"Come, ye thankful people, come,Raise the song of Harvest-home;All is safely gathered in,Ere the winter-storms begin...."
"Come, ye thankful people, come,Raise the song of Harvest-home;All is safely gathered in,Ere the winter-storms begin...."
"Come, ye thankful people, come,Raise the song of Harvest-home;All is safely gathered in,Ere the winter-storms begin...."
"Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of Harvest-home;
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter-storms begin...."
Mr. Coast, who filled the double rôle of schoolmaster and organist at Anderby, attacked the opening hymn of the Harvest Thanksgiving Service with such violence that he whirled the congregation along on an avalanche of discordant sound. The efforts of Miss Taylor, who led the lady sopranos in the choir, availed nothing, though she quavered gallantly half a beat behind, hoping that her vocal energy might counteract his instrumental zeal. But Mr. Coast did not care.
He had almost reached the limit of exasperation. In the most placid of humours, he would have found it somewhat disconcerting to play harvest hymns with a barley whisker tickling the back of his neck. Even if Mrs. Willerby was rejoicing in the end of the strike, she might have decorated the organ loft with greater discretion and less exuberance. The scent of geraniums, which Coast abominated, was mingled with an odour of rotting apples, damp prayer books and perspiring humanity from the choir stalls below. Together they involved him in a nightmare of discomfort.
"Wheat and tares therein are sown,Unto joy or sorrow grown...."
"Wheat and tares therein are sown,Unto joy or sorrow grown...."
"Wheat and tares therein are sown,Unto joy or sorrow grown...."
"Wheat and tares therein are sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown...."
Precious little joy about it! A record of nothing but failure piled on failure, humiliation on humiliation. Of course, knowing his luck, he ought never to have expected the strike to be anything but a fiasco. After he had taken all the trouble to get Hunting down from Manchester, after he had gone himself night after night to sit in the beer-stifled atmosphere of theFlying Fox, trying to drive a little common sense into the bucolic obstinacy of those cursed villagers, wasn't it just his luck that that fool Rossitur should come down and spoil things?
"Grant, O Lord of life, that weHoly grain and pure may be...."
"Grant, O Lord of life, that weHoly grain and pure may be...."
"Grant, O Lord of life, that weHoly grain and pure may be...."
"Grant, O Lord of life, that we
Holy grain and pure may be...."
Oh, damn! He ought to have playedpianothere! Well, as if it mattered! As if anything mattered very much, when he could see through the mirror that hung before him Mary Robson standing erect and triumphant in the front pew. It was all very well for her to sing hymns when the harvest was gathered in and the men were going back to work next Monday, and her husband had kept well in spite of the gloomy prognostications of the villagers. Well, she had scored again for the twentieth time—and he had to sit on Mrs. Cox's best vegetable-marrow and play the tunes for hymns that celebrated his defeat.
That fool Rossitur deserved smothering. He did really. Just when things were going rather well, what business had he to come down and tell the men that after the farmers had compromised by offering £3 a week the strike had gone on long enough for economic purposes, and that its protraction was merely the result of personal enmity?
All that talk about justice and disinterested co-operation was sentimental nonsense. If he told the truth, Rossitur would have acknowledged that theNorthern Clarionpaid him to advertise it among the labouring classes. Any extension of "progress" implied increased circulation for his paper.
"But the fruitful ears to storeIn Thy garner evermore...."
"But the fruitful ears to storeIn Thy garner evermore...."
"But the fruitful ears to storeIn Thy garner evermore...."
"But the fruitful ears to store
In Thy garner evermore...."
And, anyway, it had not been as though he, Coast, had done anything outrageous. A word here and a hint there to the men, warning them against premature compliance with a barely concealed tyranny.... Rossitur himself might have done the same. Supposing Coast did dislike the Robsons, to refrain from performing an obvious social duty because its performance exposed him to the charge of personal enmity would have been nothing short of cowardice. Of that, at least, he was certain.
He pulled out the stops for the finalcrescendo. The congregation abandoned all genteel restraint, and unburdened its accumulation of emotion in a flood of exultant song. It was pleasant to know that in spite of apprehensions this business of unions and strikes and progress made very little difference after all. There had been a good deal of talk by the bridge on Saturday nights, and several superfluous pints of beer had been drunk over heated political discussions, and for six weeks a few wives had knitted their brows over unreplenished purses; but all that was over now, and Mr. Slater in a clean white surplice was encouraging the wicked man to turn away from his wickedness, as though there had never been any unprecedented scenes in the back yard of the Wold Farm, and no queer speechifyings by a black haired man called Hunting, and a red haired man called Rossitur.
On the whole, Anderby was pleased with itself. Foreman from the Wold Farm and Ezra Dawson, who only deserted the seclusion of the Primitives once a year to climb the hill for the harvest festival, propped their foreheads on their hands and praised the Almighty for His estimable promptitude in restoring order to the village. Violet, wearing a new silk blouse, almost twisted her neck, in her effort to catch Fred Stephens's eye where he stood, white surpliced and chastened in the choir stalls, no longer an enemy of respectability, but a very nice young man with whom anyone might be seen walking out after service. Bert Armstrong flung out his chest and boomed the hymns with tremendous relish. Really, everything was about as satisfactory as it well could be. Some people, of course, did not seem very pleased, but then fellows like Waite never were satisfied about anything. In other parts of the world, strikes might lead to permanent hostilities and riots, and general discomfort. It merely confirmed the conviction of Anderby's superiority to the rest of the world, to realize how quickly and easily it recovered from this decease of industrial enterprise.
Mr. Coast, it is true, differed from the majority in his appreciation of Mr. Rossitur's intervention. The village could see how throughout the service he had sat huddled on the organ seat, chewing the ends of his moustache. Well, of course, being the chief supporter of the union, even if you couldn't be recognized officially because you weren't an agricultural labourer, it must be rather trying to have your public aspirations checked at their outset.
The sermon was over and the last hymn announced. From the choir stalls, an arm reached out and tapped Coast on the shoulder. He turned irritably. A slip of paper was thrust into his hand. He read the note scrawled on it by the vicar with increasing indignation:
"Dear Coast,"Would you kindly manage not to go quite so fast with the hymns? I'm sure it's very gratifying to see you know them so well, but the choir cannot keep pace with you."Yours,"E. C. Slater."
"Dear Coast,
"Would you kindly manage not to go quite so fast with the hymns? I'm sure it's very gratifying to see you know them so well, but the choir cannot keep pace with you.
"Yours,"E. C. Slater."
Well, of all the outrageous impertinence! Coast crumpled it savagely into a ball, and turned to the organ. "We plough the fields, and scatter" moaned like a funeral dirge, with long-drawn wails at the end of every line.
The congregation clumped out of church, and stood about the churchyard in scattered groups of threes and fours. Coast began to collect his music with trembling fingers. His head ached intolerably, and he laboured under a strange delusion that the whole village was laughing at him. Every one knew that he had urged the continuance of the strike. Every one would know soon enough that the vicar sent him insulting notes across the choir stalls.
The sexton began to extinguish the candles on the altar, but Mrs. Robson still sat in her pew, gazing dreamily before her.
Coast had mislaid the manuscript page of music that fitted in to his psalter, containing the chants for festival psalms. Striking a match he groped among the shadows on the floor.
"Mr. Coast," the vicar's dry voice summoned him from below the seat.
He sat up suddenly, knocking his already aching head on the side of the keyboard.
"Well?"
The vicar was annoyed. "When I send you a note with a suggestion like that, Mr. Coast, there is really no need to caricature my criticism—No? That hymn, that last hymn, it was disgraceful—really quite spoilt, yes, quite spoilt!"
"You asked to have it slow. I gave you what you asked," snapped Coast, shutting up the keyboard with a bang.
"I don't think that is quite the spirit—not quite the spirit—for you to adopt, Mr. Coast. Irreverent work sets a bad example."
"Well, I don't think there was any need for you to use my pupils to pass your instructions along. At least you might have folded the paper. Half the choir were sniggering—making a fool of me before the boys and then expect the discipline of the school to be good."
"Well, really, when you will play hymns as though they were polkas yes, polkas, you must not expect me to refrain from some remark. Another time, please play more suitably. Good evening."
As the vicar passed the front pew, Coast saw him pause.
That damned woman had heard everything then—heard him scolded like a schoolboy by that fool Slater. It was too much.
"Well, well, Mrs. Robson"—Coast could guess just how the Vicar rubbed his bloodless little hands—"I think we have some cause for rejoicing this year—hah? A most trying business, satisfactorily over."
"Yes," said Mary. Her weary voice sounded remote and toneless in the shadowed church.
"I think we may congratulate you and Mr. Robson—very disinterested behaviour, very. Quite right that you should have stood out for the sake of the small farmers—quite. I was talking to Mrs. Armstrong to-day. She said what a help you and your husband had been to Albert. Very commendable."
Mrs. Robson made no reply.
"I hope your husband has not suffered from the anxiety. Is he strong again?"
"I think he will be all right now if he takes care."
"Quite so, no more strains. But there, you look after him so well."
"I do what I can, but I can't stop the wind blowing."
"Ah—of course. We are all in the hands of God's providence. No more talk about your retiring from farming, I hope?"
"Why, where ever did you hear that rumour?"
"I believe your husband said something about it one day at the parish meeting."
"Oh, I think not. You've made a mistake. He must have meant something else. We shan't retire for years, if ever we do at all—and I don't see why we should. We both hate town life."
"Of course, of course. I thought perhaps that after your husband's stroke he might find farming a little strenuous after this unfortunate affair." The vicar coughed discreetly.
"Oh well, now that it's over, I don't suppose we shall have much more bother."
Didn't she, indeed! Coast on the organ seat smiled bitterly. He could picture in the darkness Mrs. Robson's smile of smug self-satisfaction.
"Of course—in your hands—sure to be all right. Very capable. Very."
They moved away together down the aisle. The sexton limped round the church like a great bat, extinguishing lights and covering brass work with baize hoods.
"Shall I leave the key to you, Mr. Coast?" he queried.
"Please."
Then he, too, went. The schoolmaster sat alone. "I don't suppose we shall have much more bother...." Bother about the playing field, bother about the brassocking holiday, bother about taking Jack Greenwood from school before his time, bother about the strike.... All conveniently settled, with the least possible discomfort to herself, Mary Robson. How nice. How truly obliging of the Almighty to arrange the world so manifestly for her advantage!
"Oh, damn the woman! Damn her, damn her!"
There seemed nothing more to say.
At four o'clock the following Saturday afternoon, Coast was walking up the village street on his way to visit old Mrs. Armstrong. He had finally been persuaded by the parish council to approach her about her field in the village, which Mrs. Robson had suggested might serve as a playing ground for the school children. The road was full of life that afternoon. Continually bicycle bells chimed and tinkled, and couples rode past to Hardrascliffe. The Saturday after Harvest was always a red letter day at Anderby. Even Fred Stephens, who was due to return to work with his comrades on Monday, had ingratiated himself sufficiently with the Robsons' Violet to escort her, with sheepish humility and the bait of an invitation to the Pictures, along the Hardrascliffe road.
Coast had passed the post office and the bridge, and turned into the street of straggling houses that led to the Wold Farm. A short stocky figure slouched slowly ahead of him. He recognized Eli Waite shabbier and more disconsolate than ever, walking with drooping head, an empty pipe between his teeth.
Moved by a sudden impulse to talk to some one more out of love with life than himself, Coast hailed him with an unusually genial "Good afternoon, Waite."
Geniality was hardly Coast's typical manner, so Waite turned round with some surprise. He regarded the schoolmaster as a man of good sense and perspicacity who had played a worthy part in the recent industrial crisis. The nod he gave was less sulky than usual.
"Afternoon, Mr. Coast."
"How's Ethel? Any better? Bad business for her getting ill just now. What does the doctor think of her?"
"He says she ought to get away to a warmer spot, ought not to winter at Anderby, he says. As if I was a millionaire to send 'er off in a first class carriage."
Waite spat with emphasis on the path.
"Oh dear, that's bad isn't it? What are you going to do about it?"
Coast knew that any other father in the village would have gone for help to Mary Robson, and that she would have found, among the various institutions to whose skirts she clung for the benefit of her protégés, some holiday home for a delicate child.
But there was no such simple solution for Waite's problem.
"There's nowt to do for the likes o' me but wait and let her get better if she can."
"Let me see, where are you working now?"
Waite gave him one sidelong glance and then broke forth. "I'm not working. I'm not striking neither. I've been tenting cows for Tommy Dent when he went harvesting. I tell you there are some low down things done in Anderby you'd never hear tell on."
"Oh. Been out of work since that business with Mrs. Robson?"
"Ay."
"Foolish woman, very. Ah, what's that?"
From the road towards Market Burton came a rumbling clatter. An exultant procession of small boys appeared round the corner of the hedge. Then a column of dark grey smoke rose beyond it, and finally a traction-engine lumbered into view, with its trail of thrashing-machine and elevator.
It drew up beside the Robsons' stackyard gate, where the two men were standing.
"Hello there! D'you know if Robson's foreman is anywhere about?" called the driver.
"I doan't," growled Waite, "and I don't care."
The driver turned to his companion, a mechanic seated on the foot board.
"Here, mate!" he exclaimed. "This is one of the famous strikers of Anderby, I'll be bound. Where's the Red Flag, mate? Is that your union man?" He pointed a' derisive finger at Coast. "Come on, sonny," he called to a stout urchin who gazed in rapt enthusiasm at the engine. "Where's your dad?"
"He's waitin' for you somewheres—wants to get to Hardrascliffe to-night."
"Well, fetch him along then, for I want a wash up, and a drop of supper at theFlying Fox."
Waite and Coast stood silently by the gate, while a little crowd gathered to watch the delicate operation of manœuvring the engine and its appendages into the stackyard. Foreman emerged from the Hind's house, already attired in his Sunday best. The "thrashing man" was an old friend and ally.
"Come on, come in with you," called Foreman. "I'm taking missus in tid Hardrascliffe to-night for a bit o' spree like after harvest, and she's had 'er best hat on for last hour waiting o' you. We've got light cart yoked up an' all."
"Oh, git away with you then. I'll bring in the Rolls-Royce, and drop her gently along side one o' them there stacks for a bit o' rest after the journey like. Whoa there! Back there!"
His hand on the wheel turned with amazing rapidity. The engine snorted and backed, then slowly lumbered towards the gateway, leaving the elevator in the road. There was much backing and twisting, much shouting of small boys and coupling and uncoupling of the thrashing-machine, but eventually it was through, and the engine returned for the derelict in the road.
"You've got a good yardful," remarked the mechanic. "How did you come on wi' the strike?"
"Strike? We didn't have no strike—just a few fond chaps taking a holiday through harvest like."
"Oh, ay. You've got some bonny wheat here."
"Ay—and yon barley, but the thatching's bad. We missed owd Deane for that. The wet'll get in any day now. That's why maister's all on to have it thrashed an' out of way before weather breaks."
"It's fine enough now—happen a bit o' wind before morning."
"Ay. You'd better damp down the fire in yon engine o' your'n. We don't want no sparks flying about with all harvest in. There's not enough water i' t' pond to drown a cat in."
They were covering the machine now with tarpaulin, fastening everything snugly down for its sabbath's vigil. Coast stood watching them, and noticing how the stacks stood out in firm yellow blocks against the dark background of the wold. The solidarity of their bulging contour depressed him. Of what use was it to attack people who were shielded from poverty and failure by this power of possession? The backwash of progress beat in vain against the solid wall of property that sheltered them. He wondered no longer at the loud voiced communists whom he once condemned as extremists, because they would rob the rich of this destructive potency of wealth. That fellow Rossitur had been wrong as usual, when he declared that, after their taste of independence and co-operation during the strike, the men of Anderby would never be the same again. It would be just the same, the same patronage and injustice, the same complacent prosperity of people like the Robsons, the same heart-breaking rebellion of people like himself. The square grey house behind the sycamore-trees, the close packed sheaves of wheat and barley, the farm buildings astir with the sounds of pigs and horses and cattle, all these testified to the impotence of progress. Oh, the Robsons were safe!
Mike O'Flynn appeared from the stackyard gate that led to the garden of the Wold Farm. He strolled up to the little group where Foreman and the "machine man" discussed the utility of raising bags of corn by a mechanical invention, instead of swinging them over one's shoulder as in the olden days.
"What's that fellow Rossitur doing up at the house door?"
Foreman turned. "Nay, Mike, it beats me, but I expect he's gone to see Mrs. Robson."
"Mrs. Robson went into Hardrascliffe wi't t' maister this after'," said Shepherd Dawson.
"Well, 'tis no good he's after, anyway, or he'd have gone with Hunting this morning—bad cess to him! And it's glad I am that Mrs. Robson was not at home. After the trouble he's given her she'll not be wanting him again hanging round."
"You off in tid' town to-night, Mike?" asked Ezra, who found Mike's frequent tirades on the subject of David Rossitur somewhat tedious.
"Now, what should I be doing buying squeakers on the sands and going to Pictures? There's a corner seat in theFlying Foxthat I'd part with for no man."
The men strolled off. The children still lingered to gaze upon the fascinating complexity of the great machine, and watch the smoke die from its funnel. Coast found that Waite was standing beside him leaning over the gateway. There was still the tiresome business of the field and old Mrs. Armstrong to be faced. He must get rid of Waite and go on with his work.
He turned to the figure at the gate.
"Well, I hope your daughter will soon recover."
"I never have no luck, and Ethel's always been a good girl."
"Oh, luck can change they say—though I doubt it."
"Luck's a lousy wench."
"She's never so queer as when she isn't luck at all, but some person who got their knife into you."
Waite looked with dawning comprehension at the schoolmaster.
"Ay," he remarked.
The wind was rising. A little whirl of dust and straw and dried leaves blew along the path at their feet.
"The wind's getting up," said Coast. He was looking now from the rounded stacks to the man at his side, and a new desire was forming in his mind.
"Ay. I doubt it'll be a blust'ry night," replied Waite.
"It's been a dry month," remarked Coast.
"Ay. Pond shows bottom, an' beck's dry."
"It would be a bad job for Robson if a spark from the engine caught on his straw."
"Ay."
"Those buildings are very near the yard, aren't they?"
"Ay."
"I believe the wind is blowing from the south too. There'll be rain soon."
"Oh, ay."
"Did you see in the paper about that stack fire at the other side of Market Burton? They don't know yet whether it was a spark from the engine or whether some one had set it on fire."
"Here, what are you driving at, Mr. Coast?"
"I—I'm driving at nothing. I don't know what you mean. Well, I must be moving. Oh, by the way, do you know that there's a talk that the Robsons may leave Anderby if anything else happens to upset Mr. Robson? He's been a bit of an invalid since his stroke."
"I hadn't heard."
"Some people wouldn't think it was a bad thing."
"Ay."
"Well, good evening."
Coast strolled on past the garden of the Wold Farm, and theFlying Fox, till he came to the Armstrongs' gate.
Then he paused. The light was fading and, beyond the stubble fields, the sky glowed red and stormy. A gust of wind brought the frail leaves which clung to the branches of a chestnut-tree whirling round him. Down in the valley, Anderby village grew dim and grey.
THE ROAD TO ANDERBY
"Well," sighed Mary, "and that's that."
She thrust the last parcel into the back of the dog-cart, and walked round to examine the pony's harness. The ostler at thePaul Joneshad a natural gift of imperfection.
"How many times have I told you to twist the belly-band once round the strap before you pass it under the pony's body?" she inquired with asperity.
While she was attending to this business herself, John lounged into the yard, his pipe in his mouth, and his hands thrust into the pockets of a light overcoat. He stood watching as her strong fingers tugged at the stiff straps and buckles. She gave the ostler his sixpence and climbed up to the driver's seat.
"Just hold the pony's head till we get out of the yard, will you, ostler? Now then, John, are you up?"
"Going to be a rough night, Mrs. Robson," remarked the ostler, as John mounted the step.
Mary looked from the threatening sky to the orange peel and paper bags blown by the wind along the esplanade.
"Yes, but we shall be well home before the storm breaks. With a wind like this, the rain will hold off long enough. That's right. Now let go, please."
The cart swung out of the inn yard, and clattered down the lamplit street, Mary driving dexterously among the Saturday night crowd.
"I don't much like putting up at thePaul Jones, John," she observed. "They take such a while to yoke up, and the ostler can't do anything right."
John made no reply. Ever since his illness he had grown more reserved. The trouble of the strike had stunned him into a lethargy of submission. After his protest on the first morning, when he considered Mary's outburst of temper unjustifiable, he had accepted her judgments without comment. Mary was therefore surprised when, as they drove through the streets at the west end of the town, he volunteered a remark:
"I saw young Rossitur this morning."
"Oh."
Of course someone was bound to mention him sooner or later. Ever since she heard of his return to the village, she had prepared herself to face every possible situation. She would meet him somewhere, and be forced to speak with him—or John would meet him, and remember.... But day by day news came of him, of his interview with Hunting, of his impassioned speech to the men of the union, of his final settlement of the strike. And she had never seen him. Perhaps he had avoided her as assiduously as she had avoided him.
She sat silent for a moment, her attention apparently occupied by the reins. Then she gained sufficient self-control to ask, with apparent indifference:
"Did you speak to him at all?"
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the splash-board, before he answered.
"Yes, I did. You know, Mary, I don't think we did that young fellow justice."
"No? Why, John?"
"Well, he always seemed to me a bit of a wind shaker, and there's no denying that if he hadn't been to the village that chap Hunting might never have come down."
"That's true of course."
"But you know, I think he must have seen he'd made a bit of an ass of himself, when he saw the strike coming on and all that, at least, so he said."
"Oh, he said that, did he? Why, John? When did you talk to him?"
"I met him up in village this morning when I went to pay the joiner's bill for mending the reapers."
"Oh, yes. He was still there then?"
"Ay. He said he was leaving Anderby to-night. Going back to Manchester. He told me he'd wanted to say that as far as the strike had hit us, he was sorry and that when he saw how Coast and Hunting between them were egging the men on to hold out for more money, after we offered the three pounds, he felt he had to come down and stop it if he could."
"Oh, well, I'm glad he said that. Did he—did he ask after me?"
"No, I can't say that he did. He seemed a bit upset, though that's not unlikely seeing the way he's treated us. But I will say this, once he made up his mind, he did act like a gentleman. That was a rare speech he made at the meeting in the school room before the men came in. Some one reported it in theHardrascliffe Times. I got a copy in the market to-day."
"Oh. I'll look at it when we get in."
"Ay. Do you remember when you brought him home—last spring, wasn't it? Ah, but that's a while back."
"Do you remember?" The road was dipping towards the valley where the cross-roads met. All her life, Mary thought, when she passed them, she would see the stoop of slender shoulders, and the back of a red head in a misty circle of lantern-light. She looked sideways at John's bulky figure, lolling on the seat where once David had sat.
"Oh, yes, let me see, that was in the spring, wasn't it?" she replied.
It was strange, how things could happen which seemed to turn the world upside down, and yet the people who saw one every day never noticed.
"... Anyone with my beautiful disposition has to have some physical disability to counteract it." ... Imagine John ever saying anything as silly as that! John never said anything silly. That was the worst of him.
Then something that she had been wanting to say all day recurred to her. "John, I was talking to Mr. Slater in church last night. He says you mentioned in the parish meeting that you'd like to retire from Anderby. Is that true?"
"Well, I don't know if I said those exact words."
"But did you mean it?"
"Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say that. But I was talking it over with Sarah Bannister that time she came to see me when I was in bed...."
"Oh, I see," said Mary.
She understood.
"And you know I'm not a young man, honey. And I'm not very clever about these new rules and regulations. And when I have to think about overtime and union secretaries and all that, it strikes me that farming isn't what it used to be."
Of course. Sarah's very words. It was just what she had imagined. Where John didn't echo her, he echoed Sarah. Well, this time he'd have to echo her.
"Of course it isn't what it used to be," she said brusquely, flicking the pony with her whip. "Nothing ever is. We've got to move with the times. It's only when things are changing that it's difficult. In a year or two you'll forget there ever has been a union."
John shook his head. "I don't know. I feel sometimes it's hard to start all over again, just when I was getting used to things as they were."
"That's because you haven't been very well lately. You will, though. You'll get used to it. One can get used to anything."
Again she felt as though there were enemies trying to snatch her kingdom from her, and that she must hold on with both hands in blind tenacity, no matter what it cost her or anyone else.
"Of course I can't hold you here against your will," she said. "I'm not going to deny that you came here on my account. Only I do think it would be silly to make a move now, when the mortgage is just paid."
He did not answer. The wind caught them as they turned westward along the road to Anderby. It whipped short strands of hair across Mary's face. John clutched at his hat and bent his head to the gale.
"Mind you," continued Mary, "I dare say that Sarah is right when she says that any more upset wouldn't be good for you. But now that everything is quiet again, I see no reason why we should worry."
"Very well, honey. You know best."
This would be her life, thought Mary. She would always have John's large and ineffective figure beside her. His "Very well, honey, you know best," would greet every decision that she made. She would always have long days at Anderby and short hours by the sea, and the homeward road winding before her in the fading light. There would always be the dull absence of expectation that rewards those who have realized their ambitions, and, later, there would be failing energy and old age.... Well, at least she had two possessions which made all that endurable. The kingdom of Anderby was, after all, still hers, in spite of Sarah and John and Coast and Hunting, and that fierce, indefinable power which David called progress. The other thing—she opened her eyes more widely in the windy dusk, and even then the colour rose to her cheeks and her heart beat faster—the other thing was the knowledge that somewhere David was alive and working. Though she might not, no, did not now even wish to see him, yet, from time to time the force of his vitality would quicken her through his writings, through chance news of his activities, through the memories to which she turned again and again when other thoughts were still. She might still amuse herself by pretending to hear his voice offering help again from the darkness of the road, or by rehearsing imaginary scenes to herself, scenes that would follow his return, many years afterwards, to visit her at Anderby. And she would confess what a narrow, complacent fool she had been, and they would laugh together over everything—even that incident in the cornfield ... no, perhaps not that. They would never speak of that. All the same, the quiet dream meadow where John had wooed her was driven now from her imagination by the picture of a wheat-field, hot and golden, and the scent of poppies and ripening corn upon the air.
Suddenly she raised her head. The scent of wheat and poppies? This familiar, acrid smell that the wind blew against her nostrils? "Can you smell something, John?" she asked.
He sniffed the air.
"Ay. Something's burning. Probably they're burning hedge-clippings somewhere."
"You don't burn hedge-clippings just after harvest."
A bicycle bell rang furiously just under the horse's nose. He swerved aside.
"Where are your lights?" called Mary. "It's past lighting time."
A voice answered from the road. "That you, Mrs. Robson?" Then, almost before she had time to reply, it called, "Then hurry back. I'm off to fetch t' fire-engine. Your stacks are afire."
She stopped for no inquiry, but leaning low and plucking the whip from its socket she sent the pony forward at a gallop.
There was only another mile of road to cover before they rounded the Church Hill and the village lay beneath them. Then they would know the worst that was to be known.
The smell of burning grew stronger. The road seemed interminable. The fat pony, overfed and scant of breath, resented this sudden outburst of activity on the part of his mistress. He slackened his pace.
Mary rose from her seat and cut him sharply several times with the whip. It was the surprise of his life. He stopped dead, then started forward and galloped full into the teeth of the gale.
The dark trees and hedges streamed past them as they mounted the rise to the Church Hill, John crouching still and silent, Mary half standing and urging the pony forward with whip and rein.
From the top of the hill they looked down. Below in the village was a glare of red that threw the fantastic outline of roofs and chimneys into black relief, and rose into smoke hiding the outline of the wold and merging into the evening sky.
The fire looked a little too far to the right. For a wild moment of hope Mary thought the cyclist might have been mistaken. As the cart descended the hill she called to a passer-by:
"Where's the fire?"
"Robsons'—stackyard and farm buildings."
They rattled on. The village street was astir with clamorous commotion. Everyone in Anderby seemed to be out of doors; skurrying black figures moved to and fro in the flickering red light.
Mary drew up outside the stackyard gate and let the reins fall on the pony's heaving flanks. Before her, above a jagged bar of wall, rose the flames from twenty-four stacks merrily blazing. A southwesterly wind swept them towards the farm buildings. The thatch along the covered side of the fold-yard was already alight.
Fascinated, she watched the moving figures of men pass and repass before the fire. They were leading the horses and cattle away from the stable. Poor things! No wonder the animals were afraid with those horrid sacks tied over their heads. It was a shame, too, that they could not see the pretty fire. For it was pretty. Mary, who loved bright colours, watched the sparks dance upon the wind and trail away in a cloud of smoke like the fireworks at Hardrascliffe during the season.
A sudden jolt of the cart as John clambered down aroused her, but still she did not move. She watched his indecisive movements, his hesitating steps towards the fire, his stumbling return towards the cart.
There was a small crowd in the road. Some one had recognized them now.
"That you, Mrs. Robson, that you?"
Even then Mary was glad that it was she to whom they called. "Yes. We're back. Take the pony to the other stables, some one, and please see that there's a rug put across him. We've come fast. Now then, who's in charge here?"
"Shep's getting the horses out. Foreman ain't back yet. Did you see young Mr. Rossitur on the road to Hardrascliffe? He went on his cycle to get t' engine."
"No—there was a man though, going to get the fire-engine."
Shepherd approached her, his face grimed with smoke. His blue eyes shone grimly.
"We've got the stock out, Mrs. Robson, but I doubt we'll save t' buildings. There's no water in t' pond and we can't get none fra' back till t' fire-engine comes and the hose."
"Have the far stables caught yet?"
"Not yet, but the wind's blowing right agin' them."
"Well, we can't do anything about the fold-yard, but get some men—anyone, and make a line of buckets and jugs from the pump to the stables, and try and keep the fire off them. Mrs. Greenwood, you go and take those other women and get all the jugs and things you can find in the house. Oh, wait a minute. There's the key. Violet's out."
There was very little that one could do but wait for the fire-engine. John seemed entirely bewildered, not exactly alarmed but stunned and helpless, standing by the wall and doing nothing. That really did not matter because no one could do anything with a fire blazing in a dry stackyard, without an adequate supply of water. She touched his arm.
"There's nothing to be done here," she cried. "Not till the fire-engine comes. You'd better go into the house."
He shook her off irritably, but said nothing and continued to watch the crackling flames and floating wisps of fiery straw.
The onlookers stared at them both with awed curiosity. They wondered what it was like to stand and see, one's whole harvest, corn and straw and buildings and all, blazing away like a bonfire on Guy Fawkes' night.
Mary turned to a woman at her side.
"Do they think it was a spark from the engine?" she asked.
The onlooker was Mrs. Waite. She stared at Mary with wide frightened eyes.
"Oh, I don't know, I don't know. Eli said it was."
Louie Watts, roused by unwonted excitement from her usual langour, turned to Mary with the pride of information.
"I heard Mike O'Flynn say it was lit a-purpose. I saw him come from t'Flying Foxwhen news first went round t' village."
Mary turned to her.
"What did he say, Louie?" she asked.
"He said, 'This is the dirty work of that damned skunk,'" repeated Louie, with gleeful recollection. "And then he ran out of the yard."
"Oh." Mary was not really very interested in what Mike O'Flynn had said. It seemed unnecessary for him to run out of the yard when so much remained to be done inside it, but doubtless he must have gone to fetch something.... Because, even if the stacks had been "lit a-purpose," some one ought to put the fire out.
She looked at her watch. Eight o'clock. Only about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, then, since she passed the cyclist on the road. That was never David! Why had David ridden for the fire-engine? And, if he had ridden, why hadn't she seen him on the way? Riding at that rate he must have reached Hardrascliffe by now. If he had any sense he would stop at the first telephone call office. She wished that she had thought of that. He passed so quickly.
"Is the policeman here?" she asked abruptly. Constable Burton was usually a most conspicuous figure at village crises. Mary thought that his large stupidity might be comforting.
"He was here a bit back," a woman replied, "but some one said something about an accident up street, and he went to see."
It would take another half-hour for the fire-engine to arrive at the village. By that time, probably, the flames would have reached the buildings to the right of the stackyard. Mary wondered whether she ought to go herself and superintend the fight against the fire. It would be a pity not to do the right thing now. She always had done it ... only somehow, it was so useless, because there wasn't any water.... A dress, the colour of that vivid orange and red, when the flames had caught a pile of loose straw, would be pretty.... If David rode too fast down the hill into Hardrascliffe, she did hope he would ring his bell before the turn at the bottom....
Jack Greenwood stood beside her. His round eyes stared, his wide mouth hung open.
"Oh, Mrs. Robson!" he gasped.
"Yes, Jack?" It was so silly that anyone should look so excited. There really was nothing to fuss about. After all, they were her stacks burning and she was quite content to stand watching them. Really it was rather a beautiful sight, so long as one did not stand too near, where the sparks might fall.
"Please, m'm, Constable Burton says I'm to tell you there's been an accident up the street. Some one's hurt and they want to bring him into your house."
"Of course. I'll go. I can't do anything here. What is it?"
Here at least, was something obvious and familiar to be done.
"Some one's shot that fellow what talked in the village."
"Shot him? Oh, nonsense! Who do you mean? Mr. Hunting?" Thank everything there was to thank that David was in Hardrascliffe!
"No, yon other, with red hair."
"Oh.... Is he badly hurt?"
She began to move towards the garden, Jack stumbling beside her, almost running to keep up with her eager stride.
"I doant rightly know. Policeman's there. Mike O'Flynn had a gun and stood agin' him, and kept on saying, 'I've done 'im in. Praise be to Mary! I've done him in.'"
"Mike?"
She frowned a little, as though she did not quite understand. The garden was dark, with curious flashes of crimson light through the overhanging trees. She reached the backdoor of the house. It swung idly in the wind, but the women who had entered it to search for jugs and pails had gone.
Mary stood in the yard beside it, listening to heavy footsteps approaching up the garden path—the path that led through a wicket-gate into the road on the way to theFlying Fox.
She ought to have gone forward into the house and lit the lamps and made things ready. Only it was too late now. It was stupid, of course, to be unprepared, but she wanted to welcome him at the doorway a second time. She smiled to herself. Now, at least, she might have him. She might touch him again. However badly he was hurt she would nurse him back to health. He was young and wiry. Mike was an old soldier, but he probably hadn't shot very straight.
Constable Burton came through the garden door into the yard. She saw his round, solemn face in the flickering light. How silly of him to look so solemn, when he was being kinder to her than ever he had been before ... bringing her David, David, David.... There was another figure behind him, and something lying between them on a hurdle.
"Oh, do be careful! Mind the step," she called, as they stumbled into the yard. "You'll hurt him."
"We can't do much harm, Missus Robson," said the policeman.
"Is he badly hurt?"
"Nay. He's dead. Shot right through 'is 'ead. It's a bad job."
She opened the door wider to receive him.
"Come in," said Mary.
ABDICATION
"Ham, pie, cheese, bread, tarts, a custard and stewed apples. Well, I don't think we shall do so badly. Why didn't you roast a fowl and have done with it, Mary?"
At four o'clock in the morning Sarah Bannister faced Mary across the dining-room table with a smile of grim amusement. Mary looked up from the end of the table. She was abstractedly fingering one of her best netted doilies set under the ham in a moment of mental aberration by the red-eyed Violet.
"Well, I suppose I might have done that without such trouble. I'm afraid one or two have been roasted without any help from me." She laughed forlornly and pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead.
"Where are the men?" asked Sarah.
"I think they've gone to wash their hands. They must all be pretty black."
"Oh. I'm glad to hear it. You could do with a wash yourself, Mary. There's a smut right across the middle of your nose. No, it's no use dabbing at it with your handkerchief. You'd better by half go upstairs and get tidied a bit. I'll pour out if the men come in."
Mary left the room, and Sarah stood by the table beating a soft tattoo on the back of John's chair. Only five hours ago a cyclist passing through Anderby on his way from Hardrascliffe had brought news to Market Burton of the Robsons' stack fire.
Sarah had asked no questions. She had put on her second best bonnet, roused Tom from his sleep and sent him to hire a car from the garage while she went herself to summon Toby. Sarah never was quite sure why she considered Toby's presence necessary, but a legal adviser might always come in handy and in this final catastrophe John must lack no possible support.
There was a clatter in the passage and three men entered the room: Tom Bannister, flushed and embarrassed, his round eyes wide with sleep, Toby Robson, nervous and loud voiced, wishing himself out of the whole damned show but determined to pass it off with as much joviality as possible, John, pale and miserable, his physical bulk only emphasizing his mental helplessness.
Sarah looked at him anxiously. She wanted, with an intensity that surprised her, to go up to him and put her arms round his broad bowed shoulders and stroke his hanging head and whisper, "Never mind, John. Never mind, dear John. You couldn't help it. You've done your best. You've given the ten best years of your life to Mary's farm. It isn't your fault it's all spoilt. I'll take care of you. Give it all up and come to Market Burton and we'll all be happy there again."
Instead she remarked:
"Hum. From the time you've all been away I thought you must have been having a bath, but now I've seen you I doubt I was mistaken. Tea, John? Tom, hand me the whisky decanter, please. A drop of whisky in a little strong tea won't do any of you any harm."
She established herself behind the teapot and was pouring out when Mary came in. Quietly Sarah relinquished her place and began to cut the loaf in stalwart slices.
"I wouldn't have any pie on an empty stomach if I were you, Tom. It's a while back since tea and I'm sure after a drive in Collinson's car your liver will be upset for weeks. Give him just a little ham, please, John."
"Decent fellow that constable of yours, Mary," remarked Toby, his mouth full of pie. "Getting his head turned a bit though with two arrests in one night. Murder and arson! It's a bit thick for a village in these parts. You mayn't have much money in Anderby, but you do see life!"
Sarah frowned, but as John seemed to be paying little attention to the conversation she decided that Toby's exuberance was not worth checking. Besides, he had really been quite useful throughout this extraordinary, uncomfortable night.
Mary had been attempting to eat the ham that lay on her plate in limp pink slices. She put down her knife and fork now and turned to Toby.
"What's going to happen to Mike O'Flynn now?" she asked.
"Oh, well, of course, he'll have to be kept safe until the trial. Of course the man's insane. An old soldier you said?"
"Yes, and very excitable. He had pneumonia about two years ago and was quite off his head then for a bit. The men told me he's been drinking a lot lately and getting very worked up. I suppose I ought to have noticed, but I just didn't."
"Oh, completely mad I should say. Look at the way he never attempted to escape. Just hung about the body till some one fetched the policeman. Why on earth did he do this fellow in, though? Senseless sort of thing it seemed."
"Oh, I saw him to-night for a few minutes, you know, and he told me."
Sarah heard Mary's flat dreary voice, sounding as though she told a tale so often repeated that it had become unutterably boring.
"He seemed sane in a way then, but queer of course and not at all ashamed. He said that Mr. Rossitur had brought all the trouble to Anderby and when the strike was over he was really furious, but just pretended it was all his own doing. And Mike says that earlier in the evening he saw him hanging round and was sure he was up to some mischief. Then when he heard of the fire he knew Mr. Rossitur had lit it to pay us out, and he saw him run off to get his bicycle—really to fetch the fire-engine, but Mike thought he was running away. So he got Foreman's gun, the one John gave him to shoot rabbits with, and ran down the garden path at the back of the house to theFlying Fox, and came on Mr. Rossitur just as he was getting on his bicycle and shot him point-blank through the head."
Sarah listened with frowning brows.
Really, now the fire was over, and the police officers interviewed and the Irish murderer and Mary's discharged beastman arrested, it was time to talk about something else. She passed her cup to Mary.
"More tea, please. And, if you have any water, I should like it weaker. My digestive organs are not made of cast iron, and I don't suppose that a heavy meal at this house will exactly improve their condition. Tom, if you've had enough, you'd better go and wake that chauffeur. We'll be moving."
"Oh, no. You'll stay the night here, please, Sarah," said Mary. "Violet's putting some sheets on the spare room bed now. I found her crying all over Fred Stephens in the kitchen, and decided she had better have something else to do. Fred was very tired. He's been splendid to-night. In fact, they all have."
"Oh, very well. I suppose that man will wait. I'm sure I don't want him to stay, though, if he's going to charge us by the hour, I'd rather he took the car back to Market Burton, and you could give us a lift to the station to-morrow. I hate those nasty, smelly cars, always breaking down just when you want them most. What amazes me is that we didn't have a puncture to-night."
She straightened the bonnet which she had not yet laid aside, and helped herself to another tart.
It was strange how the memory of another meal haunted her. Last December they had all sat round the table, congratulating themselves on their own cleverness, and Uncle Dickie had made that deplorable speech. Well, Uncle Dickie was dead and there was not much matter for congratulation now. The stackyard was gone. The farm buildings were reduced to blackened husks. Only the rain, held off too long by the wind to save the stables, had come in time to check the fire before it reached the cottages beyond. And that red haired young socialist lay dead in the back sitting-room. That was bad luck. He was an irreverent, conceited young fool of course, but then one was like that when one was young, and doubtless he was rather clever, and had a good many hopes about the fine things he was going to do. It was bad luck, being shot down by a crazy harvester, just when life was beginning. Still, the important thing at the moment was to get John to bed without any more fuss. He looked absolutely worn out. She supposed that even this would not make any difference to Mary's determination to stay on at Anderby. Mary was of the obstinate, selfish type, who insist upon doing good in their own way. If she thought that she was doing her duty there at Anderby, at Anderby she would stay, even if John had twenty strokes and died.
Sarah rose from the table.
"Now then, Mary. What about getting to bed? I'm sure we're all tired, and if Violet has put those sheets on the spare bed we'd better use them."
"Well, well, it doesn't sound so bad. I could do with forty winks myself," remarked Toby, with a tremendous yawn.
They trooped upstairs, Mary hurrying first to see that the rooms were ready. In a little while she returned to the dining-room, and found Sarah sitting there. She had not even removed her bonnet.
"Aren't you going to bed?" asked Mary.
"I never go to bed within an hour after a meal unless there is some special reason. Is John in bed?"
"Yes. He went straight to sleep. He must be very tired."
Mary sat down on a chair near the table, and idly dug little pits in the salt-cellar, raising the spoon and watching the salt stream slowly back into the pot. The fire was dead and Sarah looked from the empty grate to the discarded meal on the table.
"Hadn't you better go to bed yourself? You'll have a hard day to-morrow."
"I know," said Mary, but she made no effort to rise.
"You're spilling that salt on the cloth. It'll only be more mess to clear away in the morning."
Mary's hand was still. She turned and looked at Sarah.
"You were right," she said at last very slowly.
"Indeed? I usually am. But when do you mean particularly?"
"When you said we should have to give up Anderby."
"Oh."
"I was wrong in the garden the other day. And I knew I was wrong all the time. That's why I was so angry, I suppose."
Sarah raised her eyebrows. This was the first time she ever remembered hearing Mary confess herself mistaken.
"I have not had time yet to talk to Toby, but I will in the morning. About selling the farm, I mean. I think we'll sell and not let it. I shouldn't like the idea of anyone but a Robson farming it while it was still mine. Then we could live at Littledale, or Market Burton."
Sarah said nothing. Until last Wednesday she had never believed it possible that she could have been so sorry for Mary. The flat, weary voice went on.
"You know, ever since we drove down the hill and heard about the fire, I've had a sort of feeling that if I had given way at once and said we would retire, when everyone thought we should, this wouldn't have happened."
"Now, you're being sentimental, Mary. You know quite well it had nothing on earth to do with you retiring."
"I'm not so sure. I think Waite did it to drive us out of the village. If he'd heard we were going anyhow...."
"That's all far-fetched nonsense. It's happened and it's a great pity that it's happened. But in a way it might have been worse. After the insurance has been paid, you won't have lost a deal o' money, and you can live quite comfortably somewhere else, and do a bit of farming at Littledale. I certainly think Anderby is a bit too much for John after what's happened, and now he isn't well. He looks done up enough to-night."
"That's all, then."
Sarah rose. She was tired herself, and Mary looked tired too. It was quite time that they both went to bed, but something in Mary's face made Sarah hesitate. After all, it was Mary's farm, and she knew it would not be pleasant to be driven out in this way. She wanted to comfort her—at least, part of her wanted to, the other part felt only resentment against the woman whose obstinacy and self-confidence had been so bad for John.
"Hadn't you better go to bed?" she asked.
"I'm coming in a minute. You go. I'm just going to see if the doors are fastened."
"Mary, is there anything I can do?"
"Nothing, thank you."
For a moment they confronted one another. There was no sound except the rain, falling in a steady downpour on the house and garden. The wind had dropped. Sarah took a step forward. If Mary had given one sign of emotion, had done anything but stand by the table, with a grey, bored face, Sarah might have tried to console her. She did not move.
"Good night then, Mary."
"Good night."
On the threshold, Sarah paused. Mary was still standing contemplating the wreckage of the meal. She was even smiling to herself, a strange, light smile. Now, people hadn't any business to smile like that when they had just made things thoroughly miserable for every one else. Sarah retired to bed.
Mary stood alone in the dining-room. Just through the wall, in John's little gun-room, lay David with a sheet across his face. It was one of the best linen sheets. Mary was sorry that he was in such an uncomfortable place, but the house had been very full and so many policemen and inspectors and people had wanted to look at him, that it seemed the only thing to be done. It was queer how little anyone seemed to think of him, though, because, really, he was much more important than a stack fire. Mary felt quite angry when she thought of Toby and Sarah comfortably asleep upstairs, while David lay on a sofa in the gun-room. Still, it was a linen sheet....
She did not want to go and look at him. It was not fair to go now, when her presence would have embarrassed him so much, had he still lived. There was a note from him in her pocket. He had pushed it under the door that evening after she had driven to Hardrascliffe when Mike thought he was "hanging about up to some mischief." He only said he was glad that he had been able to help in settling the strike, and hoped that Mrs. Robson would regard this as a more substantial form of apology for his recent behaviour, but that he was just as convinced as ever that Anderby was being worked on a pernicious system of patronage, and it would be so splendid if only she would realize it.
One day, she supposed, she might be glad to have this and the articles he had written, but just now she felt too tired to read—too tired even to think properly, though she was sure that there was something very special she had to think about, if only she could combat that queer, vague feeling in her head that made everything so unreal.
What had happened was all her fault.... Mike ... His sudden madness had been her fault in a way, because of something she had said to him in their last interview before the strike. She wasn't quite sure what it was, but she knew that there was something. Then Waite—it had been just his luck that some one should have caught him hiding the paraffin tins in the oilshed—of course, she might have been less unkind to him.... Then John's stroke, and Coast's invitation to Hunting, and the strike, and the fire, and David's death.... All somehow connected with things she had done or left undone.
She began to move about the room, lifting dishes and placing them on the butler's tray, then putting them back again. But the table refused to become any tidier. She ought to tidy it. Every one would be so busy in the morning. She must do her best to make things easy....
She had always done her best. Everything, her rule over the village, her saving of the farm, her treatment of John, even her dismissal of Waite.... What was one to do? Was it her fault that all the ideas she had encountered, all the circumstances surrounding her, tended to make her one kind of person?
She must try and get things straight in her head. If she persisted in blaming herself entirely, she would go mad. Besides, it probably wasn't true. If only there was some one to tell her what was true.... David could have done it.
She sat down by the curtained windows and pressed her hands across her aching eyes.
The broad view.... If one could only take the broad view. David had said, it made everything tolerable. There was something he had quoted once in an article in theNorthern Clarion. "There comes a time when out of a false good, there arises a true evil." ... Was that meant for her? David had told her she belonged to a generation that should have passed.... Her work at Anderby might be the best thing of which she was capable, but it was a false good. She looked after people too much. They needed to be taught how to look after themselves, because no one could ever look after people properly. There always came a time when that vicarious strength broke down ... as with John, or the village after Hunting came....
Besides, David was dead. David, with his wild ideas for the progress of civilization and the reform of agricultural conditions, could carry out none of them now. He had died, horribly, wastefully, futilely. Such horror and such futility would hardly bear contemplating, because he had been so much alive, so full of purpose, possessing such an ardent desire for work. That was why she must go. Because, if David was dead, it wasn't fair to spoil his work even if one didn't believe in it. If the changes which David desired in Anderby were to come, then she and John must go. For, if they stayed, they would prevent the completion of his work. They could not help it. They were made like that. Whatever they might mean to do, they would slip back at last into the old ways. So, only by going could she in any way make up to David for the folly of his dying ... and she must go. Market Burton was a dull place, but she supposed there would be work of some kind to be done there. There would always be a girl's club or a nursing association or something—something that couldn't do anyone much harm....
She smiled a little bitterly. Once she had thought so much of all the good she was going to do to people....
Of course nothing mattered very much now, but she supposed that one day she would wake up and remember that she was under thirty still, and want again desperately all the things she had missed. David, the smile of the labourers as she passed them by the stackyard gate, the brown, full-bosomed, curve of the hills, and the scent of cream and butter in a red-tiled dairy....
But they were nothing to the things that David would miss. That was why one must remember all the time the things that he had said. Of course it might be consoling to realize that Jack Greenwood and Hunting and Coast and Fred Stephens were the heirs of the future and that by going away quietly she was doing the only thing she could do to ensure them the contentment of proceeding....
But Mary had seen enough of Market Burton to know that she would find little satisfaction in noble sentiments when her maid gave notice, or the rector altered the date of the missionary bazaar, or Mrs. Marly-Thompson wouldn't call.
Perhaps though, even if one did not think of them, even if in one's own limited, unsatisfactory life there seemed no room for them, those fine things were there just the same—courage, service, progress....
David's courage and service not wantonly wasted, his desire for progress not frustrated, but fulfilled at last because of him—even remotely because of her....
Just now, though, she must be practical and get to work. The morning was here already and there were policemen and insurance agents to be interviewed and the labourers to be seen and plans to be made for the sheltering of cattle and implements. For a few months until she and John left Anderby she would be too busy to think. Well, perhaps it was just as well and—after that—she might even understand a little better....
She moved suddenly and flung back the curtains. Outside, the rain had ceased and it was light again. The pungent smell of rain-washed earth came in from the autumn garden, and with it another smell of charred wood and blackened straw. From the church on the hill a bell was ringing for the seven o'clock service. Golden beyond the sodden shrubbery the sun rose slowly over Anderby Wold.
THE END
by the same authorand published by The Bodley Head
THE CROWDED STREETa novel
WOMENa sociological study