison?"
The warder uttered a sound between a grunt and chuckle.
"There's some has a better time here than they have out, any day.
No doubt about it--they're well fed here."
Her aunt's words came suddenly into Nedda's mind: 'Liberty's a
glorious feast!' But she did not speak them.
"Yes," the warder proceeded, "some o' them we get look as if they
didn't have a square meal outside from one year's end to the other.
If you'll just wait a minute, miss, I'll fetch the man down to you."
In a bare room with distempered walls, and bars to a window out of
which she could see nothing but a high brick wall, Nedda waited.
So rapid is the adjustment of the human mind, so quick the blunting
of human sensation, that she had already not quite the passion of
pitiful feeling which had stormed her standing under that archway.
A kind of numbness gripped her nerves. There were wooden forms in
this room, and a blackboard, on which two rows of figures had been
set one beneath the other, but not yet added up.
The silence at first was almost deathly. Then it was broken by a
sound as of a heavy door banged, and the shuffling tramp of
marching men--louder, louder, softer--a word of command--still
softer, and it died away. Dead silence again! Nedda pressed her
hands to her breast. Twice she added up those figures on the
blackboard; each time the number was the same. Ah, there was a
fly--two flies! How nice they looked, moving, moving, chasing each
other in the air. Did flies get into the cells? Perhaps not even
a fly came there--nothing more living than walls and wood! Nothing
living except what was inside oneself! How dreadful! Not even a
clock ticking, not even a bird's song! Silent, unliving, worse
than in this room! Something pressed against her leg. She started
violently and looked down. A little cat! Oh, what a blessed
thing! A little sandy, ugly cat! It must have crept in through
the door. She was not locked in, then, anyway! Thus far had
nerves carried her already! Scrattling the little cat's furry
pate, she pulled herself together. She would not tremble and be
nervous. It was disloyal to Derek and to her purpose, which was to
bring comfort to poor Tryst. Then the door was pushed open, and
the warder said:
"A quarter of an hour, miss. I'll be just outside."
She saw a big man with unshaven cheeks come in, and stretched out
her hand.
"I am Mr. Derek's cousin, going to be married to him. He's been
ill, but he's getting well again now. We knew you'd like to hear."
And she thought: 'Oh! What a tragic face! I can't bear to look at
his eyes!'
He took her hand, said, "Thank you, miss," and stood as still as ever.
"Please come and sit down, and we can talk."
Tryst moved to a form and took his seat thereon, with his hands
between his knees, as if playing with an imaginary cap. He was
dressed in an ordinary suit of laborer's best clothes, and his
stiff, dust-colored hair was not cut particularly short. The
cheeks of his square-cut face had fallen in, the eyes had sunk
back, and the prominence thus given to his cheek and jawbones and
thick mouth gave his face a savage look--only his dog-like,
terribly yearning eyes made Nedda feel so sorry that she simply
could not feel afraid.
"The children are such dears, Mr. Tryst. Billy seems to grow every
day. They're no trouble at all, and quite happy. Biddy's
wonderful with them."
"She's a good maid." The thick lips shaped the words as though
they had almost lost power of speech.
"Do they let you see the newspapers we send? Have you got
everything you want?"
For a minute he did not seem to be going to answer; then, moving
his head from side to side, he said:
"Nothin' I want, but just get out of here."
Nedda murmured helplessly:
"It's only a month now to the assizes. Does Mr. Pogram come to see
you?"
"Yes, he comes. He can't do nothin'!"
"Oh, don't despair! Even if they don't acquit you, it'll soon be
over. Don't despair!" And she stole her hand out and timidly
touched his arm. She felt her heart turning over and over, he
looked so sad.
He said in that stumbling, thick voice:
"Thank you kindly. I must get out. I won't stand long of it--not
much longer. I'm not used to it--always been accustomed to the
air, an' bein' about, that's where 'tis. But don't you tell him,
miss. You say I'm goin' along all right. Don't you tell him what
I said. 'Tis no use him frettin' over me. 'Twon' do me no good."
And Nedda murmured:
"No, no; I won't tell him."
Then suddenly came the words she had dreaded:
"D'you think they'll let me go, miss?"
"Oh, yes, I think so--I hope so!" But she could not meet his eyes,
and hearing him grit his boot on the floor knew he had not believed
her.
He said slowly:
"I never meant to do it when I went out that mornin'. It came on
me sudden, lookin' at the straw."
Nedda gave a little gasp. Could that man outside hear?
Tryst went on: "If they don't let me go, I won' stand it. 'Tis too
much for a man. I can't sleep, I can't eat, nor nothin'. I won'
stand it. It don' take long to die, if you put your mind to it."
Feeling quite sick with pity, Nedda got up and stood beside him;
and, moved by an uncontrollable impulse, she lifted one of his
great hands and clasped it in both her own. "Oh, try and be brave
and look forward! You're going to be ever so happy some day."
He gave her a strange long stare.
"Yes, I'll be happy some day. Don' you never fret about me."
And Nedda saw that the warder was standing in the doorway.
"Sorry, miss, time's up."
Without a word Tryst rose and went out.
Nedda was alone again with the little sandy cat. Standing under
the high-barred window she wiped her cheeks, that were all wet.
Why, why must people suffer so? Suffer so slowly, so horribly?
What were men made of that they could go on day after day, year
after year, watching others suffer?
When the warder came back to take her out, she did not trust
herself to speak, or even to look at him. She walked with hands
tight clenched, and eyes fixed on the ground. Outside the prison
door she drew a long, long breath. And suddenly her eyes caught
the inscription on the corner of a lane leading down alongside the
prison wall--"Love's Walk"!
CHAPTER XXXIII
Peremptorily ordered by the doctor to the sea, but with
instructions to avoid for the present all excitement, sunlight, and
color, Derek and his grandmother repaired to a spot well known to
be gray, and Nedda went home to Hampstead. This was the last week
in July. A fortnight spent in the perfect vacuity of an English
watering-place restored the boy wonderfully. No one could be
better trusted than Frances Freeland to preserve him from looking
on the dark side of anything, more specially when that thing was
already not quite nice. Their conversation was therefore free from
allusion to the laborers, the strike, or Bob Tryst. And Derek
thought the more. The approaching trial was hardly ever out of his
mind. Bathing, he would think of it; sitting on the gray jetty
looking over the gray sea, he would think of it. Up the gray
cobbled streets and away on the headlands, he would think of it.
And, so as not to have to think of it, he would try to walk himself
to a standstill. Unfortunately the head will continue working when
the legs are at rest. And when he sat opposite to her at meal-
times, Frances Freeland would gaze piercingly at his forehead and
muse: 'The dear boy looks much better, but he's getting a little
line between his brows--it IS such a pity!' It worried her, too,
that the face he was putting on their little holiday together was
not quite as full as she could have wished--though the last thing
in the world she could tolerate were really fat cheeks, those signs
of all that her stoicism abhorred, those truly unforgivable marks
of the loss of 'form.' He struck her as dreadfully silent, too,
and she would rack her brains for subjects that would interest him,
often saying to herself: 'If only I were clever!' It was natural
he should think of dear Nedda, but surely it was not that which
gave him the little line. He must be brooding about those other
things. He ought not to be melancholy like this and let anything
prevent the sea from doing him good. The habit--hard-learned by
the old, and especially the old of her particular sex--of not
wishing for the moon, or at all events of not letting others know
that you are wishing for it, had long enabled Frances Freeland to
talk cheerfully on the most indifferent subjects whether or no her
heart were aching. One's heart often did ache, of course, but it
simply didn't do to let it interfere, making things uncomfortable
for others. And once she said to him: "You know, darling, I think
it would be so nice for you to take a little interest in politics.
They're very absorbing when you once get into them. I find my
paper most enthralling. And it really has very good principles."
"If politics did anything for those who most need things done,
Granny--but I can't see that they do."
She thought a little, then, making firm her lips, said:
"I don't think that's quite just, darling, there are a great many
politicians who are very much looked up to--all the bishops, for
instance, and others whom nobody could suspect of self-seeking."
"I didn't mean that politicians were self-seeking, Granny; I meant
that they're comfortable people, and the things that interest them
are those that interest comfortable people. What have they done
for the laborers, for instance?"
"Oh, but, darling! they're going to do a great deal. In my paper
they're continually saying that."
"Do you believe it?"
"I'm sure they wouldn't say so if they weren't. There's quite a
new plan, and it sounds most sensible. And so I don't think,
darling, that if I were you I should make myself unhappy about all
that kind of thing. They must know best. They're all so much
older than you. And you're getting quite a little line between
your eyes."
Derek smiled.
"All right, Granny; I shall have a big one soon."
Frances Freeland smiled, too, but shook her head.
"Yes; and that's why I really think you ought to take interest in
politics."
"I'd rather take interest in you, Granny. You're very jolly to
look at."
Frances Freeland raised her brows.
"I? My dear, I'm a perfect fright nowadays."
Thus pushing away what her stoicism and perpetual aspiration to an
impossibly good face would not suffer her to admit, she added:
"Where would you like to drive this afternoon?"
For they took drives in a small victoria, Frances Freeland holding
her sunshade to protect him from the sun whenever it made the
mistake of being out.
On August the fourth he insisted that he was well and must go back
home. And, though to bring her attendance on him to an end was a
grief, she humbly admitted that he must be wanting younger company,
and, after one wistful attempt, made no further bones. The
following day they travelled.
On getting home he found that the police had been to see little
Biddy Tryst, who was to be called as a witness. Tod would take her
over on the morning of the trial. Derek did not wait for this, but
on the day before the assizes repacked his bag and went off to the
Royal Charles Hostel at Worcester. He slept not at all that night,
and next morning was early at the court, for Tryst's case would be
the first. Anxiously he sat watching all the queer and formal
happenings that mark the initiation of the higher justice--the
assemblage of the gentlemen in wigs; the sifting, shifting,
settling of clerks, and ushers, solicitors, and the public; the
busy indifference, the cheerful professionalism of it all. He saw
little Mr. Pogram come in, more square and rubbery than ever, and
engage in conclave with one of the bewigged. The smiles, shrugs,
even the sharp expressions on that barrister's face; the way he
stood, twisting round, one hand wrapped in his gown, one foot on
the bench behind; it was all as if he had done it hundreds of times
before and cared not the snap of one of his thin, yellow fingers.
Then there was a sudden hush; the judge came in, bowed, and took
his seat. And that, too, seemed so professional. Haunted by the
thought of him to whom this was almost life and death, the boy was
incapable of seeing how natural it was that they should not all
feel as he did.
The case was called and Tryst brought in. Derek had once more to
undergo the torture of those tragic eyes fixed on him. Round that
heavy figure, that mournful, half-brutal, and half-yearning face,
the pleadings, the questions, the answers buzzed, bringing out
facts with damning clearness, yet leaving the real story of that
early morning as hidden as if the court and all were but gibbering
figures of air. The real story of Tryst, heavy and distraught,
rising and turning out from habit into the early haze on the
fields, where his daily work had lain, of Tryst brooding, with the
slow, the wrathful incoherence that centuries of silence in those
lonely fields had passed into the blood of his forebears and
himself. Brooding, in the dangerous disproportion that enforced
continence brings to certain natures, loading the brain with
violence till the storm bursts and there leap out the lurid, dark
insanities of crime. Brooding, while in the air flies chased each
other, insects crawled together in the grass, and the first
principle of nature worked everywhere its sane fulfilment. They
might talk and take evidence as they would, be shrewd and sharp
with all the petty sharpness of the Law; but the secret springs
would still lie undisclosed, too natural and true to bear the light
of day. The probings and eloquence of justice would never paint
the picture of that moment of maniacal relief, when, with jaw
hanging loose, eyes bulging in exultation of revenge, he had struck
those matches with his hairy hands and let them flare in the straw,
till the little red flames ran and licked, rustled and licked, and
there was nothing to do but watch them lick and burn. Nor of that
sudden wildness of dumb fear that rushed into the heart of the
crouching creature, changing the madness of his face to palsy. Nor
of the recoil from the burning stack; those moments empty with
terror. Nor of how terror, through habit of inarticulate,
emotionless existence, gave place again to brute stolidity. And
so, heavily back across the dewy fields, under the larks' songs,
the cooings of pigeons, the hum of wings, and all the unconscious
rhythm of ageless Nature. No! The probings of Justice could never
reach the whole truth. And even Justice quailed at its own
probings when the mother-child was passed up from Tod's side into
the witness-box and the big laborer was seen to look at her and she
at him. She seemed to have grown taller; her pensive little face
and beautifully fluffed-out corn-brown hair had an eerie beauty,
perched up there in the arid witness-box, as of some small figure
from the brush of Botticelli.
"Your name, my dear?"
"Biddy Tryst."
"How old?"
"Ten next month, please."
"Do you remember going to live at Mr. Freeland's cottage?"
"Yes, sir."
"And do you remember the first night?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where did you sleep, Biddy?"
"Please, sir, we slept in a big room with a screen. Billy and
Susie and me; and father behind the screen."
"And where was the room?"
"Down-stairs, sir."
"Now, Biddy, what time did you wake up the first morning?"
"When Father got up."
"Was that early or late?"
"Very early."
"Would you know the time?"
"No, sir."
"But it was very early; how did you know that?"
"It was a long time before we had any breakfast."
"And what time did you have breakfast?"
"Half past six by the kitchen clock."
"Was it light when you woke up?"
"Yes, sir."
"When Father got up, did he dress or did he go to bed again?"
"He hadn't never undressed, sir."
"Then did he stay with you or did he go out?"
"Out, sir."
"And how long was it before he came back?"
"When I was puttin' on Billy's boots."
"What had you done in between?"
"Helped Susie and dressed Billy."
"And how long does that take you generally?"
"Half an hour, sir."
"I see. What did Father look like when he came in, Biddy?"
The mother-child paused. For the first time it seemed to dawn on
her that there was something dangerous in these questions. She
twisted her small hands before her and gazed at her father.
The judge said gently:
"Well, my child?"
"Like he does now, sir."
"Thank you, Biddy."
That was all; the mother-child was suffered to step down and take
her place again by Tod. And in the silence rose the short and
rubbery report of little Mr. Pogram blowing his nose. No evidence
given that morning was so conclusive, actual, terrible as that
unconscious: "Like he does now, sir." That was why even Justice
quailed a little at its own probings.
From this moment the boy knew that Tryst's fate was sealed. What
did all those words matter, those professional patterings one way
and the other; the professional jeers: 'My friend has told you
this' and 'My friend will tell you that.' The professional
steering of the impartial judge, seated there above them all; the
cold, calculated rhapsodies about the heinousness of arson; the
cold and calculated attack on the characters of the stone-breaker
witness and the tramp witness; the cold and calculated patter of
the appeal not to condemn a father on the evidence of his little
child; the cold and calculated outburst on the right of every man
to be assumed innocent except on overwhelming evidence such as did
not here exist. The cold and calculated balancing of pro and con;
and those minutes of cold calculation veiled from the eyes of the
court. Even the verdict: 'Guilty'; even the judgment: 'Three
years' penal servitude.' All nothing, all superfluity to the boy
supporting the tragic gaze of Tryst's eyes and making up his mind
to a desperate resort.
"Three years' penal servitude!" The big laborer paid no more
attention to those words than to any others spoken during that
hour's settlement of his fate. True, he received them standing, as
is the custom, fronting the image of Justice, from whose lips they
came. But by no single gesture did he let any one see the dumb
depths of his soul. If life had taught him nothing else, it had
taught him never to express himself. Mute as any bullock led into
the slaughtering-house, with something of a bullock's dulled and
helpless fear in his eyes, he passed down and away between his
jailers. And at once the professional noises rose, and the
professional rhapsodists, hunching their gowns, swept that little
lot of papers into their pink tape, and, turning to their
neighbors, smiled, and talked, and jerked their eyebrows.
CHAPTER XXXIV
The nest on the Spaniard's Road had not been able to contain Sheila
long. There are certain natures, such as that of Felix, to whom
the claims and exercise of authority are abhorrent, who refuse to
exercise it themselves and rage when they see it exercised over
others, but who somehow never come into actual conflict with it.
There are other natures, such as Sheila's, who do not mind in the
least exercising authority themselves, but who oppose it vigorously
when they feel it coming near themselves or some others. Of such
is the kingdom of militancy. Her experience with the police had
sunk deep into her soul. They had not, as a fact, treated her at
all badly, which did not prevent her feeling as if they had
outraged in her the dignity of woman. She arrived, therefore, in
Hampstead seeing red even where red was not. And since,
undoubtedly, much real red was to be seen, there was little other
color in the world or in her cheeks those days. Long disagreements
with Alan, to whom she was still a magnet but whose Stanley-like
nature stood firm against the blandishments of her revolting
tongue, drove her more and more toward a decision the seeds of
which had, perhaps, been planted during her former stay among the
breezy airs of Hampstead.
Felix, coming one day into his wife's study--for the house knew not
the word drawing-room--found Flora, with eyebrows lifted up and
smiling lips, listening to Sheila proclaiming the doctrine that it
was impossible not to live 'on one's own.' Nothing else--Felix
learned--was compatible with dignity, or even with peace of mind.
She had, therefore, taken a back room high up in a back street, in
which she was going to live perfectly well on ten shillings a week;
and, having thirty-two pounds saved up, she would be all right for
a year, after which she would be able to earn her living. The
principle she purposed to keep before her eyes was that of
committing herself to nothing which would seriously interfere with
her work in life. Somehow, it was impossible to look at this girl,
with her glowing cheeks and her glowing eyes, and her hair frizzy
from ardor, and to distrust her utterances. Yes! She would
arrive, if not where she wanted, at all events somewhere; which,
after all, was the great thing. And in fact she did arrive the
very next day in the back room high up in the back street, and
neither Tod's cottage nor the house on the Spaniard's Road saw more
than flying gleams of her, thenceforth.
Another by-product, this, of that little starting episode, the
notice given to Tryst! Strange how in life one little incident,
one little piece of living stress, can attract and gather round it
the feelings, thoughts, actions of people whose lives run far and
wide away therefrom. But episodes are thus potent only when
charged with a significance that comes from the clash of the
deepest instincts.
During the six weeks which had elapsed between his return home from
Joyfields and the assizes, Felix had much leisure to reflect that
if Lady Malloring had not caused Tryst to be warned that he could
not marry his deceased wife's sister and continue to stay on the
estate--the lives of Felix himself, his daughter, mother, brother,
brother's wife, their son and daughter, and in less degree of his
other brothers, would have been free of a preoccupation little
short of ludicrous in proportion to the face value of the cause.
But he had leisure, too, to reflect that in reality the issue
involved in that tiny episode concerned human existence to its
depths--for, what was it but the simple, all-important question of
human freedom? The simple, all-important issue of how far men and
women should try to rule the lives of others instead of trying only
to rule their own, and how far those others should allow their
lives to be so ruled? This it was which gave that episode its
power of attracting and affecting the thoughts, feelings, actions
of so many people otherwise remote. And though Felix was paternal
enough to say to himself nearly all the time, 'I can't let Nedda
get further into this mess!' he was philosopher enough to tell
himself, in the unfatherly balance of his hours, that the mess was
caused by the fight best of all worth fighting--of democracy
against autocracy, of a man's right to do as he likes with his life
if he harms not others; of 'the Land' against the fetterers of 'the
Land.' And he was artist enough to see how from that little
starting episode the whole business had sprung--given, of course,
the entrance of the wilful force called love. But a father,
especially when he has been thoroughly alarmed, gives the artist
and philosopher in him short shrift.
Nedda came home soon after Sheila went, and to the eyes of Felix
she came back too old and thoughtful altogether. How different a
girl from the Nedda who had so wanted 'to know everything' that
first night of May! What was she brooding over, what planning, in
that dark, round, pretty head? At what resolve were those clear
eyes so swiftly raised to look? What was going on within, when her
breast heaved so, without seeming cause, and the color rushed up in
her cheeks at a word, as though she had been so far away that the
effort of recall was alone enough to set all her veins throbbing.
And yet Felix could devise no means of attack on her infatuation.
For a man cannot cultivate the habit of never interfering and then
suddenly throw it over; least of all when the person to be
interfered with is his pet and only daughter.
Flora, not of course in the swim of those happenings at Joyflelds,
could not be got to take the matter very seriously. In fact--
beyond what concerned Felix himself and poetry--the matter that she
did take seriously had yet to be discovered. Hers was one of those
semi-detached natures particularly found in Hampstead. When
exhorted to help tackle the question, she could only suggest that
Felix should take them all abroad when he had finished 'The Last of
the Laborers.' A tour, for instance, in Norway and Sweden, where
none of them had ever been, and perhaps down through Finland into
Russia.
Feeling like one who squirts on a burning haystack with a garden
syringe, Felix propounded this scheme to his little daughter. She
received it with a start, a silence, a sort of quivering all over,
as of an animal who scents danger. She wanted to know when, and
being told--'not before the middle of August', relapsed into her
preoccupation as if nothing had been said. Felix noted on the hall
table one afternoon a letter in her handwriting, addressed to a
Worcester newspaper, and remarked thereafter that she began to
receive this journal daily, obviously with a view to reports of the
coming assizes. Once he tried to break through into her
confidence. It was August Bank Holiday, and they had gone out on
to the heath together to see the people wonderfully assembled.
Coming back across the burnt-up grass, strewn with paper bags,
banana peel, and the cores of apples, he hooked his hand into her
arm.
"What is to be done with a child that goes about all day thinking
and thinking and not telling anybody what she is thinking?"
She smiled round at him and answered:
"I know, Dad. She IS a pig, isn't she?"
This comparison with an animal of proverbial stubbornness was not
encouraging. Then his hand was squeezed to her side and he heard
her murmur:
"I wonder if all daughters are such beasts!"
He understood well that she had meant: 'There is only one thing I
want--one thing I mean to have--one thing in the world for me now!'
And he said soberly:
"We can't expect anything else."
"Oh, Daddy!" she answered, but nothing more.
Only four days later she came to his study with a letter, and a
face so flushed and troubled that he dropped his pen and got up in
alarm.
"Read this, Dad! It's impossible! It's not true! It's terrible!
Oh! What am I to do?"
The letter ran thus, in a straight, boyish handwriting:
"ROYAL CHARLES HOSTEL,
"WORCESTER, Aug. 7th.
"MY NEDDA,
"I have just seen Bob tried. They have given him three years'
penal. It was awful to sit there and watch him. He can never
stand it. It was awful to watch him looking at ME. It's no good.
I'm going to give myself up. I must do it. I've got everything
ready; they'll have to believe me and squash his sentence. You
see, but for me it would never have been done. It's a matter of
honour. I can't let him suffer any more. This isn't impulse.
I've been meaning to do it for some time, if they found him guilty.
So in a way, it's an immense relief. I'd like to have seen you
first, but it would only distress you, and I might not have been
able to go through with it after. Nedda, darling, if you still
love me when I get out, we'll go to New Zealand, away from this
country where they bully poor creatures like Bob. Be brave! I'll
write to-morrow, if they let me.
"Your
"Derek."
The first sensation in Felix on reading this effusion was poignant
recollection of the little lawyer's look after Derek had made the
scene at Tryst's committal and of his words: 'Nothing in it, is
there?' His second thought: 'Is this the cutting of the knot that
I've been looking for?' His third, which swept all else away: 'My
poor little darling! What business has that boy to hurt her again
like this!'
He heard her say:
"Tryst told me himself he did it, Dad! He told me when I went to
see him in the prison. Honour doesn't demand what isn't true! Oh,
Dad, help me!"
Felix was slow in getting free from the cross currents of
reflection. "He wrote this last night," he said dismally. "He may
have done it already. We must go and see John."
Nedda clasped her hands. "Ah! Yes!"
And Felix had not the heart to add what he was thinking: 'Not that
I see what good he can do!' But, though sober reason told him
this, it was astonishingly comforting to be going to some one who
could be relied on to see the facts of the situation without any of
that 'flimflam' with which imagination is accustomed to surround
them. "And we'll send Derek a wire for what it's worth."
They went at once to the post-office, Felix composing this message
on the way: 'Utterly mistaken chivalry you have no right await our
arrival Felix Freeland.' He handed it to her to read, and passed
it under the brass railing to the clerk, not without the feeling of
shame due from one who uses the word chivalry in a post-office.
On the way to the Tube station he held her arm tightly, but whether
to impart courage or receive it he could not have said, so strung-
up in spirit did he feel her. With few words exchanged they
reached Whitehall. Marking their card 'Urgent,' they were received
within ten minutes.
John was standing in a high, white room, smelling a little of
papers and tobacco, and garnished solely by five green chairs, a
table, and a bureau with an immense number of pigeonholes, whereat
he had obviously been seated. Quick to observe what concerned his
little daughter, Felix noted how her greeting trembled up at her
uncle and how a sort of warmth thawed for the moment the regularity
of his brother's face. When they had taken two of the five green
chairs and John was back at his bureau, Felix handed over the
letter. John read it and looked at Nedda. Then taking a pipe out
of his pocket, which he had evidently filled before they came in,
he lighted it and re-read the letter. Then, looking very straight
at Nedda, he said:
"Nothing in it? Honour bright, my dear!"
"No, Uncle John, nothing. Only that he fancies his talk about
injustice put it into Tryst's head."
John nodded; the girl's face was evidence enough for him.
"Any proof?"
"Tryst himself told me in the prison that he did it. He said it
came on him suddenly, when he saw the straw."
A pause followed before John said:
"Good! You and I and your father will go down and see the police."
Nedda lifted her hands and said breathlessly:
"But, Uncle! Dad! Have I the right? He says--honour. Won't it
be betraying him?"
Felix could not answer, but with relief he heard John say:
"It's not honorable to cheat the law."
"No; but he trusted me or he wouldn't have written."
John answered slowly:
"I think your duty's plain, my dear. The question for the police
will be whether or not to take notice of this false confession.
For us to keep the knowledge that it's false from them, under the
circumstances, is clearly not right. Besides being, to my mind,
foolish."
For Felix to watch this mortal conflict going on in the soul of his
daughter--that soul which used to seem, perhaps even now seemed,
part of himself; to know that she so desperately wanted help for
her decision, and to be unable to give it, unable even to trust
himself to be honest--this was hard for Felix. There she sat,
staring before her; and only her tight-clasped hands, the little
movements of her lips and throat, showed the struggle going on in
her.
"I couldn't, without seeing him; I MUST see him first, Uncle!"
John got up and went over to the window; he, too, had been affected
by her face.
"You realize," he said, "that you risk everything by that. If he's
given himself up, and they've believed him, he's not the sort to
let it fall through. You cut off your chance if he won't let you
tell. Better for your father and me to see him first, anyway."
And Felix heard a mutter that sounded like: 'Confound him!'
Nedda rose. "Can we go at once, then, Uncle?"
With a solemnity that touched Felix, John put a hand on each side
of her face, raised it, and kissed her on the forehead.
"All right!" he said. "Let's be off!"
A silent trio sought Paddington in a taxi-cab, digesting this
desperate climax of an affair that sprang from origins so small.
In Felix, contemplating his daughter's face, there was profound
compassion, but also that family dismay, that perturbation of self-
esteem, which public scandal forces on kinsmen, even the most
philosophic. He felt exasperation against Derek, against Kirsteen,
almost even against Tod, for having acquiesced passively in the
revolutionary bringing-up which had brought on such a disaster.
War against injustice; sympathy with suffering; chivalry! Yes!
But not quite to the point whence they recoiled on his daughter,
his family, himself! The situation was impossible! He was fast
resolving that, whether or no they saved Derek from this quixotry,
the boy should not have Nedda. And already his eyes found
difficulty in meeting hers.
They secured a compartment to themselves and, having settled down
in corners, began mechanically unfolding evening journals. For
after all, whatever happens, one must read the papers! Without
that, life would indeed be insupportable! Felix had bought Mr.
Cuthcott's, but, though he turned and turned the sheets, they
seemed to have no sense till these words caught his eyes:
"Convict's tragic death! Yesterday afternoon at Worcester, while
being conveyed from the assize court back to prison, a man named
Tryst, sentenced to three years' penal servitude for arson,
suddenly attacked the warders in charge of him and escaped. He ran
down the street, hotly pursued, and, darting out into the traffic,
threw himself under a motor-car going at some speed. The car
struck him on the head, and the unfortunate man was killed on the
spot. No reason whatever can be assigned for this desperate act.
He is known, however, to have suffered from epilepsy, and it is
thought an attack may have been coming on him at the time."
When Felix had read these words he remained absolutely still,
holding that buff-colored paper before his face, trying to decide
what he must do now. What was the significance--exactly the
significance of this? Now that Tryst was dead, Derek's quixotic
action had no meaning. But had he already 'confessed'? It seemed
from this account that the suicide was directly after the trial;
even before the boy's letter to Nedda had been written. He must
surely have heard of it since and given up his mad idea! He leaned
over, touched John on the knee, and handed him the paper. John
read the paragraph, handed it back; and the two brothers stared
fixedly at each other. Then Felix made the faintest movement of
his head toward his daughter, and John nodded. Crossing to Nedda,
Felix hooked his arm in hers and said:
"Just look at this, my child."
Nedda read, started to her feet, sank back, and cried out:
"Poor, poor man! Oh, Dad! Poor man!"
Felix felt ashamed. Though Tryst's death meant so much relief to
her, she felt first this rush of compassion; he himself, to whom it
meant so much less relief, had felt only that relief.
"He said he couldn't stand it; he told me that. But I never
thought--Oh! Poor man!" And, burying her face against his arm,
she gave way.
Petrified, and conscious that John at the far end of the carriage
was breathing rather hard, Felix could only stroke her arm till at
last she whispered:
"There's nobody now for Derek to save. Oh, if you'd seen that poor
man in prison, Dad!"
And the only words of comfort Felix could find were:
"My child, there are thousands and thousands of poor prisoners and
captives!"
In a truce to agitation they spent the rest of that three hours'
journey, while the train rattled and rumbled through the quiet,
happy-looking land.
CHAPTER XXXV
It was tea-time when they reached Worcester, and at once went up to
the Royal Charles Hostel. A pretty young woman in the office there
informed them that the young gentleman had paid his bill and gone
out about ten o'clock; but had left his luggage. She had not seen
him come in. His room was up that little staircase at the end of
the passage. There was another entrance that he might have come in
at. The 'Boots' would take them.
Past the hall stuffed with furniture and decorated with the stags'
heads and battle-prints common to English county-town hotels, they
followed the 'Boots' up five red-carpeted steps, down a dingy green
corridor, to a door at the very end. There was no answer to their
knock. The dark little room, with striped walls, and more battle-
prints, looked out on a side street and smelled dusty. On a shiny
leather sofa an old valise, strapped-up ready for departure, was
reposing with Felix's telegram, unopened, deposited thereon.
Writing on his card, "Have come down with Nedda. F. F.," and
laying it on the telegram, in case Derek should come in by the side
entrance, Felix and Nedda rejoined John in the hall.
To wait in anxiety is perhaps the hardest thing in life; tea,
tobacco, and hot baths perhaps the only anodynes. These, except
the baths, they took. Without knowing what had happened, neither
John nor Felix liked to make inquiry at the police station, nor did
they care to try and glean knowledge from the hotel people by
questions that might lead to gossip. They could but kick their
heels till it became reasonably certain that Derek was not coming
back. The enforced waiting increased Felix's exasperation.
Everything Derek did seemed designed to cause Nedda pain. To watch
her sitting there, trying resolutely to mask her anxiety, became
intolerable. At last he got up and said to John:
"I think we'd better go round there," and, John nodding, he added:
"Wait here, my child. One of us'll come back at once and tell you
anything we hear."
She gave them a grateful look and the two brothers went out. They
had not gone twenty yards when they met Derek striding along, pale,
wild, unhappy-looking. When Felix touched him on the arm, he
started and stared blankly at his uncle.
"We've seen about Tryst," Felix said: "You've not done anything?"
Derek shook his head.
"Good! John, tell Nedda that, and stay with her a bit. I want to
talk to Derek. We'll go in the other way." He put his hand under
the boy's arm and turned him down into the side street. When they
reached the gloomy little bedroom Felix pointed to the telegram.
"From me. I suppose the news of his death stopped you?"
"Yes." Derek opened the telegram, dropped it, and sat down beside
his valise on the shiny sofa. He looked positively haggard.
Taking his stand against the chest of drawers, Felix said quietly:
"I'm going to have it out with you, Derek. Do you understand what
all this means to Nedda? Do you realize how utterly unhappy you're
making her? I don't suppose you're happy yourself--"
The boy's whole figure writhed.
"Happy! When you've killed some one you don't think much of
happiness--your own or any one's!"
Startled in his turn, Felix said sharply:
"Don't talk like that. It's monomania."
Derek laughed. "Bob Tryst's dead--through me! I can't get out of
that."
Gazing at the boy's tortured face, Felix grasped the gruesome fact
that this idea amounted to obsession.
"Derek," he said, "you've dwelt on this till you see it out of all
proportion. If we took to ourselves the remote consequences of all
our words we should none of us survive a week. You're overdone.
You'll see it differently to-morrow."
Derek got up to pace the room.
"I swear I would have saved him. I tried to do it when they
committed him at Transham." He looked wildly at Felix. "Didn't I?
You were there; you heard!"
"Yes, yes; I heard."
"They wouldn't let me then. I thought they mightn't find him
guilty here--so I let it go on. And now he's dead. You don't know
how I feel!"
His throat was working, and Felix said with real compassion:
"My dear boy! Your sense of honour is too extravagant altogether.
A grown man like poor Tryst knew perfectly what he was doing."
"No. He was like a dog--he did what he thought was expected of
him. I never meant him to burn those ricks."
"Exactly! No one can blame you for a few wild words. He might
have been the boy and you the man by the way you take it! Come!"
Derek sat down again on the shiny sofa and buried his head in his
hands.
"I can't get away from him. He's been with me all day. I see him
all the time."
That the boy was really haunted was only too apparent. How to
attack this mania? If one could make him feel something else! And
Felix said:
"Look here, Derek! Before you've any right to Nedda you've got to
find ballast. That's a matter of honour, if you like."
Derek flung up his head as if to escape a blow. Seeing that he had
riveted him, Felix pressed on, with some sternness:
"A man can't serve two passions. You must give up this championing
the weak and lighting flames you can't control. See what it leads
to! You've got to grow and become a man. Until then I don't trust
my daughter to you."
The boy's lips quivered; a flush darkened his face, ebbed, and left
him paler than ever.
Felix felt as if he had hit that face. Still, anything was better
than to leave him under this gruesome obsession! Then, to his
consternation, Derek stood up and said:
"If I go and see his body at the prison, perhaps he'll leave me
alone a little!"
Catching at that, as he would have caught at anything, Felix said:
"Good! Yes! Go and see the poor fellow; we'll come, too."
And he went out to find Nedda.
By the time they reached the street Derek had already started, and
they could see him going along in front. Felix racked his brains
to decide whether he ought to prepare her for the state the boy was
in. Twice he screwed himself up to take the plunge, but her face--
puzzled, as though wondering at her lover's neglect of her--stopped
him. Better say nothing!
Just as they reached the prison she put her hand on his arm:
"Look, Dad!"
And Felix read on the corner of the prison lane those words:
'Love's Walk'!
Derek was waiting at the door. After some difficulty they were
admitted and taken down the corridor where the prisoner on his
knees had stared up at Nedda, past the courtyard where those others
had been pacing out their living hieroglyphic, up steps to the
hospital. Here, in a white-washed room on a narrow bed, the body
of the big laborer lay, wrapped in a sheet.
"We bury him Friday, poor chap! Fine big man, too!" And at the
warder's words a shudder passed through Felix. The frozen
tranquillity of that body!
As the carved beauty of great buildings, so is the graven beauty of
death, the unimaginable wonder of the abandoned thing lying so
quiet, marvelling at its resemblance to what once lived! How
strange this thing, still stamped by all that it had felt, wanted,
loved, and hated, by all its dumb, hard, commonplace existence!
This thing with the calm, pathetic look of one who asks of his own
fled spirit: Why have you abandoned me?
Death! What more wonderful than a dead body--that still perfect
work of life, for which life has no longer use! What more
mysterious than this sight of what still is, yet is not!
Below the linen swathing the injured temples, those eyes were
closed through which such yearning had looked forth. From that
face, where the hair had grown faster than if it had been alive,
death's majesty had planed away the aspect of brutality, removed
the yearning, covering all with wistful acquiescence. Was his
departed soul coherent? Where was it? Did it hover in this room,
visible still to the boy? Did it stand there beside what was left
of Tryst the laborer, that humblest of all creatures who dared to
make revolt--serf, descendant of serfs, who, since the beginning,
had hewn wood, drawn water, and done the will of others? Or was it
winged, and calling in space to the souls of the oppressed?
This body would go back to the earth that it had tended, the wild
grass would grow over it, the seasons spend wind and rain forever
above it. But that which had held this together--the inarticulate,
lowly spirit, hardly asking itself why things should be, faithful
as a dog to those who were kind to it, obeying the dumb instinct of
a violence that in his betters would be called 'high spirit,'
where--Felix wondered--where was it?
And what were they thinking--Nedda and that haunted boy--so
motionless? Nothing showed on their faces, nothing but a sort of
living concentration, as if they were trying desperately to pierce
through and see whatever it was that held this thing before them in
such awful stillness. Their first glimpse of death; their first
perception of that terrible remoteness of the dead! No wonder they
seemed to be conjured out of the power of thought and feeling!
Nedda was first to turn away. Walking back by her side, Felix was
surprised by her composure. The reality of death had not been to
her half so harrowing as the news of it. She said softly:
"I'm glad to have seen him like that; now I shall think of him--at
peace; not as he was that other time."
Derek rejoined them, and they went in silence back to the hotel.
But at the door she said:
"Come with me to the cathedral, Derek; I can't go in yet!"
To Felix's dismay the boy nodded, and they turned to go. Should he
stop them? Should he go with them? What should a father do? And,
with a heavy sigh, he did nothing but retire into the hotel.
CHAPTER XXXVI
It was calm, with a dark-blue sky, and a golden moon, and the
lighted street full of people out for airing. The great cathedral,
cutting the heavens with its massive towers, was shut. No means of
getting in; and while they stood there looking up the thought came
into Nedda's mind: Where would they bury poor Tryst who had killed
himself? Would they refuse to bury that unhappy one in a
churchyard? Surely, the more unhappy and desperate he was, the
kinder they ought to be to him!
They turned away down into a little lane where an old, white,
timbered cottage presided ghostly at the corner. Some church
magnate had his garden back there; and it was quiet, along the
waving line of a high wall, behind which grew sycamores spreading
close-bunched branches, whose shadows, in the light of the corner
lamps, lay thick along the ground this glamourous August night. A
chafer buzzed by, a small black cat played with its tail on some
steps in a recess. Nobody passed.
The girl's heart was beating fast. Derek's face was so strange and
strained. And he had not yet said one word to her. All sorts of
fears and fancies beset her till she was trembling all over.
"What is it?" she said at last. "You haven't--you haven't stopped
loving me, Derek?"
"No one could stop loving you."
"What is it, then? Are you thinking of poor Tryst?"
With a catch in his throat and a sort of choked laugh he answered:
"Yes."
"But it's all over. He's at peace."
"Peace!" Then, in a queer, dead voice, he added: "I'm sorry,
Nedda. It's beastly for you. But I can't help it."
What couldn't he help? Why did he keep her suffering like this--
not telling her? What was this something that seemed so terribly
between them? She walked on silently at his side, conscious of the
rustling of the sycamores, of the moonlit angle of the church
magnate's house, of the silence in the lane, and the gliding of
their own shadows along the wall. What was this in his face, his
thoughts, that she could not reach! And she cried out:
"Tell me! Oh, tell me, Derek! I can go through anything with
you!"
"I can't get rid of him, that's all. I thought he'd go when I'd
seen him there. But it's no good!"
Terror got hold of her then. She peered at his face--very white
and haggard. There seemed no blood in it. They were going down-
hill now, along the blank wall of a factory; there was the river in
front, with the moonlight on it and boats drawn up along the bank.
From a chimney a scroll of black smoke was flung out across the
sky, and a lighted bridge glowed above the water. They turned away
from that, passing below the dark pile of the cathedral. Here
couples still lingered on benches along the river-bank, happy in
the warm night, under the August moon! And on and on they walked
in that strange, miserable silence, past all those benches and
couples, out on the river-path by the fields, where the scent of
hay-stacks, and the freshness from the early stubbles and the
grasses webbed with dew, overpowered the faint reek of the river
mud. And still on and on in the moonlight that haunted through the
willows. At their footsteps the water-rats scuttled down into the
water with tiny splashes; a dog barked somewhere a long way off; a
train whistled; a frog croaked. From the stubbles and second crops
of sun-baked clover puffs of warm air kept stealing up into the
chillier air beneath the willows. Such moonlit nights never seem
to sleep. And there was a kind of triumph in the night's smile, as
though it knew that it ruled the river and the fields, ruled with
its gleams the silent trees that had given up all rustling.
Suddenly Derek said:
"He's walking with us! Look! Over there!"
And for a second there did seem to Nedda a dim, gray shape moving
square and dogged, parallel with them at the stubble edges.
Gasping out:
"Oh, no; don't frighten me! I can't bear it tonight!" She hid her
face against his shoulder like a child. He put his arm round her
and she pressed her face deep into his coat. This ghost of Bob
Tryst holding him away from her! This enemy! This uncanny
presence! She pressed closer, closer, and put her face up to his.
It was wonderfully lonely, silent, whispering, with the moongleams
slipping through the willow boughs into the shadow where they
stood. And from his arms warmth stole through her! Closer and
closer she pressed, not quite knowing what she did, not quite
knowing anything but that she wanted him never to let her go;
wanted his lips on hers, so that she might feel his spirit pass,
away from what was haunting it, into hers, never to escape. But
his lips did not come to hers. They stayed drawn back, trembling,
hungry-looking, just above her lips. And she whispered:
"Kiss me!"
She felt him shudder in her arms, saw his eyes darken, his lips
quiver and quiver, as if he wanted them to, but they would not.
What was it? Oh, what was it? Wasn't he going to kiss her--not to
kiss her? And while in that unnatural pause they stood, their
heads bent back among the moongleams and those willow shadows,
there passed through Nedda such strange trouble as she had never
known. Not kiss her! Not kiss her! Why didn't he? When in her
blood and in the night all round, in the feel of his arms, the
sight of his hungry lips, was something unknown, wonderful,
terrifying, sweet! And she wailed out:
"I want you--I don't care--I want you!" She felt him sway, reel,
and clutch her as if he were going to fall, and all other feeling
vanished in the instinct of the nurse she had already been to him.
He was ill again! Yes, he was ill! And she said:
"Derek--don't! It's all right. Let's walk on quietly!"
She got his arm tightly in hers and drew him along toward home. By
the jerking of that arm, the taut look on his face, she could feel
that he did not know from step to step whether he could stay
upright. But she herself was steady and calm enough, bent on
keeping emotion away, and somehow getting him back along the river-
path, abandoned now to the moon and the bright, still spaces of the
night and the slow-moving, whitened water. Why had she not felt
from the first that he was overwrought and only fit for bed?
Thus, very slowly, they made their way up by the factory again into
the lane by the church magnate's garden, under the branches of the
sycamores, past the same white-faced old house at the corner, to
the high street where some few people were still abroad.
At the front door of the hotel stood Felix, looking at his watch,
disconsolate as an old hen. To her great relief he went in quickly
when he saw them coming. She could not bear the thought of talk
and explanation. The one thing was to get Derek to bed. All the
time he had gone along with that taut face; and now, when he sat
down on the shiny sofa in the little bedroom, he shivered so
violently that his teeth chattered. She rang for a hot bottle and
brandy and hot water. When he had drunk he certainly shivered
less, professed himself all right, and would not let her stay. She
dared not ask, but it did seem as if the physical collapse had
driven away, for the time at all events, that ghostly visitor, and,
touching his forehead with her lips--very motherly--so that he
looked up and smiled at her--she said in a matter-of-fact voice:
"I'll come back after a bit and tuck you up," and went out.
Felix was waiting in the hall, at a little table on which stood a
bowl of bread and milk. He took the cover off it for her without a
word. And while she supped he kept glancing at her, trying to make
up his mind to words. But her face was sealed. And all he said was:
"Your uncle's gone to Becket for the night. I've got you a room
next mine, and a tooth-brush, and some sort of comb. I hope you'll
be able to manage, my child."
Nedda left him at the door of his room and went into her own.
After waiting there ten minutes she stole out again. It was all
quiet, and she went resolutely back down the stairs. She did not
care who saw her or what they thought. Probably they took her for
Derek's sister; but even if they didn't she would not have cared.
It was past eleven, the light nearly out, and the hall in the
condition of such places that await a morning's renovation. His
corridor, too, was quite dark. She opened the door without sound
and listened, till his voice said softly:
"All right, little angel; I'm not asleep."
And by a glimmer of moonlight, through curtains designed to keep
out nothing, she stole up to the bed. She could just see his face,
and eyes looking up at her with a sort of adoration. She put her
hand on his forehead and whispered: "Are you comfy?"
He murmured back: "Yes, quite comfy."
Kneeling down, she laid her face beside his on the pillow. She
could not help doing that; it made everything seem holy, cuddley,
warm. His lips touched her nose. Her eyes, for just that instant,
looked up into his, that were very dark and soft; then she got up.
"Would you like me to stay till you're asleep?"
"Yes; forever. But I shouldn't exactly sleep. Would you?"
In the darkness Nedda vehemently shook her head. Sleep! No! She
would not sleep!
"Good night, then!"
"Good night, little dark angel!"
"Good night!" With that last whisper she slipped back to the door
and noiselessly away.
CHAPTER XXXVII
It was long before she closed her eyes, spending the hours in fancy
where still less she would have slept. But when she did drop off
she dreamed that he and she were alone upon a star, where all the
trees were white, the water, grass, birds, everything, white, and
they were walking arm in arm, among white flowers. And just as she
had stooped to pick one--it was no flower, but--Tryst's white-
banded face! She woke with a little cry.
She was dressed by eight and went at once to Derek's room. There
was no answer to her knock, and in a flutter of fear she opened the
door. He had gone--packed, and gone. She ran back to the hall.
There was a note for her in the office, and she took it out of
sight to read. It said:
"He came back this morning. I'm going home by the first train. He
seems to want me to do something.
"DEREK."
Came back! That thing--that gray thing that she, too, had seemed
to see for a moment in the fields beside the river! And he was
suffering again as he had suffered yesterday! It was awful. She
waited miserably till her father came down. To find that he, too,
knew of this trouble was some relief. He made no objection when
she begged that they should follow on to Joyfields. Directly after
breakfast they set out. Once on her way to Derek again, she did
not feel so frightened. But in the train she sat very still,
gazing at her lap, and only once glanced up from under those long
lashes.
"Can you understand it, Dad?"
Felix, not much happier than she, answered:
"The man had something queer about him. Besides Derek's been ill,
don't forget that. But it's too bad for you, Nedda. I don't like
it; I don't like it."
"I can't be parted from him, Dad. That's impossible."
Felix was silenced by the vigor of those words.
"His mother can help, perhaps," he said.
Ah! If his mother would help--send him away from the laborers, and
all this!
Up from the station they took the field paths, which cut off quite
a mile. The grass and woods were shining brightly, peacefully in
the sun; it seemed incredible that there should be heartburnings
about a land so smiling, that wrongs and miseries should haunt
those who lived and worked in these bright fields. Surely in this
earthly paradise the dwellers were enviable, well-nourished souls,
sleek and happy as the pied cattle that lifted their inquisitive
muzzles! Nedda tried to stroke the nose of one--grayish, blunt,
moist. But the creature backed away from her hand, snuffling, and
its cynical, soft eyes with chestnut lashes seemed warning the girl
that she belonged to the breed that might be trusted to annoy.
In the last fields before the Joyfields crossroads they came up
with a little, square, tow-headed man, without coat or cap, who had
just driven some cattle in and was returning with his dog, at a
'dot-here dot-there' walk, as though still driving them. He gave
them a look rather like that of the bullock Nedda had tried to
stroke. She knew he must be one of the Malloring men, and longed
to ask him questions; but he, too, looked shy and distrustful, as
if he suspected that they wanted something out of him. She
summoned up courage, however, to say: "Did you see about poor Bob
Tryst?"
"I 'eard tell. 'E didn' like prison. They say prison takes the
'eart out of you. 'E didn' think o' that." And the smile that
twisted the little man's lips seemed to Nedda strange and cruel, as
if he actually found pleasure in the fate of his fellow. All she
could find to answer was:
"Is that a good dog?"
The little man looked down at the dog trotting alongside with
drooped tail, and shook his head:
'E's no good wi' beasts--won't touch 'em!" Then, looking up
sidelong, he added surprisingly:
"Mast' Freeland 'e got a crack on the head, though!" Again there
was that satisfied resentment in his voice and the little smile
twisting his lips. Nedda felt more lost than ever.
They parted at the crossroads and saw him looking back at them as
they went up the steps to the wicket gate. Amongst a patch of
early sunflowers, Tod, in shirt and trousers, was surrounded by his
dog and the three small Trysts, all apparently engaged in studying
the biggest of the sunflowers, where a peacock-butterfly and a bee
were feeding, one on a gold petal, the other on the black heart.
Nedda went quickly up to them and asked:
"Has Derek come, Uncle Tod?"
Tod raised his eyes. He did not seem in the least surprised to see
her, as if his sky were in the habit of dropping his relatives at
ten in the morning.
"Gone out again," he said.
Nedda made a sign toward the children.
"Have you heard, Uncle Tod?"
Tod nodded and his blue eyes, staring above the children's heads,
darkened.
"Is Granny still here?"
Again Tod nodded.
Leaving Felix in the garden, Nedda stole upstairs and tapped on
Frances Freeland's door.
She, whose stoicism permitted her the one luxury of never coming
down to breakfast, had just made it for herself over a little
spirit-lamp. She greeted Nedda with lifted eyebrows.
"Oh, my darling! Where HAVE you come from? You must have my nice
cocoa! Isn't this the most perfect lamp you ever saw? Did you
ever see such a flame? Watch!"
She touched the spirit-lamp and what there was of flame died out.
"Now, isn't that provoking? It's really a splendid thing, quite a
new kind. I mean to get you one. Now, drink your cocoa; it's
beautifully hot."
"I've had breakfast, Granny."
Frances Freeland gazed at her doubtfully, then, as a last resource,
began to sip the cocoa, of which, in truth, she was badly in want.
"Granny, will you help me?"
"Of course, darling. What is it?"
"I do so want Derek to forget all about this terrible business."
Frances Freeland, who had unscrewed the top of a little canister,
answered:
"Yes, dear, I quite agree. I'm sure it's best for him. Open your
mouth and let me pop in one of these delicious little plasmon
biscuits. They're perfect after travelling. Only," she added
wistfully, "I'm afraid he won't pay any attention to me."
"No, but you could speak to Aunt Kirsteen; it's for her to stop him."
One of her most pathetic smiles came over Frances Freeland's face.
"Yes, I could speak to her. But, you see, I don't count for
anything. One doesn't when one gets old."
"Oh, Granny, you do! You count for a lot; every one admires you
so. You always seem to have something that--that other people
haven't got. And you're not a bit old in spirit."
Frances Freeland was fingering her rings; she slipped one off.
"Well," she said, "it's no good thinking about that, is it? I've
wanted to give you this for ages, darling; it IS so uncomfortable
on my finger. Now, just let me see if I can pop it on!"
Nedda recoiled.
"Oh, Granny!" she said. "You ARE--!" and vanished.
There was still no one in the kitchen, and she sat down to wait for
her aunt to finish her up-stairs duties.
Kirsteen came down at last, in her inevitable blue dress, betraying
her surprise at this sudden appearance of her niece only by a
little quivering of her brows. And, trembling with nervousness,
Nedda took her plunge, pouring out the whole story--of Derek's
letter; their journey down; her father's talk with him; the visit
to Tryst's body; their walk by the river; and of how haunted and
miserable he was. Showing the little note he had left that
morning, she clasped her hands and said:
"Oh, Aunt Kirsteen, make him happy again! Stop that awful haunting
and keep him from all this!"
Kirsteen had listened, with one foot on the hearth in her favorite
attitude. When the girl had finished she said quietly:
"I'm not a witch, Nedda!"
"But if it wasn't for you he would never have started. And now
that poor Tryst's dead he would leave it alone. I'm sure only you
can make him lose that haunted feeling."
Kirsteen shook her head.
"Listen, Nedda!" she said slowly, as though weighing each word. "I
should like you to understand. There's a superstition in this
country that people are free. Ever since I was a girl your age
I've known that they are not; no one is free here who can't pay for
freedom. It's one thing to see, another to feel this with your
whole being. When, like me, you have an open wound, which
something is always inflaming, you can't wonder, can you, that
fever escapes into the air. Derek may have caught the infection of
my fever--that's all! But I shall never lose that fever, Nedda--
never!"
"But, Aunt Kirsteen, this haunting is dreadful. I can't bear to
see it."
"My dear, Derek is very highly strung, and he's been ill. It's in
my family to see things. That'll go away."
Nedda said passionately:
"I don't believe he'll ever lose it while he goes on here, tearing
his heart out. And they're trying to get me away from him. I know
they are!"
Kirsteen turned; her eyes seemed to blaze.
"They? Ah! Yes! You'll have to fight if you want to marry a
rebel, Nedda!"
Nedda put her hands to her forehead, bewildered. "You see, Nedda,
rebellion never ceases. It's not only against this or that
injustice, it's against all force and wealth that takes advantage
of its force and wealth. That rebellion goes on forever. Think
well before you join in."
Nedda turned away. Of what use to tell her to think when 'I won't--
I can't be parted from him!' kept every other thought paralyzed.
And she pressed her forehead against the cross-bar of the window,
trying to find better words to make her appeal again. Out there
above the orchard the sky was blue, and everything light and gay,
as the very butterflies that wavered past. A motor-car seemed to
have stopped in the road close by; its whirring and whizzing was
clearly audible, mingled with the cooings of pigeons and a robin's
song. And suddenly she heard her aunt say:
"You have your chance, Nedda! Here they are!"
Nedda turned. There in the doorway were her Uncles John and
Stanley coming in, followed by her father and Uncle Tod.
What did this mean? What had they come for? And, disturbed to the
heart, she gazed from one to the other. They had that curious look
of people not quite knowing what their reception will be like, yet
with something resolute, almost portentous, in their mien. She saw
John go up to her aunt and hold out his hand.
"I dare say Felix and Nedda have told you about yesterday," he
said. "Stanley and I thought it best to come over." Kirsteen
answered:
"Tod, will you tell Mother who's here?"
Then none of them seemed to know quite what to say, or where to
look, till Frances Freeland, her face all pleased and anxious, came
in. When she had kissed them they all sat down. And Nedda, at the
window, squeezed her hands tight together in her lap.
"We've come about Derek," John said.
"Yes," broke in Stanley. "For goodness' sake, Kirsteen, don't
let's have any more of this! Just think what would have happened
yesterday if that poor fellow hadn't providentially gone off the
hooks!"
"Providentially!"
"Well, it was. You see to what lengths Derek was prepared to go.
Hang it all! We shouldn't have been exactly proud of a felon in
the family."
Frances Freeland, who had been lacing and unlacing her fingers,
suddenly fixed her eyes on Kirsteen.
"I don't understand very well, darling, but I am sure that whatever
dear John says will be wise and right. You must remember that he
is the eldest and has a great deal of experience."
Kirsteen bent her head. If there was irony in the gesture, it was
not perceived by Frances Freeland.
"It can't be right for dear Derek, or any gentleman, to go against
the law of the land or be mixed up with wrong-doing in any way. I
haven't said anything, but I HAVE felt it very much. Because--it's
all been not quite nice, has it?"
Nedda saw her father wince. Then Stanley broke in again:
"Now that the whole thing's done with, do, for Heaven's sake, let's
have a little peace!"
At that moment her aunt's face seemed wonderful to Nedda; so quiet,
yet so burningly alive.
"Peace! There is no peace in this world. There is death, but no
peace!" And, moving nearer to Tod, she rested her hand on his
shoulder, looking, as it seemed to Nedda, at something far away,
till John said:
"That's hardly the point, is it? We should be awfully glad to know
that there'll be no more trouble. All this has been very worrying.
And now the cause seems to be--removed."
There was always a touch of finality in John's voice. Nedda saw
that all had turned to Kirsteen for her answer.
"If those up and down the land who profess belief in liberty will
cease to filch from the helpless the very crust of it, the cause
will be removed."
"Which is to say--never!"
At those words from Felix, Frances Freeland, gazing first at him
and then at Kirsteen, said in a pained voice:
"I don't think you ought to talk like that, Kirsteen, dear. Nobody
who's at all nice means to be unkind. We're all forgetful
sometimes. I know I often forget to be sympathetic. It vexes me
dreadfully!"
"Mother, don't defend tyranny!"
"I'm sure it's often from the best motives, dear."
"So is rebellion."
"Well, I don't understand about that, darling. But I do think,
with dear John, it's a great pity. It will be a dreadful drawback
to Derek if he has to look back on something that he regrets when
he's older. It's always best to smile and try to look on the
bright side of things and not be grumbly-grumbly!"
After that little speech of Frances Freeland's there was a silence
that Nedda thought would last forever, till her aunt, pressing
close to Tod's shoulder, spoke.
"You want me to stop Derek. I tell you all what I've just told
Nedda. I don't attempt to control Derek; I never have. For
myself, when I see a thing I hate I can't help fighting against it.
I shall never be able to help that. I understand how you must
dislike all this; I know it must be painful to you, Mother. But
while there is tyranny in this land, to laborers, women, animals,
anything weak and helpless, so long will there be rebellion against
it, and things will happen that will disturb you."
Again Nedda saw her father wince. But Frances Freeland, bending
forward, fixed her eyes piercingly on Kirsteen's neck, as if she
were noticing something there more important than that about
tyranny!
Then John said very gravely:
"You seem to think that we approve of such things being done to the
helpless!"
"I know that you disapprove."
"With the masterly inactivity," Felix said suddenly, in a voice
more bitter than Nedda had ever heard from him, "of authority,
money, culture, and philosophy. With the disapproval that lifts no
finger--winking at tyrannies lest worse befall us. Yes, WE--
brethren--we--and so we shall go on doing. Quite right, Kirsteen!"
"No. The world is changing, Felix, changing!"
But Nedda had started up. There at the door was Derek.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Derek, who had slept the sleep of the dead, having had none for two
nights, woke thinking of Nedda hovering above him in the dark; of
her face laid down beside him on the pillow. And then, suddenly,
up started that thing, and stood there, haunting him! Why did it
come? What did it want of him? After writing the little note to
Nedda, he hurried to the station and found a train about to start.
To see and talk with the laborers; to do something, anything to
prove that this tragic companion had no real existence! He went
first to the Gaunts' cottage. The door, there, was opened by the
rogue-girl, comely and robust as ever, in a linen frock, with her
sleeves rolled up, and smiling broadly at his astonishment.
"Don't be afraid, Mr. Derek; I'm only here for the week-end, just
to tiddy up a bit. 'Tis all right in London. I wouldn't come back
here, I wouldn't--not if you was to give me--" and she pouted her
red lips.
"Where's your father, Wilmet?"
"Over in Willey's Copse cuttin' stakes. I hear you've been ill,
Mr. Derek. You do look pale. Were you very bad?" And her eyes
opened as though the very thought of illness was difficult for her
to grasp. "I saw your young lady up in London. She's very pretty.
Wish you happiness, Mr. Derek. Grandfather, here's Mr. Derek!"
The face of old Gaunt, carved, cynical, yellow, appeared above her
shoulder. There he stood, silent, giving Derek no greeting. And
with a sudden miserable feeling the boy said:
"I'll go and find him. Good-by, Wilmet!"
"Good-by, Mr. Derek. 'Tis quiet enough here now; there's changes."
Her rogue face twinkled again, and, turning her chin, she rubbed it
on her plump shoulder, as might a heifer, while from behind her
Grandfather Gaunt's face looked out with a faint, sardonic grin.
Derek, hurrying on to Willey's Copse, caught sight, along a far
hedge, of the big dark laborer, Tulley, who had been his chief
lieutenant in the fighting; but, whether the man heard his hail or
no, he continued along the hedgeside without response and vanished
over a stile. The field dipped sharply to a stream, and at the
crossing Derek came suddenly on the little 'dot-here dot-there'
cowherd, who, at Derek's greeting, gave him an abrupt "Good day!"
and went on with his occupation of mending a hurdle. Again that
miserable feeling beset the boy, and he hastened on. A sound of
chopping guided him. Near the edge of the coppice Tom Gaunt was
lopping at some bushes. At sight of Derek he stopped and stood
waiting, his loquacious face expressionless, his little, hard eye
cocked.
"Good morning, Tom. It's ages since I saw you."
"Ah, 'tis a proper long time! You 'ad a knock."
Derek winced; it was said as if he had been disabled in an affair
in which Gaunt had neither part nor parcel. Then, with a great
effort, the boy brought out his question:
"You've heard about poor Bob?"
"Yaas; 'tis the end of HIM."
Some meaning behind those words, the unsmiling twist of that hard-
bitten face, the absence of the 'sir' that even Tom Gaunt generally
gave him, all seemed part of an attack. And, feeling as if his
heart were being squeezed, Derek looked straight into his face.
"What's the matter, Tom?"
"Matter! I don' know as there's anything the matter, ezactly!"
"What have I done? Tell me!"
Tom Gaunt smiled; his little, gray eyes met Derek's full.
"'Tisn't for a gentleman to be held responsible."
"Come!" Derek cried passionately. "What is it? D'you think I
deserted you, or what? Speak out, man!"
Abating nothing of his stare and drawl, Gaunt answered:
"Deserted? Oh, dear no! Us can't afford to do no more dyin' for
you--that's all!"
"For me! Dying! My God! D'you think I wouldn't have--? Oh!
Confound you!"
"Aye! Confounded us you 'ave! Hope you're satisfied!"
Pale as death and quivering all over, Derek answered:
"So you think I've just been frying fish of my own?"
Tom Gaunt, emitted a little laugh.
"I think you've fried no fish at all. That's what I think. And no
one else does, neither, if you want to know--except poor Bob.
You've fried his fish, sure enough!"
Stung to the heart, the boy stood motionless. A pigeon was cooing;
the sappy scent from the lopped bushes filled all the sun-warmed air.
"I see!" he said. "Thanks, Tom; I'm glad to know."
Without moving a muscle, Tom Gaunt answered:
"Don't mention it!" and resumed his lopping.
Derek turned and walked out of the little wood. But when he had
put a field between him and the sound of Gaunt's bill-hook, he lay
down and buried his face in the grass, chewing at its green blades,
scarce dry of dew, and with its juicy sweetness tasting the full of
bitterness. And the gray shade stalked out again, and stood there
in the warmth of the August day, with its scent and murmur of full
summer, while the pigeons cooed and dandelion fluff drifted by. . . .
When, two hours later, he entered the kitchen at home, of the
company assembled Frances Freeland alone retained equanimity enough
to put up her face to be kissed.
"I'm so thankful you've come back in time to see your uncles,
darling. Your Uncle John thinks, and we all agree, that to
encourage those poor laborers to do things which are not nice is--
is--you know what I mean, darling!"
Derek gave a bitter little laugh.
"Criminal, Granny! Yes, and puppyish! I've learned all that."
The sound of his voice was utterly unlike his own, and Kirsteen,
starting forward, put her arm round him.
"It's all right, Mother. They've chucked me."
At that moment, when all, save his mother, wanted so to express
their satisfaction, Frances Freeland alone succeeded.
"I'm so glad, darling!"
Then John rose and, holding out his hand to his nephew, said:
"That's the end of the trouble, then, Derek?"
"Yes. And I beg your pardon, Uncle John; and all--Uncle Stanley,
Uncle Felix; you, Dad; Granny."
They had all risen now. The boy's face gave them--even John, even
Stanley--a choke in the throat. Frances Freeland suddenly took
their arms and went to the door; her other two sons followed. And
quietly they all went out.
Derek, who had stayed perfectly still, staring past Nedda into a
corner of the room, said:
"Ask him what he wants, Mother."
Nedda smothered down a cry. But Kirsteen, tightening her clasp of
him and looking steadily into that corner, answered:
"Nothing, my boy. He's quite friendly. He only wants to be with
you for a little."
"But I can't do anything for him."
"He knows that."
"I wish he wouldn't, Mother. I can't be more sorry than I have been."
Kirsteen's face quivered.
"My dear, it will go quite soon. Love Nedda! See! She wants you!"
Derek answered in the same quiet voice:
"Yes, Nedda is the comfort. Mother, I want to go away--away out of
England--right away."
Nedda rushed and flung her arms round him.
"I, too, Derek; I, too!"
That evening Felix came out to the old 'fly,' waiting to take him
from Joyfields to Becket. What a sky! All over its pale blue a
far-up wind had drifted long, rosy clouds, and through one of them
the half-moon peered, of a cheese-green hue; and, framed and barred
by the elm-trees, like some roseate, stained-glass window, the
sunset blazed. In a corner of the orchard a little bonfire had
been lighted, and round it he could see the three small Trysts
dropping armfuls of leaves and pointing at the flames leaping out
of the smoulder. There, too, was Tod's big figure, motionless, and
his dog sitting on its haunches, with head poked forward, staring
at those red tongues of flame. Kirsteen had come with him to the
wicket gate. He held her hand long in his own and pressed it hard.
And while that blue figure, turned to the sunset, was still
visible, he screwed himself back to look.
They had been in painful conclave, as it seemed to Felix, all day,
coming to the decision that those two young things should have
their wish, marry, and go out to New Zealand. The ranch of Cousin
Alick Morton (son of that brother of Frances Freeland, who,
absorbed in horses, had wandered to Australia and died in falling
from them) had extended a welcome to Derek. Those two would have a
voyage of happiness--see together the red sunsets in the
Mediterranean, Pompeii, and the dark ants of men swarming in
endless band up and down with their coal-sacks at Port Said; smell
the cinnamon gardens of Colombo; sit up on deck at night and watch
the stars. . . . Who could grudge it them? Out there youth and
energy would run unchecked. For here youth had been beaten!
On and on the old 'fly' rumbled between the shadowy fields. 'The
world is changing, Felix--changing!' Was that defeat of youth,
then, nothing? Under the crust of authority and wealth, culture
and philosophy--was the world really changing; was liberty truly
astir, under that sky in the west all blood; and man rising at long
last from his knees before the God of force? The silent, empty
fields darkened, the air gathered dewy thickness, and the old 'fly'
rumbled and rolled as slow as fate. Cottage lamps were already
lighted for the evening meal. No laborer abroad at this hour! And
Felix thought of Tryst, the tragic fellow--the moving, lonely
figure; emanation of these solitary fields, shade of the departing
land! One might well see him as that boy saw him, silent, dogged,
in a gray light such as this now clinging above the hedgerows and
the grass!
The old 'fly' turned into the Becket drive. It had grown dark now,
save for the half-moon; the last chafer was booming by, and a bat
flitting, a little, blind, eager bat, through the quiet trees. He
got out to walk the last few hundred yards. A lovely night, silent
below her stars--cool and dark, spread above field after field,
wood on wood, for hundreds of miles on every side. Night covering
his native land. The same silence had reigned out there, the same
perfume stolen up, the same star-shine fallen, for millions of
years in the past, and would for millions of years to come. Close
to where the half-moon floated, a slow, narrow, white cloud was
passing--curiously shaped. At one end of it Felix could see
distinctly the form of a gleaming skull, with dark sky showing
through its eyeholes, cheeks, and mouth. A queer phenomenon;
fascinating, rather ghastly! It grew sharper in outline, more
distinct. One of those sudden shudders, that seize men from the
crown of the head to the very heels, passed down his back. He shut
his eyes. And, instead, there came up before him Kirsteen's blue-
clothed figure turned to the sunset glow. Ah! Better to see that
than this skull above the land! Better to believe her words: 'The
world is changing, Felix--changing!'
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Freelands, by John Galsworthy