“I reckon I’ll stand.”
She shot out a furious hand, thin, with flat finger-tips and curved nails. “Set down!” she hissed, and he shrank back, but recovered himself again and stood firm.
“I’ll stand.”
She made a step towards him until their faces almost touched, putting such intensity into the short approach that his strength seemed to ebb from him consciously as he watched. She leaned across the table willing him to obey. “You’ll set down,” she said. “You’ll set down!” Andsuddenly he gave way as if pulled by a string, crumpling into a shaking heap of bones. He sat down slowly, grasping the fiddle so tight that it hurt his hands, and very slowly the tears ran down his face. For a moment longer she stayed as she was, holding him with her eyes, terrible as a Juggernaut in the way. And then the trap came trundling down the street.
The spell broke at the sound of the wheels, and at once the children were out at the door, tumbling and fighting as they went. As soon as the trap stopped they were round it like flies, fretting the horse and settling on the step. Marget caught the baby by its skirts as it stumbled after the rest, and it set up one of its stupendous howls. Only Kit stayed perfectly still where he was, as if the strength had indeed gone out of his limbs. The stage was set, but the chief actor did not appear. Bob turned in his seat and looked in at the door, and up at his father’s window and gave a hail, but Kit never showed that he heard him or tried to stir. The tears ran down his face and he did not so much as lift up a hand. Then Marget snatched at his bundle and thrust it into his arms.
“Ay, well, then gang!” she said in a brutal voice, and watched him tremble and totter to his feet. The red-haired baby fought and shrieked to be down, but she shook the breath out of itwith a mighty jolt. Bob whistled and called again, but the two in the house still looked at each other and paid no heed. They had come too close in that last clash to slip apart again with ease. The hatred on both sides had its mixture of fascination and fear. He felt a helpless dread of a power that beauty could not touch; she, an angry terror of genius out of reach.
One of the children came running back to the door, but still the old man did not move. It seemed as though the leash in which Marget held him had not been slipped. The moment was here that began for him better things, but he did not feel in the least as though the break had come. The sense of relief he had looked for did not ease his heart. She scowled, “Be off with you, then,” turning away her head, but still he stood without attempting to go, as motionless as a stock. Never once did he even turn and look out at the door. And then, “I’m obliged to you, Marget,” he said at last; “I’m obliged to you, Marget, for all you’ve done,” and shifted the bundle to show a shaky hand.
She brushed it aside with a sharp elbow, but the red came violently into her face. “I’ll be bound you’re obliged!” she sneered, tossing her head. “You’d ha’ been in Queer Street, I reckon, but for us. Eh, well, I hope you’ll findeverything to your liking at the farm.” The baby opened its mouth again, and she shut it with a jerk. There was a pause, and then she went on, her voice sounding hypnotised and dragged. “You’ll mind you can come back if you find as you can’t bide? I want nowt wi’ you, an’ that’s flat, but I reckon I can go on. You’d be best to come back if you find as you can’t bide....”
But now he had turned away and was looking eagerly at the door, so that he scarcely seemed to hear her final words. With that look he began his journey to the marsh, to the sun on the long levels that were all of them paths to home. He moved, and at once his feet were over the threshold and he found himself out in the street. He had forgotten Marget as if she had never been, though he had never noticed the snapping of the cord. She did not follow him out, but stayed at the door. The red-haired baby burst into bitter tears.
The neighbours were all looking out along the row, and a little crowd had gathered round the trap. The children still quarrelled and climbed and pushed each other down, or poked and fidgeted the sleepy horse. The road was like a river in the sun, golden beside the black one under the trees, but both of them coming ultimately to the sea. The light dazzled himas he went out, so that he could hardly see the smiling faces and outstretched hands. Somebody took the bundle from him and put it into the trap, but when they offered to take the fiddle he shook his head. A woman brought a nosegay from a bush beside her door, and pinned it laughingly in his coat. Another pushed a buttered scone into his hand, and asked if she should bring him a cup of tea. It would never be Marget, he heard them say, if she’d thought of setting him up for his ride like that. He shook his head at the tea and stared helplessly at the scone, while they pulled at his arm and wished him luck, or clapped him on the shoulder in farewell. Somebody begged him to give them a tune for the last time, but he was too dazed by the sun to heed what they said. He just stood there, fiddle and scone in hand, staring about him like a puzzled child. Then the parson came along and wished him a pleasant ride, and shook the hand that wasn’t holding the scone. Everybody seemed glad for him that he was going home, that he was getting away from Marget, after all. Folks were nearly always glad when they saw others going home. They felt kindlier towards them then than at any other time, he thought. Folks away from home were a kind of public trust. The world was worried about them until they were safely back.
Bob begged the parson to help the old man into the trap, and at once there were a dozen hands hoisting him up the step, holding needlessly to the horse’s head, and pulling the children from under the wheels. Kit arrived at his seat a little breathless and pulled about, and felt the fiddle quiver against his coat. He was grateful for the sympathy and help, but he had not expected to be sped by a crowd. He couldn’t help shrinking from the cheerful voices and the smiling eyes that made of him a spectacle in the street. They confused him and crossed his thoughts—troubled his perfect journey at the start. He did not know what to do with the buttered scone, and the button-hole worried him dreadfully under the chin. He would have liked to creep quietly out of the house where he had been so sad, and steal silently towards the house where he had been so gay.
The crowd saw that they fretted him at last and drew away, but Bob still talked to the parson over the wheel. The old man looked back up the street, and saw the village radiant in the sun, the white wall of the school like a snow-palace in its midst, and the church-tower high and sharp against the sky. He looked up at the trees and saw the leafy roof thick and green and still, and the doors of many mansions among the boughs. “Houses not made wi’hands,” he said to himself, and wondered where he had heard the words. He looked at the cottages, with their porches and worn steps, their shaded windows and grey walls, their climbing roses and sagging, slated roofs. And for a long moment he looked at his own window which held the enchantment of the tree. From his window on the marsh he would see no trees, neither magic ones on a velvet sward nor giants bent into bondage by the gale. There would be nothing before his eyes which had been straitened so long but the long distances of the sands and the long pathways of the sea.
Bob sat up and put his hand on the whip, and saw the onlookers black as ink against the swimming gold of the road. Kit’s hat was over his eyes, so that he did not see Marget at the wheel until she spoke. Then he looked and saw her white face and her fringe, and the red head of the baby glowing in the light. “Think on you can come back,” she said in her hard tones, and repeated it as they slowly drew away. He nodded vaguely by way of reply, wondering why she talked of coming back when he was not yet conscious of being gone, and Bob said hurriedly, “Ay, ay, he knows,” and flourished the ragged whip. The horse gathered itself into a slow trot, and Marget fell back out of sight. The river that was yet road began toswim past, lined with waving figures on its banks. They lurched away straight into the eye of the sun, and the folk came back to the street to watch them go. Kit looked a very old man indeed from behind, and Bob’s shoulders seemed tired and slack. They were like weary folk hurrying into the light to be made young and strong. The swing of the cart behind the rolling horse gave them the air of going very fast. Those who were left talking in the street began to dispute whether the old man would look round. “Nay, he’s over glad to be off,” said one; “he’ll look round none, will the old chap, not he!” And another said, “He’s not found it that grand he’ll risk his neck for it, I’ll swear!” But a woman said, “We’ve had many a crack together, him and me”; and another said, “He makes his own things to suit himself with, does Kit.”
They watched the trap to the end of the street, past the little white rows that had steps up to the doors, and the woodyard and the smithy and the farmhouse by the bridge, and still Kit did not turn. The trap gave a sudden swerve, and they could see the buttered scone held tightly in his hand. Bob leaned towards him and spoke, but the old man gave no sign of reply.
And then just at the very last he turned,when another minute would have blotted him out. All he could see now was the tunnel of the trees, with the houses showing dimly along the side. He had thought himself free without so much as a pang, but somewhere a link was holding, after all. Something was left behind in the village street, something that would not follow, that could not come. He felt the tug at his heart and looked back, though it was too late to do anything but look. It passed as soon as the turn was passed, and his heart lifted, thinking itself loosed. Nevertheless, something was gone that he might not find again—something that he had made in prison, and might not take away.