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England, My England

by D. H. Lawrence · English · Gutenberg #8914 · 376,048 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: England, My England

Author: D. H. Lawrence


        
Release date: September 1, 2005 [eBook #8914]
                Most recently updated: September 17, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8914

Credits: Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND ***

[Illustration] 




England, My England

AND OTHER STORIES

by D.H. Lawrence

Contents

 ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND
 TICKETS, PLEASE
 THE BLIND MAN
 MONKEY NUTS
 WINTRY PEACOCK
 YOU TOUCHED ME
 SAMSON AND DELILAH
 THE PRIMROSE PATH
 THE HORSE DEALER’S DAUGHTER
 FANNY AND ANNIE




ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND


He was working on the edge of the common, beyond the small brook that
ran in the dip at the bottom of the garden, carrying the garden path in
continuation from the plank bridge on to the common. He had cut the
rough turf and bracken, leaving the grey, dryish soil bare. But he was
worried because he could not get the path straight, there was a pleat
between his brows. He had set up his sticks, and taken the sights
between the big pine trees, but for some reason everything seemed
wrong. He looked again, straining his keen blue eyes, that had a touch
of the Viking in them, through the shadowy pine trees as through a
doorway, at the green-grassed garden-path rising from the shadow of
alders by the log bridge up to the sunlit flowers. Tall white and
purple columbines, and the butt-end of the old Hampshire cottage that
crouched near the earth amid flowers, blossoming in the bit of shaggy
wildness round about.

There was a sound of children’s voices calling and talking: high,
childish, girlish voices, slightly didactic and tinged with
domineering: “If you don’t come quick, nurse, I shall run out there to
where there are snakes.” And nobody had the _sang-froid_ to reply: “Run
then, little fool.” It was always, “No, darling. Very well, darling. In
a moment, darling. Darling, you _must_ be patient.”

His heart was hard with disillusion: a continual gnawing and
resistance. But he worked on. What was there to do but submit!

The sunlight blazed down upon the earth, there was a vividness of flamy
vegetation, of fierce seclusion amid the savage peace of the commons.
Strange how the savage England lingers in patches: as here, amid these
shaggy gorse commons, and marshy, snake infested places near the foot
of the south downs. The spirit of place lingering on primeval, as when
the Saxons came, so long ago.

Ah, how he had loved it! The green garden path, the tufts of flowers,
purple and white columbines, and great oriental red poppies with their
black chaps and mulleins tall and yellow, this flamy garden which had
been a garden for a thousand years, scooped out in the little hollow
among the snake-infested commons. He had made it flame with flowers, in
a sun cup under its hedges and trees. So old, so old a place! And yet
he had re-created it.

The timbered cottage with its sloping, cloak-like roof was old and
forgotten. It belonged to the old England of hamlets and yeomen. Lost
all alone on the edge of the common, at the end of a wide, grassy,
briar-entangled lane shaded with oak, it had never known the world of
today. Not till Egbert came with his bride. And he had come to fill it
with flowers.

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

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

The house was Winifred’s. Her father was a man of energy, too. He had
come from the north poor. Now he was moderately rich. He had bought
this fair stretch of inexpensive land, down in Hampshire. Not far from
the tiny church of the almost extinct hamlet stood his own house, a
commodious old farmhouse standing back from the road across a bare
grassed yard. On one side of this quadrangle was the long, long barn or
shed which he had made into a cottage for his youngest daughter
Priscilla. One saw little blue-and-white check curtains at the long
windows, and inside, overhead, the grand old timbers of the
high-pitched shed. This was Prissy’s house. Fifty yards away was the
pretty little new cottage which he had built for his daughter Magdalen,
with the vegetable garden stretching away to the oak copse. And then
away beyond the lawns and rose trees of the house-garden went the track
across a shaggy, wild grass space, towards the ridge of tall black
pines that grew on a dyke-bank, through the pines and above the sloping
little bog, under the wide, desolate oak trees, till there was
Winifred’s cottage crouching unexpectedly in front, so much alone, and
so primitive.

It was Winifred’s own house, and the gardens and the bit of common and
the boggy slope were hers: her tiny domain. She had married just at the
time when her father had bought the estate, about ten years before the
war, so she had been able to come to Egbert with this for a marriage
portion. And who was more delighted, he or she, it would be hard to
say. She was only twenty at the time, and he was only twenty-one. He
had about a hundred and fifty pounds a year of his own—and nothing else
but his very considerable personal attractions. He had no profession:
he earned nothing. But he talked of literature and music, he had a
passion for old folk-music, collecting folk-songs and folk-dances,
studying the Morris-dance and the old customs. Of course in time he
would make money in these ways.

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

Well then, into this family came Egbert. He was made of quite a
different paste. The girls and the father were strong-limbed,
thick-blooded people, true English, as holly-trees and hawthorn are
English. Their culture was grafted on to them, as one might perhaps
graft a common pink rose on to a thornstem. It flowered oddly enough,
but it did not alter their blood.

And Egbert was a born rose. The age-long breeding had left him with a
delightful spontaneous passion. He was not clever, nor even “literary”.
No, but the intonation of his voice, and the movement of his supple,
handsome body, and the fine texture of his flesh and his hair, the
slight arch of his nose, the quickness of his blue eyes would easily
take the place of poetry. Winifred loved him, loved him, this
southerner, as a higher being. A _higher_ being, mind you. Not a
deeper. And as for him, he loved her in passion with every fibre of
him. She was the very warm stuff of life to him.

Wonderful then, those days at Crockham Cottage, the first days, all
alone save for the woman who came to work in the mornings. Marvellous
days, when she had all his tall, supple, fine-fleshed youth to herself,
for herself, and he had her like a ruddy fire into which he could cast
himself for rejuvenation. Ah, that it might never end, this passion,
this marriage! The flame of their two bodies burnt again into that old
cottage, that was haunted already by so much by-gone, physical desire.
You could not be in the dark room for an hour without the influences
coming over you. The hot blood-desire of by-gone yeomen, there in this
old den where they had lusted and bred for so many generations. The
silent house, dark, with thick, timbered walls and the big black
chimney-place, and the sense of secrecy. Dark, with low, little
windows, sunk into the earth. Dark, like a lair where strong beasts had
lurked and mated, lonely at night and lonely by day, left to themselves
and their own intensity for so many generations. It seemed to cast a
spell on the two young people. They became different. There was a
curious secret glow about them, a certain slumbering flame hard to
understand, that enveloped them both. They too felt that they did not
belong to the London world any more. Crockham had changed their blood:
the sense of the snakes that lived and slept even in their own garden,
in the sun, so that he, going forward with the spade, would see a
curious coiled brownish pile on the black soil, which suddenly would
start up, hiss, and dazzle rapidly away, hissing. One day Winifred
heard the strangest scream from the flower-bed under the low window of
the living room: ah, the strangest scream, like the very soul of the
dark past crying aloud. She ran out, and saw a long brown snake on the
flower-bed, and in its flat mouth the one hind leg of a frog was
striving to escape, and screaming its strange, tiny, bellowing scream.
She looked at the snake, and from its sullen flat head it looked at
her, obstinately. She gave a cry, and it released the frog and slid
angrily away.

That was Crockham. The spear of modern invention had not passed through
it, and it lay there secret, primitive, savage as when the Saxons first
came. And Egbert and she were caught there, caught out of the world.

He was not idle, nor was she. There were plenty of things to be done,
the house to be put into final repair after the workmen had gone,
cushions and curtains to sew, the paths to make, the water to fetch and
attend to, and then the slope of the deep-soiled, neglected garden to
level, to terrace with little terraces and paths, and to fill with
flowers. He worked away, in his shirt-sleeves, worked all day
intermittently doing this thing and the other. And she, quiet and rich
in herself, seeing him stooping and labouring away by himself, would
come to help him, to be near him. He of course was an amateur—a born
amateur. He worked so hard, and did so little, and nothing he ever did
would hold together for long. If he terraced the garden, he held up the
earth with a couple of long narrow planks that soon began to bend with
the pressure from behind, and would not need many years to rot through
and break and let the soil slither all down again in a heap towards the
stream-bed. But there you are. He had not been brought up to come to
grips with anything, and he thought it would do. Nay, he did not think
there was anything else except little temporary contrivances possible,
he who had such a passion for his old enduring cottage, and for the old
enduring things of the bygone England. Curious that the sense of
permanency in the past had such a hold over him, whilst in the present
he was all amateurish and sketchy.

Winifred could not criticize him. Town-bred, everything seemed to her
splendid, and the very digging and shovelling itself seemed romantic.
But neither Egbert nor she yet realised the difference between work and
romance.

Godfrey Marshall, her father, was at first perfectly pleased with the
ménage down at Crockham Cottage. He thought Egbert was wonderful, the
many things he accomplished, and he was gratified by the glow of
physical passion between the two young people. To the man who in London
still worked hard to keep steady his modest fortune, the thought of
this young couple digging away and loving one another down at Crockham
Cottage, buried deep among the commons and marshes, near the
pale-showing bulk of the downs, was like a chapter of living romance.
And they drew the sustenance for their fire of passion from him, from
the old man. It was he who fed their flame. He triumphed secretly in
the thought. And it was to her father that Winifred still turned, as
the one source of all surety and life and support. She loved Egbert
with passion. But behind her was the power of her father. It was the
power of her father she referred to, whenever she needed to refer. It
never occurred to her to refer to Egbert, if she were in difficulty or
doubt. No, in all the _serious_ matters she depended on her father.

For Egbert had no intention of coming to grips with life. He had no
ambition whatsoever. He came from a decent family, from a pleasant
country home, from delightful surroundings. He should, of course, have
had a profession. He should have studied law or entered business in
some way. But no—that fatal three pounds a week would keep him from
starving as long as he lived, and he did not want to give himself into
bondage. It was not that he was idle. He was always doing something, in
his amateurish way. But he had no desire to give himself to the world,
and still less had he any desire to fight his way in the world. No, no,
the world wasn’t worth it. He wanted to ignore it, to go his own way
apart, like a casual pilgrim down the forsaken sidetracks. He loved his
wife, his cottage and garden. He would make his life there, as a sort
of epicurean hermit. He loved the past, the old music and dances and
customs of old England. He would try and live in the spirit of these,
not in the spirit of the world of business.

But often Winifred’s father called her to London: for he loved to have
his children round him. So Egbert and she must have a tiny flat in
town, and the young couple must transfer themselves from time to time
from the country to the city. In town Egbert had plenty of friends, of
the same ineffectual sort as himself, tampering with the arts,
literature, painting, sculpture, music. He was not bored.

Three pounds a week, however, would not pay for all this. Winifred’s
father paid. He liked paying. He made her only a very small allowance,
but he often gave her ten pounds—or gave Egbert ten pounds. So they
both looked on the old man as the mainstay. Egbert didn’t mind being
patronized and paid for. Only when he felt the family was a little
_too_ condescending, on account of money, he began to get huffy.

Then of course children came: a lovely little blonde daughter with a
head of thistle-down. Everybody adored the child. It was the first
exquisite blonde thing that had come into the family, a little mite
with the white, slim, beautiful limbs of its father, and as it grew up
the dancing, dainty movement of a wild little daisy-spirit. No wonder
the Marshalls all loved the child: they called her Joyce. They
themselves had their own grace, but it was slow, rather heavy. They had
everyone of them strong, heavy limbs and darkish skins, and they were
short in stature. And now they had for one of their own this light
little cowslip child. She was like a little poem in herself.

But nevertheless, she brought a new difficulty. Winifred must have a
nurse for her. Yes, yes, there must be a nurse. It was the family
decree. Who was to pay for the nurse? The grandfather—seeing the father
himself earned no money. Yes, the grandfather would pay, as he had paid
all the lying-in expenses. There came a slight sense of money-strain.
Egbert was living on his father-in-law.

After the child was born, it was never quite the same between him and
Winifred. The difference was at first hardly perceptible. But it was
there. In the first place Winifred had a new centre of interest. She
was not going to adore her child. But she had what the modern mother so
often has in the place of spontaneous love: a profound sense of duty
towards her child. Winifred appreciated her darling little girl, and
felt a deep sense of duty towards her. Strange, that this sense of duty
should go deeper than the love for her husband. But so it was. And so
it often is. The responsibility of motherhood was the prime
responsibility in Winifred’s heart: the responsibility of wifehood came
a long way second.

Her child seemed to link her up again in a circuit with her own family.
Her father and mother, herself, and her child, that was the human
trinity for her. Her husband—? Yes, she loved him still. But that was
like play. She had an almost barbaric sense of duty and of family. Till
she married, her first human duty had been towards her father: he was
the pillar, the source of life, the everlasting support. Now another
link was added to the chain of duty: her father, herself, and her
child.

Egbert was out of it. Without anything happening, he was gradually,
unconsciously excluded from the circle. His wife still loved him,
physically. But, but—he was _almost_ the unnecessary party in the
affair. He could not complain of Winifred. She still did her duty
towards him. She still had a physical passion for him, that physical
passion on which he had put all his life and soul. But—but—

It was for a long while an ever-recurring _but_. And then, after the
second child, another blonde, winsome touching little thing, not so
proud and flame-like as Joyce; after Annabel came, then Egbert began
truly to realise how it was. His wife still loved him. But—and now the
but had grown enormous—her physical love for him was of secondary
importance to her. It became ever less important. After all, she had
had it, this physical passion, for two years now. It was not this that
one lived from. No, no—something sterner, realer.

She began to resent her own passion for Egbert—just a little she began
to despise it. For after all there he was, he was charming, he was
lovable, he was terribly desirable. But—but—oh, the awful looming cloud
of that _but!_—He did not stand firm in the landscape of her life like
a tower of strength, like a great pillar of significance. No, he was
like a cat one has about the house, which will one day disappear and
leave no trace. He was like a flower in the garden, trembling in the
wind of life, and then gone, leaving nothing to show. As an adjunct, as
an accessory, he was perfect. Many a woman would have adored to have
him about her all her life, the most beautiful and desirable of all her
possessions. But Winifred belonged to another school.

The years went by, and instead of coming more to grips with life, he
relaxed more. He was of a subtle, sensitive, passionate nature. But he
simply _would_ not give himself to what Winifred called life, _Work_.
No, he would not go into the world and work for money. No, he just
would not. If Winifred liked to live beyond their small income—well, it
was her look-out.

And Winifred did not really want him to go out into the world to work
for money. Money became, alas, a word like a firebrand between them,
setting them both aflame with anger. But that is because we must talk
in symbols. Winifred did not really care about money. She did not care
whether he earned or did not earn anything. Only she knew she was
dependent on her father for three-fourths of the money spent for
herself and her children, that she let that be the _casus belli_, the
drawn weapon between herself and Egbert.

What did she want—what did she want? Her mother once said to her, with
that characteristic touch of irony: “Well, dear, if it is your fate to
consider the lilies, that toil not, neither do they spin, that is one
destiny among many others, and perhaps not so unpleasant as most. Why
do you take it amiss, my child?”

The mother was subtler than her children, they very rarely knew how to
answer her. So Winifred was only more confused. It was not a question
of lilies. At least, if it were a question of lilies, then her children
were the little blossoms. They at least _grew_. Doesn’t Jesus say:
“Consider the lilies _how they grow_.” Good then, she had her growing
babies. But as for that other tall, handsome flower of a father of
theirs, he was full grown already, so she did not want to spend her
life considering him in the flower of his days.

No, it was not that he didn’t earn money. It was not that he was idle.
He was _not_ idle. He was always doing something, always working away,
down at Crockham, doing little jobs. But, oh dear, the little jobs—the
garden paths—the gorgeous flowers—the chairs to mend, old chairs to
mend!

It was that he stood for nothing. If he had done something
unsuccessfully, and _lost_ what money they had! If he had but striven
with something. Nay, even if he had been wicked, a waster, she would
have been more free. She would have had something to resist, at least.
A waster stands for something, really. He says: “No, I will not aid and
abet society in this business of increase and hanging together, I will
upset the apple-cart as much as I can, in my small way.” Or else he
says: “No, I will _not_ bother about others. If I have lusts, they are
my own, and I prefer them to other people’s virtues.” So, a waster, a
scamp, takes a sort of stand. He exposes himself to opposition and
final castigation: at any rate in story-books.

But Egbert! What are you to do with a man like Egbert? He had no vices.
He was really kind, nay generous. And he was not weak. If he had been
weak Winifred could have been kind to him. But he did not even give her
that consolation. He was not weak, and he did not want her consolation
or her kindness. No, thank you. He was of a fine passionate temper, and
of a rarer steel than she. He knew it, and she knew it. Hence she was
only the more baffled and maddened, poor thing. He, the higher, the
finer, in his way the stronger, played with his garden, and his old
folk-songs and Morris-dances, just played, and let her support the
pillars of the future on her own heart.

And he began to get bitter, and a wicked look began to come on his
face. He did not give in to her; not he. There were seven devils inside
his long, slim, white body. He was healthy, full of restrained life.
Yes, even he himself had to lock up his own vivid life inside himself,
now she would not take it from him. Or rather, now that she only took
it occasionally. For she had to yield at times. She loved him so, she
desired him so, he was so exquisite to her, the fine creature that he
was, finer than herself. Yes, with a groan she had to give in to her
own unquenched passion for him. And he came to her then—ah, terrible,
ah, wonderful, sometimes she wondered how either of them could live
after the terror of the passion that swept between them. It was to her
as if pure lightning, flash after flash, went through every fibre of
her, till extinction came.

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

So it was. The love came back, the lightning of passion flashed
tremendously between them. And there was blue sky and gorgeousness for
a little while. And then, as inevitably, as inevitably, slowly the
clouds began to edge up again above the horizon, slowly, slowly to lurk
about the heavens, throwing an occasional cold and hateful shadow:
slowly, slowly to congregate, to fill the empyrean space.

And as the years passed, the lightning cleared the sky more and more
rarely, less and less the blue showed. Gradually the grey lid sank down
upon them, as if it would be permanent.

Why didn’t Egbert do something, then? Why didn’t he come to grips with
life? Why wasn’t he like Winifred’s father, a pillar of society, even
if a slender, exquisite column? Why didn’t he go into harness of some
sort? Why didn’t he take _some_ direction?

Well, you can bring an ass to the water, but you cannot make him drink.
The world was the water and Egbert was the ass. And he wasn’t having
any. He couldn’t: he just couldn’t. Since necessity did not force him
to work for his bread and butter, he would not work for work’s sake.
You can’t make the columbine flowers nod in January, nor make the
cuckoo sing in England at Christmas. Why? It isn’t his season. He
doesn’t want to. Nay, he _can’t_ want to.

And there it was with Egbert. He couldn’t link up with the world’s
work, because the basic desire was absent from him. Nay, at the bottom
of him he had an even stronger desire: to hold aloof. To hold aloof. To
do nobody any damage. But to hold aloof. It was not his season.

Perhaps he should not have married and had children. But you can’t stop
the waters flowing.

Which held true for Winifred, too. She was not made to endure aloof.
Her family tree was a robust vegetation that had to be stirring and
believing. In one direction or another her life _had_ to go. In her own
home she had known nothing of this diffidence which she found in
Egbert, and which she could not understand, and which threw her into
such dismay. What was she to do, what was she to do, in face of this
terrible diffidence?

It was all so different in her own home. Her father may have had his
own misgivings, but he kept them to himself. Perhaps he had no very
profound belief in this world of ours, this society which we have
elaborated with so much effort, only to find ourselves elaborated to
death at last. But Godfrey Marshall was of tough, rough fibre, not
without a vein of healthy cunning through it all. It was for him a
question of winning through, and leaving the rest to heaven. Without
having many illusions to grace him, he still _did_ believe in heaven.
In a dark and unquestioning way, he had a sort of faith: an acrid faith
like the sap of some not-to-be-exterminated tree. Just a blind acrid
faith as sap is blind and acrid, and yet pushes on in growth and in
faith. Perhaps he was unscrupulous, but only as a striving tree is
unscrupulous, pushing its single way in a jungle of others.

In the end, it is only this robust, sap-like faith which keeps man
going. He may live on for many generations inside the shelter of the
social establishment which he has erected for himself, as pear-trees
and currant bushes would go on bearing fruit for many seasons, inside a
walled garden, even if the race of man were suddenly exterminated. But
bit by bit the wall-fruit-trees would gradually pull down the very
walls that sustained them. Bit by bit every establishment collapses,
unless it is renewed or restored by living hands, all the while.

Egbert could not bring himself to any more of this restoring or
renewing business. He was not aware of the fact: but awareness doesn’t
help much, anyhow. He just couldn’t. He had the stoic and epicurean
quality of his old, fine breeding. His father-in-law, however, though
he was not one bit more of a fool than Egbert, realised that since we
are here we may as well live. And so he applied himself to his own tiny
section of the social work, and to doing the best for his family, and
to leaving the rest to the ultimate will of heaven. A certain
robustness of blood made him able to go on. But sometimes even from him
spurted a sudden gall of bitterness against the world and its make-up.
And yet—he had his own will-to-succeed, and this carried him through.
He refused to ask himself what the success would amount to. It amounted
to the estate down in Hampshire, and his children lacking for nothing,
and himself of some importance in the world: and _basta!_—Basta! Basta!

Nevertheless do not let us imagine that he was a common pusher. He was
not. He knew as well as Egbert what disillusion meant. Perhaps in his
soul he had the same estimation of success. But he had a certain acrid
courage, and a certain will-to-power. In his own small circle he would
emanate power, the single power of his own blind self. With all his
spoiling of his children, he was still the father of the old English
type. He was too wise to make laws and to domineer in the abstract. But
he had kept, and all honour to him, a certain primitive dominion over
the souls of his children, the old, almost magic prestige of paternity.
There it was, still burning in him, the old smoky torch or paternal
godhead.

And in the sacred glare of this torch his children had been brought up.
He had given the girls every liberty, at last. But he had never really
let them go beyond his power. And they, venturing out into the hard
white light of our fatherless world, learned to see with the eyes of
the world. They learned to criticize their father, even, from some
effulgence of worldly white light, to see him as inferior. But this was
all very well in the head. The moment they forgot their tricks of
criticism, the old red glow of his authority came over them again. He
was not to be quenched.

Let the psychoanalysts talk about father complex. It is just a word
invented. Here was a man who had kept alive the old red flame of
fatherhood, fatherhood that had even the right to sacrifice the child
to God, like Isaac. Fatherhood that had life-and-death authority over
the children: a great natural power. And till his children could be
brought under some other great authority as girls; or could arrive at
manhood and become themselves centres of the same power, continuing the
same male mystery as men; until such time, willy-nilly, Godfrey
Marshall would keep his children.

It had seemed as if he might lose Winifred. Winifred had _adored_ her
husband, and looked up to him as to something wonderful. Perhaps she
had expected in him another great authority, a male authority greater,
finer than her father’s. For having once known the glow of male power,
she would not easily turn to the cold white light of feminine
independence. She would hunger, hunger all her life for the warmth and
shelter of true male strength.

And hunger she might, for Egbert’s power lay in the abnegation of
power. He was himself the living negative of power. Even of
responsibility. For the negation of power at last means the negation of
responsibility. As far as these things went, he would confine himself
to himself. He would try to confine his own _influence_ even to
himself. He would try, as far as possible, to abstain from influencing
his children by assuming any responsibility for them. “A little child
shall lead them—” His child should lead, then. He would try not to make
it go in any direction whatever. He would abstain from influencing it.
Liberty!—

Poor Winifred was like a fish out of water in this liberty, gasping for
the denser element which should contain her. Till her child came. And
then she knew that she must be responsible for it, that she must have
authority over it.

But here Egbert silently and negatively stepped in. Silently,
negatively, but fatally he neutralized her authority over her children.

There was a third little girl born. And after this Winifred wanted no
more children. Her soul was turning to salt.

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

And Egbert, he turned her old dark, Catholic blood-authority into a
sort of tyranny. He would not leave her her children. He stole them
from her, and yet without assuming responsibility for them. He stole
them from her, in emotion and spirit, and left her only to command
their behaviour. A thankless lot for a mother. And her children adored
him, adored him, little knowing the empty bitterness they were
preparing for themselves when they too grew up to have husbands:
husbands such as Egbert, adorable and null.

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

“If you don’t come quick, nurse, I shall run out there to where there
are snakes.”

“Joyce, you _must_ be patient. I’m just changing Annabel.”

There you are. There it was: always the same. Working away on the
common across the brook he heard it. And he worked on, just the same.

Suddenly he heard a shriek, and he flung the spade from him and started
for the bridge, looking up like a startled deer. Ah, there was
Winifred—Joyce had hurt herself. He went on up the garden.

“What is it?”

The child was still screaming—now it was—“Daddy! Daddy! Oh—oh, Daddy!”
And the mother was saying:

“Don’t be frightened, darling. Let mother look.”

But the child only cried:

“Oh, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

She was terrified by the sight of the blood running from her own knee.
Winifred crouched down, with her child of six in her lap, to examine
the knee. Egbert bent over also.

“Don’t make such a noise, Joyce,” he said irritably. “How did she do
it?”

“She fell on that sickle thing which you left lying about after cutting
the grass,” said Winifred, looking into his face with bitter accusation
as he bent near.

He had taken his handkerchief and tied it round the knee. Then he
lifted the still sobbing child in his arms, and carried her into the
house and upstairs to her bed. In his arms she became quiet. But his
heart was burning with pain and with guilt. He had left the sickle
there lying on the edge of the grass, and so his first-born child whom
he loved so dearly had come to hurt. But then it was an accident—it was
an accident. Why should he feel guilty? It would probably be nothing,
better in two or three days. Why take it to heart, why worry? He put it
aside.

The child lay on the bed in her little summer frock, her face very
white now after the shock, Nurse had come carrying the youngest child:
and little Annabel stood holding her skirt. Winifred, terribly serious
and wooden-seeming, was bending over the knee, from which she had taken
his blood-soaked handkerchief. Egbert bent forward, too, keeping more
_sang-froid_ in his face than in his heart. Winifred went all of a lump
of seriousness, so he had to keep some reserve. The child moaned and
whimpered.

The knee was still bleeding profusely—it was a deep cut right in the
joint.

“You’d better go for the doctor, Egbert,” said Winifred bitterly.

“Oh, no! Oh, no!” cried Joyce in a panic.

“Joyce, my darling, don’t cry!” said Winifred, suddenly catching the
little girl to her breast in a strange tragic anguish, the _Mater
Dolorata_. Even the child was frightened into silence. Egbert looked at
the tragic figure of his wife with the child at her breast, and turned
away. Only Annabel started suddenly to cry: “Joycey, Joycey, don’t have
your leg bleeding!”

Egbert rode four miles to the village for the doctor. He could not help
feeling that Winifred was laying it on rather. Surely the knee itself
wasn’t hurt! Surely not. It was only a surface cut.

The doctor was out. Egbert left the message and came cycling swiftly
home, his heart pinched with anxiety. He dropped sweating off his
bicycle and went into the house, looking rather small, like a man who
is at fault. Winifred was upstairs sitting by Joyce, who was looking
pale and important in bed, and was eating some tapioca pudding. The
pale, small, scared face of his child went to Egbert’s heart.

“Doctor Wing was out. He’ll be here about half past two,” said Egbert.

“I don’t want him to come,” whimpered Joyce.

“Joyce, dear, you must be patient and quiet,” said Winifred. “He won’t
hurt you. But he will tell us what to do to make your knee better
quickly. That is why he must come.”

Winifred always explained carefully to her little girls: and it always
took the words off their lips for the moment.

“Does it bleed yet?” said Egbert.

Winifred moved the bedclothes carefully aside.

“I think not,” she said.

Egbert stooped also to look.

“No, it doesn’t,” she said. Then he stood up with a relieved look on
his face. He turned to the child.

“Eat your pudding, Joyce,” he said. “It won’t be anything. You’ve only
got to keep still for a few days.”

“You haven’t had your dinner, have you, Daddy?”

“Not yet.”

“Nurse will give it to you,” said Winifred.

“You’ll be all right, Joyce,” he said, smiling to the child and pushing
the blonde hair off her brow. She smiled back winsomely into his face.

He went downstairs and ate his meal alone. Nurse served him. She liked
waiting on him. All women liked him and liked to do things for him.

The doctor came—a fat country practitioner, pleasant and kind.

“What, little girl, been tumbling down, have you? There’s a thing to be
doing, for a smart little lady like you! What! And cutting your knee!
Tut-tut-tut! That _wasn’t_ clever of you, now was it? Never mind, never
mind, soon be better. Let us look at it. Won’t hurt you. Not the least
in life. Bring a bowl with a little warm water, nurse. Soon have it all
right again, soon have it all right.”

Joyce smiled at him with a pale smile of faint superiority. This was
_not_ the way in which she was used to being talked to.

He bent down, carefully looking at the little, thin, wounded knee of
the child. Egbert bent over him.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear! Quite a deep little cut. Nasty little cut. Nasty
little cut. But, never mind. Never mind, little lady. We’ll soon have
it better. Soon have it better, little lady. What’s your name?”

“My name is Joyce,” said the child distinctly.

“Oh, really!” he replied. “Oh, really! Well, that’s a fine name too, in
my opinion. Joyce, eh?—And how old might Miss Joyce be? Can she tell me
that?”

“I’m six,” said the child, slightly amused and very condescending.

“Six! There now. Add up and count as far as six, can you? Well, that’s
a clever little girl, a clever little girl. And if she has to drink a
spoonful of medicine, she won’t make a murmur, I’ll be bound. Not like
_some_ little girls. What? Eh?”

“I take it if mother wishes me to,” said Joyce.

“Ah, there now! That’s the style! That’s what I like to hear from a
little lady in bed because she’s cut her knee. That’s the style—”

The comfortable and prolix doctor dressed and bandaged the knee and
recommended bed and a light diet for the little lady. He thought a week
or a fortnight would put it right. No bones or ligatures
damaged—fortunately. Only a flesh cut. He would come again in a day or
two.

So Joyce was reassured and stayed in bed and had all her toys up. Her
father often played with her. The doctor came the third day. He was
fairly pleased with the knee. It was healing. It was healing—yes—yes.
Let the child continue in bed. He came again after a day or two.
Winifred was a trifle uneasy. The wound seemed to be healing on the
top, but it hurt the child too much. It didn’t look quite right. She
said so to Egbert.

“Egbert, I’m sure Joyce’s knee isn’t healing properly.”

“I think it is,” he said. “I think it’s all right.”

“I’d rather Doctor Wing came again—I don’t feel satisfied.”

“Aren’t you trying to imagine it worse than it really is?”

“You would say so, of course. But I shall write a post-card to Doctor
Wing now.”

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

So a fortnight passed by, and the child _was_ feverish, and the knee
was more inflamed and grew worse and was painful, painful. She cried in
the night, and her mother had to sit up with her. Egbert still insisted
it was nothing, really—it would pass. But in his heart he was anxious.

Winifred wrote again to her father. On Saturday the elderly man
appeared. And no sooner did Winifred see the thick, rather short figure
in its grey suit than a great yearning came over her.

“Father, I’m not satisfied with Joyce. I’m not satisfied with Doctor
Wing.”

“Well, Winnie, dear, if you’re not satisfied we must have further
advice, that is all.”

The sturdy, powerful, elderly man went upstairs, his voice sounding
rather grating through the house, as if it cut upon the tense
atmosphere.

“How are you, Joyce, darling?” he said to the child. “Does your knee
hurt you? Does it hurt you, dear?”

“It does sometimes.” The child was shy of him, cold towards him.

“Well, dear, I’m sorry for that. I hope you try to bear it, and not
trouble mother too much.”

There was no answer. He looked at the knee. It was red and stiff.

“Of course,” he said, “I think we must have another doctor’s opinion.
And if we’re going to have it, we had better have it at once. Egbert,
do you think you might cycle in to Bingham for Doctor Wayne? I found
him very satisfactory for Winnie’s mother.”

“I can go if you think it necessary,” said Egbert.

“Certainly I think it necessary. Even if there _is_ nothing, we can
have peace of mind. Certainly I think it necessary. I should like
Doctor Wayne to come this evening if possible.”

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

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

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

Godfrey Marshall walked up and down the lane with the doctor, beside
the standing motor-car: up and down, up and down in one of those
consultations of which he had had so many in his life.

As a result he came indoors to Winifred.

“Well, Winnie, dear, the best thing to do is to take Joyce up to
London, to a nursing home where she can have proper treatment. Of
course this knee has been allowed to go wrong. And apparently there is
a risk that the child may even lose her leg. What do you think, dear?
You agree to our taking her up to town and putting her under the best
care?”

“Oh, father, you _know_ I would do anything on earth for her.”

“I know you would, Winnie darling. The pity is that there has been this
unfortunate delay already. I can’t think what Doctor Wing was doing.
Apparently the child is in danger of losing her leg. Well then, if you
will have everything ready, we will take her up to town tomorrow. I
will order the large car from Denley’s to be here at ten. Egbert, will
you take a telegram at once to Doctor Jackson? It is a small nursing
home for children and for surgical cases, not far from Baker Street.
I’m sure Joyce will be all right there.”

“Oh, father, can’t I nurse her myself!”

“Well, darling, if she is to have proper treatment, she had best be in
a home. The X-ray treatment, and the electric treatment, and whatever
is necessary.”

“It will cost a great deal—” said Winifred.

“We can’t think of cost, if the child’s leg is in danger—or even her
life. No use speaking of cost,” said the elder man impatiently.

And so it was. Poor Joyce, stretched out on a bed in the big closed
motor-car—the mother sitting by her head, the grandfather in his short
grey beard and a bowler hat, sitting by her feet, thick, and implacable
in his responsibility—they rolled slowly away from Crockham, and from
Egbert who stood there bareheaded and a little ignominious, left
behind. He was to shut up the house and bring the rest of the family
back to town, by train, the next day.

Followed a dark and bitter time. The poor child. The poor, poor child,
how she suffered, an agony and a long crucifixion in that nursing home.
It was a bitter six weeks which changed the soul of Winifred for ever.
As she sat by the bed of her poor, tortured little child, tortured with
the agony of the knee, and the still worse agony of these diabolic, but
perhaps necessary modern treatments, she felt her heart killed and
going cold in her breast. Her little Joyce, her frail, brave,
wonderful, little Joyce, frail and small and pale as a white flower!
Ah, how had she, Winifred, dared to be so wicked, so wicked, so
careless, so sensual.

“Let my heart die! Let my woman’s heart of flesh die! Saviour, let my
heart die. And save my child. Let my heart die from the world and from
the flesh. Oh, destroy my heart that is so wayward. Let my heart of
pride die. Let my heart die.”

So she prayed beside the bed of her child. And like the Mother with the
seven swords in her breast, slowly her heart of pride and passion died
in her breast, bleeding away. Slowly it died, bleeding away, and she
turned to the Church for comfort, to Jesus, to the Mother of God, but
most of all, to that great and enduring institution, the Roman Catholic
Church. She withdrew into the shadow of the Church. She was a mother
with three children. But in her soul she died, her heart of pride and
passion and desire bled to death, her soul belonged to her church, her
body belonged to her duty as a mother.

Her duty as a wife did not enter. As a wife she had no sense of duty:
only a certain bitterness towards the man with whom she had known such
sensuality and distraction. She was purely the _Mater Dolorata_. To the
man she was closed as a tomb.

Egbert came to see his child. But Winifred seemed to be always seated
there, like the tomb of his manhood and his fatherhood. Poor Winifred:
she was still young, still strong and ruddy and beautiful like a ruddy
hard flower of the field. Strange—her ruddy, healthy face, so sombre,
and her strong, heavy, full-blooded body, so still. She, a nun! Never.
And yet the gates of her heart and soul had shut in his face with a
slow, resonant clang, shutting him out for ever. There was no need for
her to go into a convent. Her will had done it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A queer, baffled, half-wicked look came on his face. He could not stay
long at the cottage. Suddenly he must swing on to his bicycle and
go—anywhere. Anywhere, away from the place. He would stay a few days
with his mother in the old home. His mother adored him and grieved as a
mother would. But the little, baffled, half-wicked smile curled on his
face, and he swung away from his mother’s solicitude as from everything
else.

Always moving on—from place to place, friend to friend: and always
swinging away from sympathy. As soon as sympathy, like a soft hand, was
reached out to touch him, away he swerved, instinctively, as a harmless
snake swerves and swerves and swerves away from an outstretched hand.
Away he must go. And periodically he went back to Winifred.

He was terrible to her now, like a temptation. She had devoted herself
to her children and her church. Joyce was once more on her feet; but,
alas! lame, with iron supports to her leg, and a little crutch. It was
strange how she had grown into a long, pallid, wild little thing.
Strange that the pain had not made her soft and docile, but had brought
out a wild, almost maenad temper in the child. She was seven, and long
and white and thin, but by no means subdued. Her blonde hair was
darkening. She still had long sufferings to face, and, in her own
childish consciousness, the stigma of her lameness to bear.

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

When Egbert saw his little girl limping horribly—not only limping but
lurching horribly in crippled, childish way, his heart again hardened
with chagrin, like steel that is tempered again. There was a tacit
understanding between him and his little girl: not what we would call
love, but a weapon-like kinship. There was a tiny touch of irony in his
manner towards her, contrasting sharply with Winifred’s heavy,
unleavened solicitude and care. The child flickered back to him with an
answering little smile of irony and recklessness: an odd flippancy
which made Winifred only the more sombre and earnest.

The Marshalls took endless thought and trouble for the child, searching
out every means to save her limb and her active freedom. They spared no
effort and no money, they spared no strength of will. With all their
slow, heavy power of will they willed that Joyce should save her
liberty of movement, should win back her wild, free grace. Even if it
took a long time to recover, it should be recovered.

So the situation stood. And Joyce submitted, week after week, month
after month to the tyranny and pain of the treatment. She acknowledged
the honourable effort on her behalf. But her flamy reckless spirit was
her father’s. It was he who had all the glamour for her. He and she
were like members of some forbidden secret society who know one another
but may not recognise one another. Knowledge they had in common, the
same secret of life, the father and the child. But the child stayed in
the camp of her mother, honourably, and the father wandered outside
like Ishmael, only coming sometimes to sit in the home for an hour or
two, an evening or two beside the camp fire, like Ishmael, in a curious
silence and tension, with the mocking answer of the desert speaking out
of his silence, and annulling the whole convention of the domestic
home.

His presence was almost an anguish to Winifred. She prayed against it.
That little cleft between his brow, that flickering, wicked, little
smile that seemed to haunt his face, and above all, the triumphant
loneliness, the Ishmael quality. And then the erectness of his supple
body, like a symbol. The very way he stood, so quiet, so insidious,
like an erect, supple symbol of life, the living body, confronting her
downcast soul, was torture to her. He was like a supple living idol
moving before her eyes, and she felt if she watched him she was damned.

And he came and made himself at home in her little home. When he was
there, moving in his own quiet way, she felt as if the whole great law
of sacrifice, by which she had elected to live, were annulled. He
annulled by his very presence the laws of her life. And what did he
substitute? Ah, against that question she hardened herself in recoil.

It was awful to her to have to have him about—moving about in his
shirt-sleeves, speaking in his tenor, throaty voice to the children.
Annabel simply adored him, and he teased the little girl. The baby,
Barbara, was not sure of him. She had been born a stranger to him. But
even the nurse, when she saw his white shoulder of flesh through the
slits of his torn shirt, thought it a shame.

Winifred felt it was only another weapon of his against her.

“You have other shirts—why do you wear that old one that is all torn,
Egbert?” she said.

“I may as well wear it out,” he said subtly.

He knew she would not offer to mend it for him. She _could_ not. And
no, she would not. Had she not her own gods to honour? And could she
betray them, submitting to his Baal and Ashtaroth? And it was terrible
to her, his unsheathed presence, that seemed to annul her and her
faith, like another revelation. Like a gleaming idol evoked against
her, a vivid life-idol that might triumph.

He came and he went—and she persisted. And then the great war broke
out. He was a man who could not go to the dogs. He could not dissipate
himself. He was pure-bred in his Englishness, and even when he would
have killed to be vicious, he could not.

So when the war broke out his whole instinct was against it: against
war. He had not the faintest desire to overcome any foreigners or to
help in their death. He had no conception of Imperial England, and Rule
Britannia was just a joke to him. He was a pure-blooded Englishman,
perfect in his race, and when he was truly himself he could no more
have been aggressive on the score of his Englishness than a rose can be
aggressive on the score of its rosiness.

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

Egbert was well-bred, and this was part of his natural understanding.
It was merely unnatural to him to hate a nation _en bloc_. Certain
individuals he disliked, and others he liked, and the mass he knew
nothing about. Certain deeds he disliked, certain deeds seemed natural
to him, and about most deeds he had no particular feeling.

He had, however, the one deepest pure-bred instinct. He recoiled
inevitably from having his feelings dictated to him by the mass
feeling. His feelings were his own, his understanding was his own, and
he would never go back on either, willingly. Shall a man become
inferior to his own true knowledge and self, just because the mob
expects it of him?

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

And Godfrey Marshall had the world to reckon with. There was German
military aggression, and the English non-military idea of liberty and
the “conquests of peace”—meaning industrialism. Even if the choice
between militarism and industrialism were a choice of evils, the
elderly man asserted his choice of the latter, perforce. He whose soul
was quick with the instinct of power.

Egbert just refused to reckon with the world. He just refused even to
decide between German militarism and British industrialism. He chose
neither. As for atrocities, he despised the people who committed them
as inferior criminal types. There was nothing national about crime.

And yet, war! War! Just war! Not right or wrong, but just war itself.
Should he join? Should he give himself over to war? The question was in
his mind for some weeks. Not because he thought England was right and
Germany wrong. Probably Germany was wrong, but he refused to make a
choice. Not because he felt inspired. No. But just—war.

The deterrent was, the giving himself over into the power of other men,
and into the power of the mob-spirit of a democratic army. Should he
give himself over? Should he make over his own life and body to the
control of something which he _knew_ was inferior, in spirit, to his
own self? Should he commit himself into the power of an inferior
control? Should he? Should he betray himself?

He was going to put himself into the power of his inferiors, and he
knew it. He was going to subjugate himself. He was going to be ordered
about by petty _canaille_ of non-commissioned officers—and even
commissioned officers. He who was born and bred free. Should he do it?

He went to his wife, to speak to her.

“Shall I join up, Winifred?”

She was silent. Her instinct also was dead against it. And yet a
certain profound resentment made her answer:

“You have three children dependent on you. I don’t know whether you
have thought of that.”

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

“Of course. But it won’t make much difference to them. I shall be
earning a shilling a day, at least.”

“You’d better speak to father, I think,” she replied heavily.

Egbert went to his father-in-law. The elderly man’s heart was full of
resentment.

“I should say,” he said rather sourly, “it is the best thing you could
do.”

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

Winifred now had a new duty towards him: the duty of a wife towards a
husband who is himself performing his duty towards the world. She loved
him still. She would always love him, as far as earthly love went. But
it was duty she now lived by. When he came back to her in khaki, a
soldier, she submitted to him as a wife. It was her duty. But to his
passion she could never again fully submit. Something prevented her,
for ever: even her own deepest choice.

He went back again to camp. It did not suit him to be a modern soldier.
In the thick, gritty, hideous khaki his subtle physique was
extinguished as if he had been killed. In the ugly intimacy of the camp
his thoroughbred sensibilities were just degraded. But he had chosen,
so he accepted. An ugly little look came on to his face, of a man who
has accepted his own degradation.

In the early spring Winifred went down to Crockham to be there when
primroses were out, and the tassels hanging on the hazel-bushes. She
felt something like a reconciliation towards Egbert, now he was a
prisoner in camp most of his days. Joyce was wild with delight at
seeing the garden and the common again, after the eight or nine months
of London and misery. She was still lame. She still had the irons up
her leg. But she lurched about with a wild, crippled agility.

Egbert came for a week-end, in his gritty, thick, sand-paper khaki and
puttees and the hideous cap. Nay, he looked terrible. And on his face a
slightly impure look, a little sore on his lip, as if he had eaten too
much or drunk too much or let his blood become a little unclean. He was
almost uglily healthy, with the camp life. It did not suit him.

Winifred waited for him in a little passion of duty and sacrifice,
willing to serve the soldier, if not the man. It only made him feel a
little more ugly inside. The week-end was torment to him: the memory of
the camp, the knowledge of the life he led there; even the sight of his
own legs in that abhorrent khaki. He felt as if the hideous cloth went
into his blood and made it gritty and dirty. Then Winifred so ready to
serve the _soldier_, when she repudiated the man. And this made the
grit worse between his teeth. And the children running around playing
and calling in the rather mincing fashion of children who have nurses
and governesses and literature in the family. And Joyce so lame! It had
all become unreal to him, after the camp. It only set his soul on edge.
He left at dawn on the Monday morning, glad to get back to the realness
and vulgarity of the camp.

Winifred would never meet him again at the cottage—only in London,
where the world was with them. But sometimes he came alone to Crockham
perhaps when friends were staying there. And then he would work awhile
in his garden. This summer still it would flame with blue anchusas and
big red poppies, the mulleins would sway their soft, downy erections in
the air: he loved mulleins: and the honeysuckle would stream out scent
like memory, when the owl was whooing. Then he sat by the fire with the
friends and with Winifred’s sisters, and they sang the folk-songs. He
put on thin civilian clothes and his charm and his beauty and the
supple dominancy of his body glowed out again. But Winifred was not
there.

At the end of the summer he went to Flanders, into action. He seemed
already to have gone out of life, beyond the pale of life. He hardly
remembered his life any more, being like a man who is going to take a
jump from a height, and is only looking to where he must land.

He was twice slightly wounded, in two months. But not enough to put him
off duty for more than a day or two. They were retiring again, holding
the enemy back. He was in the rear—three machine-guns. The country was
all pleasant, war had not yet trampled it. Only the air seemed
shattered, and the land awaiting death. It was a small, unimportant
action in which he was engaged.

The guns were stationed on a little bushy hillock just outside a
village. But occasionally, it was difficult to say from which
direction, came the sharp crackle of rifle-fire, and beyond, the
far-off thud of cannon. The afternoon was wintry and cold.

A lieutenant stood on a little iron platform at the top of the ladders,
taking the sights and giving the aim, calling in a high, tense,
mechanical voice. Out of the sky came the sharp cry of the directions,
then the warning numbers, then “Fire!” The shot went, the piston of the
gun sprang back, there was a sharp explosion, and a very faint film of
smoke in the air. Then the other two guns fired, and there was a lull.
The officer was uncertain of the enemy’s position. The thick clump of
horse-chestnut trees below was without change. Only in the far distance
the sound of heavy firing continued, so far off as to give a sense of
peace.

The gorse bushes on either hand were dark, but a few sparks of flowers
showed yellow. He noticed them almost unconsciously as he waited, in
the lull. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and the air came chill on his
arms. Again his shirt was slit on the shoulders, and the flesh showed
through. He was dirty and unkempt. But his face was quiet. So many
things go out of consciousness before we come to the end of
consciousness.

Before him, below, was the highroad, running between high banks of
grass and gorse. He saw the whitish muddy tracks and deep scores in the
road, where the part of the regiment had retired. Now all was still.
Sounds that came, came from the outside. The place where he stood was
still silent, chill, serene: the white church among the trees beyond
seemed like a thought only.

He moved into a lightning-like mechanical response at the sharp cry
from the officer overhead. Mechanism, the pure mechanical action of
obedience at the guns. Pure mechanical action at the guns. It left the
soul unburdened, brooding in dark nakedness. In the end, the soul is
alone, brooding on the face of the uncreated flux, as a bird on a dark
sea.

Nothing could be seen but the road, and a crucifix knocked slanting and
the dark, autumnal fields and woods. There appeared three horsemen on a
little eminence, very small, on the crest of a ploughed field. They
were our own men. Of the enemy, nothing.

The lull continued. Then suddenly came sharp orders, and a new
direction of the guns, and an intense, exciting activity. Yet at the
centre the soul remained dark and aloof, alone.

But even so, it was the soul that heard the new sound: the new, deep
“papp!” of a gun that seemed to touch right upon the soul. He kept up
the rapid activity at the machine-gun, sweating. But in his soul was
the echo of the new, deep sound, deeper than life.

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

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

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

When faintly something began to struggle in the darkness, a
consciousness of himself, he was aware of a great load and a clanging
sound. To have known the moment of death! And to be forced, before
dying, to review it. So, fate, even in death.

There was a resounding of pain. It seemed to sound from the outside of
his consciousness: like a loud bell clanging very near. Yet he knew it
was himself. He must associate himself with it. After a lapse and a new
effort, he identified a pain in his head, a large pain that clanged and
resounded. So far he could identify himself with himself. Then there
was a lapse.

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

Bit by bit, like a doom came the necessity to know. He was hit in the
head. It was only a vague surmise at first. But in the swinging of the
pendulum of pain, swinging ever nearer and nearer, to touch him into an
agony of consciousness and a consciousness of agony, gradually the
knowledge emerged—he must be hit in the head—hit on the left brow; if
so, there would be blood—was there blood?—could he feel blood in his
left eye? Then the clanging seemed to burst the membrane of his brain,
like death-madness.

Was there blood on his face? Was hot blood flowing? Or was it dry blood
congealing down his cheek? It took him hours even to ask the question:
time being no more than an agony in darkness, without measurement.

A long time after he had opened his eyes he realised he was seeing
something—something, something, but the effort to recall what was too
great. No, no; no recall!

Were they the stars in the dark sky? Was it possible it was stars in
the dark sky? Stars? The world? Ah, no, he could not know it! Stars and
the world were gone for him, he closed his eyes. No stars, no sky, no
world. No, No! The thick darkness of blood alone. It should be one
great lapse into the thick darkness of blood in agony.

Death, oh, death! The world all blood, and the blood all writhing with
death. The soul like the tiniest little light out on a dark sea, the
sea of blood. And the light guttering, beating, pulsing in a windless
storm, wishing it could go out, yet unable.

There had been life. There had been Winifred and his children. But the
frail death-agony effort to catch at straws of memory, straws of life
from the past, brought on too great a nausea. No, No! No Winifred, no
children. No world, no people. Better the agony of dissolution ahead
than the nausea of the effort backwards. Better the terrible work
should go forward, the dissolving into the black sea of death, in the
extremity of dissolution, than that there should be any reaching back
towards life. To forget! To forget! Utterly, utterly to forget, in the
great forgetting of death. To break the core and the unit of life, and
to lapse out on the great darkness. Only that. To break the clue, and
mingle and commingle with the one darkness, without afterwards or
forwards. Let the black sea of death itself solve the problem of
futurity. Let the will of man break and give up.

What was that? A light! A terrible light! Was it figures? Was it legs
of a horse colossal—colossal above him: huge, huge?

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




TICKETS, PLEASE


There is in the Midlands a single-line tramway system which boldly
leaves the county town and plunges off into the black, industrial
countryside, up hill and down dale, through the long ugly villages of
workmen’s houses, over canals and railways, past churches perched high
and nobly over the smoke and shadows, through stark, grimy cold little
market-places, tilting away in a rush past cinemas and shops down to
the hollow where the collieries are, then up again, past a little rural
church, under the ash trees, on in a rush to the terminus, the last
little ugly place of industry, the cold little town that shivers on the
edge of the wild, gloomy country beyond. There the green and creamy
coloured tram-car seems to pause and purr with curious satisfaction.
But in a few minutes—the clock on the turret of the Co-operative
Wholesale Society’s Shops gives the time—away it starts once more on
the adventure. Again there are the reckless swoops downhill, bouncing
the loops: again the chilly wait in the hill-top market-place: again
the breathless slithering round the precipitous drop under the church:
again the patient halts at the loops, waiting for the outcoming car: so
on and on, for two long hours, till at last the city looms beyond the
fat gas-works, the narrow factories draw near, we are in the sordid
streets of the great town, once more we sidle to a standstill at our
terminus, abashed by the great crimson and cream-coloured city cars,
but still perky, jaunty, somewhat dare-devil, green as a jaunty sprig
of parsley out of a black colliery garden.

To ride on these cars is always an adventure. Since we are in war-time,
the drivers are men unfit for active service: cripples and hunchbacks.
So they have the spirit of the devil in them. The ride becomes a
steeple-chase. Hurray! we have leapt in a clear jump over the canal
bridges—now for the four-lane corner. With a shriek and a trail of
sparks we are clear again. To be sure, a tram often leaps the rails—but
what matter! It sits in a ditch till other trams come to haul it out.
It is quite common for a car, packed with one solid mass of living
people, to come to a dead halt in the midst of unbroken blackness, the
heart of nowhere on a dark night, and for the driver and the girl
conductor to call, “All get off—car’s on fire!” Instead, however, of
rushing out in a panic, the passengers stolidly reply: “Get on—get on!
We’re not coming out. We’re stopping where we are. Push on, George.” So
till flames actually appear.

The reason for this reluctance to dismount is that the nights are
howlingly cold, black, and windswept, and a car is a haven of refuge.
From village to village the miners travel, for a change of cinema, of
girl, of pub. The trams are desperately packed. Who is going to risk
himself in the black gulf outside, to wait perhaps an hour for another
tram, then to see the forlorn notice “Depot Only,” because there is
something wrong! Or to greet a unit of three bright cars all so tight
with people that they sail past with a howl of derision. Trams that
pass in the night.

This, the most dangerous tram-service in England, as the authorities
themselves declare, with pride, is entirely conducted by girls, and
driven by rash young men, a little crippled, or by delicate young men,
who creep forward in terror. The girls are fearless young hussies. In
their ugly blue uniform, skirts up to their knees, shapeless old peaked
caps on their heads, they have all the _sang-froid_ of an old
non-commissioned officer. With a tram packed with howling colliers,
roaring hymns downstairs and a sort of antiphony of obscenities
upstairs, the lasses are perfectly at their ease. They pounce on the
youths who try to evade their ticket-machine. They push off the men at
the end of their distance. They are not going to be done in the eye—not
they. They fear nobody—and everybody fears them.

“Hello, Annie!”

“Hello, Ted!”

“Oh, mind my corn, Miss Stone. It’s my belief you’ve got a heart of
stone, for you’ve trod on it again.”

“You should keep it in your pocket,” replies Miss Stone, and she goes
sturdily upstairs in her high boots.

“Tickets, please.”

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

Therefore, there is a certain wild romance aboard these cars—and in the
sturdy bosom of Annie herself. The time for soft romance is in the
morning, between ten o’clock and one, when things are rather slack:
that is, except market-day and Saturday. Thus Annie has time to look
about her. Then she often hops off her car and into a shop where she
has spied something, while the driver chats in the main road. There is
very good feeling between the girls and the drivers. Are they not
companions in peril, shipments aboard this careering vessel of a
tram-car, for ever rocking on the waves of a stormy land?

Then, also, during the easy hours, the inspectors are most in evidence.
For some reason, everybody employed in this tram-service is young:
there are no grey heads. It would not do. Therefore the inspectors are
of the right age, and one, the chief, is also good-looking. See him
stand on a wet, gloomy morning, in his long oil-skin, his peaked cap
well down over his eyes, waiting to board a car. His face is ruddy, his
small brown moustache is weathered, he has a faint impudent smile.
Fairly tall and agile, even in his waterproof, he springs aboard a car
and greets Annie.

“Hello, Annie! Keeping the wet out?”

“Trying to.”

There are only two people in the car. Inspecting is soon over. Then for
a long and impudent chat on the foot-board, a good, easy, twelve-mile
chat.

The inspector’s name is John Thomas Raynor—always called John Thomas,
except sometimes, in malice, Coddy. His face sets in fury when he is
addressed, from a distance, with this abbreviation. There is
considerable scandal about John Thomas in half a dozen villages. He
flirts with the girl conductors in the morning, and walks out with them
in the dark night, when they leave their tram-car at the depôt. Of
course, the girls quit the service frequently. Then he flirts and walks
out with the newcomer: always providing she is sufficiently attractive,
and that she will consent to walk. It is remarkable, however, that most
of the girls are quite comely, they are all young, and this roving life
aboard the car gives them a sailor’s dash and recklessness. What matter
how they behave when the ship is in port. Tomorrow they will be aboard
again.

Annie, however, was something of a Tartar, and her sharp tongue had
kept John Thomas at arm’s length for many months. Perhaps, therefore,
she liked him all the more: for he always came up smiling, with
impudence. She watched him vanquish one girl, then another. She could
tell by the movement of his mouth and eyes, when he flirted with her in
the morning, that he had been walking out with this lass, or the other,
the night before. A fine cock-of-the-walk he was. She could sum him up
pretty well.

In this subtle antagonism they knew each other like old friends, they
were as shrewd with one another almost as man and wife. But Annie had
always kept him sufficiently at arm’s length. Besides, she had a boy of
her own.

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

The roundabouts were veering round and grinding out their music, the
side shows were making as much commotion as possible. In the cocoanut
shies there were no cocoanuts, but artificial war-time substitutes,
which the lads declared were fastened into the irons. There was a sad
decline in brilliance and luxury. None the less, the ground was muddy
as ever, there was the same crush, the press of faces lighted up by the
flares and the electric lights, the same smell of naphtha and a few
fried potatoes, and of electricity.

Who should be the first to greet Miss Annie on the showground but John
Thomas? He had a black overcoat buttoned up to his chin, and a tweed
cap pulled down over his brows, his face between was ruddy and smiling
and handy as ever. She knew so well the way his mouth moved.

She was very glad to have a “boy”. To be at the Statutes without a
fellow was no fun. Instantly, like the gallant he was, he took her on
the dragons, grim-toothed, round-about switchbacks. It was not nearly
so exciting as a tram-car actually. But, then, to be seated in a
shaking, green dragon, uplifted above the sea of bubble faces,
careering in a rickety fashion in the lower heavens, whilst John Thomas
leaned over her, his cigarette in his mouth, was after all the right
style. She was a plump, quick, alive little creature. So she was quite
excited and happy.

John Thomas made her stay on for the next round. And therefore she
could hardly for shame repulse him when he put his arm round her and
drew her a little nearer to him, in a very warm and cuddly manner.
Besides, he was fairly discreet, he kept his movement as hidden as
possible. She looked down, and saw that his red, clean hand was out of
sight of the crowd. And they knew each other so well. So they warmed up
to the fair.

After the dragons they went on the horses. John Thomas paid each time,
so she could but be complaisant. He, of course, sat astride on the
outer horse—named “Black Bess”—and she sat sideways, towards him, on
the inner horse—named “Wildfire”. But of course John Thomas was not
going to sit discreetly on “Black Bess”, holding the brass bar. Round
they spun and heaved, in the light. And round he swung on his wooden
steed, flinging one leg across her mount, and perilously tipping up and
down, across the space, half lying back, laughing at her. He was
perfectly happy; she was afraid her hat was on one side, but she was
excited.

He threw quoits on a table, and won for her two large, pale-blue
hat-pins. And then, hearing the noise of the cinemas, announcing
another performance, they climbed the boards and went in.

Of course, during these performances pitch darkness falls from time to
time, when the machine goes wrong. Then there is a wild whooping, and a
loud smacking of simulated kisses. In these moments John Thomas drew
Annie towards him. After all, he had a wonderfully warm, cosy way of
holding a girl with his arm, he seemed to make such a nice fit. And,
after all, it was pleasant to be so held: so very comforting and cosy
and nice. He leaned over her and she felt his breath on her hair; she
knew he wanted to kiss her on the lips. And, after all, he was so warm
and she fitted in to him so softly. After all, she wanted him to touch
her lips.

But the light sprang up; she also started electrically, and put her hat
straight. He left his arm lying nonchalantly behind her. Well, it was
fun, it was exciting to be at the Statutes with John Thomas.

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

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

There was no mistake about it, Annie liked John Thomas a good deal. She
felt so rich and warm in herself whenever he was near. And John Thomas
really liked Annie, more than usual. The soft, melting way in which she
could flow into a fellow, as if she melted into his very bones, was
something rare and good. He fully appreciated this.

But with a developing acquaintance there began a developing intimacy.
Annie wanted to consider him a person, a man; she wanted to take an
intelligent interest in him, and to have an intelligent response. She
did not want a mere nocturnal presence, which was what he was so far.
And she prided herself that he could not leave her.

Here she made a mistake. John Thomas intended to remain a nocturnal
presence; he had no idea of becoming an all-round individual to her.
When she started to take an intelligent interest in him and his life
and his character, he sheered off. He hated intelligent interest. And
he knew that the only way to stop it was to avoid it. The possessive
female was aroused in Annie. So he left her.

It is no use saying she was not surprised. She was at first startled,
thrown out of her count. For she had been so _very_ sure of holding
him. For a while she was staggered, and everything became uncertain to
her. Then she wept with fury, indignation, desolation, and misery. Then
she had a spasm of despair. And then, when he came, still impudently,
on to her car, still familiar, but letting her see by the movement of
his head that he had gone away to somebody else for the time being, and
was enjoying pastures new, then she determined to have her own back.

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

“Hey!” said Annie, accosting her; then softly, “Who’s John Thomas on
with now?”

“I don’t know,” said Nora.

“Why tha does,” said Annie, ironically lapsing into dialect. “Tha knows
as well as I do.”

“Well, I do, then,” said Nora. “It isn’t me, so don’t bother.”

“It’s Cissy Meakin, isn’t it?”

“It is, for all I know.”

“Hasn’t he got a face on him!” said Annie. “I don’t half like his
cheek. I could knock him off the foot-board when he comes round at me.”

“He’ll get dropped-on one of these days,” said Nora.

“Ay, he will, when somebody makes up their mind to drop it on him. I
should like to see him taken down a peg or two, shouldn’t you?”

“I shouldn’t mind,” said Nora.

“You’ve got quite as much cause to as I have,” said Annie. “But we’ll
drop on him one of these days, my girl. What? Don’t you want to?”

“I don’t mind,” said Nora.

But as a matter of fact, Nora was much more vindictive than Annie.

One by one Annie went the round of the old flames. It so happened that
Cissy Meakin left the tramway service in quite a short time. Her mother
made her leave. Then John Thomas was on the _qui-vive_. He cast his
eyes over his old flock. And his eyes lighted on Annie. He thought she
would be safe now. Besides, he liked her.

She arranged to walk home with him on Sunday night. It so happened that
her car would be in the depôt at half past nine: the last car would
come in at 10.15. So John Thomas was to wait for her there.

At the depôt the girls had a little waiting-room of their own. It was
quite rough, but cosy, with a fire and an oven and a mirror, and table
and wooden chairs. The half dozen girls who knew John Thomas only too
well had arranged to take service this Sunday afternoon. So, as the
cars began to come in, early, the girls dropped into the waiting-room.
And instead of hurrying off home, they sat around the fire and had a
cup of tea. Outside was the darkness and lawlessness of war-time.

John Thomas came on the car after Annie, at about a quarter to ten. He
poked his head easily into the girls’ waiting-room.

“Prayer-meeting?” he asked.

“Ay,” said Laura Sharp. “Ladies only.”

“That’s me!” said John Thomas. It was one of his favourite
exclamations.

“Shut the door, boy,” said Muriel Baggaley.

“On which side of me?” said John Thomas.

“Which tha likes,” said Polly Birkin.

He had come in and closed the door behind him. The girls moved in their
circle, to make a place for him near the fire. He took off his
great-coat and pushed back his hat.

“Who handles the teapot?” he said.

Nora Purdy silently poured him out a cup of tea.

“Want a bit o’ my bread and drippin’?” said Muriel Baggaley to him.

“Ay, give us a bit.”

And he began to eat his piece of bread.

“There’s no place like home, girls,” he said.

They all looked at him as he uttered this piece of impudence. He seemed
to be sunning himself in the presence of so many damsels.

“Especially if you’re not afraid to go home in the dark,” said Laura
Sharp.

“Me! By myself I am.”

They sat till they heard the last tram come in. In a few minutes Emma
Houselay entered.

“Come on, my old duck!” cried Polly Birkin.

“It _is_ perishing,” said Emma, holding her fingers to the fire.

“But—I’m afraid to, go home in, the dark,” sang Laura Sharp, the tune
having got into her mind.

“Who’re you going with tonight, John Thomas?” asked Muriel Baggaley,
coolly.

“Tonight?” said John Thomas. “Oh, I’m going home by myself tonight—all
on my lonely-O.”

“That’s me!” said Nora Purdy, using his own ejaculation.

The girls laughed shrilly.

“Me as well, Nora,” said John Thomas.

“Don’t know what you mean,” said Laura.

“Yes, I’m toddling,” said he, rising and reaching for his overcoat.

“Nay,” said Polly. “We’re all here waiting for you.”

“We’ve got to be up in good time in the morning,” he said, in the
benevolent official manner.

They all laughed.

“Nay,” said Muriel. “Don’t leave us all lonely, John Thomas. Take one!”

“I’ll take the lot, if you like,” he responded gallantly.

“That you won’t either,” said Muriel, “Two’s company; seven’s too much
of a good thing.”

“Nay—take one,” said Laura. “Fair and square, all above board, and say
which.”

“Ay,” cried Annie, speaking for the first time. “Pick, John Thomas;
let’s hear thee.”

“Nay,” he said. “I’m going home quiet tonight. Feeling good, for once.”

“Whereabouts?” said Annie. “Take a good un, then. But tha’s got to take
one of us!”

“Nay, how can I take one,” he said, laughing uneasily. “I don’t want to
make enemies.”

“You’d only make _one_,” said Annie.

“The chosen _one_,” added Laura.

“Oh, my! Who said girls!” exclaimed John Thomas, again turning, as if
to escape. “Well—good-night.”

“Nay, you’ve got to make your pick,” said Muriel. “Turn your face to
the wall, and say which one touches you. Go on—we shall only just touch
your back—one of us. Go on—turn your face to the wall, and don’t look,
and say which one touches you.”

He was uneasy, mistrusting them. Yet he had not the courage to break
away. They pushed him to a wall and stood him there with his face to
it. Behind his back they all grimaced, tittering. He looked so comical.
He looked around uneasily.

“Go on!” he cried.

“You’re looking—you’re looking!” they shouted.

He turned his head away. And suddenly, with a movement like a swift
cat, Annie went forward and fetched him a box on the side of the head
that sent his cap flying and himself staggering. He started round.

But at Annie’s signal they all flew at him, slapping him, pinching him,
pulling his hair, though more in fun than in spite or anger. He,
however, saw red. His blue eyes flamed with strange fear as well as
fury, and he butted through the girls to the door. It was locked. He
wrenched at it. Roused, alert, the girls stood round and looked at him.
He faced them, at bay. At that moment they were rather horrifying to
him, as they stood in their short uniforms. He was distinctly afraid.

“Come on, John Thomas! Come on! Choose!” said Annie.

“What are you after? Open the door,” he said.

“We shan’t—not till you’ve chosen!” said Muriel.

“Chosen what?” he said.

“Chosen the one you’re going to marry,” she replied.

He hesitated a moment.

“Open the blasted door,” he said, “and get back to your senses.” He
spoke with official authority.

“You’ve got to choose!” cried the girls.

“Come on!” cried Annie, looking him in the eye.” Come on! Come on!”

He went forward, rather vaguely. She had taken off her belt, and
swinging it, she fetched him a sharp blow over the head with the buckle
end. He sprang and seized her. But immediately the other girls rushed
upon him, pulling and tearing and beating him. Their blood was now
thoroughly up. He was their sport now. They were going to have their
own back, out of him. Strange, wild creatures, they hung on him and
rushed at him to bear him down. His tunic was torn right up the back,
Nora had hold at the back of his collar, and was actually strangling
him. Luckily the button burst. He struggled in a wild frenzy of fury
and terror, almost mad terror. His tunic was simply torn off his back,
his shirt-sleeves were torn away, his arms were naked. The girls rushed
at him, clenched their hands on him and pulled at him: or they rushed
at him and pushed him, butted him with all their might: or they struck
him wild blows. He ducked and cringed and struck sideways. They became
more intense.

At last he was down. They rushed on him, kneeling on him. He had
neither breath nor strength to move. His face was bleeding with a long
scratch, his brow was bruised.

Annie knelt on him, the other girls knelt and hung on to him. Their
faces were flushed, their hair wild, their eyes were all glittering
strangely. He lay at last quite still, with face averted, as an animal
lies when it is defeated and at the mercy of the captor. Sometimes his
eye glanced back at the wild faces of the girls. His breast rose
heavily, his wrists were torn.

“Now, then, my fellow!” gasped Annie at length. “Now then—now—”

At the sound of her terrifying, cold triumph, he suddenly started to
struggle as an animal might, but the girls threw themselves upon him
with unnatural strength and power, forcing him down.

“Yes—now, then!” gasped Annie at length.

And there was a dead silence, in which the thud of heart-beating was to
be heard. It was a suspense of pure silence in every soul.

“Now you know where you are,” said Annie.

The sight of his white, bare arm maddened the girls. He lay in a kind
of trance of fear and antagonism. They felt themselves filled with
supernatural strength.

Suddenly Polly started to laugh—to giggle wildly—helplessly—and Emma
and Muriel joined in. But Annie and Nora and Laura remained the same,
tense, watchful, with gleaming eyes. He winced away from these eyes.

“Yes,” said Annie, in a curious low tone, secret and deadly. “Yes!
You’ve got it now! You know what you’ve done, don’t you? You know what
you’ve done.”

He made no sound nor sign, but lay with bright, averted eyes, and
averted, bleeding face.

“You ought to be _killed_, that’s what you ought,” said Annie, tensely.
“You ought to be _killed_.” And there was a terrifying lust in her
voice.

Polly was ceasing to laugh, and giving long-drawn Oh-h-hs and sighs as
she came to herself.

“He’s got to choose,” she said vaguely.

“Oh, yes, he has,” said Laura, with vindictive decision.

“Do you hear—do you hear?” said Annie. And with a sharp movement, that
made him wince, she turned his face to her.

“Do you hear?” she repeated, shaking him.

But he was quite dumb. She fetched him a sharp slap on the face. He
started, and his eyes widened. Then his face darkened with defiance,
after all.

“Do you hear?” she repeated.

He only looked at her with hostile eyes.

“Speak!” she said, putting her face devilishly near his.

“What?” he said, almost overcome.

“You’ve got to _choose!_” she cried, as if it were some terrible
menace, and as if it hurt her that she could not exact more.

“What?” he said, in fear.

“Choose your girl, Coddy. You’ve got to choose her now. And you’ll get
your neck broken if you play any more of your tricks, my boy. You’re
settled now.”

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

“All right, then,” he said, “I choose Annie.” His voice was strange and
full of malice. Annie let go of him as if he had been a hot coal.

“He’s chosen Annie!” said the girls in chorus.

“Me!” cried Annie. She was still kneeling, but away from him. He was
still lying prostrate, with averted face. The girls grouped uneasily
around.

“Me!” repeated Annie, with a terrible bitter accent.

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

“I wouldn’t touch him,” she said.

But her face quivered with a kind of agony, she seemed as if she would
fall. The other girls turned aside. He remained lying on the floor,
with his torn clothes and bleeding, averted face.

“Oh, if he’s chosen—” said Polly.

“I don’t want him—he can choose again,” said Annie, with the same
rather bitter hopelessness.

“Get up,” said Polly, lifting his shoulder. “Get up.”

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

“Who wants him?” cried Laura, roughly.

“Nobody,” they answered, with contempt. Yet each one of them waited for
him to look at her, hoped he would look at her. All except Annie, and
something was broken in her.

He, however, kept his face closed and averted from them all. There was
a silence of the end. He picked up the torn pieces of his tunic,
without knowing what to do with them. The girls stood about uneasily,
flushed, panting, tidying their hair and their dress unconsciously, and
watching him. He looked at none of them. He espied his cap in a corner,
and went and picked it up. He put it on his head, and one of the girls
burst into a shrill, hysteric laugh at the sight he presented. He,
however, took no heed, but went straight to where his overcoat hung on
a peg. The girls moved away from contact with him as if he had been an
electric wire. He put on his coat and buttoned it down. Then he rolled
his tunic-rags into a bundle, and stood before the locked door, dumbly.

“Open the door, somebody,” said Laura.

“Annie’s got the key,” said one.

Annie silently offered the key to the girls. Nora unlocked the door.

“Tit for tat, old man,” she said. “Show yourself a man, and don’t bear
a grudge.”

But without a word or sign he had opened the door and gone, his face
closed, his head dropped.

“That’ll learn him,” said Laura.

“Coddy!” said Nora.

“Shut up, for God’s sake!” cried Annie fiercely, as if in torture.

“Well, I’m about ready to go, Polly. Look sharp!” said Muriel.

The girls were all anxious to be off. They were tidying themselves
hurriedly, with mute, stupefied faces.




THE BLIND MAN


Isabel Pervin was listening for two sounds—for the sound of wheels on
the drive outside and for the noise of her husband’s footsteps in the
hall. Her dearest and oldest friend, a man who seemed almost
indispensable to her living, would drive up in the rainy dusk of the
closing November day. The trap had gone to fetch him from the station.
And her husband, who had been blinded in Flanders, and who had a
disfiguring mark on his brow, would be coming in from the outhouses.

He had been home for a year now. He was totally blind. Yet they had
been very happy. The Grange was Maurice’s own place. The back was a
farmstead, and the Wernhams, who occupied the rear premises, acted as
farmers. Isabel lived with her husband in the handsome rooms in front.
She and he had been almost entirely alone together since he was
wounded. They talked and sang and read together in a wonderful and
unspeakable intimacy. Then she reviewed books for a Scottish newspaper,
carrying on her old interest, and he occupied himself a good deal with
the farm. Sightless, he could still discuss everything with Wernham,
and he could also do a good deal of work about the place—menial work,
it is true, but it gave him satisfaction. He milked the cows, carried
in the pails, turned the separator, attended to the pigs and horses.
Life was still very full and strangely serene for the blind man,
peaceful with the almost incomprehensible peace of immediate contact in
darkness. With his wife he had a whole world, rich and real and
invisible.

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

But as time wore on, sometimes the rich glamour would leave them.
Sometimes, after months of this intensity, a sense of burden overcame
Isabel, a weariness, a terrible _ennui_, in that silent house
approached between a colonnade of tall-shafted pines. Then she felt she
would go mad, for she could not bear it. And sometimes he had
devastating fits of depression, which seemed to lay waste his whole
being. It was worse than depression—a black misery, when his own life
was a torture to him, and when his presence was unbearable to his wife.
The dread went down to the roots of her soul as these black days
recurred. In a kind of panic she tried to wrap herself up still further
in her husband. She forced the old spontaneous cheerfulness and joy to
continue. But the effort it cost her was almost too much. She knew she
could not keep it up. She felt she would scream with the strain, and
would give anything, anything, to escape. She longed to possess her
husband utterly; it gave her inordinate joy to have him entirely to
herself. And yet, when again he was gone in a black and massive misery,
she could not bear him, she could not bear herself; she wished she
could be snatched away off the earth altogether, anything rather than
live at this cost.

Dazed, she schemed for a way out. She invited friends, she tried to
give him some further connexion with the outer world. But it was no
good. After all their joy and suffering, after their dark, great year
of blindness and solitude and unspeakable nearness, other people seemed
to them both shallow, prattling, rather impertinent. Shallow prattle
seemed presumptuous. He became impatient and irritated, she was
wearied. And so they lapsed into their solitude again. For they
preferred it.

But now, in a few weeks’ time, her second baby would be born. The first
had died, an infant, when her husband first went out to France. She
looked with joy and relief to the coming of the second. It would be her
salvation. But also she felt some anxiety. She was thirty years old,
her husband was a year younger. They both wanted the child very much.
Yet she could not help feeling afraid. She had her husband on her
hands, a terrible joy to her, and a terrifying burden. The child would
occupy her love and attention. And then, what of Maurice? What would he
do? If only she could feel that he, too, would be at peace and happy
when the child came! She did so want to luxuriate in a rich, physical
satisfaction of maternity. But the man, what would he do? How could she
provide for him, how avert those shattering black moods of his, which
destroyed them both?

She sighed with fear. But at this time Bertie Reid wrote to Isabel. He
was her old friend, a second or third cousin, a Scotchman, as she was a
Scotchwoman. They had been brought up near to one another, and all her
life he had been her friend, like a brother, but better than her own
brothers. She loved him—though not in the marrying sense. There was a
sort of kinship between them, an affinity. They understood one another
instinctively. But Isabel would never have thought of marrying Bertie.
It would have seemed like marrying in her own family.

Bertie was a barrister and a man of letters, a Scotchman of the
intellectual type, quick, ironical, sentimental, and on his knees
before the woman he adored but did not want to marry. Maurice Pervin
was different. He came of a good old country family—the Grange was not
a very great distance from Oxford. He was passionate, sensitive,
perhaps over-sensitive, wincing—a big fellow with heavy limbs and a
forehead that flushed painfully. For his mind was slow, as if drugged
by the strong provincial blood that beat in his veins. He was very
sensitive to his own mental slowness, his feelings being quick and
acute. So that he was just the opposite to Bertie, whose mind was much
quicker than his emotions, which were not so very fine.

From the first the two men did not like each other. Isabel felt that
they _ought_ to get on together. But they did not. She felt that if
only each could have the clue to the other there would be such a rare
understanding between them. It did not come off, however. Bertie
adopted a slightly ironical attitude, very offensive to Maurice, who
returned the Scotch irony with English resentment, a resentment which
deepened sometimes into stupid hatred.

This was a little puzzling to Isabel. However, she accepted it in the
course of things. Men were made freakish and unreasonable. Therefore,
when Maurice was going out to France for the second time, she felt
that, for her husband’s sake, she must discontinue her friendship with
Bertie. She wrote to the barrister to this effect. Bertram Reid simply
replied that in this, as in all other matters, he must obey her wishes,
if these were indeed her wishes.

For nearly two years nothing had passed between the two friends. Isabel
rather gloried in the fact; she had no compunction. She had one great
article of faith, which was, that husband and wife should be so
important to one another, that the rest of the world simply did not
count. She and Maurice were husband and wife. They loved one another.
They would have children. Then let everybody and everything else fade
into insignificance outside this connubial felicity. She professed
herself quite happy and ready to receive Maurice’s friends. She was
happy and ready: the happy wife, the ready woman in possession. Without
knowing why, the friends retired abashed and came no more. Maurice, of
course, took as much satisfaction in this connubial absorption as
Isabel did.

He shared in Isabel’s literary activities, she cultivated a real
interest in agriculture and cattle-raising. For she, being at heart
perhaps an emotional enthusiast, always cultivated the practical side
of life, and prided herself on her mastery of practical affairs. Thus
the husband and wife had spent the five years of their married life.
The last had been one of blindness and unspeakable intimacy. And now
Isabel felt a great indifference coming over her, a sort of lethargy.
She wanted to be allowed to bear her child in peace, to nod by the fire
and drift vaguely, physically, from day to day. Maurice was like an
ominous thunder-cloud. She had to keep waking up to remember him.

When a little note came from Bertie, asking if he were to put up a
tombstone to their dead friendship, and speaking of the real pain he
felt on account of her husband’s loss of sight, she felt a pang, a
fluttering agitation of re-awakening. And she read the letter to
Maurice.

“Ask him to come down,” he said.

“Ask Bertie to come here!” she re-echoed.

“Yes—if he wants to.”

Isabel paused for a few moments.

“I know he wants to—he’d only be too glad,” she replied. “But what
about you, Maurice? How would you like it?”

“I should like it.”

“Well—in that case—— But I thought you didn’t care for him—”

“Oh, I don’t know. I might think differently of him now,” the blind man
replied. It was rather abstruse to Isabel.

“Well, dear,” she said, “if you’re quite sure—”

“I’m sure enough. Let him come,” said Maurice.

So Bertie was coming, coming this evening, in the November rain and
darkness. Isabel was agitated, racked with her old restlessness and
indecision. She had always suffered from this pain of doubt, just an
agonizing sense of uncertainty. It had begun to pass off, in the
lethargy of maternity. Now it returned, and she resented it. She
struggled as usual to maintain her calm, composed, friendly bearing, a
sort of mask she wore over all her body.

A woman had lighted a tall lamp beside the table, and spread the cloth.
The long dining-room was dim, with its elegant but rather severe pieces
of old furniture. Only the round table glowed softly under the light.
It had a rich, beautiful effect. The white cloth glistened and dropped
its heavy, pointed lace corners almost to the carpet, the china was old
and handsome, creamy-yellow, with a blotched pattern of harsh red and
deep blue, the cups large and bell-shaped, the teapot gallant. Isabel
looked at it with superficial appreciation.

Her nerves were hurting her. She looked automatically again at the
high, uncurtained windows. In the last dusk she could just perceive
outside a huge fir-tree swaying its boughs: it was as if she thought it
rather than saw it. The rain came flying on the window panes. Ah, why
had she no peace? These two men, why did they tear at her? Why did they
not come—why was there this suspense?

She sat in a lassitude that was really suspense and irritation.
Maurice, at least, might come in—there was nothing to keep him out. She
rose to her feet. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she
glanced at herself with a slight smile of recognition, as if she were
an old friend to herself. Her face was oval and calm, her nose a little
arched. Her neck made a beautiful line down to her shoulder. With hair
knotted loosely behind, she had something of a warm, maternal look.
Thinking this of herself, she arched her eyebrows and her rather heavy
eyelids, with a little flicker of a smile, and for a moment her grey
eyes looked amused and wicked, a little sardonic, out of her
transfigured Madonna face.

Then, resuming her air of womanly patience—she was really fatally
self-determined—she went with a little jerk towards the door. Her eyes
were slightly reddened.

She passed down the wide hall, and through a door at the end. Then she
was in the farm premises. The scent of dairy, and of farm-kitchen, and
of farm-yard and of leather almost overcame her: but particularly the
scent of dairy. They had been scalding out the pans. The flagged
passage in front of her was dark, puddled and wet. Light came out from
the open kitchen door. She went forward and stood in the doorway. The
farm-people were at tea, seated at a little distance from her, round a
long, narrow table, in the centre of which stood a white lamp. Ruddy
faces, ruddy hands holding food, red mouths working, heads bent over
the tea-cups: men, land-girls, boys: it was tea-time, feeding-time.
Some faces caught sight of her. Mrs. Wernham, going round behind the
chairs with a large black teapot, halting slightly in her walk, was not
aware of her for a moment. Then she turned suddenly.

“Oh, is it Madam!” she exclaimed. “Come in, then, come in! We’re at
tea.” And she dragged forward a chair.

“No, I won’t come in,” said Isabel, “I’m afraid I interrupt your meal.”

“No—no—not likely, Madam, not likely.”

“Hasn’t Mr. Pervin come in, do you know?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say! Missed him, have you, Madam?”

“No, I only wanted him to come in,” laughed Isabel, as if shyly.

“Wanted him, did ye? Get you, boy—get up, now—”

Mrs. Wernham knocked one of the boys on the shoulder. He began to
scrape to his feet, chewing largely.

“I believe he’s in top stable,” said another face from the table.

“Ah! No, don’t get up. I’m going myself,” said Isabel.

“Don’t you go out of a dirty night like this. Let the lad go. Get along
wi’ ye, boy,” said Mrs. Wernham.

“No, no,” said Isabel, with a decision that was always obeyed. “Go on
with your tea, Tom. I’d like to go across to the stable, Mrs. Wernham.”

“Did ever you hear tell!” exclaimed the woman.

“Isn’t the trap late?” asked Isabel.

“Why, no,” said Mrs. Wernham, peering into the distance at the tall,
dim clock. “No, Madam—we can give it another quarter or twenty minutes
yet, good—yes, every bit of a quarter.”

“Ah! It seems late when darkness falls so early,” said Isabel.

“It do, that it do. Bother the days, that they draw in so,” answered
Mrs. Wernham. “Proper miserable!”

“They are,” said Isabel, withdrawing.

She pulled on her overshoes, wrapped a large tartan shawl around her,
put on a man’s felt hat, and ventured out along the causeways of the
first yard. It was very dark. The wind was roaring in the great elms
behind the outhouses. When she came to the second yard the darkness
seemed deeper. She was unsure of her footing. She wished she had
brought a lantern. Rain blew against her. Half she liked it, half she
felt unwilling to battle.

She reached at last the just visible door of the stable. There was no
sign of a light anywhere. Opening the upper half, she looked in: into a
simple well of darkness. The smell of horses, and ammonia, and of
warmth was startling to her, in that full night. She listened with all
her ears, but could hear nothing save the night, and the stirring of a
horse.

“Maurice!” she called, softly and musically, though she was afraid.
“Maurice—are you there?”

Nothing came from the darkness. She knew the rain and wind blew in upon
the horses, the hot animal life. Feeling it wrong, she entered the
stable, and drew the lower half of the door shut, holding the upper
part close. She did not stir, because she was aware of the presence of
the dark hindquarters of the horses, though she could not see them, and
she was afraid. Something wild stirred in her heart.

She listened intensely. Then she heard a small noise in the
distance—far away, it seemed—the chink of a pan, and a man’s voice
speaking a brief word. It would be Maurice, in the other part of the
stable. She stood motionless, waiting for him to come through the
partition door. The horses were so terrifyingly near to her, in the
invisible.

The loud jarring of the inner door-latch made her start; the door was
opened. She could hear and feel her husband entering and invisibly
passing among the horses near to her, in darkness as they were,
actively intermingled. The rather low sound of his voice as he spoke to
the horses came velvety to her nerves. How near he was, and how
invisible! The darkness seemed to be in a strange swirl of violent
life, just upon her. She turned giddy.

Her presence of mind made her call, quietly and musically:

“Maurice! Maurice—dea-ar!”

“Yes,” he answered. “Isabel?”

She saw nothing, and the sound of his voice seemed to touch her.

“Hello!” she answered cheerfully, straining her eyes to see him. He was
still busy, attending to the horses near her, but she saw only
darkness. It made her almost desperate.

“Won’t you come in, dear?” she said.

“Yes, I’m coming. Just half a minute. _Stand over—now!_ Trap’s not
come, has it?”

“Not yet,” said Isabel.

His voice was pleasant and ordinary, but it had a slight suggestion of
the stable to her. She wished he would come away. Whilst he was so
utterly invisible she was afraid of him.

“How’s the time?” he asked.

“Not yet six,” she replied. She disliked to answer into the dark.
Presently he came very near to her, and she retreated out of doors.

“The weather blows in here,” he said, coming steadily forward, feeling
for the doors. She shrank away. At last she could dimly see him.

“Bertie won’t have much of a drive,” he said, as he closed the doors.

“He won’t indeed!” said Isabel calmly, watching the dark shape at the
door.

“Give me your arm, dear,” she said.

She pressed his arm close to her, as she went. But she longed to see
him, to look at him. She was nervous. He walked erect, with face rather
lifted, but with a curious tentative movement of his powerful, muscular
legs. She could feel the clever, careful, strong contact of his feet
with the earth, as she balanced against him. For a moment he was a
tower of darkness to her, as if he rose out of the earth.

In the house-passage he wavered, and went cautiously, with a curious
look of silence about him as he felt for the bench. Then he sat down
heavily. He was a man with rather sloping shoulders, but with heavy
limbs, powerful legs that seemed to know the earth. His head was small,
usually carried high and light. As he bent down to unfasten his gaiters
and boots he did not look blind. His hair was brown and crisp, his
hands were large, reddish, intelligent, the veins stood out in the
wrists; and his thighs and knees seemed massive. When he stood up his
face and neck were surcharged with blood, the veins stood out on his
temples. She did not look at his blindness.

Isabel was always glad when they had passed through the dividing door
into their own regions of repose and beauty. She was a little afraid of
him, out there in the animal grossness of the back. His bearing also
changed, as he smelt the familiar, indefinable odour that pervaded his
wife’s surroundings, a delicate, refined scent, very faintly spicy.
Perhaps it came from the pot-pourri bowls.

He stood at the foot of the stairs, arrested, listening. She watched
him, and her heart sickened. He seemed to be listening to fate.

“He’s not here yet,” he said. “I’ll go up and change.”

“Maurice,” she said, “you’re not wishing he wouldn’t come, are you?”

“I couldn’t quite say,” he answered. “I feel myself rather on the _qui
vive_.”

“I can see you are,” she answered. And she reached up and kissed his
cheek. She saw his mouth relax into a slow smile.

“What are you laughing at?” she said roguishly.

“You consoling me,” he answered.

“Nay,” she answered. “Why should I console you? You know we love each
other—you know _how_ married we are! What does anything else matter?”

“Nothing at all, my dear.”

He felt for her face, and touched it, smiling.

“_You’re_ all right, aren’t you?” he asked, anxiously.

“I’m wonderfully all right, love,” she answered. “It’s you I am a
little troubled about, at times.”

“Why me?” he said, touching her cheeks delicately with the tips of his
fingers. The touch had an almost hypnotizing effect on her.

He went away upstairs. She saw him mount into the darkness, unseeing
and unchanging. He did not know that the lamps on the upper corridor
were unlighted. He went on into the darkness with unchanging step. She
heard him in the bathroom.

Pervin moved about almost unconsciously in his familiar surroundings,
dark though everything was. He seemed to know the presence of objects
before he touched them. It was a pleasure to him to rock thus through a
world of things, carried on the flood in a sort of blood-prescience. He
did not think much or trouble much. So long as he kept this sheer
immediacy of blood-contact with the substantial world he was happy, he
wanted no intervention of visual consciousness. In this state there was
a certain rich positivity, bordering sometimes on rapture. Life seemed
to move in him like a tide lapping, and advancing, enveloping all
things darkly. It was a pleasure to stretch forth the hand and meet the
unseen object, clasp it, and possess it in pure contact. He did not try
to remember, to visualize. He did not want to. The new way of
consciousness substituted itself in him.

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

Tonight, however, he was still serene, though little tremors of
unreasonable exasperation ran through him. He had to handle the razor
very carefully, as he shaved, for it was not at one with him, he was
afraid of it. His hearing also was too much sharpened. He heard the
woman lighting the lamps on the corridor, and attending to the fire in
the visitor’s room. And then, as he went to his room he heard the trap
arrive. Then came Isabel’s voice, lifted and calling, like a bell
ringing:

“Is it you, Bertie? Have you come?”

And a man’s voice answered out of the wind:

“Hello, Isabel! There you are.”

“Have you had a miserable drive? I’m so sorry we couldn’t send a closed
carriage. I can’t see you at all, you know.”

“I’m coming. No, I liked the drive—it was like Perthshire. Well, how
are you? You’re looking fit as ever, as far as I can see.”

“Oh, yes,” said Isabel. “I’m wonderfully well. How are you? Rather
thin, I think—”

“Worked to death—everybody’s old cry. But I’m all right, Ciss. How’s
Pervin?—isn’t he here?”

“Oh, yes, he’s upstairs changing. Yes, he’s awfully well. Take off your
wet things; I’ll send them to be dried.”

“And how are you both, in spirits? He doesn’t fret?”

“No—no, not at all. No, on the contrary, really. We’ve been wonderfully
happy, incredibly. It’s more than I can understand—so wonderful: the
nearness, and the peace—”

“Ah! Well, that’s awfully good news—”

They moved away. Pervin heard no more. But a childish sense of
desolation had come over him, as he heard their brisk voices. He seemed
shut out—like a child that is left out. He was aimless and excluded, he
did not know what to do with himself. The helpless desolation came over
him. He fumbled nervously as he dressed himself, in a state almost of
childishness. He disliked the Scotch accent in Bertie’s speech, and the
slight response it found on Isabel’s tongue. He disliked the slight
purr of complacency in the Scottish speech. He disliked intensely the
glib way in which Isabel spoke of their happiness and nearness. It made
him recoil. He was fretful and beside himself like a child, he had
almost a childish nostalgia to be included in the life circle. And at
the same time he was a man, dark and powerful and infuriated by his own
weakness. By some fatal flaw, he could not be by himself, he had to
depend on the support of another. And this very dependence enraged him.
He hated Bertie Reid, and at the same time he knew the hatred was
nonsense, he knew it was the outcome of his own weakness.

He went downstairs. Isabel was alone in the dining-room. She watched
him enter, head erect, his feet tentative. He looked so strong-blooded
and healthy, and, at the same time, cancelled. Cancelled—that was the
word that flew across her mind. Perhaps it was his scars suggested it.

“You heard Bertie come, Maurice?” she said.

“Yes—isn’t he here?”

“He’s in his room. He looks very thin and worn.”

“I suppose he works himself to death.”

A woman came in with a tray—and after a few minutes Bertie came down.
He was a little dark man, with a very big forehead, thin, wispy hair,
and sad, large eyes. His expression was inordinately sad—almost funny.
He had odd, short legs.

Isabel watched him hesitate under the door, and glance nervously at her
husband. Pervin heard him and turned.

“Here you are, now,” said Isabel. “Come, let us eat.”

Bertie went across to Maurice.

“How are you, Pervin,” he said, as he advanced.

The blind man stuck his hand out into space, and Bertie took it.

“Very fit. Glad you’ve come,” said Maurice.

Isabel glanced at them, and glanced away, as if she could not bear to
see them.

“Come,” she said. “Come to table. Aren’t you both awfully hungry? I am,
tremendously.”

“I’m afraid you waited for me,” said Bertie, as they sat down.

Maurice had a curious monolithic way of sitting in a chair, erect and
distant. Isabel’s heart always beat when she caught sight of him thus.

“No,” she replied to Bertie. “We’re very little later than usual. We’re
having a sort of high tea, not dinner. Do you mind? It gives us such a
nice long evening, uninterrupted.”

“I like it,” said Bertie.

Maurice was feeling, with curious little movements, almost like a cat
kneading her bed, for his place, his knife and fork, his napkin. He was
getting the whole geography of his cover into his consciousness. He sat
erect and inscrutable, remote-seeming Bertie watched the static figure
of the blind man, the delicate tactile discernment of the large, ruddy
hands, and the curious mindless silence of the brow, above the scar.
With difficulty he looked away, and without knowing what he did, picked
up a little crystal bowl of violets from the table, and held them to
his nose.

“They are sweet-scented,” he said. “Where do they come from?”

“From the garden—under the windows,” said Isabel.

“So late in the year—and so fragrant! Do you remember the violets under
Aunt Bell’s south wall?”

The two friends looked at each other and exchanged a smile, Isabel’s
eyes lighting up.

“Don’t I?” she replied. “_Wasn’t_ she queer!”

“A curious old girl,” laughed Bertie. “There’s a streak of freakishness
in the family, Isabel.”

“Ah—but not in you and me, Bertie,” said Isabel. “Give them to Maurice,
will you?” she added, as Bertie was putting down the flowers. “Have you
smelled the violets, dear? Do!—they are so scented.”

Maurice held out his hand, and Bertie placed the tiny bowl against his
large, warm-looking fingers. Maurice’s hand closed over the thin white
fingers of the barrister. Bertie carefully extricated himself. Then the
two watched the blind man smelling the violets. He bent his head and
seemed to be thinking. Isabel waited.

“Aren’t they sweet, Maurice?” she said at last, anxiously.

“Very,” he said. And he held out the bowl. Bertie took it. Both he and
Isabel were a little afraid, and deeply disturbed.

The meal continued. Isabel and Bertie chatted spasmodically. The blind
man was silent. He touched his food repeatedly, with quick, delicate
touches of his knife-point, then cut irregular bits. He could not bear
to be helped. Both Isabel and Bertie suffered: Isabel wondered why. She
did not suffer when she was alone with Maurice. Bertie made her
conscious of a strangeness.

After the meal the three drew their chairs to the fire, and sat down to
talk. The decanters were put on a table near at hand. Isabel knocked
the logs on the fire, and clouds of brilliant sparks went up the
chimney. Bertie noticed a slight weariness in her bearing.

“You will be glad when your child comes now, Isabel?” he said.

She looked up to him with a quick wan smile.

“Yes, I shall be glad,” she answered. “It begins to seem long. Yes, I
shall be very glad. So will you, Maurice, won’t you?” she added.

“Yes, I shall,” replied her husband.

“We are both looking forward so much to having it,” she said.

“Yes, of course,” said Bertie.

He was a bachelor, three or four years older than Isabel. He lived in
beautiful rooms overlooking the river, guarded by a faithful Scottish
man-servant. And he had his friends among the fair sex—not lovers,
friends. So long as he could avoid any danger of courtship or marriage,
he adored a few good women with constant and unfailing homage, and he
was chivalrously fond of quite a number. But if they seemed to encroach
on him, he withdrew and detested them.

Isabel knew him very well, knew his beautiful constancy, and kindness,
also his incurable weakness, which made him unable ever to enter into
close contact of any sort. He was ashamed of himself, because he could
not marry, could not approach women physically. He wanted to do so. But
he could not. At the centre of him he was afraid, helplessly and even
brutally afraid. He had given up hope, had ceased to expect any more
that he could escape his own weakness. Hence he was a brilliant and
successful barrister, also _littérateur_ of high repute, a rich man,
and a great social success. At the centre he felt himself neuter,
nothing.

Isabel knew him well. She despised him even while she admired him. She
looked at his sad face, his little short legs, and felt contempt of
him. She looked at his dark grey eyes, with their uncanny, almost
childlike intuition, and she loved him. He understood amazingly—but she
had no fear of his understanding. As a man she patronized him.

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

“Isabel tells me,” Bertie began suddenly, “that you have not suffered
unbearably from the loss of sight.”

Maurice straightened himself to attend, but kept his arms folded.

“No,” he said, “not unbearably. Now and again one struggles against it,
you know. But there are compensations.”

“They say it is much worse to be stone deaf,” said Isabel.

“I believe it is,” said Bertie. “Are there compensations?” he added, to
Maurice.

“Yes. You cease to bother about a great many things.” Again Maurice
stretched his figure, stretched the strong muscles of his back, and
leaned backwards, with uplifted face.

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

There was a pause. At length the blind man replied, as out of a
negligent, unattentive thinking:

“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a good deal when you’re not active.”

“Is there?” said Bertie. “What, exactly? It always seems to me that
when there is no thought and no action, there is nothing.”

Again Maurice was slow in replying.

“There is something,” he replied. “I couldn’t tell you what it is.”

And the talk lapsed once more, Isabel and Bertie chatting gossip and
reminiscence, the blind man silent.

At length Maurice rose restlessly, a big, obtrusive figure. He felt
tight and hampered. He wanted to go away.

“Do you mind,” he said, “if I go and speak to Wernham?”

“No—go along, dear,” said Isabel.

And he went out. A silence came over the two friends. At length Bertie
said:

“Nevertheless, it is a great deprivation, Cissie.”

“It is, Bertie. I know it is.”

“Something lacking all the time,” said Bertie.

“Yes, I know. And yet—and yet—Maurice is right. There is something
else, something _there_, which you never knew was there, and which you
can’t express.”

“What is there?” asked Bertie.

“I don’t know—it’s awfully hard to define it—but something strong and
immediate. There’s something strange in Maurice’s
presence—indefinable—but I couldn’t do without it. I agree that it
seems to put one’s mind to sleep. But when we’re alone I miss nothing;
it seems awfully rich, almost splendid, you know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” said Bertie.

They talked desultorily. The wind blew loudly outside, rain chattered
on the window-panes, making a sharp, drum-sound, because of the closed,
mellow-golden shutters inside. The logs burned slowly, with hot, almost
invisible small flames. Bertie seemed uneasy, there were dark circles
round his eyes. Isabel, rich with her approaching maternity, leaned
looking into the fire. Her hair curled in odd, loose strands, very
pleasing to the man. But she had a curious feeling of old woe in her
heart, old, timeless night-woe.

“I suppose we’re all deficient somewhere,” said Bertie.

“I suppose so,” said Isabel wearily.

“Damned, sooner or later.”

“I don’t know,” she said, rousing herself. “I feel quite all right, you
know. The child coming seems to make me indifferent to everything, just
placid. I can’t feel that there’s anything to trouble about, you know.”

“A good thing, I should say,” he replied slowly.

“Well, there it is. I suppose it’s just Nature. If only I felt I
needn’t trouble about Maurice, I should be perfectly content—”

“But you feel you must trouble about him?”

“Well—I don’t know—” She even resented this much effort.

The evening passed slowly. Isabel looked at the clock. “I say,” she
said. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. Where can Maurice be? I’m sure they’re
all in bed at the back. Excuse me a moment.”

She went out, returning almost immediately.

“It’s all shut up and in darkness,” she said. “I wonder where he is. He
must have gone out to the farm—”

Bertie looked at her.

“I suppose he’ll come in,” he said.

“I suppose so,” she said. “But it’s unusual for him to be out now.”

“Would you like me to go out and see?”

“Well—if you wouldn’t mind. I’d go, but—” She did not want to make the
physical effort.

Bertie put on an old overcoat and took a lantern. He went out from the
side door. He shrank from the wet and roaring night. Such weather had a
nervous effect on him: too much moisture everywhere made him feel
almost imbecile. Unwilling, he went through it all. A dog barked
violently at him. He peered in all the buildings. At last, as he opened
the upper door of a sort of intermediate barn, he heard a grinding
noise, and looking in, holding up his lantern, saw Maurice, in his
shirt-sleeves, standing listening, holding the handle of a
turnip-pulper. He had been pulping sweet roots, a pile of which lay
dimly heaped in a corner behind him.

“That you, Wernham?” said Maurice, listening.

“No, it’s me,” said Bertie.

A large, half-wild grey cat was rubbing at Maurice’s leg. The blind man
stooped to rub its sides. Bertie watched the scene, then unconsciously
entered and shut the door behind him, He was in a high sort of
barn-place, from which, right and left, ran off the corridors in front
of the stalled cattle. He watched the slow, stooping motion of the
other man, as he caressed the great cat.

Maurice straightened himself.

“You came to look for me?” he said.

“Isabel was a little uneasy,” said Bertie.

“I’ll come in. I like messing about doing these jobs.”

The cat had reared her sinister, feline length against his leg, clawing
at his thigh affectionately. He lifted her claws out of his flesh.

“I hope I’m not in your way at all at the Grange here,” said Bertie,
rather shy and stiff.

“My way? No, not a bit. I’m glad Isabel has somebody to talk to. I’m
afraid it’s I who am in the way. I know I’m not very lively company.
Isabel’s all right, don’t you think? She’s not unhappy, is she?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What does she say?”

“She says she’s very content—only a little troubled about you.”

“Why me?”

“Perhaps afraid that you might brood,” said Bertie, cautiously.

“She needn’t be afraid of that.” He continued to caress the flattened
grey head of the cat with his fingers. “What I am a bit afraid of,” he
resumed, “is that she’ll find me a dead weight, always alone with me
down here.”

“I don’t think you need think that,” said Bertie, though this was what
he feared himself.

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

“There is the scar,” said Bertie, wondering. “Yes, it is a
disfigurement. But more pitiable than shocking.”

“A pretty bad scar, though,” said Maurice.

“Oh, yes.”

There was a pause.

“Sometimes I feel I am horrible,” said Maurice, in a low voice, talking
as if to himself. And Bertie actually felt a quiver of horror.

“That’s nonsense,” he said.

Maurice again straightened himself, leaving the cat.

“There’s no telling,” he said. Then again, in an odd tone, he added: “I
don’t really know you, do I?”

“Probably not,” said Bertie.

“Do you mind if I touch you?”

The lawyer shrank away instinctively. And yet, out of very
philanthropy, he said, in a small voice: “Not at all.”

But he suffered as the blind man stretched out a strong, naked hand to
him. Maurice accidentally knocked off Bertie’s hat.

“I thought you were taller,” he said, starting. Then he laid his hand
on Bertie Reid’s head, closing the dome of the skull in a soft, firm
grasp, gathering it, as it were; then, shifting his grasp and softly
closing again, with a fine, close pressure, till he had covered the
skull and the face of the smaller man, tracing the brows, and touching
the full, closed eyes, touching the small nose and the nostrils, the
rough, short moustache, the mouth, the rather strong chin. The hand of
the blind man grasped the shoulder, the arm, the hand of the other man.
He seemed to take him, in the soft, travelling grasp.

“You seem young,” he said quietly, at last.

The lawyer stood almost annihilated, unable to answer.

“Your head seems tender, as if you were young,” Maurice repeated. “So
do your hands. Touch my eyes, will you?—touch my scar.”

Now Bertie quivered with revulsion. Yet he was under the power of the
blind man, as if hypnotized. He lifted his hand, and laid the fingers
on the scar, on the scarred eyes. Maurice suddenly covered them with
his own hand, pressed the fingers of the other man upon his disfigured
eye-sockets, trembling in every fibre, and rocking slightly, slowly,
from side to side. He remained thus for a minute or more, whilst Bertie
stood as if in a swoon, unconscious, imprisoned.

Then suddenly Maurice removed the hand of the other man from his brow,
and stood holding it in his own.

“Oh, my God’ he said, “we shall know each other now, shan’t we? We
shall know each other now.”

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

“We’re all right together now, aren’t we?” said Maurice. “It’s all
right now, as long as we live, so far as we’re concerned?”

“Yes,” said Bertie, trying by any means to escape.

Maurice stood with head lifted, as if listening. The new delicate
fulfilment of mortal friendship had come as a revelation and surprise
to him, something exquisite and unhoped-for. He seemed to be listening
to hear if it were real.

Then he turned for his coat.

“Come,” he said, “we’ll go to Isabel.”

Bertie took the lantern and opened the door. The cat disappeared. The
two men went in silence along the causeways. Isabel, as they came,
thought their footsteps sounded strange. She looked up pathetically and
anxiously for their entrance. There seemed a curious elation about
Maurice. Bertie was haggard, with sunken eyes.

“What is it?” she asked.

“We’ve become friends,” said Maurice, standing with his feet apart,
like a strange colossus.

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

“I’m so glad,” she said, in sheer perplexity.

“Yes,” said Maurice.

He was indeed so glad. Isabel took his hand with both hers, and held it
fast.

“You’ll be happier now, dear,” she said.

But she was watching Bertie. She knew that he had one desire—to escape
from this intimacy, this friendship, which had been thrust upon him. He
could not bear it that he had been touched by the blind man, his insane
reserve broken in. He was like a mollusc whose shell is broken.




MONKEY NUTS


At first Joe thought the job O.K. He was loading hay on the trucks,
along with Albert, the corporal. The two men were pleasantly billeted
in a cottage not far from the station: they were their own masters, for
Joe never thought of Albert as a master. And the little sidings of the
tiny village station was as pleasant a place as you could wish for. On
one side, beyond the line, stretched the woods: on the other, the near
side, across a green smooth field red houses were dotted among
flowering apple trees. The weather being sunny, work being easy,
Albert, a real good pal, what life could be better! After Flanders, it
was heaven itself.

Albert, the corporal, was a clean-shaven, shrewd-looking fellow of
about forty. He seemed to think his one aim in life was to be full of
fun and nonsense. In repose, his face looked a little withered, old. He
was a very good pal to Joe, steady, decent and grave under all his
“mischief”; for his mischief was only his laborious way of skirting his
own _ennui_.

Joe was much younger than Albert—only twenty-three. He was a tallish,
quiet youth, pleasant looking. He was of a slightly better class than
his corporal, more personable. Careful about his appearance, he shaved
every day. “I haven’t got much of a face,” said Albert. “If I was to
shave every day like you, Joe, I should have none.”

There was plenty of life in the little goods-yard: three porter youths,
a continual come and go of farm wagons bringing hay, wagons with timber
from the woods, coal carts loading at the trucks. The black coal seemed
to make the place sleepier, hotter. Round the big white gate the
station-master’s children played and his white chickens walked, whilst
the stationmaster himself, a young man getting too fat, helped his wife
to peg out the washing on the clothes line in the meadow.

The great boat-shaped wagons came up from Playcross with the hay. At
first the farm-men waggoned it. On the third day one of the land-girls
appeared with the first load, drawing to a standstill easily at the
head of her two great horses. She was a buxom girl, young, in linen
overalls and gaiters. Her face was ruddy, she had large blue eyes.

“Now that’s the waggoner for us, boys,” said the corporal loudly.

“Whoa!” she said to her horses; and then to the corporal: “Which boys
do you mean?”

“We are the pick of the bunch. That’s Joe, my pal. Don’t you let on
that my name’s Albert,” said the corporal to his private. “I’m the
corporal.”

“And I’m Miss Stokes,” said the land-girl coolly, “if that’s all the
boys you are.”

“You know you couldn’t want more, Miss Stokes,” said Albert politely.
Joe, who was bare-headed, whose grey flannel sleeves were rolled up to
the elbow, and whose shirt was open at the breast, looked modestly
aside as if he had no part in the affair.

“Are you on this job regular, then?” said the corporal to Miss Stokes.

“I don’t know for sure,” she said, pushing a piece of hair under her
hat, and attending to her splendid horses.

“Oh, make it a certainty,” said Albert.

She did not reply. She turned and looked over the two men coolly. She
was pretty, moderately blonde, with crisp hair, a good skin, and large
blue eyes. She was strong, too, and the work went on leisurely and
easily.

“Now!” said the corporal, stopping as usual to look round, “pleasant
company makes work a pleasure—don’t hurry it, boys.” He stood on the
truck surveying the world. That was one of his great and absorbing
occupations: to stand and look out on things in general. Joe, also
standing on the truck, also turned round to look what was to be seen.
But he could not become blankly absorbed, as Albert could.

Miss Stokes watched the two men from under her broad felt hat. She had
seen hundreds of Alberts, khaki soldiers standing in loose attitudes,
absorbed in watching nothing in particular. She had seen also a good
many Joes, quiet, good-looking young soldiers with half-averted faces.
But there was something in the turn of Joe’s head, and something in his
quiet, tender-looking form, young and fresh—which attracted her eye. As
she watched him closely from below, he turned as if he felt her, and
his dark-blue eye met her straight, light-blue gaze. He faltered and
turned aside again and looked as if he were going to fall off the
truck. A slight flush mounted under the girl’s full, ruddy face. She
liked him.

Always, after this, when she came into the sidings with her team, it
was Joe she looked for. She acknowledged to herself that she was sweet
on him. But Albert did all the talking. He was so full of fun and
nonsense. Joe was a very shy bird, very brief and remote in his
answers. Miss Stokes was driven to indulge in repartee with Albert, but
she fixed her magnetic attention on the younger fellow. Joe would talk
with Albert, and laugh at his jokes. But Miss Stokes could get little
out of him. She had to depend on her silent forces. They were more
effective than might be imagined.

Suddenly, on Saturday afternoon, at about two o’clock, Joe received a
bolt from the blue—a telegram: “Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m.
today. M.S.” He knew at once who M.S. was. His heart melted, he felt
weak as if he had had a blow.

“What’s the trouble, boy?” asked Albert anxiously.

“No—no trouble—it’s to meet somebody.” Joe lifted his dark-blue eyes in
confusion towards his corporal.

“Meet somebody!” repeated the corporal, watching his young pal with
keen blue eyes. “It’s all right, then; nothing wrong?”

“No—nothing wrong. I’m not going,” said Joe.

Albert was old and shrewd enough to see that nothing more should be
said before the housewife. He also saw that Joe did not want to take
him into confidence. So he held his peace, though he was piqued.

The two soldiers went into town, smartened up. Albert knew a fair
number of the boys round about; there would be plenty of gossip in the
market-place, plenty of lounging in groups on the Bath Road, watching
the Saturday evening shoppers. Then a modest drink or two, and the
movies. They passed an agreeable, casual, nothing-in-particular
evening, with which Joe was quite satisfied. He thought of Belbury
Station, and of M.S. waiting there. He had not the faintest intention
of meeting her. And he had not the faintest intention of telling
Albert.

And yet, when the two men were in their bedroom, half undressed, Joe
suddenly held out the telegram to his corporal, saying: “What d’you
think of that?”

Albert was just unbuttoning his braces. He desisted, took the telegram
form, and turned towards the candle to read it.

“_Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m. today. M.S._,” he read, _sotto
voce_. His face took on its fun-and-nonsense look.

“Who’s M.S.?” he asked, looking shrewdly at Joe.

“You know as well as I do,” said Joe, non-committal.

“M.S.,” repeated Albert. “Blamed if I know, boy. Is it a woman?”

The conversation was carried on in tiny voices, for fear of disturbing
the householders.

“I don’t know,” said Joe, turning. He looked full at Albert, the two
men looked straight into each other’s eyes. There was a lurking grin in
each of them.

“Well, I’m—_blamed!_” said Albert at last, throwing the telegram down
emphatically on the bed.

“Wha-at?” said Joe, grinning rather sheepishly, his eyes clouded none
the less.

Albert sat on the bed and proceeded to undress, nodding his head with
mock gravity all the while. Joe watched him foolishly.

“What?” he repeated faintly.

Albert looked up at him with a knowing look.

“If that isn’t coming it quick, boy!” he said. “What the blazes! What
ha’ you bin doing?”

“Nothing!” said Joe.

Albert slowly shook his head as he sat on the side of the bed.

“Don’t happen to me when I’ve bin doin’ nothing,” he said. And he
proceeded to pull off his stockings.

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

“You didn’t want to keep the appointment?” Albert asked, in a changed
voice, from the bedside.

Joe did not answer for a moment. Then he said:

“I made no appointment.”

“I’m not saying you did, boy. Don’t be nasty about it. I mean you
didn’t want to answer the—unknown person’s summons—shall I put it that
way?”

“No,” said Joe.

“What was the deterring motive?” asked Albert, who was now lying on his
back in bed.

“Oh,” said Joe, suddenly looking round rather haughtily. “I didn’t want
to.” He had a well-balanced head, and could take on a sudden distant
bearing.

“Didn’t want to—didn’t cotton on, like. Well—_they be artful, the
women_—” he mimicked his landlord. “Come on into bed, boy. Don’t loiter
about as if you’d lost something.”

Albert turned over, to sleep.

On Monday Miss Stokes turned up as usual, striding beside her team. Her
“whoa!” was resonant and challenging, she looked up at the truck as her
steeds came to a standstill. Joe had turned aside, and had his face
averted from her. She glanced him over—save for his slender succulent
tenderness she would have despised him. She sized him up in a steady
look. Then she turned to Albert, who was looking down at her and
smiling in his mischievous turn. She knew his aspects by now. She
looked straight back at him, though her eyes were hot. He saluted her.

“Beautiful morning, Miss Stokes.”

“Very!” she replied.

“Handsome is as handsome looks,” said Albert.

Which produced no response.

“Now, Joe, come on here,” said the corporal. “Don’t keep the ladies
waiting—it’s the sign of a weak heart.”

Joe turned, and the work began. Nothing more was said for the time
being. As the week went on all parties became more comfortable. Joe
remained silent, averted, neutral, a little on his dignity. Miss Stokes
was off-hand and masterful. Albert was full of mischief.

The great theme was a circus, which was coming to the market town on
the following Saturday.

“You’ll go to the circus, Miss Stokes?” said Albert.

“I may go. Are you going?”

“Certainly. Give us the pleasure of escorting you.”

“No, thanks.”

“That’s what I call a flat refusal—what, Joe? You don’t mean that you
have no liking for our company, Miss Stokes?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Miss Stokes. “How many are there of you?”

“Only me and Joe.”

“Oh, is that all?” she said, satirically.

Albert was a little nonplussed.

“Isn’t that enough for you?” he asked.

“Too many by half,” blurted out Joe, jeeringly, in a sudden fit of
uncouth rudeness that made both the others stare.

“Oh, I’ll stand out of the way, boy, if that’s it,” said Albert to Joe.
Then he turned mischievously to Miss Stokes. “He wants to know what M.
stands for,” he said, confidentially.

“Monkeys,” she replied, turning to her horses.

“What’s M.S.?” said Albert.

“Monkey-nuts,” she retorted, leading off her team.

Albert looked after her a little discomfited. Joe had flushed dark, and
cursed Albert in his heart.

On the Saturday afternoon the two soldiers took the train into town.
They would have to walk home. They had tea at six o’clock, and lounged
about till half past seven. The circus was in a meadow near the river—a
great red-and-white striped tent. Caravans stood at the side. A great
crowd of people was gathered round the ticket-caravan.

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

Half-way through the performance Joe was electrified to see the face of
Miss Stokes not very far from him. There she was, in her khaki and her
felt hat, as usual; he pretended not to see her. She was laughing at
the clown; she also pretended not to see him. It was a blow to him, and
it made him angry. He would not even mention it to Albert. Least said,
soonest mended. He liked to believe she had not seen him. But he knew,
fatally, that she had.

When they came out it was nearly eleven o’clock; a lovely night, with a
moon and tall, dark, noble trees: a magnificent May night. Joe and
Albert laughed and chaffed with the boys. Joe looked round frequently
to see if he were safe from Miss Stokes. It seemed so.

But there were six miles to walk home. At last the two soldiers set
off, swinging their canes. The road was white between tall hedges,
other stragglers were passing out of the town towards the villages; the
air was full of pleased excitement.

They were drawing near to the village when they saw a dark figure
ahead. Joe’s heart sank with pure fear. It was a figure wheeling a
bicycle; a land girl; Miss Stokes. Albert was ready with his nonsense.
Miss Stokes had a puncture.

“Let me wheel the rattler,” said Albert.

“Thank you,” said Miss Stokes. “You _are_ kind.”

“Oh, I’d be kinder than that, if you’d show me how,” said Albert.

“Are you sure?” said Miss Stokes.

“Doubt my words?” said Albert. “That’s cruel of you, Miss Stokes.”

Miss Stokes walked between them, close to Joe.

“Have you been to the circus?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he replied, mildly.

“Have _you_ been?” Albert asked her.

“Yes. I didn’t see you,” she replied.

“What!—you say so! Didn’t see us! Didn’t think us worth looking at,”
began Albert. “Aren’t I as handsome as the clown, now? And you didn’t
as much as glance in our direction? I call it a downright oversight.”

“I never _saw_ you,” reiterated Miss Stokes. “I didn’t know you saw
me.”

“That makes it worse,” said Albert.

The road passed through a belt of dark pine-wood. The village, and the
branch road, was very near. Miss Stokes put out her fingers and felt
for Joe’s hand as it swung at his side. To say he was staggered is to
put it mildly. Yet he allowed her softly to clasp his fingers for a few
moments. But he was a mortified youth.

At the cross-road they stopped—Miss Stokes should turn off. She had
another mile to go.

“You’ll let us see you home,” said Albert.

“Do me a kindness,” she said. “Put my bike in your shed, and take it to
Baker’s on Monday, will you?”

“I’ll sit up all night and mend it for you, if you like.”

“No thanks. And Joe and I’ll walk on.”

“Oh—ho! Oh—ho!” sang Albert. “Joe! Joe! What do you say to that, now,
boy? Aren’t you in luck’s way. And I get the bloomin’ old bike for my
pal. Consider it again, Miss Stokes.”

Joe turned aside his face, and did not speak.

“Oh, well! I wheel the grid, do I? I leave you, boy—”

“I’m not keen on going any further,” barked out Joe, in an uncouth
voice. “She hain’t my choice.”

The girl stood silent, and watched the two men.

“There now!” said Albert. “Think o’ that! If it was _me_ now—” But he
was uncomfortable. “Well, Miss Stokes, have me,” he added.

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

“Seems I’m the one extra, don’t you think?” Albert inquired of the high
bland moon.

Joe had dropped his head and did not answer. Miss Stokes stood with her
arm lightly round his waist. Albert bowed, saluted, and bade
good-night. He walked away, leaving the two standing.

Miss Stokes put a light pressure on Joe’s waist, and drew him down the
road. They walked in silence. The night was full of scent—wild cherry,
the first bluebells. Still they walked in silence. A nightingale was
singing. They approached nearer and nearer, till they stood close by
his dark bush. The powerful notes sounded from the cover, almost like
flashes of light—then the interval of silence—then the moaning notes,
almost like a dog faintly howling, followed by the long, rich trill,
and flashing notes. Then a short silence again.

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

Meanwhile Albert was waiting at home. He put on his overcoat, for the
fire was out, and he had had malarial fever. He looked fitfully at the
_Daily Mirror_ and the _Daily Sketch_, but he saw nothing. It seemed a
long time. He began to yawn widely, even to nod. At last Joe came in.

Albert looked at him keenly. The young man’s brow was black, his face
sullen.

“All right, boy?” asked Albert.

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

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

“I’m going somewhere,” said Joe.

“Where—Monkey-nuts?” asked the corporal. But Joe’s brow only became
darker.

So the days went by. Almost every evening Joe went off alone, returning
late. He was sullen, taciturn and had a hang-dog look, a curious way of
dropping his head and looking dangerously from under his brows. And he
and Albert did not get on so well any more with one another. For all
his fun and nonsense, Albert was really irritable, soon made angry. And
Joe’s stand-offish sulkiness and complete lack of confidence riled him,
got on his nerves. His fun and nonsense took a biting, sarcastic turn,
at which Joe’s eyes glittered occasionally, though the young man turned
unheeding aside. Then again Joe would be full of odd, whimsical fun,
outshining Albert himself.

Miss Stokes still came to the station with the wain: Monkey-nuts,
Albert called her, though not to her face. For she was very clear and
good-looking, almost she seemed to gleam. And Albert was a tiny bit
afraid of her. She very rarely addressed Joe whilst the hay-loading was
going on, and that young man always turned his back to her. He seemed
thinner, and his limber figure looked more slouching. But still it had
the tender, attractive appearance, especially from behind. His tanned
face, a little thinned and darkened, took a handsome, slightly sinister
look.

“Come on, Joe!” the corporal urged sharply one day. “What’re you doing,
boy? Looking for beetles on the bank?”

Joe turned round swiftly, almost menacing, to work.

“He’s a different fellow these days, Miss Stokes,” said Albert to the
young woman. “What’s got him? Is it Monkey-nuts that don’t suit him, do
you think?”

“Choked with chaff, more like,” she retorted. “It’s as bad as feeding a
threshing machine, to have to listen to some folks.”

“As bad as what?” said Albert. “You don’t mean me, do you, Miss
Stokes?”

“No,” she cried. “I don’t mean you.”

Joe’s face became dark red during these sallies, but he said nothing.
He would eye the young woman curiously, as she swung so easily at the
work, and he had some of the look of a dog which is going to bite.

Albert, with his nerves on edge, began to find the strain rather
severe. The next Saturday evening, when Joe came in more black-browed
than ever, he watched him, determined to have it out with him.

When the boy went upstairs to bed, the corporal followed him. He closed
the door behind him carefully, sat on the bed and watched the younger
man undressing. And for once he spoke in a natural voice, neither
chaffing nor commanding.

“What’s gone wrong, boy?”

Joe stopped a moment as if he had been shot. Then he went on unwinding
his puttees, and did not answer or look up.

“You can hear, can’t you?” said Albert, nettled.

“Yes, I can hear,” said Joe, stooping over his puttees till his face
was purple.

“Then why don’t you answer?”

Joe sat up. He gave a long, sideways look at the corporal. Then he
lifted his eyes and stared at a crack in the ceiling.

The corporal watched these movements shrewdly.

“And _then_ what?” he asked, ironically.

Again Joe turned and stared him in the face. The corporal smiled very
slightly, but kindly.

“There’ll be murder done one of these days,” said Joe, in a quiet,
unimpassioned voice.

“So long as it’s by daylight—” replied Albert. Then he went over, sat
down by Joe, put his hand on his shoulder affectionately, and
continued, “What is it, boy? What’s gone wrong? You can trust me, can’t
you?”

Joe turned and looked curiously at the face so near to his.

“It’s nothing, that’s all,” he said laconically.

Albert frowned.

“Then who’s going to be murdered?—and who’s going to do the
murdering?—me or you—which is it, boy?” He smiled gently at the stupid
youth, looking straight at him all the while, into his eyes. Gradually
the stupid, hunted, glowering look died out of Joe’s eyes. He turned
his head aside, gently, as one rousing from a spell.

“I don’t want her,” he said, with fierce resentment.

“Then you needn’t have her,” said Albert. “What do you go for, boy?”

But it wasn’t as simple as all that. Joe made no remark.

“She’s a smart-looking girl. What’s wrong with her, my boy? I should
have thought you were a lucky chap, myself.”

“I don’t want ’er,” Joe barked, with ferocity and resentment.

“Then tell her so and have done,” said Albert. He waited awhile. There
was no response. “Why don’t you?” he added.

“Because I don’t,” confessed Joe, sulkily.

Albert pondered—rubbed his head.

“You’re too soft-hearted, that’s where it is, boy. You want your mettle
dipping in cold water, to temper it. You’re too soft-hearted—”

He laid his arm affectionately across the shoulders of the younger man.
Joe seemed to yield a little towards him.

“When are you going to see her again?” Albert asked. For a long time
there was no answer.

“When is it, boy?” persisted the softened voice of the corporal.

“Tomorrow,” confessed Joe.

“Then let me go,” said Albert. “Let me go, will you?”

The morrow was Sunday, a sunny day, but a cold evening. The sky was
grey, the new foliage very green, but the air was chill and depressing.
Albert walked briskly down the white road towards Beeley. He crossed a
larch plantation, and followed a narrow by-road, where blue speedwell
flowers fell from the banks into the dust. He walked swinging his cane,
with mixed sensations. Then having gone a certain length, he turned and
began to walk in the opposite direction.

So he saw a young woman approaching him. She was wearing a wide hat of
grey straw, and a loose, swinging dress of nigger-grey velvet. She
walked with slow inevitability. Albert faltered a little as he
approached her. Then he saluted her, and his roguish, slightly withered
skin flushed. She was staring straight into his face.

He fell in by her side, saying impudently:

“Not so nice for a walk as it was, is it?”

She only stared at him. He looked back at her.

“You’ve seen me before, you know,” he said, grinning slightly. “Perhaps
you never noticed me. Oh, I’m quite nice looking, in a quiet way, you
know. What—?”

But Miss Stokes did not speak: she only stared with large, icy blue
eyes at him. He became self-conscious, lifted up his chin, walked with
his nose in the air, and whistled at random. So they went down the
quiet, deserted grey lane. He was whistling the air: “I’m Gilbert, the
filbert, the colonel of the nuts.”

At last she found her voice:

“Where’s Joe?”

“He thought you’d like a change: they say variety’s the salt of
life—that’s why I’m mostly in pickle.”

“Where is he?”

“Am I my brother’s keeper? He’s gone his own ways.”

“Where?”

“Nay, how am I to know? Not so far but he’ll be back for supper.”

She stopped in the middle of the lane. He stopped facing her.

“Where’s Joe?” she asked.

He struck a careless attitude, looked down the road this way and that,
lifted his eyebrows, pushed his khaki cap on one side, and answered:

“He is not conducting the service tonight: he asked me if I’d
officiate.”

“Why hasn’t he come?”

“Didn’t want to, I expect. _I_ wanted to.”

She stared him up and down, and he felt uncomfortable in his spine, but
maintained his air of nonchalance. Then she turned slowly on her heel,
and started to walk back. The corporal went at her side.

“You’re not going back, are you?” he pleaded. “Why, me and you, we
should get on like a house on fire.”

She took no heed, but walked on. He went uncomfortably at her side,
making his funny remarks from time to time. But she was as if stone
deaf. He glanced at her, and to his dismay saw the tears running down
her cheeks. He stopped suddenly, and pushed back his cap.

“I say, you know—” he began.

But she was walking on like an automaton, and he had to hurry after
her.

She never spoke to him. At the gate of her farm she walked straight in,
as if he were not there. He watched her disappear. Then he turned on
his heel, cursing silently, puzzled, lifting off his cap to scratch his
head.

That night, when they were in bed, he remarked: “Say, Joe, boy; strikes
me you’re well-off without Monkey-nuts. Gord love us, beans ain’t in
it.”

So they slept in amity. But they waited with some anxiety for the
morrow.

It was a cold morning, a grey sky shifting in a cold wind, and
threatening rain. They watched the wagon come up the road and through
the yard gates. Miss Stokes was with her team as usual; her “Whoa!”
rang out like a war-whoop.

She faced up at the truck where the two men stood.

“Joe!” she called, to the averted figure which stood up in the wind.

“What?” he turned unwillingly.

She made a queer movement, lifting her head slightly in a sipping,
half-inviting, half-commanding gesture. And Joe was crouching already
to jump off the truck to obey her, when Albert put his hand on his
shoulder.

“Half a minute, boy! Where are you off? Work’s work, and nuts is nuts.
You stop here.”

Joe slowly straightened himself.

“Joe!” came the woman’s clear call from below.

Again Joe looked at her. But Albert’s hand was on his shoulder,
detaining him. He stood half averted, with his tail between his legs.

“Take your hand off him, you!” said Miss Stokes.

“Yes, Major,” retorted Albert satirically.

She stood and watched.

“Joe!” Her voice rang for the third time.

Joe turned and looked at her, and a slow, jeering smile gathered on his
face.

“Monkey-nuts!” he replied, in a tone mocking her call.

She turned white—dead white. The men thought she would fall. Albert
began yelling to the porters up the line to come and help with the
load. He could yell like any non-commissioned officer upon occasion.

Some way or other the wagon was unloaded, the girl was gone. Joe and
his corporal looked at one another and smiled slowly. But they had a
weight on their minds, they were afraid.

They were reassured, however, when they found that Miss Stokes came no
more with the hay. As far as they were concerned, she had vanished into
oblivion. And Joe felt more relieved even than he had felt when he
heard the firing cease, after the news had come that the armistice was
signed.




WINTRY PEACOCK


There was thin, crisp snow on the ground, the sky was blue, the wind
very cold, the air clear. Farmers were just turning out the cows for an
hour or so in the midday, and the smell of cow-sheds was unendurable as
I entered Tible. I noticed the ash-twigs up in the sky were pale and
luminous, passing into the blue. And then I saw the peacocks. There
they were in the road before me, three of them, and tailless, brown,
speckled birds, with dark-blue necks and ragged crests. They stepped
archly over the filigree snow, and their bodies moved with slow motion,
like small, light, flat-bottomed boats. I admired them, they were
curious. Then a gust of wind caught them, heeled them over as if they
were three frail boats opening their feathers like ragged sails. They
hopped and skipped with discomfort, to get out of the draught of the
wind. And then, in the lee of the walls, they resumed their arch,
wintry motion, light and unballasted now their tails were gone,
indifferent. They were indifferent to my presence. I might have touched
them. They turned off to the shelter of an open shed.

As I passed the end of the upper house, I saw a young woman just coming
out of the back door. I had spoken to her in the summer. She recognised
me at once, and waved to me. She was carrying a pail, wearing a white
apron that was longer than her preposterously short skirt, and she had
on the cotton bonnet. I took off my hat to her and was going on. But
she put down her pail and darted with a swift, furtive movement after
me.

“Do you mind waiting a minute?” she said. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

She gave me a slight, odd smile, and ran back. Her face was long and
sallow and her nose rather red. But her gloomy black eyes softened
caressively to me for a moment, with that momentary humility which
makes a man lord of the earth.

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

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

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “Shall we stand in this
cart-shed—it will be more out of the wind.”

So we stood among the shafts of the open cart-shed that faced the road.
Then she looked down at the ground, a little sideways, and I noticed a
small black frown on her brows. She seemed to brood for a moment. Then
she looked straight into my eyes, so that I blinked and wanted to turn
my face aside. She was searching me for something and her look was too
near. The frown was still on her keen, sallow brow.

“Can you speak French?” she asked me abruptly.

“More or less,” I replied.

“I was supposed to learn it at school,” she said. “But I don’t know a
word.” She ducked her head and laughed, with a slightly ugly grimace
and a rolling of her black eyes.

“No good keeping your mind full of scraps,” I answered.

But she had turned aside her sallow, long face, and did not hear what I
said. Suddenly again she looked at me. She was searching. And at the
same time she smiled at me, and her eyes looked softly, darkly, with
infinite trustful humility into mine. I was being cajoled.

“Would you mind reading a letter for me, in French,” she said, her face
immediately black and bitter-looking. She glanced at me, frowning.

“Not at all,” I said.

“It’s a letter to my husband,” she said, still scrutinizing.

I looked at her, and didn’t quite realise. She looked too far into me,
my wits were gone. She glanced round. Then she looked at me shrewdly.
She drew a letter from her pocket, and handed it to me. It was
addressed from France to Lance-Corporal Goyte, at Tible. I took out the
letter and began to read it, as mere words. “_Mon cher Alfred_”—it
might have been a bit of a torn newspaper. So I followed the script:
the trite phrases of a letter from a French-speaking girl to an English
soldier. “I think of you always, always. Do you think sometimes of me?”
And then I vaguely realised that I was reading a man’s private
correspondence. And yet, how could one consider these trivial, facile
French phrases private! Nothing more trite and vulgar in the world,
than such a love-letter—no newspaper more obvious.

Therefore I read with a callous heart the effusions of the Belgian
damsel. But then I gathered my attention. For the letter went on,
“_Notre cher petit bébé_—our dear little baby was born a week ago.
Almost I died, knowing you were far away, and perhaps forgetting the
fruit of our perfect love. But the child comforted me. He has the
smiling eyes and virile air of his English father. I pray to the Mother
of Jesus to send me the dear father of my child, that I may see him
with my child in his arms, and that we may be united in holy family
love. Ah, my Alfred, can I tell you how I miss you, how I weep for you.
My thoughts are with you always, I think of nothing but you, I live for
nothing but you and our dear baby. If you do not come back to me soon,
I shall die, and our child will die. But no, you cannot come back to
me. But I can come to you, come to England with our child. If you do
not wish to present me to your good mother and father, you can meet me
in some town, some city, for I shall be so frightened to be alone in
England with my child, and no one to take care of us. Yet I must come
to you, I must bring my child, my little Alfred to his father, the big,
beautiful Alfred that I love so much. Oh, write and tell me where I
shall come. I have some money, I am not a penniless creature. I have
money for myself and my dear baby—”

I read to the end. It was signed: “Your very happy and still more
unhappy Élise.” I suppose I must have been smiling.

“I can see it makes you laugh,” said Mrs. Goyte, sardonically. I looked
up at her.

“It’s a love-letter, I know that,” she said. “There’s too many
‘Alfreds’ in it.”

“One too many,” I said.

“Oh, yes—And what does she say—Eliza? We know her name’s Eliza, that’s
another thing.” She grimaced a little, looking up at me with a mocking
laugh.

“Where did you get this letter?” I said.

“Postman gave it me last week.”

“And is your husband at home?”

“I expect him home tonight. He’s been wounded, you know, and we’ve been
applying for him home. He was home about six weeks ago—he’s been in
Scotland since then. Oh, he was wounded in the leg. Yes, he’s all
right, a great strapping fellow. But he’s lame, he limps a bit. He
expects he’ll get his discharge—but I don’t think he will. We married?
We’ve been married six years—and he joined up the first day of the war.
Oh, he thought he’d like the life. He’d been through the South African
War. No, he was sick of it, fed up. I’m living with his father and
mother—I’ve no home of my own now. My people had a big farm—over a
thousand acres—in Oxfordshire. Not like here—no. Oh, they’re very good
to me, his father and mother. Oh, yes, they couldn’t be better. They
think more of me than of their own daughters. But it’s not like being
in a place of your own, is it? You can’t _really_ do as you like. No,
there’s only me and his father and mother at home. Before the war? Oh,
he was anything. He’s had a good education—but he liked the farming
better. Then he was a chauffeur. That’s how he knew French. He was
driving a gentleman in France for a long time—”

At this point the peacocks came round the corner on a puff of wind.

“Hello, Joey!” she called, and one of the birds came forward, on
delicate legs. Its grey speckled back was very elegant, it rolled its
full, dark-blue neck as it moved to her. She crouched down. “Joey,
dear,” she said, in an odd, saturnine caressive voice, “you’re bound to
find me, aren’t you?” She put her face forward, and the bird rolled his
neck, almost touching her face with his beak, as if kissing her.

“He loves you,” I said.

She twisted her face up at me with a laugh.

“Yes,” she said, “he loves me, Joey does,”—then, to the bird—“and I
love Joey, don’t I. I _do_ love Joey.” And she smoothed his feathers
for a moment. Then she rose, saying: “He’s an affectionate bird.”

I smiled at the roll of her “bir-rrd’.

“Oh, yes, he is,” she protested. “He came with me from my home seven
years ago. Those others are his descendants—but they’re not like
Joey—_are they, dee-urr?_” Her voice rose at the end with a witch-like
cry.

Then she forgot the birds in the cart-shed and turned to business
again.

“Won’t you read that letter?” she said. “Read it, so that I know what
it says.”

“It’s rather behind his back,” I said.

“Oh, never mind him,” she cried. “He’s been behind my back long
enough—all these four years. If he never did no worse things behind my
back than I do behind his, he wouldn’t have cause to grumble. You read
me what it says.”

Now I felt a distinct reluctance to do as she bid, and yet I began—“My
dear Alfred.”

“I guessed that much,” she said. “Eliza’s dear Alfred.” She laughed.
“How do you say it in French? _Eliza?_”

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

“Go on,” she said. “You’re not reading.”

So I began—“I have been thinking of you sometimes—have you been
thinking of me?”—

“Of several others as well, beside her, I’ll wager,” said Mrs. Goyte.

“Probably not,” said I, and continued. “A dear little baby was born
here a week ago. Ah, can I tell you my feelings when I take my darling
little brother into my arms—”

“I’ll bet it’s _his_,” cried Mrs. Goyte.

“No,” I said. “It’s her mother’s.”

“Don’t you believe it,” she cried. “It’s a blind. You mark, it’s her
own right enough—and his.”

“No,” I said, “it’s her mother’s.” “He has sweet smiling eyes, but not
like your beautiful English eyes—”

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

“I’m forced to laugh at the beautiful English eyes,” she said.

“Aren’t his eyes beautiful?” I asked.

“Oh, yes—_very!_ Go on!—_Joey, dear, dee-urr, Joey!_”—this to the
peacock.

—“Er—We miss you very much. We all miss you. We wish you were here to
see the darling baby. Ah, Alfred, how happy we were when you stayed
with us. We all loved you so much. My mother will call the baby Alfred
so that we shall never forget you—”

“Of course it’s his right enough,” cried Mrs. Goyte.

“No,” I said. “It’s the mother’s.” Er—“My mother is very well. My
father came home yesterday—on leave. He is delighted with his son, my
little brother, and wishes to have him named after you, because you
were so good to us all in that terrible time, which I shall never
forget. I must weep now when I think of it. Well, you are far away in
England, and perhaps I shall never see you again. How did you find your
dear mother and father? I am so happy that your wound is better, and
that you can nearly walk—”

“How did he find his dear _wife!_” cried Mrs. Goyte. “He never told her
he had one. Think of taking the poor girl in like that!”

“We are so pleased when you write to us. Yet now you are in England you
will forget the family you served so well—”

“A bit too well—eh, _Joey!_” cried the wife.

“If it had not been for you we should not be alive now, to grieve and
to rejoice in this life, that is so hard for us. But we have recovered
some of our losses, and no longer feel the burden of poverty. The
little Alfred is a great comfort to me. I hold him to my breast and
think of the big, good Alfred, and I weep to think that those times of
suffering were perhaps the times of a great happiness that is gone for
ever.”

“Oh, but isn’t it a shame, to take a poor girl in like that!” cried
Mrs. Goyte. “Never to let on that he was married, and raise her hopes—I
call it beastly, I do.”

“You don’t know,” I said. “You know how anxious women are to fall in
love, wife or no wife. How could he help it, if she was determined to
fall in love with him?”

“He could have helped it if he’d wanted.”

“Well,” I said, “we aren’t all heroes.”

“Oh, but that’s different! The big, good Alfred!—did ever you hear such
tommy-rot in your life! Go on—what does she say at the end?”

“Er—We shall be pleased to hear of your life in England. We all send
many kind regards to your good parents. I wish you all happiness for
your future days. Your very affectionate and ever-grateful Élise.”

There was silence for a moment, during which Mrs. Goyte remained with
her head dropped, sinister and abstracted. Suddenly she lifted her
face, and her eyes flashed.

“Oh, but I call it beastly, I call it mean, to take a girl in like
that.”

“Nay,” I said. “Probably he hasn’t taken her in at all. Do you think
those French girls are such poor innocent things? I guess she’s a great
deal more downy than he.”

“Oh, he’s one of the biggest fools that ever walked,” she cried.

“There you are!” said I.

“But it’s his child right enough,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” said I.

“I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, well,” I said, “if you prefer to think that way.”

“What other reason has she for writing like that—”

I went out into the road and looked at the cattle.

“Who is this driving the cows?” I said. She too came out.

“It’s the boy from the next farm,” she said.

“Oh, well,” said I, “those Belgian girls! You never know where their
letters will end. And, after all, it’s his affair—you needn’t bother.”

“Oh—!” she cried, with rough scorn—“it’s not _me_ that bothers. But
it’s the nasty meanness of it—me writing him such loving letters”—she
put her hand before her face and laughed malevolently—“and sending him
parcels all the time. You bet he fed that gurrl on my parcels—I know he
did. It’s just like him. I’ll bet they laughed together over my
letters. I bet anything they did—”

“Nay,” said I. “He’d burn your letters for fear they’d give him away.”

There was a black look on her yellow face. Suddenly a voice was heard
calling. She poked her head out of the shed, and answered coolly:

“All right!” Then turning to me: “That’s his mother looking after me.”

She laughed into my face, witch-like, and we turned down the road.

When I awoke, the morning after this episode, I found the house
darkened with deep, soft snow, which had blown against the large west
windows, covering them with a screen. I went outside, and saw the
valley all white and ghastly below me, the trees beneath black and thin
looking like wire, the rock-faces dark between the glistening shroud,
and the sky above sombre, heavy, yellowish-dark, much too heavy for
this world below of hollow bluey whiteness figured with black. I felt I
was in a valley of the dead. And I sensed I was a prisoner, for the
snow was everywhere deep, and drifted in places. So all the morning I
remained indoors, looking up the drive at the shrubs so heavily plumed
with snow, at the gateposts raised high with a foot or more of extra
whiteness. Or I looked down into the white-and-black valley that was
utterly motionless and beyond life, a hollow sarcophagus.

Nothing stirred the whole day—no plume fell off the shrubs, the valley
was as abstracted as a grove of death. I looked over at the tiny,
half-buried farms away on the bare uplands beyond the valley hollow,
and I thought of Tible in the snow, of the black witch-like little Mrs.
Goyte. And the snow seemed to lay me bare to influences I wanted to
escape.

In the faint glow of the half-clear light that came about four o’clock
in the afternoon, I was roused to see a motion in the snow away below,
near where the thorn-trees stood very black and dwarfed, like a little
savage group, in the dismal white. I watched closely. Yes, there was a
flapping and a struggle—a big bird, it must be, labouring in the snow.
I wondered. Our biggest birds, in the valley, were the large hawks that
often hung flickering opposite my windows, level with me, but high
above some prey on the steep valleyside. This was much too big for a
hawk—too big for any known bird. I searched in my mind for the largest
English wild birds, geese, buzzards.

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

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

“Joey—Joey, de-urr!” I said, staggering unevenly towards him. He looked
so pathetic, rowing and struggling in the snow, too spent to rise, his
blue neck stretching out and lying sometimes on the snow, his eye
closing and opening quickly, his crest all battered.

“Joey dee-uur! Dee-urr!” I said caressingly to him. And at last he lay
still, blinking, in the surged and furrowed snow, whilst I came near
and touched him, stroked him, gathered him under my arm. He stretched
his long, wetted neck away from me as I held him, none the less he was
quiet in my arm, too tired, perhaps, to struggle. Still he held his
poor, crested head away from me, and seemed sometimes to droop, to
wilt, as if he might suddenly die.

He was not so heavy as I expected, yet it was a struggle to get up to
the house with him again. We set him down, not too near the fire, and
gently wiped him with cloths. He submitted, only now and then stretched
his soft neck away from us, avoiding us helplessly. Then we set warm
food by him. I _put_ it to his beak, tried to make him eat. But he
ignored it. He seemed to be ignorant of what we were doing, recoiled
inside himself inexplicably. So we put him in a basket with cloths, and
left him crouching oblivious. His food we put near him. The blinds were
drawn, the house was warm, it was night. Sometimes he stirred, but
mostly he huddled still, leaning his queer crested head on one side. He
touched no food, and took no heed of sounds or movements. We talked of
brandy or stimulants. But I realised we had best leave him alone.

In the night, however, we heard him thumping about. I got up anxiously
with a candle. He had eaten some food, and scattered more, making a
mess. And he was perched on the back of a heavy arm-chair. So I
concluded he was recovered, or recovering.

The next day was clear, and the snow had frozen, so I decided to carry
him back to Tible. He consented, after various flappings, to sit in a
big fish-bag with his battered head peeping out with wild uneasiness.
And so I set off with him, slithering down into the valley, making good
progress down in the pale shadow beside the rushing waters, then
climbing painfully up the arrested white valleyside, plumed with
clusters of young pine trees, into the paler white radiance of the
snowy, upper regions, where the wind cut fine. Joey seemed to watch all
the time with wide anxious, unseeing eye, brilliant and inscrutable. As
I drew near to Tible township he stirred violently in the bag, though I
do not know if he had recognised the place. Then, as I came to the
sheds, he looked sharply from side to side, and stretched his neck out
long. I was a little afraid of him. He gave a loud, vehement yell,
opening his sinister beak, and I stood still, looking at him as he
struggled in the bag, shaken myself by his struggles, yet not thinking
to release him.

Mrs. Goyte came darting past the end of the house, her head sticking
forward in sharp scrutiny. She saw me, and came forward.

“Have you got Joey?” she cried sharply, as if I were a thief.

I opened the bag, and he flopped out, flapping as if he hated the touch
of the snow now. She gathered him up, and put her lips to his beak. She
was flushed and handsome, her eyes bright, her hair slack, thick, but
more witch-like than ever. She did not speak.

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

“Did you bring him with you, then?” she asked sharply. I answered that
I had rescued him the previous evening.

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

“You’ve got ’im back ’gain, ah see,” he said to his daughter-in-law.
His wife explained how I had found Joey.

“Ah,” went on the grey man. “It wor our Alfred scared him off, back
your life. He must’a flyed ower t’valley. Tha ma’ thank thy stars as ’e
wor fun, Maggie. ’E’d a bin froze. They a bit nesh, you know,” he
concluded to me.

“They are,” I answered. “This isn’t their country.”

“No, it isna,” replied Mr. Goyte. He spoke very slowly and
deliberately, quietly, as if the soft pedal were always down in his
voice. He looked at his daughter-in-law as she crouched, flushed and
dark, before the peacock, which would lay its long blue neck for a
moment along her lap. In spite of his grey moustache and thin grey
hair, the elderly man had a face young and almost delicate, like a
young man’s. His blue eyes twinkled with some inscrutable source of
pleasure, his skin was fine and tender, his nose delicately arched. His
grey hair being slightly ruffled, he had a debonair look, as of a youth
who is in love.

“We mun tell ’im it’s come,” he said slowly, and turning he called:
“Alfred—Alfred! Wheer’s ter gotten to?”

Then he turned again to the group.

“Get up then, Maggie, lass, get up wi’ thee. Tha ma’es too much o’ th’
bod.”

A young man approached, wearing rough khaki and kneebreeches. He was
Danish looking, broad at the loins.

“I’s come back then,” said the father to the son; “leastwise, he’s bin
browt back, flyed ower the Griff Low.”

The son looked at me. He had a devil-may-care bearing, his cap on one
side, his hands stuck in the front pockets of his breeches. But he said
nothing.

“Shall you come in a minute, Master,” said the elderly woman, to me.

“Ay, come in an’ ha’e a cup o’ tea or summat. You’ll do wi’ summat,
carrin’ that bod. Come on, Maggie wench, let’s go in.”

So we went indoors, into the rather stuffy, overcrowded living-room,
that was too cosy, and too warm. The son followed last, standing in the
doorway. The father talked to me.

Maggie put out the tea-cups. The mother went into the dairy again.

“Tha’lt rouse thysen up a bit again, now, Maggie,” the father-in-law
said—and then to me: “’ers not bin very bright sin’ Alfred came whoam,
an’ the bod flyed awee. ’E come whoam a Wednesday night, Alfred did.
But ay, you knowed, didna yer. Ay, ’e comed ’a Wednesday—an’ I reckon
there wor a bit of a to-do between ’em, worn’t there, Maggie?”

He twinkled maliciously to his daughter-in-law, who was flushed,
brilliant and handsome.

“Oh, be quiet, father. You’re wound up, by the sound of you,” she said
to him, as if crossly. But she could never be cross with him.

“’Ers got ’er colour back this mornin’,” continued the father-in-law
slowly. “It’s bin heavy weather wi’ ’er this last two days. Ay—’er’s
bin northeast sin ’er seed you a Wednesday.”

“Father, do stop talking. You’d wear the leg off an iron pot. I can’t
think where you’ve found your tongue, all of a sudden,” said Maggie,
with caressive sharpness.

“Ah’ve found it wheer I lost it. Aren’t goin’ ter come in an’ sit thee
down, Alfred?”

But Alfred turned and disappeared.

“’E’s got th’ monkey on ’is back ower this letter job,” said the father
secretly to me. “Mother, ’er knows nowt about it. Lot o’ tom-foolery,
isn’t it? Ay! What’s good o’ makkin’ a peck o’ trouble over what’s far
enough off, an’ ned niver come no nigher. No—not a smite o’ use. That’s
what I tell ’er. ’Er should ta’e no notice on’t. Ty, what can y’
expect.”

The mother came in again, and the talk became general. Maggie flashed
her eyes at me from time to time, complacent and satisfied, moving
among the men. I paid her little compliments, which she did not seem to
hear. She attended to me with a kind of sinister, witch-like
graciousness, her dark head ducked between her shoulders, at once
humble and powerful. She was happy as a child attending to her
father-in-law and to me. But there was something ominous between her
eyebrows, as if a dark moth were settled there—and something ominous in
her bent, hulking bearing.

She sat on a low stool by the fire, near her father-in-law. Her head
was dropped, she seemed in a state of abstraction. From time to time
she would suddenly recover, and look up at us, laughing and chatting.
Then she would forget again. Yet in her hulked black forgetting she
seemed very near to us.

The door having been opened, the peacock came slowly in, prancing
calmly. He went near to her and crouched down, coiling his blue neck.
She glanced at him, but almost as if she did not observe him. The bird
sat silent, seeming to sleep, and the woman also sat hulked and silent,
seemingly oblivious. Then once more there was a heavy step, and Alfred
entered. He looked at his wife, and he looked at the peacock crouching
by her. He stood large in the doorway, his hands stuck in front of him,
in his breeches pockets. Nobody spoke. He turned on his heel and went
out again.

I rose also to go. Maggie started as if coming to herself.

“Must you go?” she asked, rising and coming near to me, standing in
front of me, twisting her head sideways and looking up at me. “Can’t
you stop a bit longer? We can all be cosy today, there’s nothing to do
outdoors.” And she laughed, showing her teeth oddly. She had a long
chin.

I said I must go. The peacock uncoiled and coiled again his long blue
neck, as he lay on the hearth. Maggie still stood close in front of me,
so that I was acutely aware of my waistcoat buttons.

“Oh, well,” she said, “you’ll come again, won’t you? Do come again.”

I promised.

“Come to tea one day—yes, do!”

I promised—one day.

The moment I went out of her presence I ceased utterly to exist for
her—as utterly as I ceased to exist for Joey. With her curious
abstractedness she forgot me again immediately. I knew it as I left
her. Yet she seemed almost in physical contact with me while I was with
her.

The sky was all pallid again, yellowish. When I went out there was no
sun; the snow was blue and cold. I hurried away down the hill, musing
on Maggie. The road made a loop down the sharp face of the slope. As I
went crunching over the laborious snow I became aware of a figure
striding down the steep scarp to intercept me. It was a man with his
hands in front of him, half stuck in his breeches pockets, and his
shoulders square—a real farmer of the hills; Alfred, of course. He
waited for me by the stone fence.

“Excuse me,” he said as I came up.

I came to a halt in front of him and looked into his sullen blue eyes.
He had a certain odd haughtiness on his brows. But his blue eyes stared
insolently at me.

“Do you know anything about a letter—in French—that my wife opened—a
letter of mine—?”

“Yes,” said I. “She asked me to read it to her.”

He looked square at me. He did not know exactly how to feel.

“What was there in it?” he asked.

“Why?” I said. “Don’t you know?”

“She makes out she’s burnt it,” he said.

“Without showing it you?” I asked.

He nodded slightly. He seemed to be meditating as to what line of
action he should take. He wanted to know the contents of the letter: he
must know: and therefore he must ask me, for evidently his wife had
taunted him. At the same time, no doubt, he would like to wreak untold
vengeance on my unfortunate person. So he eyed me, and I eyed him, and
neither of us spoke. He did not want to repeat his request to me. And
yet I only looked at him, and considered.

Suddenly he threw back his head and glanced down the valley. Then he
changed his position—he was a horse-soldier. Then he looked at me
confidentially.

“She burnt the blasted thing before I saw it,” he said.

“Well,” I answered slowly, “she doesn’t know herself what was in it.”

He continued to watch me narrowly. I grinned to myself.

“I didn’t like to read her out what there was in it,” I continued.

He suddenly flushed so that the veins in his neck stood out, and he
stirred again uncomfortably.

“The Belgian girl said her baby had been born a week ago, and that they
were going to call it Alfred,” I told him.

He met my eyes. I was grinning. He began to grin, too.

“Good luck to her,” he said.

“Best of luck,” said I.

“And what did you tell _her_?” he asked.

“That the baby belonged to the old mother—that it was brother to your
girl, who was writing to you as a friend of the family.”

He stood smiling, with the long, subtle malice of a farmer.

“And did she take it in?” he asked.

“As much as she took anything else.”

He stood grinning fixedly. Then he broke into a short laugh.

“Good for _her_” he exclaimed cryptically.

And then he laughed aloud once more, evidently feeling he had won a big
move in his contest with his wife.

“What about the other woman?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Élise.”

“Oh”—he shifted uneasily—“she was all right—”

“You’ll be getting back to her,” I said.

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

“Not me,” he said. “Back your life it’s a plant.”

“You don’t think the _cher petit bébé_ is a little Alfred?”

“It might be,” he said.

“Only might?”

“Yes—an’ there’s lots of mites in a pound of cheese.” He laughed
boisterously but uneasily.

“What did she say, exactly?” he asked.

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

“_Mon cher Alfred— Figure-toi comme je suis desolée_—”

He listened with some confusion. When I had finished all I could
remember, he said:

“They know how to pitch you out a letter, those Belgian lasses.”

“Practice,” said I.

“They get plenty,” he said.

There was a pause.

“Oh, well,” he said. “I’ve never got that letter, anyhow.”

The wind blew fine and keen, in the sunshine, across the snow. I blew
my nose and prepared to depart.

“And _she_ doesn’t know anything?” he continued, jerking his head up
the hill in the direction of Tible.

“She knows nothing but what I’ve said—that is, if she really burnt the
letter.”

“I believe she burnt it,” he said, “for spite. She’s a little devil,
she is. But I shall have it out with her.” His jaw was stubborn and
sullen. Then suddenly he turned to me with a new note.

“Why?” he said. “Why didn’t you wring that b—— peacock’s neck—that b——
Joey?”

“Why?” I said. “What for?”

“I hate the brute,” he said. “I had a shot at him—”

I laughed. He stood and mused.

“Poor little Élise,” he murmured.

“Was she small—_petite_?” I asked. He jerked up his head.

“No,” he said. “Rather tall.”

“Taller than your wife, I suppose.”

Again he looked into my eyes. And then once more he went into a loud
burst of laughter that made the still, snow-deserted valley clap again.

“God, it’s a knockout!” he said, thoroughly amused. Then he stood at
ease, one foot out, his hands in his breeches pockets, in front of him,
his head thrown back, a handsome figure of a man.

“But I’ll do that blasted Joey in—” he mused.

I ran down the hill, shouting with laughter.




YOU TOUCHED ME


The Pottery House was a square, ugly, brick house girt in by the wall
that enclosed the whole grounds of the pottery itself. To be sure, a
privet hedge partly masked the house and its ground from the
pottery-yard and works: but only partly. Through the hedge could be
seen the desolate yard, and the many-windowed, factory-like pottery,
over the hedge could be seen the chimneys and the outhouses. But inside
the hedge, a pleasant garden and lawn sloped down to a willow pool,
which had once supplied the works.

The Pottery itself was now closed, the great doors of the yard
permanently shut. No more the great crates with yellow straw showing
through, stood in stacks by the packing shed. No more the drays drawn
by great horses rolled down the hill with a high load. No more the
pottery-lasses in their clay-coloured overalls, their faces and hair
splashed with grey fine mud, shrieked and larked with the men. All that
was over.

“We like it much better—oh, much better—quieter,” said Matilda Rockley.

“Oh, yes,” assented Emmie Rockley, her sister.

“I’m sure you do,” agreed the visitor.

But whether the two Rockley girls really liked it better, or whether
they only imagined they did, is a question. Certainly their lives were
much more grey and dreary now that the grey clay had ceased to spatter
its mud and silt its dust over the premises. They did not quite realise
how they missed the shrieking, shouting lasses, whom they had known all
their lives and disliked so much.

Matilda and Emmie were already old maids. In a thorough industrial
district, it is not easy for the girls who have expectations above the
common to find husbands. The ugly industrial town was full of men,
young men who were ready to marry. But they were all colliers or
pottery-hands, mere workmen. The Rockley girls would have about ten
thousand pounds each when their father died: ten thousand pounds’ worth
of profitable house-property. It was not to be sneezed at: they felt so
themselves, and refrained from sneezing away such a fortune on any mere
member of the proletariat. Consequently, bank-clerks or nonconformist
clergymen or even school-teachers having failed to come forward,
Matilda had begun to give up all idea of ever leaving the Pottery
House.

Matilda was a tall, thin, graceful fair girl, with a rather large nose.
She was the Mary to Emmie’s Martha: that is, Matilda loved painting and
music, and read a good many novels, whilst Emmie looked after the
house-keeping. Emmie was shorter, plumper than her sister, and she had
no accomplishments. She looked up to Matilda, whose mind was naturally
refined and sensible.

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

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

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

Hadrian was just an ordinary boy from a Charity Home, with ordinary
brownish hair and ordinary bluish eyes and of ordinary rather cockney
speech. The Rockley girl

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