MACDONOUGH'S SONGWhether the State can loose and bindIn Heaven as well as on Earth:If it be wiser to kill mankindBefore or after the birth--These are matters of high concernWhere State-kept schoolmen are;But Holy State (we have lived to learn)Endeth in Holy War.Whether The People be led by the Lord,Or lured by the loudest throat:If it be quicker to die by the swordOr cheaper to die by vote--These are the things we have dealt with once,(And they will not rise from their grave)For Holy People, however it runs,Endeth in wholly Slave.Whatsoever, for any cause,Seeketh to take or give,Power above or beyond the Laws,Suffer it not to live!Holy State or Holy King--Or Holy People's Will--Have no truck with the senseless thing.Order the guns and kill!Saying--after--me:--Once there was The People--Terror gave it birth;Once there was The People and it made a Hell of Earth.Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, O ye slain!Once there was The People--it shall never be again!
MACDONOUGH'S SONG
MACDONOUGH'S SONG
Whether the State can loose and bindIn Heaven as well as on Earth:If it be wiser to kill mankindBefore or after the birth--These are matters of high concernWhere State-kept schoolmen are;But Holy State (we have lived to learn)Endeth in Holy War.
Whether the State can loose and bind
In Heaven as well as on Earth:
If it be wiser to kill mankind
Before or after the birth--
These are matters of high concern
Where State-kept schoolmen are;
But Holy State (we have lived to learn)
Endeth in Holy War.
Whether The People be led by the Lord,Or lured by the loudest throat:If it be quicker to die by the swordOr cheaper to die by vote--These are the things we have dealt with once,(And they will not rise from their grave)For Holy People, however it runs,Endeth in wholly Slave.
Whether The People be led by the Lord,
Or lured by the loudest throat:
If it be quicker to die by the sword
Or cheaper to die by vote--
These are the things we have dealt with once,
(And they will not rise from their grave)
For Holy People, however it runs,
Endeth in wholly Slave.
Whatsoever, for any cause,Seeketh to take or give,Power above or beyond the Laws,Suffer it not to live!Holy State or Holy King--Or Holy People's Will--Have no truck with the senseless thing.Order the guns and kill!Saying--after--me:--
Whatsoever, for any cause,
Seeketh to take or give,
Power above or beyond the Laws,
Suffer it not to live!
Holy State or Holy King--
Or Holy People's Will--
Have no truck with the senseless thing.
Order the guns and kill!
Saying--after--me:--
Once there was The People--Terror gave it birth;Once there was The People and it made a Hell of Earth.Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, O ye slain!Once there was The People--it shall never be again!
Once there was The People--Terror gave it birth;
Once there was The People and it made a Hell of Earth.
Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, O ye slain!
Once there was The People--it shall never be again!
The valley was so choked with fog that one could scarcely see a cow's length across a field. Every blade, twig, bracken-frond, and hoof-print carried water, and the air was filled with the noise of rushing ditches and field-drains, all delivering to the brook below. A week's November rain on water-logged land had gorged her to full flood, and she proclaimed it aloud.
Two men in sackcloth aprons were considering an untrimmed hedge that ran down the hillside and disappeared into mist beside those roarings. They stood back and took stock of the neglected growth, tapped an elbow of hedge-oak here, a mossed beech-stub there, swayed a stooled ash back and forth, and looked at each other.
'I reckon she's about two rod thick,' said Jabez the younger, 'an' she hasn't felt iron since--when has she, Jesse?'
'Call it twenty-five year, Jabez, an' you won't be far out.'
'Umm!' Jabez rubbed his wet handbill on his wetter coat-sleeve. 'She ain't a hedge. She's all manner o' trees. We'll just about have to--' He paused, as professional etiquette required.
'Just about have to side her up an' see what she'll bear. But hadn't we best--?' Jesse paused in his turn, both men being artists and equals.
'Get some kind o' line to go by.' Jabez ranged up and down till he found a thinner place, and with clean snicks of the handbill revealed the original face of the fence. Jesse took over the dripping stuff as it fell forward, and, with a grasp and a kick, made it to lie orderly on the bank till it should be faggoted.
By noon a length of unclean jungle had turned itself into a cattle-proof barrier, tufted here and there with little plumes of the sacred holly which no woodman touches without orders.
'Now we've a witness-board to go by!' said Jesse at last.
'She won't be as easy as this all along,' Jabez answered. 'She'll need plenty stakes and binders when we come to the brook.'
'Well, ain't we plenty?' Jesse pointed to the ragged perspective ahead of them that plunged downhill into the fog. 'I lay there's a cord an' a half o' firewood, let alone faggots, 'fore we get anywheres anigh the brook.'
'The brook's got up a piece since morning,' said Jabez. 'Sounds like's if she was over Wickenden's door-stones.'
Jesse listened, too. There was a growl in the brook's roar as though she worried something hard.
'Yes. She's over Wickenden's door-stones,' he replied. 'Now she'll flood acrost Alder Bay an' that'll ease her.'
'She won't ease Jim Wickenden's hay none if she do,' Jabez grunted. 'I told Jim he'd set that liddle hay-stack o' his too low down in the medder. Itoldhim so when he was drawin' the bottom for it.'
'I told him so, too,' said Jesse. 'I told him 'fore ever you did. I told him when the County Council tarred the roads up along.' He pointed uphill, where unseen automobiles and road-engines droned past continually. 'A tarred road, she shoots every drop o' water into a valley same's a slate roof. 'Tisn't as 'twas in the old days, when the waters soaked in and soaked out in the way o' nature. It rooshes off they tarred roads all of a lump, and naturally every drop is bound to descend into the valley. And there's tar roads both two sides this valley for ten mile. That's what I told Jim Wickenden when they tarred the roads last year. But he's a valley-man. He don't hardly ever journey uphill.'
'What did he say when you told him that?' Jabez demanded, with a little change of voice.
'Why? What did he say to you whenyoutold him?' was the answer.
'What he said to you, I reckon, Jesse.'
'Then, you don't need me to say it over again, Jabez.'
'Well, let be how 'twill, what was he gettin'afterwhen he said what he said to me?' Jabez insisted.
'I dunno; unless you tell me what manner o' words he said toyou.'
Jabez drew back from the hedge--all hedges are nests of treachery and eavesdropping--and moved to an open cattle-lodge in the centre of the field.
'No need to go ferretin' around,' said Jesse. 'None can't see us here 'fore we see them.'
'What was Jim Wickenden gettin' at when I said he'd set his stack too near anigh the brook?' Jabez dropped his voice. 'He was in his mind.'
'He ain't never been out of it yet to my knowledge,' Jesse drawled, and uncorked his tea-bottle.
'But then Jim says: "I ain't goin' to shift my stack a yard," he says. "The Brook's been good friends to me, and if she be minded," he says, "to take a snatch at my hay, I ain't settin' out to withstand her." That's what Jim Wickenden says to me last--last June-end 'twas,' said Jabez.
'Nor he hasn't shifted his stack, neither,' Jesse replied. 'An' if there's more rain, the brook she'll shift it for him.'
'No need tellme! But I want to know what Jim was gettin'at?'
Jabez opened his clasp-knife very deliberately; Jesse as carefully opened his. They unfolded the newspapers that wrapped their dinners, coiled away and pocketed the string that bound the packages, and sat down on the edge of the lodge manger. The rain began to fall again through the fog, and the brook's voice rose.
'But I always allowed Mary was his lawful child, like,' said Jabez, after Jesse had spoken for a while.
''Tain't so.... Jim Wickenden's woman she never made nothing. She come out o' Lewes with her stockin's round her heels, an' she never made nor mended aught till she died.Hehad to light fire an' get breakfast every mornin' except Sundays, while she sowed it abed. Then she took an' died, sixteen, seventeen, year back; but she never had no childern.'
'They was valley-folk,' said Jabez apologetically. 'I'd no call to go in among 'em, but I always allowed Mary--'
'No. Mary come out o' one o' those Lunnon Childern Societies. After his woman died, Jim got his mother back from his sister over to Peasmarsh, which she'd gone to house with when Jim married. His mother kept house for Jim after his woman died. They do say 'twas his mother led him on toward adoptin' of Mary--to furnish out the house with a child, like, and to keep him off of gettin' a noo woman. He mostly done what his mother contrived. 'Cardenly, twixt 'em, they asked for a child from one o' those Lunnon societies--same as it might ha' been these Barnardo children--an' Mary was sent down to 'em, in a candle-box, I've heard.'
'Then Mary is chance-born. I never knowed that,' said Jabez. 'Yet I must ha' heard it some time or other ...'
'No. She ain't. 'Twould ha' been better for some folk if she had been. She come to Jim in a candle-box with all the proper papers--lawful child o' some couple in Lunnon somewheres--mother dead, father drinkin'.Andthere was that Lunnon society's five shillin's a week for her. Jim's mother she wouldn't despise week-end money, but I never heard Jim was much of a muck-grubber. Let be how 'twill, they two mothered up Mary no bounds, till it looked at last like they'd forgot she wasn't their own flesh an' blood. Yes, I reckon they forgot Mary wasn't their'n by rights.'
'That's no new thing,' said Jabez. 'There's more'n one or two in this parish wouldn't surrender back their Bernarders. You ask Mark Copley an' his woman an' that Bernarder cripple-babe o' theirs.'
'Maybe they need the five shillin',' Jesse suggested.
'It's handy,' said Jabez. 'But the child's more. "Dada" he says, an' "Mumma" he says, with his great rollin' head-piece all hurdled up in that iron collar.Hewon't live long--his backbone's rotten, like. But they Copleys do just about set store by him--five bob or no five bob.'
'Same way with Jim an' his mother,' Jesse went on. 'There was talk betwixt 'em after a few years o' not takin' any more week-end money for Mary; but let aloneshenever passed a farden in the mire 'thout longin's, Jim didn't care, like, to push himself forward into the Society's remembrance. So naun came of it. The week-end money would ha' made no odds to Jim--not after his uncle willed him they four cottages at Eastbournean'money in the bank.'
'That was true, too, then? I heard something in a scadderin' word-o'-mouth way,' said Jabez.
'I'll answer for the house property, because Jim he requested my signed name at the foot o' some papers concernin' it. Regardin' the money in the bank, he nature-ally wouldn't like such things talked about all round the parish, so he took strangers for witnesses.'
'Then 'twill make Mary worth seekin' after?'
'She'll need it. Her Maker ain't done much for her outside nor yet in.'
'That ain't no odds.' Jabez shook his head till the water showered off his hat-brim. 'If Mary has money, she'll be wed before any likely pore maid. She's cause to be grateful to Jim.'
'She hides it middlin' close, then,' said Jesse. 'It don't sometimes look to me as if Mary has her natural rightful feelin's. She don't put on an apron o' Mondays 'thout being druv to it--in the kitchenorthe hen-house. She's studyin' to be a school-teacher. She'll make a beauty! I never knowed her show any sort o' kindness to nobody--not even when Jim's mother was took dumb. No! 'Twadn't no stroke. It stifled the old lady in the throat here. First she couldn't shape her words no shape; then she clucked, like, an' lastly she couldn't more than suck down spoon-meat an' hold her peace. Jim took her to Doctor Harding, an' Harding he bundled her off to Brighton Hospital on a ticket, but they couldn't make no stay to her afflictions there; and she was bundled off to Lunnon, an' they lit a great old lamp inside her, and Jim told me they couldn't make out nothing in no sort there; and, along o' one thing an' another, an' all their spyin's and pryin's, she come back a hem sight worse than when she started. Jim said he'd have no more hospitalizin', so he give her a slate, which she tied to her waist-string, and what she was minded to say she writ on it.'
'Now, I never knowed that! But they're valley-folk,' Jabez repeated.
''Twadn't particular noticeable, for she wasn't a talkin' woman any time o' her days. Mary had all three's tongue.... Well, then, two years this summer, come what I'm tellin' you. Mary's Lunnon father, which they'd put clean out o' their minds, arrived down from Lunnon with the law on his side, sayin' he'd take his daughter back to Lunnon, after all. I was working for Mus' Dockett at Pounds Farm that summer, but I was obligin' Jim that evenin' muckin' out his pig-pen. I seed a stranger come traipsin' over the bridge agin' Wickenden's door-stones. 'Twadn't the new County Council bridge with the handrail. They hadn't given it in for a public right o' way then. 'Twas just a bit o' lathy old plank which Jim had throwed acrost the brook for his own conveniences. The man wasn't drunk--only a little concerned in liquor, like--an' his back was a mask where he'd slipped in the muck comin' along. He went up the bricks past Jim's mother, which was feedin' the ducks, an' set himself down at the table inside--Jim was just changin' his socks--an' the man let Jim know all his rights and aims regardin' Mary. Then there just aboutwasa hurly-bulloo? Jim's fust mind was to pitch him forth, but he'd done that once in his young days, and got six months up to Lewes jail along o' the man fallin' on his head. So he swallowed his spittle an' let him talk. The law about Marywason the man's side from fust to last, for he showed us all the papers. Then Mary come downstairs--she'd been studyin' for an examination--an' the man tells her who he was, an' she says he had ought to have took proper care of his own flesh and blood while he had it by him, an' not to think he could ree-claim it when it suited. He says somethin' or other, but she looks him up an' down, front an' backwent, an' she just tongues him scadderin' out o' doors, and he went away stuffin' all the papers back into his hat, talkin' most abusefully. Then she come back an' freed her mind against Jim an' his mother for not havin' warned her of her upbringin's, which it come out she hadn't ever been told. They didn't say naun to her. They never did.I'dha' packed her off with any man that would ha' took her--an' God's pity on him!'
'Umm!' said Jabez, and sucked his pipe.
'So then, that was the beginnin.' The man come back again next week or so, an' he catched Jim alone, 'thout his mother this time, an' he fair beazled him with his papers an' his talk--for the lawwason his side--till Jim went down into his money-purse an' give him ten shillings hush-money--he told me--to withdraw away for a bit an' leave Mary with 'em.'
'But that's no way to get rid o' man or woman,' Jabez said.
'No more 'tis. I told Jim so. "What can I do?" Jim says. "The law'swiththe man. I walk about daytimes thinkin' o' it till I sweats my underclothes wringin', an' I lie abed nights thinkin' o' it till I sweats my sheets all of a sop. 'Tisn't as if I was a young man," he says, "nor yet as if I was a pore man. Maybe he'll drink hisself to death." I e'en a'most told him outright what foolishness he was enterin' into, but he knowed it--he knowed it--because he said next time the man come 'twould be fifteen shillin's. An' next time 'twas. Just fifteen shillin's!'
'An'wasthe man her father?' asked Jabez.
'He had the proofs an' the papers. Jim showed me what that Lunnon Childern's Society had answered when Mary writ up to 'em an' taxed 'em with it. I lay she hadn't been proper polite in her letters to 'em, for they answered middlin' short. They said the matter was out o' their hands, but--let's see if I remember--oh, yes,--they ree-gretted there had been an oversight. I reckon they had sent Mary out in the candle-box as a orphan instead o' havin' a father. Terrible awkward! Then, when he'd drinked up the money, the man come again--in his usuals--an' he kept hammerin' on and hammerin' on about his duty to his pore dear wife, an' what he'd do for his dear daughter in Lunnon, till the tears runned down his two dirty cheeks an' he come away with more money. Jim used to slip it into his hand behind the door; but his mother she heard the chink. She didn't hold with hush-money. She'd write out all her feelin's on the slate, an' Jim 'ud be settin' up half the night answerin' back an' showing that the man had the law with him.'
'Hadn't that man no trade nor business, then?'
'He told me he was a printer. I reckon, though, he lived on the rates like the rest of 'em up there in Lunnon.'
'An' how did Mary take it?'
'She said she'd sooner go into service than go with the man. I reckon a mistress 'ud be middlin' put to it for a maid 'fore she put Mary into cap an' gown. She was studyin' to be a schoo-ool-teacher. A beauty she'll make!... Well, that was how things went that fall. Mary's Lunnon father kep' comin' an' comin' 'carden as he'd drinked out the money Jim gave him; an' each time he'd put-up his price for not takin' Mary away. Jim's mother, she didn't like partin' with no money, an' bein' obliged to write her feelin's on the slate instead o' givin' 'em vent by mouth, she was just about mad. Just about shewasmad!
'Come November, I lodged with Jim in the outside room over 'gainst his hen-house. I paidhermy rent. I was workin' for Dockett at Pounds--gettin' chestnut-bats out o' Perry Shaw. Just such weather as this be--rain atop o' rain after a wet October. (An' I remember it ended in dry frostes right away up to Christmas.) Dockett he'd sent up to Perry Shaw for me--no, he comes puffin' up to me himself--because a big corner-piece o' the bank had slipped into the brook where she makes that elber at the bottom o' the Seventeen Acre, an' all the rubbishy alders an' sallies which he ought to have cut out when he took the farm, they'd slipped with the slip, an' the brook was comin' rooshin' down atop of 'em, an' they'd just about back an' spill the waters over his winter wheat. The water was lyin' in the flats already. "Gor a-mighty, Jesse!" he bellers out at me, "get that rubbish away all manners you can. Don't stop for no fagottin', but give the brook play or my wheat's past salvation. I can't lend you no help," he says, "but work an' I'll pay ye."'
'You had him there,' Jabez chuckled.
'Yes. I reckon I had ought to have drove my bargain, but the brook was backin' up on good bread-corn. So 'cardenly, I laid into the mess of it, workin' off the bank where the trees was drownin' themselves head-down in the roosh--just such weather as this--an' the brook creepin' up on me all the time. 'Long toward noon, Jim comes mowchin' along with his toppin' axe over his shoulder.
'"Be you minded for an extra hand at your job?" he says.
'"Be you minded to turn to?" I ses, an'--no more talk to it--Jim laid in alongside o' me. He's no hunger with a toppin' axe.'
'Maybe, but I've seed him at a job o' throwin' in the woods, an' he didn't seem to make out no shape,' said Jabez. 'He haven't got the shoulders, nor yet the judgment--myopinion--when he's dealin' with full-girt timber. He don't rightly make up his mind where he's goin' to throw her.'
'We wasn't throwin' nothin'. We was cuttin' out they soft alders, an' haulin' 'em up the bank 'fore they could back the waters on the wheat. Jim didn't say much, 'less it was that he'd had a postcard from Mary's Lunnon father, night before, sayin' he was comin' down that mornin'. Jim, he'd sweated all night, an' he didn't reckon hisself equal to the talkin' an' the swearin' an' the cryin', an' his mother blamin' him afterwards on the slate. "It spiled my day to think of it," he ses, when we was eatin' our pieces. "So I've fair cried dunghill an' run. Mother'll have to tackle him by herself. I layshewon't give him no hush-money," he ses. "I lay he'll be surprised by the time he's done withher," he ses. An' that was e'en a'most all the talk we had concernin' it. But he's no hunger with the toppin' axe.
'The brook she'd crep' up an' up on us, an' she kep' creepin' upon us till we was workin' knee-deep in the shallers, cuttin' an' pookin' an' pullin' what we could get to o' the rubbish. There was a middlin' lot comin' down-stream, too--cattle-bars, an' hop-poles and odds-ends bats, all poltin' down together; but they rooshed round the elber good shape by the time we'd backed out they drowned trees. Come four o'clock we reckoned we'd done a proper day's work, an' she'd take no harm if we left her. We couldn't puddle about there in the dark an' wet to no more advantage. Jim he was pourin' the water out of his boots--no, I was doin' that. Jim was kneelin' to unlace his'n. "Damn it all, Jesse," he ses, standin' up; "the flood must be over my doorsteps at home, for here comes my old white-top bee-skep!"'
'Yes. I allus heard he paints his bee-skeps,' Jabez put in. 'I dunno paint don't tarrify bees more'n it keeps em' dry.'
'"I'll have a pook at it," he ses, an' he pooks at it as it comes round the elber. The roosh nigh jerked the pooker out of his hand-grips, an' he calls to me, an' I come runnin' barefoot. Then we pulled on the pooker, an' it reared up on eend in the roosh, an' we guessed what 'twas. 'Cardenly we pulled it in into a shaller, an' it rolled a piece, an' a great old stiff man's arm nigh hit me in the face. Then we was sure. "'Tis a man," ses Jim. But the face was all a mask. "I reckon it's Mary's Lunnon father," he ses presently. "Lend me a match and I'll make sure." He never used baccy. We lit three matches one by another, well's we could in the rain, an' he cleaned off some o' the slob with a tussick o' grass. "Yes," he ses. "It's Mary's Lunnon father. He won't tarrify us no more. D'you want him, Jesse?" he ses.
'"No," I ses. "If this was Eastbourne beach like, he'd be half-a-crown apiece to us 'fore the coroner; but now we'd only lose a day havin' to 'tend the inquest. I lay he fell into the brook."
'"I lay he did," ses Jim. "I wonder if he saw mother." He turns him over, an' opens his coat and puts his fingers in the waistcoat pocket an' starts laughin'. "He's seen mother, right enough," he ses. "An' he's got the best of her, too.Shewon't be able to crow no more overme'bout givin' him money.Inever give him more than a sovereign. She's give him two!" an' he trousers 'em, laughin' all the time. "An' now we'll pook him back again, for I've done with him," he ses.
'So we pooked him back into the middle of the brook, an' we saw he went round the elber 'thout balkin', an' we walked quite a piece beside of him to set him on his ways. When we couldn't see no more, we went home by the high road, because we knowed the brook 'u'd be out acrost the medders, an' we wasn't goin' to hunt for Jim's little rotten old bridge in that dark--an' rainin' Heavens' hard, too. I was middlin' pleased to see light an' vittles again when we got home. Jim he pressed me to come insides for a drink. He don't drink in a generality, but he was rid of all his troubles that evenin', d'ye see? "Mother," he ses so soon as the door ope'd, "have you seen him?" She whips out her slate an' writes down--"No." "Oh, no," ses Jim. "You don't get out of it that way, mother. I lay youhaveseen him, an' I lay he's bested you for all your talk, same as he bested me. Make a clean breast of it, mother," he ses. "He got round you too." She was goin' for the slate again, but he stops her. "It's all right, mother," he ses. "I've seen him sense you have, an' he won't trouble us no more." The old lady looks up quick as a robin, an' she writes, "Did he say so?" "No," ses Jim, laughin'. "He didn't say so. That's how I know. But he bestedyou, mother. You can't have it in atmefor bein' soft-hearted. You're twice as tender-hearted as what I be. Look!" he ses, an' he shows her the two sovereigns. "Put 'em away where they belong," he ses. "He won't never come for no more; an' now we'll have our drink," he ses, "for we've earned it."
'Nature-ally they weren't goin' to let me see where they kep' their monies. She went upstairs with it--for the whisky.'
'I never knowed Jim was a drinkin' man--in his own house, like,' said Jabez.
'No more he isn't; but what he takes he likes good. He won't tech no publican's hogwash acrost the bar. Four shillin's he paid for that bottle o' whisky. I know, because when the old lady brought it down there wasn't more'n jest a liddle few dreenin's an' dregs in it. Nothin' to set before neighbours, I do assure you.'
'"Why, 'twas half full last week, mother," he ses. "You don't mean," he ses, "you've given him all that as well? It's two shillin's worth," he ses. (That's how I knowed he paid four.) "Well, well, mother, you be too tender-'carted to live. But I don't grudge it to him," he ses. "I don't grudge him nothin' he can keep." So, 'cardenly, we drinked up what little sup was left.'
'An' what come to Mary's Lunnon father?' said Jabez after a full minute's silence.
'I be too tired to go readin' papers of evenin's; but Dockett he told me, that very week, I think, that they'd inquested on a man down at Robertsbridge which had poked and poked up agin' so many bridges an' banks, like, they couldn't make naun out of him.'
'An' what did Mary say to all these doin's?'
'The old lady bundled her off to the village 'fore her Lunnon father come, to buy week-end stuff (an' she forgot the half o' it). When we come in she was upstairs studyin' to be a school-teacher. None told her naun about it. 'Twadn't girls' affairs.'
'Reckonsheknowed?' Jabez went on.
'She? She must have guessed it middlin' close when she saw her money come back. But she never mentioned it in writing so far's I know. She were more worritted that night on account of two-three her chickens bein' drowned, for the flood had skewed their old hen-house round on her postes. I cobbled her up next mornin' when the brook shrinked.'
'An' where did you find the bridge? Some fur down-stream, didn't ye?'
'Just where she allus was. She hadn't shifted but very little. The brook had gulled out the bank a piece under one eend o' the plank, so's she was liable to tilt ye sideways if you wasn't careful. But I pooked three-four bricks under her, an' she was all plumb again.'
'Well, I dunno how itlookslike, but let be how 'twill,' said Jabez, 'he hadn't no business to come down from Lunnon tarrifyin' people, an' threatenin' to take away children which they'd hobbed up for their lawful own--even if 'twas Mary Wickenden.'
'He had the business right enough, an' he had the law with him--no gettin' over that,' said Jesse. 'But he had the drink with him, too, an' that was where he failed, like.'
'Well, well! Let be how 'twill, the brook was a good friend to Jim. I see it now. I allusdidwonder what he was gettin' at when he said that, when I talked to him about shiftin' the stack. "You dunno everythin'," he ses. "The Brook's been a good friend to me," he ses, "an' if she's minded to have a snatch at my hay,Iain't settin' out to withstand her."'
'I reckon she's about shifted it, too, by now,' Jesse chuckled. 'Hark! That ain't any slip off the bank which she's got hold of.'
The Brook had changed her note again. It sounded as though she were mumbling something soft.
THE LANDWhen Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,He called to him Hobdenius--a Briton of the Clay,Saying: 'What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?'And the aged Hobden answered: 'I remember as a ladMy father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.Have it jestasyou've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen.'So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style.Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern mainAnd our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.Well could Ogier work his war-boat--well could Ogier wield his brand--Much he knew of foaming waters--not so much of farming land.So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood.Saying: 'What about that River-bit, she doesn't look no good?'And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't formeto interfere,But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.Have itjestas you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on time,If you want to change her nature you havegotto give her lime!'Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in't;Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.Ogier died. His sons grew English. Anglo-Saxon was their name,Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy Autumn nightAnd tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:'Hob, what about that River-bit--the Brook's got up no bounds?'And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't my business to advise,But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.When ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.Hev it jest as you've amindto, but, if I was you, I'd spile!'They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-treesAnd planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds awayYou can see their faithful fragments iron-hard in iron clay.Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirsAll sorts of powers and profits which--are neither mine nor theirs.I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.I can fish--but Hobden tickles. I can shoot--but Hobden wires.I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew?Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?Confiscate his evening faggot into which the conies ran,And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.His dead are in the churchyard--thirty generations laid.Their names went down in Domesday Book when Domesday Book was made.And the passion and the piety and prowess of his lineHave seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending eyes.He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,And if flagrantly a poacher--'tain't for me to interfere.'Hob, what about that River-bit?' I turn to him againWith Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.'Hev it jest as you've a mind to,but'--and so he takes command.For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.
THE LAND
THE LAND
When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,He called to him Hobdenius--a Briton of the Clay,Saying: 'What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?'
When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius--a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: 'What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?'
And the aged Hobden answered: 'I remember as a ladMy father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.Have it jestasyou've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen.'
And the aged Hobden answered: 'I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.
Have it jestasyou've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen.'
So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style.Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.
So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style.
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.
Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern mainAnd our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.
Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.
Well could Ogier work his war-boat--well could Ogier wield his brand--Much he knew of foaming waters--not so much of farming land.So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood.Saying: 'What about that River-bit, she doesn't look no good?'
Well could Ogier work his war-boat--well could Ogier wield his brand--
Much he knew of foaming waters--not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood.
Saying: 'What about that River-bit, she doesn't look no good?'
And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't formeto interfere,But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.Have itjestas you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on time,If you want to change her nature you havegotto give her lime!'
And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't formeto interfere,
But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have itjestas you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on time,
If you want to change her nature you havegotto give her lime!'
Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in't;Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.
Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in't;
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.
Ogier died. His sons grew English. Anglo-Saxon was their name,Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.
Ogier died. His sons grew English. Anglo-Saxon was their name,
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.
But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy Autumn nightAnd tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:'Hob, what about that River-bit--the Brook's got up no bounds?'
But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy Autumn night
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
'Hob, what about that River-bit--the Brook's got up no bounds?'
And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't my business to advise,But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.When ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.Hev it jest as you've amindto, but, if I was you, I'd spile!'
And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't my business to advise,
But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.
When ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.
Hev it jest as you've amindto, but, if I was you, I'd spile!'
They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-treesAnd planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds awayYou can see their faithful fragments iron-hard in iron clay.
They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees
And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
You can see their faithful fragments iron-hard in iron clay.
Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirsAll sorts of powers and profits which--are neither mine nor theirs.
Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
All sorts of powers and profits which--are neither mine nor theirs.
I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.I can fish--but Hobden tickles. I can shoot--but Hobden wires.I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.
I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
I can fish--but Hobden tickles. I can shoot--but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.
Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew?Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?Confiscate his evening faggot into which the conies ran,And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.
Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew?
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?
Confiscate his evening faggot into which the conies ran,
And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.
His dead are in the churchyard--thirty generations laid.Their names went down in Domesday Book when Domesday Book was made.And the passion and the piety and prowess of his lineHave seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.
His dead are in the churchyard--thirty generations laid.
Their names went down in Domesday Book when Domesday Book was made.
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.
Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending eyes.He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,And if flagrantly a poacher--'tain't for me to interfere.
Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher--'tain't for me to interfere.
'Hob, what about that River-bit?' I turn to him againWith Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.'Hev it jest as you've a mind to,but'--and so he takes command.For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.
'Hob, what about that River-bit?' I turn to him again
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
'Hev it jest as you've a mind to,but'--and so he takes command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.
'A throbbing vein,' said Dr. Gilbert soothingly, 'is the mother of delusion.'
'Then how do you account for my knowing when the thing is due?' Conroy's voice rose almost to a break.
'Of course, but you should have consulted a doctor before using--palliatives.'
'It was driving me mad. And now I can't give them up.'
''Not so bad as that! One doesn't form fatal habits at twenty-five. Think again. Were you ever frightened as a child?'
'I don't remember. It began when I was a boy.'
'With or without the spasm? By the way, do you mind describing the spasm again?'
'Well,' said Conroy, twisting in the chair, 'I'm no musician, but suppose you were a violin-string--vibrating--and some one put his finger on you? As if a finger were put on the naked soul! Awful!'
'So's indigestion--so's nightmare--while it lasts.'
'But the horror afterwards knocks me out for days. And the waiting for it ... and then this drug habit! It can't go on!' He shook as he spoke, and the chair creaked.
'My dear fellow,' said the doctor, 'when you're older you'll know what burdens the best of us carry. A fox to every Spartan.'
'That doesn't helpme. I can't! I can't!' cried Conroy, and burst into tears.
'Don't apologise,' said Gilbert, when the paroxysm ended. 'I'm used to people coming a little--unstuck in this room.'
'It's those tabloids!' Conroy stamped his foot feebly as he blew his nose. 'They've knocked me out. I used to be fit once. Oh, I've tried exercise and everything. But--if one sits down for a minute when it's due--even at four in the morning--it runs up behind one.'
'Ye-es. Many things come in the quiet of the morning. You always know when the visitation is due?'
'What would I give not to be sure!' he sobbed.
'We'll put that aside for the moment. I'm thinking of a case where what we'll call anæmia of the brain was masked (I don't say cured) by vibration. He couldn't sleep, or thought he couldn't, but a steamer voyage and the thump of the screw--'
'A steamer? After what I've told you!' Conroy almost shrieked. 'I'd sooner ...'
'Of coursenota steamer in your case, but a long railway journey the next time you think it will trouble you. It sounds absurd, but--'
'I'd try anything. I nearly have,' Conroy sighed.
'Nonsense! I've given you a tonic that will clearthatnotion from your head. Give the train a chance, and don't begin the journey by bucking yourself up with tabloids. Take them along, but hold them in reserve--in reserve.'
'D'you think I've self-control enough, after what you've heard?' said Conroy.
Dr. Gilbert smiled. 'Yes. After what I've seen,' he glanced round the room, 'I have no hesitation in saying you have quite as much self-control as many other people. I'll write you later about your journey. Meantime, the tonic,' and he gave some general directions before Conroy left.
An hour later Dr. Gilbert hurried to the links, where the others of his regular week-end game awaited him. It was a rigid round, played as usual at the trot, for the tension of the week lay as heavy on the two King's Counsels and Sir John Chartres as on Gilbert. The lawyers were old enemies of the Admiralty Court, and Sir John of the frosty eyebrows and Abernethy manner was bracketed with, but before, Rutherford Gilbert among nerve-specialists.
At the Club-house afterwards the lawyers renewed their squabble over a tangled collision case, and the doctors as naturally compared professional matters.
'Lies--all lies,' said Sir John, when Gilbert had told him Conroy's trouble. 'Post hoc, propter hoc. The man or woman who drugs isipso factoa liar. You've no imagination.'
''Pity you haven't a little--occasionally.'
'I have believed a certain type of patient in my time. It's always the same. For reasons not given in the consulting-room they take to the drug. Certain symptoms follow. They will swear to you, and believe it, that they took the drug to mask the symptoms. What does your man use? Najdolene? I thought so. I had practically the duplicate of your case last Thursday. Same old Najdolene--same old lie.'
'Tell me the symptoms, and I'll draw my own inferences, Johnnie.'
'Symptoms! The girl was rank poisoned with Najdolene. Ramping, stamping possession. Gad, I thought she'd have the chandelier down.'
'Mine came unstuck too, and he has the physique of a bull,' said Gilbert. 'What delusions had yours?'
'Faces--faces with mildew on them. In any other walk of life we'd call it the Horrors. She told me, of course, she took the drugs to mask the faces.Post hoc, propter hocagain. All liars!'
'What's that?' said the senior K.C. quickly. 'Sounds professional.'
'Go away! Not for you, Sandy.' Sir John turned a shoulder against him and walked with Gilbert in the chill evening.
To Conroy in his chambers came, one week later, this letter:
DEAR MR. CONROY--If your plan of a night's trip on the 17th still holds good, and you have no particular destination in view, you could do me a kindness. A Miss Henschil, in whom I am interested, goes down to the West by the 10.8 from Waterloo (Number 3 platform) on that night. She is not exactly an invalid, but, like so many of us, a little shaken in her nerves. Her maid, of course, accompanies her, but if I knew you were in the same train it would be an additional source of strength. Will you please write and let me know whether the 10.8 from Waterloo, Number 3 platform, on the 17th, suits you, and I will meet you there? Don't forget my caution, and keep up the tonic.--Yours sincerely,
L. RUTHERFORD GILBERT.
'He knows I'm scarcely fit to look after myself,' was Conroy's thought. 'And he wants me to look after a woman!'
Yet, at the end of half an hour's irresolution, he accepted.
Now Conroy's trouble, which had lasted for years, was this:
On a certain night, while he lay between sleep and wake, he would be overtaken by a long shuddering sigh, which he learned to know was the sign that his brain had once more conceived its horror, and in time--in due time--would bring it forth.
Drugs could so well veil that horror that it shuffled along no worse than as a freezing dream in a procession of disorderly dreams; but over the return of the event drugs had no control. Once that sigh had passed his lips the thing was inevitable, and through the days granted before its rebirth he walked in torment. For the first two years he had striven to fend it off by distractions, but neither exercise nor drink availed. Then he had come to the tabloids of the excellent M. Najdol. These guarantee, on the label, 'Refreshing and absolutely natural sleep to the soul-weary.' They are carried in a case with a spring which presses one scented tabloid to the end of the tube, whence it can be lipped off in stroking the moustache or adjusting the veil.
Three years of M. Najdol's preparations do not fit a man for many careers. His friends, who knew he did not drink, assumed that Conroy had strained his heart through valiant outdoor exercises, and Conroy had with some care invented an imaginary doctor, symptoms, and regimen, which he discussed with them and with his mother in Hereford. She maintained that he would grow out of it, and recommended nux vomica.
When at last Conroy faced a real doctor, it was, he hoped, to be saved from suicide by a strait-waistcoat. Yet Dr. Gilbert had but given him more drugs--a tonic, for instance, that would couple railway carnages--and had advised a night in the train. Not alone the horrors of a railway journey (for which a man who dare keep no servant must e'en pack, label, and address his own bag), but the necessity for holding himself in hand before a stranger 'a little shaken in her nerves.'
He spent a long forenoon packing, because when he assembled and counted things his mind slid off to the hours that remained of the day before his night, and he found himself counting minutes aloud. At such times the injustice of his fate would drive him to revolts which no servant should witness, but on this evening Dr. Gilbert's tonic held him fairly calm while he put up his patent razors.
Waterloo Station shook him into real life. The change for his ticket needed concentration, if only to prevent shillings and pence turning into minutes at the booking-office; and he spoke quickly to a porter about the disposition of his bag. The old 10.8 from Waterloo to the West was an all-night caravan that halted, in the interests of the milk traffic, at almost every station.
Dr. Gilbert stood by the door of the one composite corridor-coach; an older and stouter man behind him. 'So glad you're here!' he cried. 'Let me get your ticket.'
'Certainly not,' Conroy answered. 'I got it myself--long ago. My bag's in too,' he added proudly.
'I beg your pardon. Miss Henschil's here. I'll introduce you.'
'But--but,' he stammered--'think of the state I'm in. If anything happens I shall collapse.'
'Not you. You'd rise to the occasion like a bird. And as for the self-control you were talking of the other day'--Gilbert swung him round--'look!'
A young man in an ulster over a silk-faced frock-coat stood by the carriage window, weeping shamelessly.
'Oh, but that's only drink,' Conroy said. 'I haven't had one of my--my things since lunch.'
'Excellent!' said Gilbert. 'I knew I could depend on you. Come along. Wait for a minute, Chartres.'
A tall woman, veiled, sat by the far window. She bowed her head as the doctor murmured Conroy knew not what. Then he disappeared and the inspector came for tickets.
'My maid--next compartment,' she said slowly.
Conroy showed his ticket, but in returning it to the sleeve-pocket of his ulster the little silver Najdolene case slipped from his glove and fell to the floor. He snatched it up as the moving train flung him into his seat.
'How nice!' said the woman. She leisurely lifted her veil, unbottoned the first button of her left glove, and pressed out from its palm a Najdolene-case.
'Don't!' said Conroy, not realising he had spoken.
'I beg your pardon.' The deep voice was measured, even, and low. Conroy knew what made it so.
'I said "don't"! He wouldn't like you to do it!'
'No, he would not.' She held the tube with its ever-presented tabloid between finger and thumb. 'But aren't you one of the--ah--"soul-weary" too?'
'That's why. Oh, please don't! Not at first. I--I haven't had one since morning. You--you'll set me off!'
'You? Are you so far gone as that?'
He nodded, pressing his palms together. The train jolted through Vauxhall points, and was welcomed with the clang of empty milk-cans for the West.
After long silence she lifted her great eyes, and, with an innocence that would have deceived any sound man, asked Conroy to call her maid to bring her a forgotten book.
Conroy shook his head. 'No. Our sort can't read. Don't!'
'Were you sent to watch me?' The voice never changed.
'Me? I need a keeper myself much more--thisnight of all!'
'This night? Have you a night, then? They disbelievedmewhen I told them of mine.' She leaned back and laughed, always slowly. 'Aren't doctors stu-upid? They don't know.'
She leaned her elbow on her knee, lifted her veil that had fallen, and, chin in hand, stared at him. He looked at her--till his eyes were blurred with tears.
'Have I been there, think you?' she said.
'Surely--surely,' Conroy answered, for he had well seen the fear and the horror that lived behind the heavy-lidded eyes, the fine tracing on the broad forehead, and the guard set about the desirable mouth.
'Then--suppose we have one--just one apiece? I've gone without since this afternoon.'
He put up his hand, and would have shouted, but his voice broke.
'Don't! Can't you see that it helps me to help you to keep it off? Don't let's both go down together.'
'But I want one. It's a poor heart that never rejoices. Just one. It's my night.'
'It's mine--too. My sixty-fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh.' He shut his lips firmly against the tide of visualised numbers that threatened to carry him along.
'Ah, it's only my thirty-ninth.' She paused as he had done. 'I wonder if I shall last into the sixties.... Talk to me or I shall go crazy. You're a man. You're the stronger vessel. Tell me when you went to pieces.'
'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven--eight--I beg your pardon.'
'Not in the least. I always pretend I've dropped a stitch of my knitting. I count the days till the last day, then the hours, then the minutes. Do you?'
'I don't think I've done very much else for the last--' said Conroy, shivering, for the night was cold, with a chill he recognised.
'Oh, how comforting to find some one who can talk sense! It's not always the same date, is it?'
'What difference would that make?' He unbuttoned his ulster with a jerk. 'You're a sane woman. Can't you see the wicked--wicked--wicked' (dust flew from the padded arm-rest as he struck it) unfairness of it? What have I done?'
She laid her large hand on his shoulder very firmly.
'If you begin to think over that,' she said, 'you'll go to pieces and be ashamed. Tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine. Only be quiet--be quiet, lad, or you'll set me off!' She made shift to soothe him, though her chin trembled.
'Well,' said he at last, picking at the arm-rest between them, 'mine's nothing much, of course.'
'Don't be a fool! That's for doctors--and mothers.'
'It's Hell,' Conroy muttered. 'It begins on a steamer--on a stifling hot night. I come out of my cabin. I pass through the saloon where the stewards have rolled up the carpets, and the boards are bare and hot and soapy.'
'I've travelled too,' she said.
'Ah! I come on deck. I walk down a covered alleyway. Butcher's meat, bananas, oil, that sort of smell.'
Again she nodded.
'It's a lead-coloured steamer, and the sea's lead-coloured. Perfectly smooth sea--perfectly still ship, except for the engines running, and her waves going off in lines and lines and lines--dull grey. All this time I know something's going to happen.'
'I know. Something going to happen,' she whispered.
'Then I hear a thud in the engine-room. Then the noise of machinery falling down--like fire-irons--and then two most awful yells. They're more like hoots, and I know--I know while I listen--that it means that two men have died as they hooted. It was their last breath hooting out of them--in most awful pain. Do you understand?'
'I ought to. Go on.'
'That's the first part. Then I hear bare feet running along the alleyway. One of the scalded men comes up behind me and says quite distinctly, "My friend! All is lost!" Then he taps me on the shoulder and I hear him drop down dead.' He panted and wiped his forehead.
'So that is your night?' she said.
'That is my night. It comes every few weeks--so many days after I get what I call sentence. Then I begin to count.'
'Get sentence? D'you meanthis?' She half closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and shuddered. '"Notice" I call it. Sir John thought it was all lies.'
She had unpinned her hat and thrown it on the seat opposite, showing the immense mass of her black hair, rolled low in the nape of the columnar neck and looped over the left ear. But Conroy had no eyes except for her grave eyes.
'Listen now!' said she. 'I walk down a road, a white sandy road near the sea. There are broken fences on either side, and Men come and look at me over them.'
'Just men? Do they speak?'
'They try to. Their faces are all mildewy--eaten away,' and she hid her face for an instant with her left hand. 'It's the Faces--the Faces!'
'Yes. Like my two hoots. I know.'
'Ah! But the place itself--the bareness--and the glitter and the salt smells, and the wind blowing the sand! The Men run after me and I run.... I know what's coming too. One of them touches me.'
'Yes! What comes then? We've both shirked that.'
'One awful shock--not palpitation, but shock, shock, shock!'
'As though your soul were being stopped--as you'd stop a finger-bowl humming?' he said.
'Just that,' she answered. 'One's very soul--the soul that one lives by--stopped. So!'
She drove her thumb deep into the arm-rest. 'And now,' she whined to him, 'now that we've stirred each other up this way, mightn't we have just one?'
'No,' said Conroy, shaking. 'Let's hold on. We're past'--he peered out of the black windows--'Woking. There's the Necropolis. How long till dawn?'
'Oh, cruel long yet. If one dozes for a minute, it catches one.'
'And how d'you find that this'--he tapped the palm of his glove--'helps you?'
'It covers up the thing from being too real--if one takes enough--you know. Only--only--one loses everything else. I've been no more than a bogie-girl for two years. What would you give to be real again? This lying's such a nuisance.'
'One must protect oneself--and there's one's mother to think of,' he answered.
'True. I hope allowances are made for us somewhere. Our burden--can you hear?--our burden is heavy enough.'
She rose, towering into the roof of the carriage. Conroy's ungentle grip pulled her back.
'Nowyouare foolish. Sit down,' said he.
'But the cruelty of it! Can't you see it? Don't you feel it? Let's take one now--before I--'
'Sit down!' cried Conroy, and the sweat stood again on his forehead. He had fought through a few nights, and had been defeated on more, and he knew the rebellion that flares beyond control to exhaustion.
She smoothed her hair and dropped back, but for a while her head and throat moved with the sickening motion of a captured wry-neck.
'Once,' she said, spreading out her hands, 'I ripped my counterpane from end to end. That takes strength. I had it then. I've little now. "All dorn," as my little niece says. And you, lad?'
'"All dorn"! Let me keep your case for you till the morning.'
'But the cold feeling is beginning.'
'Lend it me, then.'
'And the drag down my right side. I shan't be able to move in a minute.'
'I can scarcely lift my arm myself,' said Conroy. 'We're in for it.'
'Then why are you so foolish? You know it'll be easier if we have only one--only one apiece.'
She was lifting the case to her mouth. With tremendous effort Conroy caught it. The two moved like jointed dolls, and when their hands met it was as wood on wood.
'You must--not!' said Conroy. His jaws stiffened, and the cold climbed from his feet up.
'Why--must--I--not?' She repeated the words idiotically.
Conroy could only shake his head, while he bore down on the hand and the case in it.
Her speech went from her altogether. The wonderful lips rested half over the even teeth, the breath was in the nostrils only, the eyes dulled, the face set grey, and through the glove the hand struck like ice.
Presently her soul came back and stood behind her eyes--only thing that had life in all that place--stood and looked for Conroy's soul. He too was fettered in every limb, but somewhere at an immense distance he heard his heart going about its work as the engine-room carries on through and beneath the all but overwhelming wave. His one hope, he knew, was not to lose the eyes that clung to his, because there was an Evil abroad which would possess him if he looked aside by a hair-breadth.
The rest was darkness through which some distant planet spun while cymbals clashed. (Beyond Farnborough the 10.8 rolls out many empty milk-cans at every halt.) Then a body came to life with intolerable pricklings. Limb by limb, after agonies of terror, that body returned to him, steeped in most perfect physical weariness such as follows a long day's rowing. He saw the heavy lids droop over her eyes--the watcher behind them departed--and, his soul sinking into assured peace, Conroy slept.
Light on his eyes and a salt breath roused him without shock. Her hand still held his. She slept, forehead down upon it, but the movement of his waking waked her too, and she sneezed like a child.
'I--I think it's morning,' said Conroy.
'And nothing has happened! Did you see your Men? I didn't see my Faces. Does it mean we've escaped? Did--did you take any after I went to sleep? I'll swear I didn't,' she stammered.
'No, there wasn't any need. We've slept through it.'
'No need! Thank God! There was no need! Oh, look!'
The train was running under red cliffs along a sea-wall washed by waves that were colourless in the early light. Southward the sun rose mistily upon the Channel.
She leaned out of the window and breathed to the bottom of her lungs, while the wind wrenched down her dishevelled hair and blew it below her waist.
'Well!' she said with splendid eyes. 'Aren't you still waiting for something to happen?'
'No. Not till next time. We've been let off,' Conroy answered, breathing as deeply as she.
'Then we ought to say our prayers.'
'What nonsense! Some one will see us.'
'We needn't kneel. Stand up and say "Our Father." Wemust!'
It was the first time since childhood that Conroy had prayed. They laughed hysterically when a curve threw them against an arm-rest.
'Now for breakfast!' she cried. 'My maid--Nurse Blaber--has the basket and things. It'll be ready in twenty minutes. Oh! Look at my hair!' and she went out laughing.
Conroy's first discovery, made without fumbling or counting letters on taps, was that the London and South Western's allowance of washing-water is inadequate. He used every drop, rioting in the cold tingle on neck and arms. To shave in a moving train balked him, but the next halt gave him a chance, which, to his own surprise, he took. As he stared at himself in the mirror he smiled and nodded. There were points about this person with the clear, if sunken, eye and the almost uncompressed mouth. But when he bore his bag back to his compartment, the weight of it on a limp arm humbled that new pride.
'My friend,' he said, half aloud, 'you go into training. You're putty.'
She met him in the spare compartment, where her maid had laid breakfast.
'By Jove!' he said, halting at the doorway, 'I hadn't realised how beautiful you were!'
'The same to you, lad. Sit down. I could eat a horse.'
'I shouldn't,' said the maid quietly. 'The less you eat the better.' She was a small, freckled woman, with light fluffy hair and pale-blue eyes that looked through all veils.
'This is Miss Blaber,' said Miss Henschil. 'He's one of the soul-weary too, Nursey.'
'I know it. But when one has just given it up a full meal doesn't agree. That's why I've only brought you bread and butter.'
She went out quietly, and Conroy reddened.
'We're still children, you see,' said Miss Henschil. 'But I'm well enough to feel some shame of it. D'you take sugar?'
They starved together heroically, and Nurse Blaber was good enough to signify approval when she came to clear away.
'Nursey?' Miss Henschil insinuated, and flushed.
'Do you smoke?' said the nurse coolly to Conroy.
'I haven't in years. Now you mention it, I think I'd like a cigarette--or something.'
'I used to. D'you think it would keep me quiet?' Miss Henschil said.
'Perhaps. Try these.' The nurse handed them her cigarette-case.
'Don't take anything else,' she commanded, and went away with the tea-basket.
'Good!' grunted Conroy, between mouthfuls of tobacco.
'Better than nothing,' said Miss Henschil; but for a while they felt ashamed, yet with the comfort of children punished together.
'Now,' she whispered, 'who were you when you were a man?'
Conroy told her, and in return she gave him her history. It delighted them both to deal once more in worldly concerns--families, names, places, and dates--with a person of understanding.
She came, she said, of Lancashire folk--wealthy cotton-spinners, who still kept the broadenedaand slurred aspirate of the old stock. She lived with an old masterful mother in an opulent world north of Lancaster Gate, where people in Society gave parties at a Mecca called the Langham Hotel.
She herself had been launched into Society there, and the flowers at the ball had cost eighty-seven pounds; but, being reckoned peculiar, she had made few friends among her own sex. She had attracted many men, for she was a beauty--thebeauty, in fact, of Society, she said.
She spoke utterly without shame or reticence, as a life-prisoner tells his past to a fellow-prisoner; and Conroy nodded across the smoke-rings.
'Do you remember when you got into the carriage?' she asked. '(Oh, I wish I had some knitting!) Did you notice aught, lad?'
Conroy thought back. It was ages since. 'Wasn't there some one outside the door--crying?' he asked.
'He's--he's the little man I was engaged to,' she said. 'But I made him break it off. I told him 'twas no good. But he won't, yo' see.'
'Thatfellow? Why, he doesn't come up to your shoulder.'
'That's naught to do with it. I think all the world of him. I'm a foolish wench'--her speech wandered as she settled herself cosily, one elbow on the arm-rest. 'We'd been engaged--I couldn't help that--and he worships the ground I tread on. But it's no use. I'm not responsible, you see. His two sisters are against it, though I've the money. They're right, but they think it's the dri-ink,' she drawled. 'They're Methody--the Skinners. You see, their grandfather that started the Patton Mills, he died o' the dri-ink.'
'I see,' said Conroy. The grave face before him under the lifted veil was troubled.
'George Skinner.' She breathed it softly. 'I'd make him a good wife, by God's gra-ace--if I could. But it's no use. I'm not responsible. But he'll not take "No" for an answer. I used to call him "Toots." He's of no consequence, yo' see.'
'That's in Dickens,' said Conroy, quite quickly. 'I haven't thought of Toots for years. He was at Doctor Blimber's.'
'And so--that's my trouble,' she concluded, ever so slightly wringing her hands. 'But I--don't you think--there's hope now?'
'Eh?' said Conroy. 'Oh yes! This is the first time I've turned my corner without help. With your help, I should say.'
'It'll come back, though.'
'Then shall we meet it in the same way? Here's my card. Write me your train, and we'll go together.'
'Yes. We must do that. But between times--when we want--' She looked at her palm, the four fingers working on it. 'It's hard to give 'em up.'
'But think what we have gained already, and let me have the case to keep.'
She shook her head, and threw her cigarette out of the window. 'Not yet.'
'Then let's lend our cases to Nurse, and we'll get through to-day on cigarettes. I'll call her while we feel strong.'
She hesitated, but yielded at last, and Nurse accepted the offerings with a smile.
'You'llbe all right,' she said to Miss Henschil. 'But if I were you'--to Conroy--'I'd take strong exercise.'
When they reached their destination Conroy set himself to obey Nurse Blaber. He had no remembrance of that day, except one streak of blue sea to his left, gorse-bushes to his right, and, before him, a coast-guard's track marked with white-washed stones that he counted up to the far thousands. As he returned to the little town he saw Miss Henschil on the beach below the cliffs. She kneeled at Nurse Blaber's feet, weeping and pleading.
Twenty-five days later a telegram came to Conroy's rooms: 'Notice given. Waterloo again. Twenty-fourth.'That same evening he was wakened by the shudder and the sigh that told him his sentence had gone forth. Yet he reflected on his pillow that he had, in spite of lapses, snatched something like three weeks of life, which included several rides on a horse before breakfast--the hour one most craves Najdolene; five consecutive evenings on the river at Hammersmith in a tub where he had well stretched the white arms that passing crews mocked at; a game of rackets at his club; three dinners, one small dance, and one human flirtation with a human woman. More notable still, he had settled his month's accounts, only once confusing petty cash with the days of grace allowed him. Next morning he rode his hired beast in the park victoriously. He saw Miss Henschil on horse-back near Lancaster Gate, talking to a young man at the railings.
She wheeled and cantered toward him.
'By Jove! How well you look!' he cried, without salutation. 'I didn't know you rode.'
'I used to once,' she replied. 'I'm all soft now.'
They swept off together down the ride.
'Your beast pulls,' he said.
'Wa-ant him to. Gi-gives me something to think of. How've you been?' she panted. 'I wish chemists' shops hadn't red lights.'
'Have you slipped out and bought some, then?'
'You don't know Nursey. Eh, but it's good to be on a horse again! This chap cost me two hundred.'
'Then you've been swindled,' said Conroy.
'I know it, but it's no odds. I must go back to Toots and send him away. He's neglecting his work for me.'
She swung her heavy-topped animal on his none too sound hocks. ''Sentence come, lad?'
'Yes. But I'm not minding it so much this time.'
'Waterloo, then--and God help us!' She thundered back to the little frock-coated figure that waited faithfully near the gate.
Conroy felt the spring sun on his shoulders and trotted home. That evening he went out with a man in a pair oar, and was rowed to a standstill. But the other man owned he could not have kept the pace five minutes longer.
He carried his bag all down Number 3 platform at Waterloo, and hove it with one hand into the rack.
'Well done!' said Nurse Blaber, in the corridor. 'We've improved too.'
Dr. Gilbert and an older man came out of the next compartment.
'Hallo!' said Gilbert. 'Why haven't you been to see me, Mr. Conroy? Come under the lamp. Take off your hat. No--no. Sit, you young giant. Ve-ry good. Look here a minute, Johnnie.'
A little, round-bellied, hawk-faced person glared at him.
'Gilbert was right about the beauty of the beast,' he muttered. 'D'you keep it in your glove now?' he went on, and punched Conroy in the short ribs.
'No,' said Conroy meekly, but without coughing. 'Nowhere--on my honour! I've chucked it for good.'
'Wait till you are a sound man before you saythat, Mr. Conroy.' Sir John Chartres stumped out, saying to Gilbert in the corridor, 'It's all very fine, but the question is shall I or we "Sir Pandarus of Troy become," eh? We're bound to think of the children.'
'Have you been vetted?' said Miss Henschil, a few minutes after the train started. 'May I sit with you? I--I don't trust myself yet. I can't give up as easily as you can, seemingly.'
'Can't you? I never saw any one so improved in a month.'
'Look here!' She reached across to the rack, single-handed lifted Conroy's bag, and held it at arm's length. 'I counted ten slowly. And I didn't think of hours or minutes,' she boasted.
'Don't remind me,' he cried.
'Ah! Now I've reminded myself. I wish I hadn't. Do you think it'll be easier for us to-night?'
'Oh, don't.' The smell of the carriage had brought back all his last trip to him, and Conroy moved uneasily.
'I'm sorry. I've brought some games,' she went on. 'Draughts and cards--but they all mean counting. I wish I'd brought chess, but I can't play chess. What can we do? Talk about something.'
'Well, how's Toots, to begin with?' said Conroy.
'Why? Did you see him on the platform?'
'No. Was he there? I didn't notice.'
'Oh yes. He doesn't understand. He's desperately jealous. I told him it doesn't matter. Will you please let me hold your hand? I believe I'm beginning to get the chill.'
'Toots ought to envy me,' said Conroy.
'He does. He paid you a high compliment the other night. He's taken to calling again--in spite of all they say.'
Conroy inclined his head. He felt cold, and knew surely he would be colder.
'He said,' she yawned. '(Beg your pardon.) He said he couldn't see how I could help falling in love with a man like you; and he called himself a damned little rat, and he beat his head on the piano last night.'
'The piano? You play, then?'
'Only to him. He thinks the world of my accomplishments. Then I told him I wouldn't have you if you were the last man on earth instead of only the best-looking--not with a million in each stocking.'
'No, not with a million in each stocking,' said Conroy vehemently. 'Isn't that odd?'
'I suppose so--to any one who doesn't know. Well, where was I? Oh, George as good as told me I was deceiving him, and he wanted to go away without saying good-night. He hates standing a-tiptoe, but he must if I won't sit down.'
Conroy would have smiled, but the chill that foreran the coming of the Lier-in-Wait was upon him, and his hand closed warningly on hers.
'And--and so--' she was trying to say, when her hour also overtook her, leaving alive only the fear-dilated eyes that turned to Conroy. Hand froze on hand and the body with it as they waited for the horror in the blackness that heralded it. Yet through the worst Conroy saw, at an uncountable distance, one minute glint of light in his night. Thither would he go and escape his fear; and behold, that light was the light in the watch-tower of her eyes, where her locked soul signalled to his soul: 'Look at me!'
In time, from him and from her, the Thing sheered aside, that each soul might step down and resume its own concerns. He thought confusedly of people on the skirts of a thunderstorm, withdrawing from windows where the torn night is, to their known and furnished beds. Then he dozed, till in some drowsy turn his hand fell from her warmed hand.